For a moment they stared at each other, Nick implacable and Godfrey fuming. Godfrey was first to look away. Nick wondered what he was thinking. If he had any regrets. Probably not. Godfrey Roscarrock was not a man given to regrets. He was a man who believed himself right in all things and would defend his decisions to the bitter end, no matter how poorly made they might be.
He waved a hand now. “Fine, have the wages.”
“Grand. I’ll take them,” Nick said. “Since I’ve earned them.”
Godfrey just scowled, keeping his face averted, staring instead outside the window.
There was a long silence then. Just as Nick was about to break it—to take his leave—Godfrey finally spoke again, his voice gruff.
“Are you ever going to come back?”
He didn’t so much as glance at Nick, but kept his gaze directed out the window, at the moody Cornish sky that was sending down a steady drizzle of rain. He looked old and melancholy.
“I don’t know,” Nick said honestly.
Godfrey closed his eyes. For a moment Nick thought, perhaps, that he minded Nick going. Maybe even that he was going to ask Nick not to leave. But in the end all he said was, “You’d better get back to work then.”
Nick nodded once and left the old man alone.
Out of habit, he headed out via the kitchens. Mrs. Hughes was extracting a tray of figgy hoggans from the oven, and the familiar scent of warm, spiced pastry filled the air. It was a scent Nick had always associated with Roscarrock House. For some reason, today, it made him feel hollow and sad.
He stood there in the doorway to the kitchens, watching Mrs. Hughes close the door of the huge cooking range while two kitchen maids chattered and peeled vegetables at the table. He’d been coming to this kitchen since he was eleven years old. Back then, the cook had been an old battle-axe, Mrs. Crowe. Mrs. Hughes had come when Nick was seventeen and had just started working with the old steward, Mr. Lang. She had always been kind to him.
Catching sight of Nick, Mrs. Hughes smiled wide and beckoned him in.
“Have a cuppa, Mr. ’Earn?”
He shook his head and tried to force a smile. “No, thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I need to be off.”
“Well, take an ’oggan at least,” she urged, and he let her press one into his hands.
Snow was waiting patiently outside the kitchen door. He lumbered to his feet at the sight of Nick, giving his characteristic little grunt-wheeze of pleasure, and trotted to his side, giving the hoggan a hopeful look with his single eye.
Nick sighed. “These aren’t for dogs, you know,” he said. But he still tore a piece off and let Snow have it, rubbing the dog’s silky ears as they ate.
“Come on,” he said at last, patting his thigh. He might have just handed in his notice, but he was still steward here for a little longer and now needed to see Godolphin about an extra field Godfrey had agreed to let to Jessop. There were papers to be drawn up—Godfrey always wanted everything tied up right and tight. “Let’s go to the stables, Snow. You can wait with Gid while I ride over to the village.”
It was late afternoon now and the stables were quiet with most of the heavy tasks already done for the day. The stable lads sat on the grass on the sunny side of the courtyard, polishing tack, while Gid and John the groom played fivestones.
“You wantin’ an ’oss?” Gid called as Nick approached.
“Ayes.”
“Is Val all right for you? ’E’s needin’ some exercise.”
Nick nodded. “He’ll do fine.”
“Jem!” Gid yelled. The boy looked up from across the courtyard and started to rise, but Nick waved him back down.
“I’ll get him,” he said.
Gid shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
He wasn’t sure why he’d taken the notion to do Jem’s job for him, but he quite enjoyed the old familiar rhythms of saddling up a horse. As he did so, he found himself thinking again, as he had in the kitchens, of how long he’d been coming to Roscarrock House, and of the years—six of them—he’d spent working in these stables, summer and winter.
God, those winters. Mucking out stables and carrying heavy buckets of ice-cold water and getting chilblains. Those had been some hard days for a young lad. And lessons after besides.
“Oh good, I caught you before you left!”
Nick looked over his shoulder.
Isabella.
“Well now, Miss Bella,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Don’t give me that,” she said crossly. “You’ve got Grandy in a terrible tizz. What’s this nonsense about you leaving?”
Nick turned back to his work, tightening the straps on Valentine’s tack. “Oh, he’ll be fine. He just needs to get used to the idea. You know how he is.”
Isabella sighed. “Sometimes you’re wilfully obtuse. He’s upset. Don’t you care about that at all?”
“Not much,” Nick replied.
“Well, you should.”
“Why?”
“You know why!” Isabella snapped. “You and I are the only people Grandy cares for even a little.”
Frowning, Nick stepped out of Val’s stall and faced her. “He might care about you, but make no mistake, I’m just a servant in this house.”
Isabella scoffed, “You don’t really think that.”
Anger surged at that. “I don’t just think it,” he snapped. “I know it.”
Isabella actually flinched at his tone, her expression so surprised it was almost funny.
“Nick, you can’t think that! You’re the only person he ever listens to for one thing!”
Nick gave a bark of laughter at her rose-coloured view of the world. “I’ve worked for the old man a long time,” he said. “And I’ve learned how to get his ear. That’s just what we servants do.”
She eyed him unhappily. “Can you at least tell me why you’re going?”
Nick regarded her as he turned that question over in his mind. Isabella was six years his junior, a bright, pretty, spoiled young woman with the world at her feet. She was the apple of Godfrey’s eye, and he’d always indulged her shamelessly, showering her with gifts. When she was very small, and had taken an unaccountable liking to Nick, Nick had been outwardly offhand with her, but secretly fascinated by this tiny, demanding queen. But there had always been—on his side at least—a tension between them too. And yes, a resentment.
She was his cousin, his blood. And yet he would always be her social inferior. Part of the Roscarrock clan, but never truly one of them. Just as he would never be one of the villagers, even though he’d lived there all his life and played with the village children when he was a boy.
“I don’t belong here, Bella,” he said roughly.
She blinked. “What?”
“I don’t belong here,” Nick repeated. “Not really. I’ll always be Darklis Hearn’s Gypsy bastard in this place.” He shrugged, feigning unconcern.
“Nick,” she whispered. “I don’t—I don’t know what to say.”
Somehow he managed to huff out a laugh. “Well, that makes a nice change. I’ve never known a more talkative person than you.”
She gave a choked laugh of her own. “Grandy says I should try to be more like you—learn how to keep my own counsel. Oh Nick, he does care about you, you know! He just can’t show it, or say it—it’s not his way.”
Nick sighed heavily. “It’s nice that you want to believe that, but the truth, as far as the old man’s concerned, is that I’m an embarrassment. Jacob’s Gypsy by-blow. Godfrey gave me a job and a home, and though I never asked for it, I wasn’t too proud to take it, not when he got my labour in return. But he doesn’t owe me anything, Bella, and I don’t owe him or anyone else. Truth is, I’m free as a bird. There’s nothing holding me to this place.” He smiled weakly. “Isn’t that grand?”
She shook her head. “I’ve seen you walking the cliffs, Nick. I walked them with you when I was a girl sometimes, and if ever someone was in love with a place, it’s you. You love the Ros
carrock land, and these horses and—” she looked around, found Snow lying dozing in the corner of the stable, pointed at him “—that ugly dog, and—and Grandy and me, a little bit too, I think. That’s what’s holding you here, or what should be.”
Was that what held you to a place. Loving things?
Loving people?
Was that what made you belong? If so, then why did he feel lonelier than ever when he thought about what and who he loved?
And Christ, was it only two weeks since Truro?
It felt like a lifetime.
Isabella gazed at him hopefully, and he felt a strange mixture of emotions at that look, because yes, he did love her a little, but sometimes he hated her a little too. For never seeming to mind that he worked in the stables while she just played there, or that he’d been schooled in the evenings after a long day of labour while she was taught French by a fancy governess and had dancing and drawing lessons, and Harry was sent off to school with the sons of the great and the good.
Perhaps she saw something of his thoughts on his face, because her own fell, and for a moment she looked so like the little girl she’d once been that, despite himself, he found himself sighing and saying, “You’re a pain in the neck, Bella, but I suppose I don’t mind you too much.”
The hurt expression faded at that, though she still looked heartbroken.
“Oh, cheer up,” he said, injecting a bit of humour into his voice. “I bet you won’t even miss me once I’m gone!” He even managed a grin then, though he wondered how convincing it could possibly be.
“I wouldn’t be sad if I thought you wanted to leave,” she said. “But I don’t think you do. Everything and everyone you love is here, Nick.”
She had listed all those everythings and everyones a moment ago, but she’d missed the most important one. The one who dominated his thoughts every day. The one who made his heart wrench whenever Nick thought of him.
The one who was the reason he couldn’t bear to stay another day.
Isabella thought that love was what held you to a place, and maybe that was true, mostly. But sometimes it was the very thing that drove you away.
22nd July 1853
Nick wanted to walk along the cliff tops one last time before he left Porthkennack, but when he rose from his bed on the day of his departure, it was to find that a thick mist had rolled in from the sea, shrouding the coastal path in a dense, white veil. His planned walk—the one he’d intended to be a farewell to the only home he’d ever known—became instead a ghostly thing. As sure-footed as he was, he couldn’t see further than two feet in front of him and eventually he turned back, disappointed.
Over the course of the morning, the mist slowly cleared, but as it did so, the sky grew steadily darker, the air thickening with the close, heavy promise of bad weather. It seemed, Nick thought, that Ward was going to get his storm, at long last. And if Nick was any judge, it was going to be a bad one.
The coach wasn’t due to leave till four o’clock, so at noon, Nick went down to the village for a walk around and a tankard of ale at the Hope & Anchor.
“I hear yer off,” Martha Trevylyn said, as she set his ale down on the bar and held her hand out for his coin.
“Ayes,” Nick said.
“Talkative feller, aren’tcha?” Martha said, laughing.
Nick grinned at her. “Ayes,” he agreed, and tipped back his tankard.
“Where are you goin’?” she persisted.
“Penzance,” he said, offering the minimum information.
She seemed to consider that a moment. “Jed ’Ammet said you was goin’ to join your Gypsy folk. Is that right, then?”
“Reckon it is,” he agreed.
“You travelled with them before?”
He shook his head.
“You better watch yourself then,” she said, with a sage nod. “I know you’re half Gypsy, but the fact is, you’re more like one of us, what with you growing up in the village. Not like your mother, rest her soul. She was always a wild one.”
Nick knew that Martha meant her warning kindly, but he was glad when she was called away to serve another customer before he could answer her. He raised his tankard and drank.
A little later, Gid Paget walked in.
“Well, look who it is!” he cried. “I thought you’d gone.” He clapped Nick on the shoulder.
“I’m leaving today,” Nick said. “Coach doesn’t go till four though.”
Gid grinned. “You sure you don’t want to stay? Old Godfrey’s been unbearable since Wednesday. In a right temper, ’e is.”
Wednesday had been Nick’s last day. Godfrey had sulked in his study, never showing his face and never summoning Nick. When he’d finished up, Nick had considered going to see him uninvited, but in the end, he’d decided against it. It had been drilled into him over the years that if Godfrey wanted him, he’d call for him. There was no reason to change things now. He’d made it halfway down the drive before Isabella came racing after him.
“Come and say good-bye, Nick, please,” she’d begged. “He’s being a stubborn old fool, but I know he wants to see you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Bella,” he’d replied, and strode off, leaving her staring after him.
Now, he raised a brow at Gid Paget, and said, “Not likely. Where I’m going, there’s going to be no orders from anyone. It’ll be bleddy heaven.”
Gid laughed. “Ah, it sounds it. I envy you.”
They shared an ale together before Nick took his leave. After he left the inn, he walked another circuit of the village, chatting to the few villagers he saw on his way, confirming that yes, he’d given up his position with the Roscarrocks and was off on his travels. And yes, Snow was going with him, and it would be grand indeed to be free to do as he pleased for a while.
The clouds were still heavy and dark with the threat of rain, but Nick walked on, down to the mill stream where he used to meet Gabe sometimes. Strange, how difficult it was to remember those nights with Gabe now. All he could think of, when he tried, was Ward. Ward standing here, half-shadowed in the trees, his cheeks burning as he admitted spying on Nick. Waiting at the top of the staircase at Varhak Manor, bathed in golden sunlight. Tangled in the bedsheets beneath Nick, his warm eyes shining with happiness and his hair all mussed from their lovemaking.
Nick’s chest ached with longing. He felt so broken he wondered if he would ever be whole again. When Gabe had left Porthkennack, Nick had been unhappy, but not like this. He’d still been able to go about his daily business without thinking of Gabe, only feeling miserable at night as he lay alone in bed. When Gabe had gone, he’d mostly missed being touched, and having someone to talk to who understood his secret desires. Missing Ward was an entirely different thing. Towards the end, he’d come to feel as though he belonged to Ward, and Ward to him. That together, they were more than just Ward and Nick. A mated pair, perhaps, like the black swans that graced the village pond.
That was what he missed. Not just the companionship of someone like himself, but his mate. No one else would do.
He had to get away. Had to try to find a new place in the world, or at least fill his days with so many new things that he wouldn’t have so much as a moment to dwell on his unhappiness. However he might feel now, he knew, rationally, that time would pass and things would get better. That was life. You lost people, and you had to live on. It was just that now, in this moment, it felt impossible.
Nick stood there, on the bank of the stream, and watched the water slowly moving past, the surface glassy smooth. He tried out a thought.
One day, the knowledge that I’ll never see him again won’t hurt.
His heart was unconvinced. It ached in a hollow way, pulsing with misery. He wondered if anyone passing would guess at his distress, or if they would just see a man standing quietly, peacefully, watching the water glide past.
Ward stared out the window of his study. The clouds were heavy and dark, but it still hadn’t rained. It would thou
gh. The water swelled inside the clouds, dragging them down low in the sky. The air was oppressive. There was going to be a storm. The sort of storm Ward had been hoping and praying for since he’d arrived in Porthkennack.
“You haven’t eaten a bite.”
Ward turned away from the window to find Pipp standing in the doorway, frowning at the untouched luncheon tray that sat on the desk where he’d deposited it the last time he’d come in. The soup in the dainty china tureen had gone cold and the neat little sandwiches were curled at the corners.
Ward shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry.”
Pipp pressed his lips together and marched over to the tray. “You barely ate any breakfast either,” he accused.
“I’ll eat at dinner,” Ward said vaguely.
Pipp sniffed. “You’re getting too thin.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve got no appetite and you mope around all day. It’s about time—”
“I said I’m fine!”
Pipp sniffed again, unimpressed, but he lifted the tray and stalked out the room without another word. When the door closed behind him, Ward returned to staring out the window.
It had been a bad couple of weeks. Since his return from Truro, he’d been . . . melancholy. Melancholy in a way he couldn’t remember feeling before, unable to concentrate on his work at all, his mind filled with thoughts of what had happened in Truro, and of how Nicholas had looked at him just before he left the inn to catch the stagecoach.
Ward’s chest ached at the memory, every time.
He turned from the window. Whatever his inclination, he would have to work today. The great storm he’d been waiting for all these months was finally gathering.
He would go down the Hole. Get himself as close to the conditions he’d experienced on board the Archimedes as he possibly could. He was going to open himself up to George—reach out to his brother’s spirit with everything he had. He didn’t need anyone else to help him do that. Didn’t need Nicholas Hearn.
But, oh, how he wanted him.
A Gathering Storm (Porthkennack Book 2) Page 22
