"Perhaps. He looked familiar," Jo replied vaguely. "But you were saying you have cousins who live somewhere near Aberdeen."
As Anna rattled on, Jo considered what had just occurred. According to directions they received in Rayneford, they were very close to the Abbey. And Wynne was in the village. Perhaps he had a connection with the hospital. That would explain how Dr. McKendry identified her from the patient's sketches.
The vagueness of the letter she received now made sense. She wouldn't have come if she knew Wynne had anything to do with this.
She could still go back. Turn the carriage around and continue the trip north to see Gregory and Freya. But the Abbey was real. She'd known that before she left the Borders. Her sister-in-law Grace wouldn't allow Jo to leave until she'd made inquiries in Edinburgh with the help of one of Hugh's law clerks. They'd learned Dr. McKendry had established the asylum as a reputable facility in only two years of operation. Whether her brother was aware of the actions of Grace or not, Jo didn't know, but she'd left Baronsford assured that she wasn't walking into some ruse or fraudulent situation.
The patient and the likenesses to Jo in the sketches had to be real too. There was nothing to gain, no purpose to be had, no advantage that she could think of that would prompt someone like Dr. McKendry to formulate such an elaborate deception.
Jo reminded herself of the reason for coming here. Her mother.
"M'lady, that must be the Abbey," Anna said, motioning out the window to the building rising in the distance above the fields.
She wasn't going back, Jo decided. And when it came to Captain Melfort, the most difficult part was behind her.
At least this was what she needed to make herself believe.
Chapter 4
Wynne wasn't about to go to Dundee. He wouldn't go as far as the village until he was certain Cuffe understood the potential consequences of his behavior. Safety and discipline had to take priority right now.
Selling fish to make a little money wasn't what was pushing Wynne to the edge. Nor was it his son's refusal to acknowledge or speak to him. Wynne was angry because Cuffe backed directly into the path of the carriage. He could have been trampled beneath the hooves of those horses. He could have been killed.
Words like careless, irresponsible, selfish spilled out of Wynne all the way back to the Abbey.
"You'll remain in this room and think over what you've done until I decide your punishment. There is a penalty for willful stupidity."
No word of complaint came from Cuffe. Still wearing his muddy boots and clothing, he threw himself on the bed, tucking his hands behind his head and staring morosely at the ceiling.
Wynne went out and shut the door with more force than he intended. He was very close to losing what little restraint he had left. Punishment. Consequences. He'd never imagined how frustrating it could be making a headstrong ten-year-old listen to reason and act in an acceptable manner.
His old life offered little insight as to how to proceed. Admittedly, halfway back to the Abbey, he'd momentarily entertained the notion of signing his son onto the crew of a warship. Many wayward boys became men of value on the high seas. But he dismissed the thought. He couldn't do it. The realities of such a life were harsh, but they were especially hard for someone of mixed race.
Wynne simply didn't know how to proceed.
Maybe he'd made a mistake plucking the boy from the place he'd grown up and trying to resettle him in a life so entirely foreign to him. Maybe he should have increased the grandmother's allowance, insist that she move down from the mountains to a house in the Jamaican port of Falmouth. If he'd made these arrangements, perhaps she could have kept Cuffe close and out of trouble.
Wynne ran a hand through his hair, frustration weighing on him. Whatever was required of him as a father, he was failing at it. During the first eight years of Cuffe's life, he'd had the excuse of being away at sea. During the past two years, he'd shrugged off his responsibility, telling himself he was building a future for the two of them here in the Highlands. His son was here now, and Wynne had no more excuses.
As a child, Cuffe was safe growing up with his grandmother, who still lived in the Maroon village of Accompong. Protected by its isolation and the rugged Cockpit Country above Falmouth, he'd been away from the outbreaks of violence that broke out between the Maroons and the sugar plantation owners. The evils of slaveholding still haunted the islands, and peace was tenuous, at best. But the number of clashes was on the rise.
Cuffe's grandmother confirmed the reports in her letters to Wynne. She feared that the growing boy was being drawn into the increasingly volatile situation. Open conflict on a large scale seemed imminent, and she couldn't hope to keep Cuffe out of it.
Wynne agreed. He admired the Maroons and their fight, but he didn't want his son involved. There had been no other viable option but to bring him here.
"Excellent!" Dermot's voice from down the hall drew Wynne out of his thoughts. "You didn't go to Dundee after all."
The suite of rooms he and Cuffe occupied while his tower house, Knockburn Hall, was being renovated, was on the same floor as their offices.
"Do you have an hour to spare? I need your help."
Before joining the doctor, Wynne frowned one last time at the closed door. No point in locking it. No doubt Cuffe could go out a window and climb down the side of the building if he chose to leave. Punishment. He still didn't know what to do to get his son's attention.
"Lady Josephine Pennington has arrived," Dermot told him as Wynne drew near. "You were right to contact her. She's the spirit and image of Barton's sketches."
He already knew she was here, but her arrival-and whatever sentiment it evoked in him-was secondary to the problem he was facing with Cuffe.
"She asked about you," Dermot told him. "She wanted to know the nature of your connection with the Abbey."
"You told her, I assume."
"I couldn't very well lie. I told her that you were the hospital's governor," Dermot replied. "I hope that causes no trouble for you."
"It's fine," he said, resigned to the situation. Knowing he was here, Jo would assuredly not be lingering for any length of time.
"Good, because I need your help."
Wynne glanced back down the hallway toward his rooms. He needed to deal with his son, but that could wait for a bit.
"Barton was awake drawing for much of the night and was sleeping when she arrived," Dermot told him. "So I brought her over to the east wing. She's taking refreshments with my aunt and uncle right now."
Wynne imagined Mrs. McKendry and the Squire would be pleased to be entertaining such company. People of distinction rarely visited the Abbey.
The doctor paused by the door to his office. "But to complicate matters somewhat, I received a note this morning from Mrs. Barton. She and Graham are visiting our patient today."
Graham Barton had made more of an impression on Wynne than the mother. The surly uncle of Charles Barton had been running the estate at Tilmory Castle for many years, and was clearly accustomed to making the important decisions.
"And they're coming today?"
"They're waiting downstairs while my attendants rouse Barton and prepare him to receive his visitors."
"Have the Bartons and Lady Jo met?" Wynne asked, entertaining the idea that maybe the families were acquainted.
"I thought I'd wait on that. I'd like them to meet in the ward itself, at Barton's bedside," the doctor told him. "The experience of unexpectedly seeing them all at once might shock him and possibly create a positive reaction in him. I was reading a paper about it that Dr. Ellis, down in West Yorkshire, wrote regarding . . ."
As Dermot shared the details of the study, Wynne tried to imagine the Bartons' reaction to the patient's improvement. The last time the family had seen him was the day they brought him to the Abbey. They thought his death was imminent.
"Even if the meeting produces nothing," Dermot concluded, "I don't want to miss the opportunity."
Several arguments came to mind opposing the doctor's enthusiasm, the most logical one being that Jo and the Bartons knew each other. Such knowledge of one another might also explain why the two parties arrived at the Abbey on the same day. But Wynne remained silent on that score, not caring to cast a wet blanket on his friend's optimism.
"I'll accompany Charles's family to the ward. But I need you, my friend, to go to the east wing, drag Lady Josephine from the clutches of my aunt and uncle, and escort her to the patient's bedside."