A Gathering Storm (Porthkennack Book 2)

by Joanna Chambers

  “I know,” Nick said, affecting unconcern. “Else he’d have his teeth down his throat already.”

  “Ah, I’m only funnin’, Nick,” Jed protested as Nick turned away and made for the door. “You Gypsy folks take offence too easy, ain’t that so, Jim?”

  “Shaddup, Jed,” Jim replied.

  As Nick walked through the door, Jed’s jeering voice followed him out. “You watch yerself with that Fitzwilliam. You don’t want to end up like Jago now, do you?”

  The week that followed Nicholas Hearn’s first visit to Varhak Manor dragged by for Ward. Usually he was happy to immerse himself in reading—there was so much still to learn about this new field—but he found the days very slow. Pipp was practically the only person he saw all week, other than the local vicar who’d taken to popping round every Tuesday afternoon, ever hopeful of persuading his newest parishioner to attend church. Ward had spent an hour with the good vicar yesterday, doing little to disguise his boredom. Afterwards, as Pipp had cleared the tea things away, he’d taken Ward to task over his rudeness.

  “Would it hurt to observe the social niceties, Master Edward?” he’d asked dryly. “Just a little?”

  “If I observed the social niceties, I wouldn’t be allowing you to talk to me like this,” Ward had pointed out, before returning his attention to his journal, ignoring Pipp’s offended sniff.

  Even by Ward’s standards, it was a pathetic amount of human contact for a whole week: a little under an hour of the vicar’s unwanted company and daily bickering with his overfamiliar servant.

  Perhaps that was why he could barely contain his excitement at the thought of seeing Nicholas again on Sunday? Or perhaps it was merely that he was eager to finally make some progress with his experiments, even if he did only have one subject to work with. After buying this land, building this house, erecting lightning rods, and doing the other works at the Hole, he was anxious to see some return for his efforts.

  As he got dressed on Sunday morning, Ward felt full of renewed vigour. He would make a real start now. He might only have one subject to work with, but Nicholas was at least a promising one, and in the meantime, Ward was working towards finding others. He’d written to a spiritualist society to enquire whether they knew of any mediums in Cornwall, or indeed anyone who might be more sensitive to the spiritual plane. If he had to bring subjects to Varhak Manor from Truro or Penzance, he would do so. Hell, he would bring them from John O’Groats if he had to. Whatever it took, the work would be done. It was too important, too vital to be allowed to slide.

  Nicholas arrived while Ward was having breakfast.

  Pipp opened the door of the breakfast room and announced him. “Mr. Hearn, sir.” He paused, no doubt for dramatic effect, before adding, “And his dog.”

  He stepped aside, holding the door open for the new arrivals. And yes, there was Nicholas, with his absurdly ugly dog standing beside him.

  Ward’s chest felt suddenly tight, his breath a little constricted. It was the oddest feeling. Distantly, he was aware that he was standing up, his chair scraping against the parquet flooring, and then he was moving towards Nicholas, and Nicholas was coming forward to meet him, his face curiously expressionless, so that Ward wasn’t at all sure if the man was pleased to be here or not. He’d thought Nicholas was content to return when they’d parted last week. Had he been wrong?

  Suddenly, Ward wasn’t sure what to do. He dithered about offering his hand, then stuck it out too quickly. Couldn’t find the easy greeting that he was quite sure any other man would have uttered. Instead, he rasped, “It’s good to see you again, Nicholas,” wincing almost instantly at the ugly croak of his voice.

  Nicholas shook his hand briefly. “You said I could bring Snow—is that still all right? I can take him home if you prefer.”

  “Of course, no trouble at all.” Ward turned to Pipp. “Mr. Pipp, will you bring some tea for Mr. Hearn? Oh, and a bowl of water for Master Snowflake.” When Pipp looked confused, he added, “The dog.”

  Pipp’s eyebrows rose but he murmured, “Very good, sir,” before melting away.

  Ward turned back to Nicholas.

  “Would you like some breakfast?” He gestured at the dishes on the sideboard.

  “No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.”

  “I hope you don’t mind joining me while I finish breakfast?”

  “Not at all, I’m happy to wait,” Nicholas replied evenly. And still, frustratingly, Ward could glean no sense of how happy or otherwise he was to be here.

  “Please, take a seat,” Ward said, returning to his own place. “Mr. Pipp will be back directly with fresh tea.”

  Nicholas selected the chair to the right of Ward’s own. Snowflake trotted as close to his heel as could be, before settling himself down at his master’s feet with a few whuffling breaths.

  “He stays very close to you, doesn’t he?” Ward observed. “It’s as if he’s afraid to let you out of his sight.”

  When Nicholas looked down at the dog, his stiffness eased, a small, fond smile curling the tight line of his mouth. That smile had a remarkable effect on his face. The man’s fierce features softened. He was handsome when he smiled, his expression very appealing. There was much, in fact, about Nicholas that was appealing: the lean, tough body; the obvious, unshowy intelligence. And something too, about that quiet, self-contained reserve that Ward greatly liked. It was soothing, that stillness.

  “He prefers to be with me,” Nicholas said, bending down to caress the dog’s ears. “Poor fellow was near death when I found him, and I doubt he’d known a moment’s kindness in his life before that. He doesn’t trust easy.”

  “He was injured when you found him?”

  “Ayes,” Nicholas said, his soft Cornish burr gentle as the dog gazed devotedly up at him, big, round head cocked at an odd angle so he could keep that single eye on Nicholas. “He was a fighting dog. Came off worst in a bout and was left to die in an alley. When I found him, he was in such a terrible state, I thought it would be kinder to kill him, but I was too much a coward—I couldn’t do it.”

  Ward stared at the dog’s empty eye socket, the hollowed space softened by a layer of white fur. He saw that the dog bore other scars on his unlovely face.

  “It’s not cowardly to shirk at killing a living being,” Ward said.

  “Yes, well, I’m glad I wasn’t able to do it now. Snow’s the gentlest companion you could wish for. Has the sweetest soul.”

  Ward was immediately intrigued. “Do you really think a dog can have a soul?” he asked. He was genuinely curious, but as usual, his awful, wrecked voice made his words sound harsh, so that the question came out sounding like an accusation. He opened his mouth to apologise or explain—something—but when Nicholas looked up to meet his gaze, he didn’t seem offended.

  “I’m certain of it,” he said simply. “Whatever a soul is—I’m not sure I know.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you will find out from your experiments.”

  Ward smiled, relieved that not only had Nicholas not found his question offensive, he seemed to find it interesting. “Perhaps I will. I don’t see why a soul or a spirit—whatever you want to call it—shouldn’t be capable of being observed and measured. It’s only a matter of finding the right way to do it.”

  Nicholas canted his head to one side, considering Ward curiously. “Is that right, though? A soul isn’t like a—a rock or a butterfly. It’s not something you can stick in a glass case and put a label next to.”

  “You’re the one who said you saw a soul in Master Snowflake,” Ward pointed out. “If you can identify a soul just by looking at a dog, is it so unreasonable to suggest I might be able to identify one using sound scientific methods?”

  Nicholas’s brows drew together at that, not in a frown as such, but in a thoughtful expression. “I’m not sure those are the same kinds of seeing. What I’m talking about is . . . more fleeting. A momentary flash of recognition that you feel here.” He touched his solar plexus. “That’s not the sort of se
eing you’re talking about.”

  “Oh? And what sort of seeing am I talking about?”

  “I think you’re talking about capturing something, then peering at it. Studying it. Taking it apart and putting it back together again till you know exactly how it works.”

  Ward felt oddly thrown by that assessment, which struck him as not entirely approving. “Well, that is how scientists understand things.”

  Nicholas nodded. “I know, but I’m not sure everything can be understood in that way. Some things are too fleeting, or—oh, I don’t know—too shadowy.”

  “Nonsense,” Ward replied. “Everything is capable of being studied and understood. I have to believe that. What do we have otherwise? People going around declaring this or that to be a truth based on some nebulous feeling they get? How could you ever disprove such a supposed fact, if you didn’t agree with it? And how would we ever progress without the ability to disprove and offer new, better explanations? The discipline of science—the drawing of logical conclusions from objective evidence—is the only reliable way we have of understanding anything.”

  “So what is it that you wish to understand?” Nicholas asked. “From these experiments of yours?”

  Ward blinked, taken aback by the question. “Well,” he said after a pause, “I want to understand how my brother’s spirit spoke to me on that ship. Where he was and how that plane of existence he was on interacts with our own world. The known, visible world.”

  “And you think you can find evidence that will explain those things using scientific methods?”

  “Yes,” Ward replied. “Why not?”

  Nicholas was silent for a long time. At last, he said, “I can believe that Snow has a soul without having to understand what a soul really is. But what you’re talking about . . .” He paused, frowning. “It sounds to me as though you’re searching for a way to allow yourself to believe.”

  Ward stared at Nicholas. He couldn’t think how to respond to that, and his gut began to churn uneasily as he turned over the words in his mind. He was relieved when Pipp knocked at the door, interrupting them.

  “Come in,” he croaked, and Pipp glided in. While he poured tea for Nicholas and asked if he would like anything to eat, Ward looked down at his own half-eaten breakfast. He’d forgotten about it while he and Nicholas had been talking, and now it was cold and unappetising.

  “You can clear this away, Mr. Pipp,” he said when Pipp was finished with Nicholas, ignoring the man’s purse-lipped disapproval as he lifted the plate and left the room.

  Once Pipp had left, Nicholas said, “May I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” Ward replied, though in truth he was wary now of what Nicholas might ask, given what had gone before.

  “Do you believe in God?”

  The question surprised Ward, and he didn’t answer immediately, studying Nicholas for several long moments.

  “No, I don’t,” he said at last. “But that is not to say I couldn’t be persuaded if there was evidence. Do you?”

  “I don’t know,” Nicholas said. “But sometimes, when I’m walking along the cliff tops, I look out over the sea. The wind will be wild and the birds circling above, gulls and kittiwakes and guillemots, and the sky will have a thousand clouds in it. It’s all so . . . immense and so grand and it all fits together just so. And I get the strongest feeling—a sort of yearning, I suppose—as though part of me is trying to burst out of my body and join with it all.” He smiled uncertainly at Ward. “When that happens, it’s difficult to believe there isn’t something.”

  Ward wasn’t sure what Nicholas meant by that. Was he saying he believed in God or not? He considered asking, pressing the point, but in the end, he left the thought unspoken. Instead he just watched while Nicholas bent down to pet the dog again, his gaze lingering on the sharp sweep of the man’s firm jawline. The bluish lights that the sunshine streaming through the window picked out in his black hair. The way his strong, capable hand gently fondled the ugly dog’s ears.

  After breakfast, Ward suggested they walk over to the Hole. It wasn’t far from the house, and there were things he wanted to show Nick, he said.

  “I’m having a series of platforms constructed inside the crevice,” he explained as they strode over the scrubby, wind-tugged grass. Nick realised he was growing used to the man’s odd rasping voice. Already he barely noticed it.

  “What purpose will they serve?” he asked.

  “They’re for my ozone gas efforts,” Ward said, as though that explained everything.

  Nick could see, up ahead, that the Hole was now encircled by a makeshift wooden fence, about three feet high. What on earth?

  “You’ll have to watch out,” he warned. “If the village children find out there’s platforms in there, you’ll have them crawling inside, and you’ll get the blame if one of them falls to their deaths.”

  Ward frowned. “Surely they won’t come all the way up here? This is private property, and it’s a fair walk from the village just to play in a hole.”

  Nick laughed. “It’s a bleddy great zawn—”

  “A what?”

  “A zawn. It’s a Cornish word for”—he waved his hand at the Hole—“one of them. If you think the village boys won’t walk a couple of miles to climb inside a crack in the ground that stretches all the way from the cliff top to the sea and spurts up great bursts of water without warning, you need your head looking at. Of course they’ll come! God knows I used to, when I was a boy.”

  “Did you?”

  Nick glanced at Ward, perplexed by his disbelief. Lord, hadn’t the man ever played as a child? He was looking at Nick with the same expression he’d worn that first day in the Hope & Anchor, his acorn-brown gaze all earnest and his hair glinting in the sunshine.

  Nick cleared his throat and forced himself to go on. “Of course I did. I used to come up here with Jake Odell, Gid Paget, and Jed Hammett. We’d dare each other to stand at the edge and wait for the sea spurts, see if we could run away without getting drenched.”

  They had reached the Hole now. Nick laid a hand on the flimsy fence. “You might be better taking this down. There’s nothing draws an adventurous lad like a fence round some works. You’d be better off putting a proper fence up along your entire boundary. Dissuade any would-be trespassers from getting near enough to even see these platforms exist.”

  Ward frowned thoughtfully.

  Nick vaulted over the fence with ease, then leaned back over, gesturing to Snow and making a clicking noise with his mouth. “C’m’ere, boy.” The dog trotted up to the fence and jumped into his waiting arms. Nick set Snow down again on the other side and patted his thigh to let the dog know he wanted him close.

  Nick stepped up to the mouth of the crevice, Snow padding cautiously beside him. He looked down the long, craggy tunnel to the patch of glittering grey-blue below where the sea undulated and foamed. There was something bobbing down there in the water. Nick squinted—it looked like several wooden crates, bound together. Further up the crevice, perhaps twenty feet from the bottom, there was a wooden platform. It looked to be three feet wide and perhaps six or seven feet long. Very solid. Another platform had been started further up, thick beams already secured in place on which the thinner platform boards would be set.

  Nick glanced at Ward who was now standing beside him, peering down too.

  “How many of those are you going to build?”

  “Three near the bottom and three near the top. To begin with, anyway.”

  “What have they got to do with ozone gas then?”

  Ward pointed down the zawn. “Do you see the wooden cases right down at the bottom? In the sea?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those contain cells, not unlike the ones I showed you last week. Batteries of them—some other equipment too. In essence, I’m trying to produce ozone gas by passing electricity into water, a process that happens naturally during storms. I’m attempting an artificial synthesis.”

  “And have you been
successful?”

  Ward made a face. “Slightly. It’s not very difficult to produce a small quantity—it’s a question of volume.”

  “I see. And the platforms?”

  “Those are mainly for carrying out observations. As and when I get to the stage of producing a reasonable quantity of ozone, I’ll be taking measurements to see how it travels, what effect the sea surges have, and so on.” He looked at Nick, catching his eye. “And of course, the platforms will be useful for working with subjects too. This crevice is a natural funnel. I’m hoping I can take advantage of that to re-create the atmospheric conditions present during a storm at sea, even when the weather is fair.” He glanced at Nick. “In fact, if you like, we could hold our session out here today?”

  Nick raised his brows. “You want me to climb down there so you can hypnotise me?” he exclaimed.

  Ward grinned. “Does the prospect alarm you?”

  That grin, so brilliant and bright with humour, momentarily floored Nick. He could do nothing but gaze at the man, rocked by a sudden surge of helpless longing.

  When he realised he was staring, heat flooded his face and he looked quickly away, but not before he saw Ward’s own brows draw together in faint puzzlement.

  Frantically, Nick searched his mind for Ward’s last words. “Alarm me?” he repeated. He cleared his throat. “Yes, it does rather. I’d far prefer to be hypnotised in your study, in that nice comfortable armchair.” He made himself smile, though he feared it was a stiff and awkward thing. “Speaking of which, isn’t it about time we got back and made a start?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he strode back to the fence, praying that Ward would follow him, and that he wouldn’t ask Nick why he was suddenly so anxious to be put into a trance.

  From The Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I

  Some of the first experiments I conducted involved the production of chemical reactions by the application of an electrical current to an electrolyte. My father allowed me to purchase a simple electrostatic machine and I used this firstly to electrolyse water, splitting it into its two constituent gases, and then a variety of other electrolytes. It was the reverse process, though—producing electricity from the energy released by spontaneous chemical reactions—that truly fascinated me. As Professor Daniell had explained in that first lecture I attended, exciting new inventions were already being powered with the portable power source he had invented, the Daniell cell. It was clear to me, even then, that far greater things would be possible in the future, as more power was harnessed into smaller and ever more durable batteries of these cells. That, I felt sure, was the key to the future.