A Gathering Storm (Porthkennack Book 2)

by Joanna Chambers

  “I was practically a babe when it happened.” He shrugged. “Probably imagined the whole thing.”

  Jed gave a chuckle and wagged a finger at Nick. “Oh no. I remember that night like it were yesterday. You saw something right enough. The look on your face was a sight to see.” He turned back to Sir Edward. “None of us saw anything, you understand. But, well, Nick’s a Gypsy, see? And them Gypsies? Some say they’re related to the devil hisself, don’t they? Stands to reason Nick ’ere would be able to see spirits.”

  Sir Edward didn’t even acknowledge Jed’s words. He canted his head a little to one side, studying Nick intently. Nick felt that unfaltering gaze like a physical touch, his cock stirring in his drawers as another wave of desire broke in his belly. Christ. Why did the man affect him like this?

  “What did you see, Mr. Hearn?” he asked.

  Nick pressed his lips together and shook his head, annoyed with himself for not laughing off Jed’s charge immediately as he’d usually have done. “Nothing,” he said flatly. “It was a child’s fancy, nothing more.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Jed told Sir Edward. “He saw the Plague Doctor, a ghost as has been walking this village for nigh on two hundred years. He saw it as clear as I see you now, milord. We was”—he glanced at Nick—“what do you think, Nick? Seven? Eight? And you told me everything about that ghost, didn’t you? From the square buckles on his shoes to the beaky mask he wore on his head. When I told old Granny Hammett what you said, she said to me, ‘That Gypsy’s bastard’s seen the good doctor, all right! He’s got him right in every partic’lar.’”

  Nick gave a tight laugh. “I’d probably heard your granny talking about what the Plague Doctor looked like and repeated it all back to you. She always did blather on.”

  Jed ignored that, his attention on Sir Edward again. “And what’s more, Nick’s mother—God rest her soul—she told fortunes,” he continued, jerking his thumb at Nick. “Read them fancy picture cards to tell people’s futures. Tea leaves too. Nick ’ere probably gets the sight from her.”

  Nick’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was the likes of Jed Hammett talking about his mother. But before he could spit a word out, Sir Edward distracted him, his own words tumbling out in a hoarse, rasping rush.

  “Mr. Hearn, I must say, this all sounds very promising—would you consider coming to Varhak Manor to discuss these matters with me in more detail? I promise I will pay you generously for your time.”

  Nick turned back to Sir Edward. The man’s eyes shone with hopeful eagerness as he spoke and for an instant, Nick contemplated their unusual hue. They reminded him of acorns, he thought. That smooth, nutty colour. It wasn’t just the colour that arrested him though. It was how unguarded that gaze was. Where was the caution in this man’s soul? Did he always show his thoughts like this? So plain on his face for all to see? He seemed already to have forgotten his brief altercation with Jed Hammett—now he was entirely taken up with Nick, and this nonsense Jed had started about Nick having the sight.

  Nonsense Nick had no intention of indulging.

  Somehow, finally, Nick found his voice. “Thank you for the offer, Sir Edward,” he said politely. “But I already have a position that pays me well enough. I really have no need of any other employment.”

  And with one last nod, he walked out of the taproom, with Snow lumbering at his heels.

  1st May 1853

  Three full days after his disastrous visit to the inn in the village, Ward decided to go to speak to Nicholas Hearn in person. He told Pipp he was taking an evening stroll and set off for the cottage on the outskirts of the village that he’d learned Hearn occupied.

  It had been a lovely spring day and even now, at seven in the evening, it was pleasantly warm. The sun, which was still some way off setting, was low in the sky and tiny insects danced in the hazy sunbeams that shafted through the tree canopy.

  As Ward strolled, he thought about Nicholas Hearn. A few days before, the man had poured cold water on Mr. Hammett’s claim that Hearn had seen a ghost when he was a child. But even at the time, Ward had felt sure in his bones that there was something to the story. He’d seen Hearn’s face when Hammett had spoken of those long ago events, and somehow he had known Hearn had been genuinely shaken to be reminded of them.

  It wasn’t even that Hearn’s face had given him away—in fact, to the casual observer, he would have seemed remarkably unaffected by the whole incident—but something had flashed in his eyes before he blinked it away and resettled his calm expression. It was the briefest of betrayals, but Ward had seen it. Difficult to miss, he supposed, given how intently he had been staring at the man by then.

  “Even you must admit that driving your buggy arse over tit is apt to do you in.”

  What had prompted Hearn to chime in with that irreverent observation? As the conversation had continued, he hadn’t struck Ward as a joker. Quite the opposite, with his serious, intense expression. Christ, those eyes! With Hearn’s dark colouring, Ward would have expected the man to have eyes like sloes. But no, Hearn’s eyes were a light, silvery grey. That unusual gaze of his, coupled with his quiet stillness, made Ward think of a wolf. Watchful, intelligent, wary.

  Wild.

  Given the stories of ghost sightings and clairvoyance in his family, Ward couldn’t help but speculate that Hearn might well be sensitive to spirits—that he could, in fact, be the perfect subject for Ward’s experiments. Annoying then, that he seemed determined not to participate. Well, Ward had no intention of accepting his refusal so easily. He was at least going to give persuading him another try.

  It wasn’t going to be easy to bring Hearn around. Most of the villagers had probably already decided Ward was a lunatic, or at the very least an eccentric, with his talk of breaching the veil between the physical world and the spirit world. That in itself didn’t come as a surprise. After all, hadn’t his own peers reached exactly that conclusion? Hell, each and every one of them had abandoned him following the debacle over Mrs. Haydn.

  Unthinkingly, Ward’s hand went to his inside pocket. With his fingertips, he grazed the edge of the wallet that contained last year’s newspaper clipping. He didn’t need to take the clipping out to remember what it said. Every word of Professor Arnold’s letter to The Times was burned into his memory.

  Sir—I was most surprised to read Sir Edward Fitzwilliam’s letter of 16th inst. regarding the recent séances he has attended conducted by a Well Known American Medium. Sir Edward is a learned young gentleman who has justifiably earned, at the tender age of five-and-twenty, a considerable reputation amongst his peers, principally for his work in the physical and natural sciences. I have the utmost respect for Sir Edward’s work in this field, and it was therefore with the greatest dismay that I read his letter. Not only did he defend this lady, he even went so far as to suggest that her claims to have powers of clairvoyance were true, despite Dr. Jeffrey’s reports of clear evidence to the contrary during the séance he attended. Sir Edward’s letter reveals not only a lack of personal judgment in this instance, but a careless disregard for the responsibility men of learning bear towards their less educated brethren. It is for this reason that I feel I must denounce it, and him, in the most unambiguous terms . . .

  Ward’s stomach churned just thinking of that letter—never mind the other five that had been published that week along the same vein—but he forced himself to remember every word. He refused to flinch from what had happened. He had to remember what he had vowed to himself: that he must be prepared not only to think the unthinkable, but to apply his knowledge to finding explanations for the unthinkable. Because there were explanations, of that he was quite sure.

  Ward had hoped that money would be enough to persuade the people of Porthkennack to help him, but fear and superstition seemed to be keeping those who might need the money away, and it turned out Nicholas Hearn didn’t fall into that category anyway. Despite being referred to as a Gypsy’s bas
tard by Hammett, Hearn held a respectable position as land steward to the Roscarrocks, the first family of the county. Ward could see that a man in that position might not wish to be seen to be helping a seemingly eccentric scientist with his work. But what if Ward met with Hearn alone? Made a personal plea for his assistance and explained properly what his work entailed? Surely Ward would have at least a chance of persuading him, particularly given what he was willing to pay?

  He had to believe so.

  It was only two miles from Varhak Manor to his destination and so, less than half an hour after setting off, Ward found himself approaching Hearn’s home, a white-painted cottage with a black slate roof. He made his way through the overgrown garden to the front door, scents of camomile and thyme drifting on the warm evening air.

  Lifting his hand, he gave a peremptory knock on the heavy, old wood, and waited.

  There was no answer.

  He knocked again, then again, waiting several minutes. He tried, rudely, to peer through one of the tiny windows, but it was gloomy inside and he couldn’t see much of anything.

  Damn it all, was the man out?

  Where might he be? Back at the village inn? No doubt a lot of the village folk would repair there in the evenings for refreshment and conversation, and of course, Hearn lived alone. Perhaps he grew lonely, as Ward sometimes did? It could be isolating, living alone. Even for a man like Ward who was so very busy with his work.

  He wasn’t sure he fancied venturing back to the inn. That scene with the fisherman who’d seemed determined to taunt him—and to rile Hearn while he was at it—hadn’t been at all comfortable, but he did want to see Hearn. Ward considered what to do, chewing his lip a moment, but at length he decided to go into the village, just for a look.

  He set off down the road. Here at the edge of the village, it was terribly quiet. Just a handful of cottages and no children out playing, no neighbours chatting or pottering around. It seemed, in fact, unusually quiet for such a warm evening. Once he’d gone a little further though, Ward realised that it was quiet because something was happening in the village. The strains of some ramshackle music carried on the breeze. Distant voices too, and laughter, and the shrieks of children playing. Frowning, he wondered what the occasion was, then suddenly remembered: it was May Day.

  May Day was an important occasion round these parts—Pipp had mentioned something about an Oss festival, he seemed to recall. No doubt the celebrations would have been going on all day, with a May Queen being crowned, perhaps dancing round a maypole, and much eating and drinking.

  Hearn must be there. Possibly cheerful with ale and sunshine. It mightn’t be a bad time to try to get him alone so that Ward could make his plea.

  As he drew closer to the centre of the village, the noise grew, the clamour of voices becoming more distinct. He followed the sound of fiddles, pipes, drums, and singing through the narrow streets and lanes of the oldest part of the village till eventually he emerged onto a wide open stretch of village green.

  It looked as though everyone in Porthkennack was there. Families were scattered around the grass, eating and drinking and laughing, while a group of men danced some ancient country dance, hopping and crashing wooden staffs together. Beside them, a few girls played a complicated skipping game, while a pack of smaller children ran wildly around, darting between blankets and dancers and skipping girls and screeching whenever they caught sight of what looked to be a tall man with a horse’s skull for a head, shaking a staff decorated with ribbons and jangling bells at them.

  That would be the Oss, Ward surmised, bemused. He looked about himself, noticing that the women were all dressed in simple light-coloured gowns and the men were all hatless and lounging on the grass in their shirtsleeves. Suddenly Ward felt very out of place in his high-crowned hat, elegantly tailored coat, and four-in-hand necktie, especially when he saw the curious looks being sent his way. Despite his growing discomfort though, he stayed where he was. He hated to give up, having come this far in the hopes of seeing Nicholas Hearn.

  Just then, he caught sight of a familiar face. A young man walking towards him with a pretty young lady on his arm. It took him a moment to place the fellow, then he remembered—it was the clerk from Mr. Godolphin’s office, the one who had written up the agency agreement.

  He stepped forward, catching the surprised young man’s eye. “Good evening, Mr.—” he hesitated an instant, then it came to him, tumbling from his mind to his lips with only the barest pause “—Gwynn. How nice to see you again.”

  “Sir Edward—” Gwynn looked stunned at Ward’s unexpected recognition of him before hurriedly saying, “Ah—good evening!” He glanced briefly at the young lady at his side, adding, “This is Gracie—I mean, may I introduce Miss Grace Evans?”

  Ward bowed politely to the young lady, who nodded back wide-eyed, then bobbed an inelegant curtsey.

  Ward turned his attention back to Gwynn. “I wonder if you can help me, Mr. Gwynn? Do you know Mr. Hearn? Mr. Nicholas Hearn?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Oh good. Have you seen him this evening?”

  Gwynn turned his head to scan the villagers dotted about the green, before returning his gaze to Ward. “He was certainly here earlier, but I don’t see him now. He might’ve gone home, I suppose, or he might have gone down to the mill stream. There was talk among some of the men about jumping over it for a wager. Gid Paget was in on it, and he’s a friend of Nick’s—Mr. Hearn, I mean.”

  Ward smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Gwynn. That’s most helpful. I’ll try the mill stream. Could you direct me there?”

  Gwynn’s directions took Ward just outside the village and onto a bridle path that, when followed to its end, brought one to the next village. Ward had only been strolling a few minutes when he encountered three men coming the other way. One was soaked to the skin and was being held up by the other two. All three were singing a song about someone called “Lovely Molly.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Ward said, stopping them in their tracks. With his ugly voice, he never sounded polite, always harsh and probably angry—not the best when accosting three really rather drunk men. Ward smiled to make up for his unfriendly tone. “Will I find Mr. Nicholas Hearn down this way?”

  The three men stared at him for a moment, then one of them said, “’Bout another quarter mile down this path. Unless him and Gabe Meadows have gone off walking the other way, that is. He’s a reg’lar wandering Gypsy, our Nick.”

  “Well, he certainly wandered over that stream easily enough,” another added. “Not like you, Bert!”

  “‘Wandered’? ’E bleddy flew!” the soaked one slurred indignantly, his Cornish burr thick. “Like a bleddy airymouse, ’e was!”

  “Airymouse”?

  The other two laughed at that and they set off on their way again. They’d scarce walked the length of themselves before the one in the middle hissed to the others, with the too-loud care of the very drunk, “That’s ’im as sent Jago Jones to his death.”

  One of the other men shushed him quickly, darting a quick glance back at Ward before starting up the “Lovely Molly” song again. And then they were weaving away, stumbling round a bend in the path, their voices already fading. Ward sighed and set off in the direction they’d come from.

  The trees grew thicker the further down the bridle path Ward walked, creating a leafy canopy over his head through which the evening sun gently streamed. After a few minutes, he couldn’t hear the men he’d met at all. Only the twittering of a few birds coming home to roost disturbed the peace. Ward removed his hat and strolled on, enjoying the warmth and the silence.

  And then, just as he drew close to the bridge, he heard the low murmur of new voices. Male voices.

  Later, he would wonder what it was that made him slow his step at that point. Consciously hush his own movements. Perhaps it was the edge of anguish in those voices. But at the time, he was only acting instinctively.

  He moved carefully forward, listening attentively.
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  At first he couldn’t make out words, only that there were two voices, and something . . . contentious was being discussed. But this was no ordinary argument between two ordinary men. This was something much more intimate. One voice was implacable, a little angry, the other pleading. As Ward drew closer, the first words he discerned were “No”—this from the angry voice—and from the pleading one, “Nick, please.”

  Nick. Nicholas Hearn.

  Ward moved closer still. Just a few feet ahead, there was a turnoff from the main bridle path, a smaller footpath that led to the mill stream, and to the little bridge over the water. Carefully, quietly, Ward stepped onto the footpath and walked a little further, his steps tentative. The voices were becoming more distinct now, and when he saw the sun-dappled outline of a figure ahead, through the trees, he stopped, heart in his mouth. Glancing around, he saw a shadowy copse on the same side of the path where the two men stood. He would be out of sight there, but able to see, and to hear.

  This was very wrong—he knew it was—and yet Ward found himself stealing into the copse, holding his arms close to his body and turning his hips so he could slip between two trees without so much as brushing a leaf.

  “I saw you looking at me, Nick. I know you still want me.”

  Ward’s heart thundered so loudly it was amazing he could hear what was being said. But oh God, he did. He heard every word.

  “So what if I do?” This voice was bitter. “It’s hardly the point. You are married.”

  Ward was so close, he didn’t dare move his feet, but he swayed there, tilting his head till he found the best view from between the thick, leafy branches.

  Now he could see them. Standing there, illuminated by the evening sun, while he stood, like a thief, in the shadows. Nicholas Hearn was dressed like the other villagers. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing well-made forearms, his tawny skin contrasting with the white cotton. His dark waistcoat was open, and his simple shirt had no collar. The top button was undone, and Ward’s gaze went straight to the twin points of his collar bones at the base of his throat, and the deep dimple between them, before moving up to take in the furious expression Hearn wore as he glared at his companion.