A Gathering Storm (Porthkennack Book 2)

by Joanna Chambers

  From this vantage point, Ward could see Hearn’s face quite well, but of the other man he saw little more than a head of reddish-brown hair and a sliver of his profile. Nothing of his expression. This man was a bit taller than Hearn, and a bit leaner too. He was dressed more formally than Hearn, though not so much as Ward. He wore a coat at any rate, and looked to have a tie about his neck.

  “Nick, please, I’m going back to Truro tomorrow,” the man said, his voice gentle now. “Can’t we have one more time together? There’s only you in the cottage now.” He lifted his hand and set it on Hearn’s shoulder, and Hearn closed his eyes, his expression almost pained.

  “Gabe,” he whispered. “Don’t.”

  “But I can’t stay away,” Gabe murmured back. He lifted his other hand and curled it round the nape of Hearn’s neck, leaning in and pressing his mouth against Hearn’s lips.

  Hearn’s hands were fisted at his sides, the knuckles white, as though he was fighting with himself not to put his arms round the man kissing him, even as he let his mouth be taken.

  Ward stared at them, appalled and aroused and now drenched with guilt. He rubbed at the placket of his trousers, trying to discourage his stiff cock from hardening further. This was not for his eyes. This was not for anyone’s eyes but the two men standing in front of him. And Christ, how foolish were they to do this here, where they might be seen by anyone happening along? They were lucky—damned lucky—it was him and no other.

  It was past time he left. Past time he retreated a good way back. He readied himself to do just that while they were still caught up in the tight, desperate kiss, but before he could move, Hearn lifted those arms—not to pull Gabe into a closer embrace, but to thrust him back. So hard that the taller man stumbled.

  “Nick,” Gabe gasped. “Bloody hell, what’s wrong with you?”

  Hearn’s expression was all disgusted misery. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just go,” he spat. “Go on, fuck off back to your wife.”

  “Why can’t you forget about her?” Gabe demanded, his voice edged with frustration. “If I can, you should be able to. Jesus, Nick, it’s not as though she’d care! She doesn’t want me anywhere near her since the baby came.”

  Hearn gave a bark of laughter. “Ah, now I see why you followed me up here. Jenny’s not letting you tup her, so you’re looking for another bed to warm?” His lip curled up in a sneer. “Not even that probably—it’s not as though we ever needed a bed before, is it?”

  “Christ, Nick—”

  “Tell you what, if you want it so much, I’ll let you suck my cock. You can do it here, on your knees, the way I used to for you. You spilling down my throat while I spilled in the dirt.”

  Hearn’s vitriolic words shocked Ward, so much so he felt physically winded by them, as though he’d been thrown by a horse and had all the air knocked out of him. He had to lay his hand on the tree beside him to steady himself, taking in a shaky breath as quietly as he could manage. He heard the pain in those words, registered Hearn’s hurt, accusatory tone, but even as he did so, his mind was supplying vivid images of this Gabe—or was it himself?—dropping to his knees while Nicholas Hearn unbuttoned his trousers . . . and God, but it was a picture that made his cock stiffen and throb. The thought of that fierce face staring down at Ward as Ward leaned forward, opening his mouth . . .

  Ward swallowed thickly, blinking the fantasy away, focusing his attention back on the two men facing each other.

  Hearn glared at Gabe, those silvery eyes burning a cold fire as he waited for some kind of response, but Gabe said nothing and eventually, after long moments of silence, Hearn gave a mocking laugh. “I thought not.”

  He turned away so he faced the stream, giving Gabe—and Ward—his back.

  When next he spoke, his voice was low and weary. “Go back to Truro, Gabe.”

  “Nick—” Gabe’s voice cracked with some emotion, and behind Hearn’s implacable back, he lifted his hand, as though to touch him. He never made contact though. His hand hovered there, trembling in the air while Hearn stood, unmoving, looking out over the water.

  Eventually, Gabe sighed and let his arm drop.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, with what sounded like real sorrow. “I shouldn’t have followed you here.”

  “No,” Nick said, without turning. “You shouldn’t.”

  Unseen by Hearn, Gabe nodded, shoulders slumping. Then without another word—not even a farewell—he turned and began to walk towards Ward. Towards the path that led back to the village.

  Alarmed, Ward drew further into the shadows of the dense copse. He was standing off the footpath itself and well hidden by the trees; nevertheless, he couldn’t help but worry he’d be seen. When Gabe passed him though, just a few feet from where Ward himself stood, he didn’t so much as glance Ward’s way, merely trudged away down the footpath.

  Heart thudding, Ward watched him leave. He watched till Gabe had turned off onto the bridle path and vanished entirely out sight, and he kept watching for several minutes afterwards, all the while staying as still and silent as he could amongst the shadowy trees.

  When finally he looked back at Nicholas Hearn, he saw that the man hadn’t moved so much as an inch. He stood in the exact same spot he’d been in when Gabe had left, still staring out over the little stream.

  Heart thudding, Ward considered the best way to extricate himself from his predicament—he’d given up on the idea of talking to Hearn as soon as he’d realised what he was witnessing. Best to slip away and never speak to anyone of what he’d seen and heard this evening. The prudent thing to do would be to wait for Hearn to leave, then give it a few minutes before making his own escape. The only trouble with that plan was that Hearn was showing no sign of going anywhere. In fact, now he was sitting himself down on the grass and there was something about the set of those broad shoulders, and the stillness of his lonely figure, that made Ward suspect he was settling in for a while.

  At last, deciding he had no choice but to try to sneak away as quietly as possible, Ward took a deep breath and stepped carefully back towards the footpath—immediately cracking a stick loudly beneath his boot.

  Hearn whirled round at the sudden sound, scrambling to his feet. “Who’s there?” he cried. He glared into the shadowy area where Ward stood, and suddenly Ward felt like the worst sort of creeping voyeur—he’d known from the beginning he should’ve walked away as soon as he’d realised what was going on, but instead he’d let his curiosity about Nicholas Hearn take over.

  Now he would have to own his shameful behaviour.

  Ward forced himself to step out of the shadows—to walk past the line of trees that disguised him and meet Nicholas Hearn face-to-face. His cheeks flamed with heat as he saw the expression on Hearn’s face: wary fear and incipient fury.

  “What were you doing? Were you hiding in there?” Hearn demanded. He stepped forward, and Ward immediately took a step back, stumbling a little. Already he was regretting his brief moment of courage—Hearn wasn’t much taller than Ward, but he was broader, and right now, looked very fierce. What’s more, he wasn’t as alone as Ward had initially believed. The ugly white dog that had been with him in the inn was here too. It trotted over from wherever it had been nosing around to stand beside Hearn and stare at Ward with its single baleful eye.

  In the face of Ward’s stumbling retreat, Hearn halted, pulled back a little, and the dog glanced up at his master as though for instruction.

  “Well?” Hearn demanded. He seemed to find an answer to his question on Ward’s face—perhaps in the intensifying heat that Ward felt flare on his cheeks—and added more softly, more dangerously, “How long were you there?”

  Ward coughed—a nervous habit of his. Trying to clear a throat that could never be cleared.

  “A while,” he admitted at last in his usual rasping tone.

  Hearn studied him, his face oddly expressionless. At last he said flatly. “I don’t know what you heard, but—”

  Ward
interrupted. “It’s none of my business.” His throat ached, the way it sometimes did when he’d overused his voice, which was ridiculous when he’d barely spoken to anyone all day.

  Hearn remained impassive, though Ward saw his throat bob just before he asked, “Why are you here then?”

  “I was looking for you in the village,” Ward replied carefully. “Someone told me you’d come up to the mill stream, so I followed you. When I realised you weren’t alone—” he broke off, sudden shame flooding him “—I should have left. I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to . . . witness anything.”

  Hearn was pale now. “So you overheard?”

  Ward’s cheeks blazed even hotter. “I didn't intend to,” he repeated miserably, then, compelled to honesty, “But yes, I did overhear your . . . disagreement.”

  Hearn swallowed again and ran his hand over the back of his neck, agitated. Beside him, the white dog snuffled, bumping its head against his lower leg.

  “Mr. Hearn,” Ward said, holding up his hands, palms outwards. “The reason I wanted to speak with you was because I very much want you to help me with my studies. Ideally I would like to work with at least half a dozen subjects, but if I can only get one, you seem to me to be a particularly suitable candidate.” He paused, then added, more firmly, “In short, I need your assistance, Mr. Hearn.”

  Hearn turned his silvery gaze back on Ward. A watchful, wild wolf.

  “Is that so?”

  “It is,” Ward replied, nodding vigorously. “I want you to agree to work with me, Mr. Hearn.” He offered what he hoped was a winning smile. “And I’m not generally considered to be the sort of man who’ll take no for an answer.”

  There was a brief pause, then Hearn laughed. It wasn’t a real laugh though. It was an angry, unamused sound that made Ward’s own smile wither.

  When Hearn spoke, his voice was bitter. “Christ, you must be thanking your lucky stars you stumbled on me and Gabe.”

  For a moment, Ward was bewildered by Hearn’s furious words. Then the light dawned.

  Hearn thought Ward was blackmailing him.

  Ward nearly laughed aloud—only the disgusted expression on Hearn’s face stopped him. Ward opened his mouth to reassure him that he had no such intention . . . but no words came out. He remembered their last encounter. Hearn’s words.

  “Thank you for the offer, Sir Edward. But I already have a position that pays me well enough. I really have no need of any other employment.”

  He realised then that there was no chance of Hearn agreeing to help him with his studies willingly. Saw too that this was . . . an opportunity, and as ignominious as it might be to take advantage of it, it was likely his only chance to obtain Hearn’s assistance.

  His work mattered.

  George mattered.

  Heart thudding, Ward spoke slowly.

  “I would like us to help each other, Mr. Hearn.”

  From The Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I

  George and I were sent away to school when we were nine years old, but after my illness, I had to stay at home. A tutor was secured for me as a temporary measure, but it was intended I would return to school when I was well enough. As it happened though, under my excellent tutor’s watch, I became, for the first time, a devoted student and began to excel in my studies. As a keen geologist, Mr. Lucas instilled within me a passion for the sciences that would prove to be lifelong.

  When I confessed to my mother how much I had hated being away from home when I first went to school, she decided she would prefer me to remain at home. No doubt, she was influenced by her conviction that I was now of a delicate constitution and required gentle handling, a misconception I am ashamed to say I took ruthless advantage of. She spoke to my father, pointing out that under Mr. Lucas’s tutelage, I had progressed far quicker than George and the other boys in our age group at school, and suggested it would be better to allow me to complete my studies at my own swift pace. At length, my father, despite being a Winchester fellow through and through, agreed I might be educated at home. And so it came to pass that I was ready for university two years before George, but never learned how to row, box, or bowl anyone out at cricket nearly as well as he could.

  8th May 1853

  As soon as Nick awoke the following Sunday morning, before he even came to full alertness, he knew there was something he had to do that day. It took a few moments before he remembered what it was, but when he did, he groaned aloud, throwing an arm over his face. He had to go up to Varhak Manor.

  For a while he lay in bed, mulling over the stories he’d heard in the village about what Sir Edward did to his “subjects.” It was all rather vague. Tom Cadzow claimed he couldn’t even remember what happened, but he was a dozy lad, that one. As for Jago Jones, his family claimed that Sir Edward had put him into a trance and shocked him with electricity. They said that was what made him so addled he’d overturned his own buggy. Nick didn’t believe that for a minute—he’d known Jago for years, and he was fairly sure that Sir Edward’s version of events was nearer the truth. It was brandy and ale that had addled Jago’s brains that day.

  But what if it was true? What if Sir Edward wanted to shock Nick? The very thought made Nick shudder. Men didn’t benefit from being struck with lightning, did they? And then there was the prospect of being put in a trance. Being in someone else’s control. He hated that idea. It was almost enough to resolve him to defy Sir Edward, until he considered the other, more pressing danger he faced. If he was brought up on charges, at worst he’d be looking at the noose, at best prison. Maybe even a spell in the stocks. The local mob wouldn’t stay its viciousness against a sodomite.

  Just thinking about that made Nick keenly aware of his aloneness in the world. Growing up, he’d been the Romany boy—the Gypsy woman’s bastard. As if that hadn’t been enough to set him apart, Godfrey Roscarrock had stepped in when he was twelve years old, plucking him out from the pack of village boys to educate him and elevate his station in life. Now, his position was far above the men he used to play with when he was a boy, and he knew that at times he was resented for it. He wasn’t one of them anymore, but nor did he belong with the Roscarrocks and their sort. Sir Edward Fitzwilliam’s sort. People like them would never see Nick as an equal. In their eyes, he was no more than a well-paid, well-educated servant, one with a distinct disadvantage in his far-from-respectable birth.

  As for his Romany family. Well, he didn’t even know them.

  He belonged nowhere, and to no one. If he was sent to gaol, no one would be waiting for his release. If he was broken and beaten in the stocks, no one would be there to mend his hurts. Those stark truths were painful to contemplate.

  When he’d first met Gabe, things had been different for a while. Gabe had come to Porthkennack to take up the position of village schoolmaster. Like Nick, he hadn’t really fit in with anyone else, and they’d drifted into spending time together—sharing a table at the Hope & Anchor in the evenings, walking or going fishing down at the mill stream on Sundays. They’d become friends. Then, one night when Gabe was drunk and Nick stupid, Nick had learned that he wasn’t alone in his desire for his own sex, and they’d become more than friends. For a short while, things had been good. And then Gabe had gone and married Jenny Lamb, without so much as a word of warning to Nick before he did it.

  It was that thought that finally got Nick out of bed. No matter what lay ahead of him today, anything would be better than lying in bed brooding about Gabe. He threw back his bedcovers and jumped up, shivering in the cold morning air. Snow lifted his head from his bed in the corner of the room, regarding Nick for a moment before yawning, stretching, and wandering over for some attention, grunt-snuffling his dear, ugly face into Nick’s hand.

  Nick patted him affectionately, running his hand idly over the dog’s velvet-soft ears.

  “You’ll have to wait here today,” he told Snow apologetically. “I can’t take you with me.”

  Snow looked disgusted. He turned away and lum
bered back to his rumpled blanket bed, circling three times before settling himself down with his head in his paws, his single, heavy, rheumy eye fixed reproachfully on his master.

  Nick sighed. “Sulk if you must then.” He crossed the room and lifted the water ewer, pouring a basinful of freezing water. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he grabbed the soap and washed himself thoroughly. Then he wet his thick black hair so he could comb it down neatly. He hadn’t liked the avid gleam in Sir Edward’s eyes when Jed had been going on about Nick being a Gypsy, and he was determined not to look like anyone’s idea of a Gypsy today. Today he would be Godfrey Roscarrock’s respectable, educated steward, and Sir Edward could like it or lump it.

  He dressed in his usual tweeds, tied his necktie neatly, pocketed his silver watch, and fastened the silver watch chain in place between his waistcoat button and pocket. Godfrey Roscarrock had given him this watch three years before. Nick had been summoned to the old man’s study, and when he’d entered, it had been to find Godfrey leaning back in his wingback chair with a long black leather box sitting on the gleaming desk in front of him.

  “Open it,” Godfrey had said. “It’s for you.”

  When Nick had lifted the lid and seen what lay inside, he’d been astonished. “What’s this for?”

  “You’ve worked hard,” the old man had said gruffly. “I had it made for you. Jacob had one just like it.”

  Jacob. Godfrey’s son, dead and away. Nick’s—

  “Of course, his was gold.”

  Nick had looked up at those sharp words, and the old man’s expression had been flat and hard. Unhappy in a way Nick wasn’t sure he understood. His heart had ached with something like pity, even as his gut burned with resentment at the point the old man seemed to be making.