His immediate inclination to protest died before he voiced it. There could be no avoiding Jo. They'd seen each other. She'd asked about him. And she'd decided to stay and see the patient instead of leaving. Wynne already knew he'd regret it if she left and they hadn't exchanged at least a few words.
Their shared history was dead and buried, he told himself. He no longer carried in his heart the affection, or the feeling of protectiveness, that he once had. What remained now was accepting this opportunity to satisfy his curiosity about her character. He wanted to know how much Jo Pennington had changed, if at all.
* * *
The Squire and Mrs. McKendry glowed more like proud parents than uncle and aunt. Their enthusiasm for the hospital and its director illuminated every word that came from their mouths. And they were quite fond of Captain Melfort as well.
Seated at a table in an antiquated, oak-paneled drawing room, Jo sipped tea and listened to stories involving Wynne and Dr. McKendry during their days in the navy. The tales went far beyond the reports and accolades she'd read about in the newspapers in the early days.
The conversation turned from the past to the hospital and the estate.
"The Abbey would have gone to ruin if it weren't for their partnership," the Squire asserted, spooning sweet apple butter onto another thick slice of warm oat bread. "With the exception of King George's construction of the north annex to house his army during the Rising, no work was done on this place since my grandsire's day."
From the little she'd seen of the massive structure, it appeared that a great deal of renovation was currently in progress.
"Our Dermot always knew what he wanted to do with the Abbey-that is, making it into a fine hospital-once his father was gone," Mrs. McKendry said. "But he could never have done so well without the captain."
"So right, darling," her husband agreed. "It was a blessing they both decided at the same time that they were done with their traveling the world."
"True." The Squire's wife nodded, pouring more tea for Jo. "And the captain . . . well, he needed to find a suitable home for Cuffe."
"Cuffe?" Jo asked.
"His son," Mrs. McKendry replied, sending a quick glance at her husband.
His son. A pang of disappointment slid into her heart like a needle. She placed her cup and saucer gently on the table. Of course he'd be married, she scolded herself. Time had taken her youthful bloom and left her a spinster. But not so for him. The passing years had not only improved his looks, they'd given him the opportunity to fill the pages of his life with happiness.
"The lad's mother-" the Squire started.
"He married her," his wife interrupted. "Cuffe is the captain's son and heir."
Jo's mind returned to the incident, little more than an hour ago, when her carriage had to make a sudden stop on the lane leading out of the village. A young dark-skinned boy was standing beside Wynne, and she wondered now if this was the son they spoke of.
"The lad's mother died giving birth in the Indies," Mrs. McKendry confided in a low voice. "Cuffe was raised by his Jamaican grandmother until just two months ago, with the captain paying for everything. She must have saved enough money, because suddenly she didn't know how to control him any longer."
Perhaps it was because gossip had been the bane of her own existence, Jo bristled instinctively. She had no right to be hearing this. She was no more than a stranger to these people.
"The lad must get his wildness from his mother, for Captain Melfort is the most disciplined of gentlemen."
"How old did you say Cuffe was?" Jo asked, interrupting her host.
"Ten years old."
"Before we lay blame on a mother who is no longer here to defend herself, or a grandmother who has raised him from infancy, I should say that wildness in a lad his age is fairly common. We needn't attribute it to the nature of a parent, especially one none of us have met," Jo asserted firmly. "You said Cuffe has only been here for a mere two months. Now imagine how anyone would struggle to adjust to completely new social expectations. And he's so young. Everything he knew, all of his previous routines, replaced by customs and courtesies that we see as natural, but are actually only natural to us."
Jo was ready to continue, to challenge the couple to take back not only their words, but to acknowledge the prejudices they were harboring against the child. But her hosts were looking past her at the doorway.
"Captain, join us," the Squire said, standing. "Allow me to introduce our guest."
Chapter 5
The timidity that he had known in Jo's character was gone. In its place, Wynne saw a lioness ready to pounce in defense of his son.
The notion warmed his heart. With the exception of Dermot, Cuffe had very few champions at the Abbey. Many of the farm folk ignored the lad. Others tolerated him politely out of deference to Wynne . . . at least in his presence. And there were some, like the Squire and his wife and the vicar-genuinely good-hearted people-who had the best of intentions but managed to say the wrong things at the wrong time.
A faint blush colored Jo's cheek as she stood and turned to him. She'd changed. He had always thought her very pretty, but she now had a handsomeness about her that took him aback. The perfect symmetry of her high cheekbones, the confident set of her mouth, the soft curves of her hips and breast. She was a flower that had bloomed, but had retained in maturity the best qualities of youth.
Wynne gazed into her grave, brown eyes. Beneath the well-defined eyebrows and the long lashes, the shadows of sadness still dwelt there.
As the Squire started to make the introductions, Jo spoke.
"Captain Melfort and I are acquainted."
Curious looks passed between the husband and wife as bow and curtsy were exchanged, but they asked no questions. No explanations were offered either.
"Take some tea with us, Captain?" Mrs. McKendry asked.
"I am afraid I can't, ma'am. I'm here to steal your guest away and escort her to the ward. The doctor believes his patient might be ready to accept visitors." He turned his attention back to their guest. "That is, if Lady Jo is ready."
"Yes, I am. Absolutely," she said in a rush before thanking her hosts for their hospitality.
Wynne waited by the door, listening to the lilt of her voice, watching her movements, and feeling the years drop away.
Their parting was back. He owed her an apology. Whatever words he wrote to her were meaningless because he'd never had the chance to explain himself more fully. But she wasn't at home, and his cowardice made him leave the hastily written letter.
The duel with her brother the next morning had ended any chance of them meeting until today.
Wynne thought the years had dulled the sharp edge of their past, but he was wrong.
" . . . and our invitation stands, m'lady," Mrs. McKendry was saying. "If you decide to stay the night, or a fortnight, or as long as you desire, you're welcome here. We have any number of rooms in the Abbey that we keep in readiness for the families of the patients when they visit."
"That is very kind of you, but my brother Gregory and his wife are expecting me at Torrishbrae in Sutherland. I was hoping to be back on the road by mid-afternoon."
Gregory married, Wynne thought. The last time he'd seen Jo's younger brother, he was only slightly older than Cuffe.
Jo avoided meeting his gaze as she approached, and Wynne recalled a time when she'd rush across a room to take his hand and demand to know what he was thinking.
As they maneuvered through the corridors out of the east wing and into the old great hall, he broke the silence lying heavily between them.
"I need to apologize for inadvertently eavesdropping," he said. "I entered the drawing room a moment before my presence was noted. I was impressed by your knowledge of children's manners and behavior, and your sense of conviction in voicing your views."
She glanced back over her shoulder. "I'm afraid I've developed a failing in being too abrupt on this topic. My tone was a little strident for the occasion, I believe."
"Don't worry about them. The Squire and his wife are not ones to carry a grudge," he told her. "They are kindhearted people. Truly. At the same time, they're unfamiliar with how to deal with anyone, adult or a child, who looks different or behaves differently from people they're accustomed to. Unlike your own broad-minded family, they lead a provincial life here in the Highlands. I'm quite sure Cuffe is the first person of African descent that they've ever met."