They spent a long time in the next bookshop, wandering around together this time. Ward kept pulling out volumes and telling Nick about them. He seemed to like Mr. Thackeray and Mr. Dickens especially. After a while, he handed Nick a small fat volume bound in dark-red morocco leather. Nick opened it. The flyleaf read, The Thousand and One Nights, commonly called in England, The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments, a new translation from the Arabic with copious notes, by Edward William Lane.
He glanced up at Ward. “What’s this about?”
“It’s a series of tales, told by a woman, Scheherazade, to her husband, over a thousand and one nights.”
“Hasn’t she anything better to do with her time than sit around telling stories?”
Ward smiled. “Scheherazade is telling the stories to save her life. After he discovered his first wife was unfaithful to him, Shahryar decided to marry a fresh virgin every night, then behead her the very next day. He does this hundreds of times, till Scheherazade comes along. But Scheherazade is well-read, cultured, and clever so her stories are marvellous, and each night she leaves a loose end trailing so that Shahryar has to let her live to find out what will happen next.”
“He sounds dreadful. Does she escape?”
Ward laughed. “No, she runs out of stories after a thousand and one nights, but he’s fallen in love with her by then so decides to keep her.”
Nick made a sound of disgust and shoved the book back at Ward.
Ward laughed again. “Honestly, Nicholas, it’s good. Well worth it for Scheherazade’s stories. I’m going to buy it for you.”
Now Nick was laughing too. “But I don’t want to read about a scoundrel like this Shahryar. I swear, if you dare to buy it for me—”
“Nick?”
That was a new voice.
Nick dragged his gaze from Ward to look at the man who was walking towards them.
His heart sank.
“Gabe,” he said stupidly. “What are you doing here?”
Gabe had been smiling, looking pleased to see Nick, but at Nick’s tone his eyebrows drew together in a tiny frown. “Well, I do live here.”
Immediately Nick felt foolish. “I didn’t mean here in Truro. I meant here, in this bookshop.”
Gabe’s frown deepened. “I have been known to read, you know. I’m a schoolmaster, after all.” His gaze flickered to Ward, curious.
Beside Nick, Ward rasped, “Introduce me to your friend, Nicholas.”
Gabe’s eyes widened a little at that, though whether it was his harsh voice or the sheer high-handedness of his words that surprised him, Nick wasn’t sure. For his own part, he was bristling at being so blatantly told what to do, but he was used to hiding his feelings when he was provoked, so he only said mildly, “Of course. Gabriel, this is Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, Mr. Roscarrock’s newest neighbour. Sir Edward, Mr. Gabriel Meadows. He used to be the village schoolmaster in Porthkennack.”
Gabe took a step closer to Ward, and the two men shook hands.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Meadows,” Ward said, though his unsmiling expression gave lie to the words.
“Likewise,” Gabe returned stiffly. “Nick and I are— Well, we used to be friends when I lived in Porthkennack.” He paused. “Good friends.”
Nick glanced at him in surprise. What on earth? When Gabe returned Nick’s look, there was something oddly defiant about his expression.
There was a brief awkward silence then. What was a man supposed to say in a situation like this, after all?
Ward—this is Gabe. We were lovers till he ran off and got married without telling me.
Gabe—this is Ward, my new lover. I fucked him for the first time yesterday and it was nothing like the time we did it. In fact, it was the most wonderful experience of my life . . .
“So, what brings you to Truro, Nick?” Gabe asked.
Nick wasn’t sure what Ward would be comfortable with him saying, so he merely said, “Oh, you know how it is. Business to attend to. I tend to store up my errands and deal with them all at once.”
“How long are you here for?”
“Just till tomorrow.”
Gabe smiled. “Then perhaps we could dine together this evening? It’s been too long. I’ve missed your company.”
Nick was about to decline when Ward rasped, “I’m afraid that’s impossible. We have a prior engagement.”
Nick turned to look at him, astonished and irritated in equal measure by this possessive—and quite unnecessary—interjection.
Gabe said, “Both of you?”
“Yes,” Ward said, again without waiting for Nick to speak. “Nicholas and I travelled down here together, and we’ve made arrangements for the whole evening.” The words carried a distinctly dictatorial edge.
Nick’s temper surged. How dare Ward presume to speak for him without first consulting him? And this possessiveness? It was flattering to an extent, but could Ward not see that such behaviour could expose them to conjecture? Even if Gabe could be trusted—and Ward had no basis for making such an assumption—the fact was that anyone in this bookshop might overhear their conversation. Oh, but it was this just sort of arrogance from the very wealthy that most riled Nick, this total lack of consideration for consequences. After all, why worry about consequences when you would face none? With his wealth and title, Ward simply didn’t have to be as careful as Nick and Gabe did. That, Nick thought bitterly, was just a fact of life.
Shooting Ward a quick glare, Nick turned to Gabe. Somehow he managed to keep his tone even. “I’m afraid that we—that I am busy this evening, but if you’ve time for an ale just now, we could go to the White Hare? It’s not far from here.”
Nick felt Ward stiffening beside him, even though he was still looking at Gabe. Gabe, whose smile had returned now, wide and genuine.
“That would be wonderful,” he said.
And somehow, it was Gabe’s pleasure, more than anything else, that filled Nick with sudden, overwhelming regret. He turned to Ward.
“You’re very welcome to come along,” he said, offering a small smile. “The White Hare is the place with the stargazy pie I was telling you about.”
But Ward wouldn’t even meet his eyes. He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I wouldn’t dream of intruding. I’ll let you catch up with Mr. Meadows in private.”
Nick couldn’t hear any tone in the rasped words, but he could tell Ward was unhappy from his averted gaze and unsmiling mouth.
“You wouldn’t be intruding,” he assured Ward desperately, even as the man nodded a polite farewell to Gabe and began to turn away.
“I’ll see you this evening,” was Ward’s cool reply. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
Gabe waited till they were settled in a private little nook in the White Hare with two tankards of froth-topped ale in front of them before he mentioned Ward.
“So, what’s going on between you and Fitzwilliam?”
“Nothing,” Nick replied. “As I said, I’m helping him with his work.” He’d already told Gabe that the man was a scientist and that Nick had agreed to be his subject. In fact, he’d babbled about electricity and ozone and lightning rods nonstop all the way from the bookshop to the White Hare in an effort to avoid precisely this question. Which was absurd, since there was plainly no avoiding it.
Gabe chuckled. “Come off it. He was practically pissing a circle round you in that bookshop.”
“Oh, bugger off,” Nick replied uncomfortably.
Gabe raised his eyebrows and reached for his ale, tipping his head back to take a long drink. His strong throat bobbed as he swallowed, and it occurred to Nick that once upon a time, just that sight would have be enough to get him hard. Even the last time he’d seen Gabe, down at the mill stream on May Day when they were already finished, he’d still felt a strong pull to him, one that had gone beyond simply finding the man attractive. But now, today, it finally felt as though those feelings were well and truly in the past.
“How’s Jenny?” Nick asked w
hen Gabe put his tankard back down on the table. “And little Peter?”
Gabe looked away. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not,” Nick said. “I’m asking because I want to know. You can’t think I wish them ill, Gabe. I wish you all happiness, I really do.”
It was true. Even in his darkest moments, he’d never borne Gabe’s wife any ill will. If anything, he felt sorry for her. Hoped that Gabe would treat her better than he’d treated Nick, though judging by Gabe’s behaviour the last time he’d been in Porthkennack, that seemed unlikely.
“All right,” Gabe said shortly. “Let me tell you how we all are. Jenny and Peter are well. Peter’s started babbling. He says Dada a lot. And Mama. Jenny wants more babies, but I’d rather wait and save for a bigger house first. I’ve taken on two private students three evenings a week—working men who want to improve themselves. That’s a help with money. Jenny’s mother’s staying with us just now, which is driving me slowly mad, but she’s going home on Thursday, thank heavens. And Jenny’s cooking is getting better, which is a relief since I thought I’d expire from hunger when we first got married, and—and bloody hell, I miss you, Nick.” He stared into Nick’s eyes as he whispered those last words, his expression agonised, the hand clutching his tankard white-knuckled.
“Gabe—”
“I know you hate me,” Gabe went on in a low voice. “And I know I deserve your hatred, but the truth is, even now, I still think about you. Every day, Nick. That’s what I wanted to say that last time I saw you in Porthkennack. That’s what I should have said.”
They stared at each other for long moments, till Nick looked away, shooting a quick glance about to check no one was paying them any attention. No one was—there were only a handful of others in the taproom and none of them were even glancing their way.
As used as he was to the endless need for watchfulness, Nick still hated it. Hated having to be always prudent, always aware, always lowering his voice even when he wanted to shout his frustration to the world. To just be and do without always second-guessing himself.
It was a feeling he’d been able to shed, for a few perfect hours, with Ward. First at Varhak Manor and again last night. Wealth gave you the luxury of privacy. If Nick had arrived at the Fox and Swan with Gabe at his side, Mrs. Bassett would likely have wanted to know what they were about, instead of simply assuming their business was respectable and offering them her best parlour to dine in. That was a reality that Ward didn’t even begin to understand. He was so used to his privileged position, he had no idea what it was like for others. And perhaps it was unfair to resent Ward for that privilege, when Nick himself had relished the brief, heady freedom it had brought him last night.
Nick dragged his gaze back to Gabe’s. “I don’t hate you, Gabe,” he said wearily. “But we can’t be to each other what we once were. You know that. You have a family now, and you need to look after them.”
Gabe swallowed and nodded. “I do love them. Jenny’s a good mother, and a kindhearted girl, but I—I just didn’t realise how much I’d miss you. And I don’t just mean the physical, Nick. You were my only real friend in Porthkennack. I liked talking to you.”
“I know. It was the same for me. It was hard when you left. I felt . . . very alone.”
“Christ, Nick.” Gabe’s voice was pained. “I’m so sorry. I left you—”
“It’s all right,” Nick said. “I’m all right now.”
“Are you really?” Gabe asked. He smiled sadly. “And is it terrible that I’m hoping the answer is no?”
Nick’s mouth quirked in a rueful smile. “Yes, it’s terrible,” he agreed, then more gently, “And yes, I think I am.”
“Because of him?” Gabe asked. “Fitzwilliam?”
Nick thought about that. These last weeks, getting to know Ward, their growing friendship and intimacy—it had been so consuming that there had been no room in him for loneliness or regret or bitterness. As for Ward’s physical interest in him, his frank admiration, his desire . . . That had fed something in Nick that was utterly parched. What had passed between them last night had drenched the dried-out cracks in his soul, filling up every cavity and hollow so that, maybe for the first time in his adult life, Nick had felt . . . happy, however momentarily.
Frowning, he met Gabe’s gaze. “Yes. Because of him, I think.”
“You love him then,” Gabe said. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.
Nick searched the other man’s face. “Is that what this is? I don’t know, Gabe. I’ve never felt anything quite like this before.”
Gabe gave a huff of unamused laughter. “Not with me, I take it?”
Nick scowled at the table, irritated by that. “It’s not quite the same, no.”
“How?” Gabe asked. “How is he different from me?”
“Ward is—”
Extraordinary. Endlessly fascinating. Utterly infuriating at times. The most comely man Nick had ever seen, with the filthiest imagination. Demanding. Giving. And unapologetically just exactly who he was.
And Nick . . . loved him.
He dropped his head into his hands. “Bloody hell.”
From The Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I
In 1851, I finally set up my own laboratory in London. My father, softened then by ill health, had become reconciled to my refusal to join the Church and finally allowed me access to my portion to enable me to take this momentous step. I was excited beyond measure and embarked upon my work with the single-minded enthusiasm of a monomaniac. I would have thought that nothing could have diverted me from it. But a year later, as I returned home from a trip to Trinity College, Dublin, something happened to me during the sea-crossing from Ireland that would change the path of my life forever.
Ward was dressing in his evening clothes when Nicholas returned.
He heard the scrape of the lock of the next-door chamber first, then the tread of boots. Moments later, Nicholas appeared in the doorway that connected the two rooms.
“I’m back.”
Ward’s gut still burned with anger over the events of earlier—he kept his eyes on the mirror and continued to fasten his necktie. “We’re dining at six this evening, so you should get ready.”
“All right,” Nicholas said, but he didn’t move. After a pause, he added, “I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have gone off with Gabe like that. It’s just that when you said—”
“It’s quite all right,” Ward interrupted. He gave his necktie one last tweak then turned to meet Nicholas’s troubled gaze. “But you really ought to get ready. The séance is at half past seven and we mustn’t be late.”
Nicholas didn’t say anything for the longest time. He seemed to be considering how to respond, but at last he just nodded and turned away, saying, “I won’t be long.” Then he disappeared back into the small adjoining room and closed the door behind him.
He reappeared a few minutes later in fresh clothes, with his hair neatly combed, and followed Ward down to the dining parlour in silence, remaining subdued all through dinner. Ward was quiet too, both because of what had happened in the bookshop and at the thought of what the evening before him held. He wondered what sort of man Stephen Bryant would prove to be. A medium with genuine abilities, or just a fraudster, preying on grieving families?
At last, towards the end of the meal, Nicholas sighed and said, “Are you still angry?”
He looked and sounded irritated, and that made Ward’s own annoyance spike. Even though Nicholas had apologised when he’d first returned to the inn, he didn’t seem to truly feel sorry about going off with Gabe Meadows this afternoon. Indeed, from the scowl on his face, it seemed he had his own gripes about what had happened, though Ward couldn’t imagine what those might be. On another evening, Ward would probably have asked Nicholas outright what the problem was, but not this evening. He was in no mood to entertain that argument now, not with his stomach clenched up with nerves at the prospect of the séance.
“I’m not in
the least bit angry,” he lied.
“Fine,” Nicholas replied, looking away. “You’re not annoyed with me at all.”
His scepticism was obvious. Well, that was Nicholas, wasn’t it? He was a sceptical character, and not just about Ward’s stupid lie—most likely about the whole night ahead.
In fact, thinking about it, Ward found it difficult to remember why it was he’d asked Nicholas to come along tonight at all. One of the great ironies of their friendship was that Ward had initially wanted to get to know Nicholas because he’d believed that, with his unusual background, Nicholas would be more open to the idea of communicating with spirits than anyone else in Porthkennack. In fact, it had transpired that the opposite was true. The only chink in Nicholas’s considerable scepticism was his—possible—childhood sighting of the Plague Doctor. And in truth, from what Nick had said during his trances, Ward wasn’t convinced that the encounter hadn’t simply been the fevered, if vivid, imaginings of a sick child.
Even when his own mother was mentioned, Nick would usually just make some throwaway comment that hinted at a lack of belief in her supposed abilities.
“She was very astute. Very good at understanding what people wanted to hear. . .”
Not that Nick’s belief or lack of belief should make any difference, given that Ward was supposed to be approaching this evening’s events with the objective disinterest of a scientist. He was here to assess Stephen Bryant, to find out whether he might be a credible subject for Ward’s studies. Except the truth was, Ward didn’t feel the least bit objective. He felt . . . hopeful. Hopeful, and desperately afraid to be hopeful, that George might come to him again, as he had on board the Archimedes.
Because if Stephen Bryant was a true medium, that might well happen.
Stephen Bryant lived on the outskirts of Truro in an area of the town Nick was unfamiliar with. He and Ward walked there in silence, Ward still quietly remote after their mostly silent dinner. Nick wasn’t sure how much of Ward’s distance was lingering annoyance over Nick’s going off with Gabe that afternoon and how much was preoccupation with the events of the evening still to come. Whatever it was, he wasn’t minded to try coaxing Ward into a better mood.
A Gathering Storm (Porthkennack Book 2) Page 19
