A Gathering Storm (Porthkennack Book 2)

by Joanna Chambers

  Ward sank into the chair behind his desk and closed his eyes. Every time he thought of his behaviour at the séance and later, at the inn, he was filled with self-loathing. Self-loathing and the despairing knowledge that he had alienated Nicholas forever. That Nicholas was finished with him.

  “In your eyes, you are the master and I am the servant. That’s how things started between us, and nothing’s changed.”

  That wasn’t true—it wasn’t—but over these last weeks he’d thought about that night, and everything that had gone before, and now he could see how high-handed and autocratic he’d been from the first. Hell, he’d even let Nicholas believe he was prepared to resort to blackmail to get what he wanted, so why should Nicholas think the best of him now, because it suited Ward for him to do so?

  Outside, the sky was growing darker by the minute, and the air had an oddly still, yet threatening quality to it. The storm was coming—it was time he got going.

  He rose from his chair and slowly began to pack his knapsack—he was all but ready when the first rumble of thunder came, with the low, threatening growl of a great beast. A few moments of quiet followed, then the rain came. Hard and fast. The sort of downpour that would drench someone in half a minute or less.

  Hoisting his knapsack over his shoulder, he headed downstairs. He found Pipp and Mrs. Waddell in the kitchen, drinking tea at the scrubbed oak table.

  “Pipp,” he said from the doorway. “I need my mackintosh and boots. I’m going down the Hole.”

  Pipp startled at the sound of his voice, then looked over his shoulder at Ward and glared. “You’re not supposed to come in here, Master Edward,” he complained, getting to his feet. “You’re supposed to ring.”

  “I’d get them myself, but I don’t know where you keep them,” Ward grumbled back.

  Pipp disappeared into the boot room, emerging moments later with a long mackintosh coat, hat, boots, and an umbrella.

  “You’re not really going down that bloody great cave in this weather, are you?” Pipp asked worriedly. “What if one of those platforms falls down?”

  Ward shook his head and reached for the coat. “They won’t. They’re perfectly safe.”

  “How can you be sure?” Pipp insisted while Ward began fastening the buttons. “Have you seen how bad the rain is? What if it washes all the mud and rocks away and loosens the fixings?”

  “The platforms are all bolted securely into the bedrock,” Ward said calmly, pulling on the boots now. “None of them are going anywhere.”

  Pipp continued to mutter unhappily about how ridiculous this all was, and how could Ward expect to take notes in these conditions anyway, but Ward just ignored him, and soon he was about as waterproofed as he could be, the mackintosh covering his body down to below his knees, the boots covering the rest of his legs, and an oilskin hat pulled low over his brow. He waved away the umbrella Pipp tried to press on him.

  Another long rumble of thunder sounded. Pipp looked troubled.

  “What if you’re struck by a lightning bolt?” he asked, frowning.

  “There’s not even been any lightning yet,” Ward pointed out. “And besides, that’s what the lightning rods are for. They should draw any strikes well away from where I’ll be, inside the Hole.”

  Despite the persistent melancholy that had dogged him these last weeks, now that he was ready to go, a glimmer of Ward’s old enthusiasm began to return, a stirring of the familiar excitement at the prospect of imminent discovery.

  He offered Pipp a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

  Pipp sniffed, but some of his tension eased.

  He was halfway to the Hole when he saw her: a young woman on a grey horse, soaked to the skin, her red hair half-up, half-down, long strands of it plastered to her pale face. Her elegant riding habit was sodden, and a tiny, crushed hat with a broken feather listed from her ruined coiffure.

  As she drew closer, he saw she was frightened—frantic even.

  “Are you all right, miss?” he called.

  She came closer, halting her mount beside him. “Thank God I saw you!” she gasped. “I need help—I thought I’d have to go back to the village. My grandfather’s been thrown by his horse—he’s hurt! Please, will you come? He’s very near.”

  “Of course,” Ward said. “Where is he?”

  “Scarce more than two hundred yards.” She pointed in the direction she’d come from. “We can both ride Cally if you like.”

  Ward shook his head. “Since he’s so close I’ll stay afoot. Lead the way.”

  She nodded and turned her mount, setting off, Ward following at a brisk pace.

  He saw the riderless horse first, its reins trailing on the ground, then the man lying there, unmoving. Christ, was he dead?

  The rain was coming down in sheets, the thunder rumbling incessantly. Ahead of him, the young woman dismounted and rushed to her grandfather’s side.

  As Ward drew nearer, he realised he knew the man. It was Godfrey Roscarrock. He’d called on Ward a few weeks after his arrival in the village to welcome him. They’d shared a polite half hour’s conversation during which Ward had been struck by the old man’s light-grey eyes, so much like Nicholas’s.

  Now those eyes were closed, the big, raw-boned frame ominously still.

  Isabella Roscarrock—he assumed it she—looked up at him, terrified eyes huge in her white face. “When he fell, he struck his head on a rock. I couldn’t rouse him, but he was breathing when I left him.”

  Ward dropped to his knees beside her and bent to examine the old man. He was still breathing, thank God, though he looked to be in a bad way, a large, purplish bruise marring one side of his face. He mumbled inaudibly when Ward asked if he could hear him, but his eyes stayed closed and his complexion was waxy, his breathing thready.

  “You’ll be all right, Grandy,” Miss Roscarrock assured him shakily as Ward checked him for broken bones. “We’ll have you all sorted out in no time.”

  Godfrey just gave a faint moan.

  “His limbs seem sound, but he could have injured his back or neck,” Ward told Miss Roscarrock. “We’ll have to be careful how we move him. I’ll ride to Varhak Manor and bring a carriage back for him while someone runs down to the village to fetch the doctor. Can you wait here with him while I’m gone? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Sir Edward—you are Sir Edward, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Yes, and you are Miss Roscarrock. I am sorry to make your acquaintance in such circumstances.”

  She swallowed and nodded. “Take my horse,” she said. “I don’t want you getting thrown too.”

  While Ward, Pipp, and William the groom fetched Godfrey Roscarrock back to Varhak Manor in the carriage, Mrs. Waddell readied a room for him on the ground floor. There were no bedchambers there so the bed was a narrow truckle one, but it meant they didn’t have to jostle him more, carrying him upstairs.

  Dr. Ferguson arrived soon after. Ward waited outside in the corridor with Miss Roscarrock, now dressed in a clean, dry gown provided by Mrs. Waddell, while the doctor examined the old man.

  Every now and again the thunder would roll, and he would have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from groaning his frustration that he was sitting here, instead of out in the storm, doing his work. Hopefully he would be able to escape soon—once the doctor had emerged to give his verdict, and Ward had dealt with whatever immediate arrangements were needed for the benefit of his unexpected guests. But even then, by that time, the storm might be over. Christ, but he could scream.

  “I should have tried harder to stop him going out,” Miss Roscarrock muttered, wringing her hands. “But he insisted he wanted to go riding despite the storm clouds, so I said I’d go with him. I didn’t imagine for a moment that this would happen! There’s no way a startled horse would’ve been able to throw Grandy in the old days, but he was all riled up about Nick and not paying attention—”

  “Nick?” Ward repeated, his heart in
his mouth. “You mean Nicholas Hearn?”

  She looked at him. “Yes, do you know him? He was Grandy’s—” a brief pause “—steward.”

  “Yes, I know him. Why was your grandfather upset about him?”

  “Nick handed in his notice a fortnight ago. Told Grandy he was leaving Porthkennack for good.”

  “He’s leaving?” Ward croaked.

  “He’s already gone. He left today.”

  Ward’s stomach turned over, and a lump rose in his throat. Thankfully, the door to the chamber opened and Dr. Ferguson stepped out before Miss Roscarrock could notice his reaction.

  She jumped to her feet and went to the doctor. “How is he?” she demanded, her voice cracking with emotion.

  The doctor looked grave. “Your grandfather has had a bad fall, Miss Roscarrock. He was not entirely conscious during my examination. To be frank, I’m very concerned about him.”

  “Did he say anything?” she whispered.

  “Yes. He asked for Mr. Hearn.” After a pause, he added, “He was quite insistent about needing to see him, when he managed to speak at all. Do you think someone could fetch Mr. Hearn? I fear there may not be much time left for your grandfather.”

  Miss Roscarrock let out a little sob of distress and covered her mouth, her eyes filling with tears as she shook her head. She swallowed hard, getting herself under control, then said thickly, “Nick left Porthkennack on the coach late this afternoon. I’m not even sure where he’ll be by now.”

  Ward’s mind raced. Despite Nicholas’s insistence that he was no more than a servant to Godfrey Roscarrock, Ward had realised from his conversations with Nicholas that the relationship between the two men was more complicated than that. Nicholas felt something for the old man—of that, Ward was sure. So, if old Godfrey Roscarrock wanted to speak his heart to Nicholas before he died, shouldn’t Ward do whatever he could to make sure Nicholas at least got the chance to grant that request before it was too late?

  Even if that meant Ward missing out on the chance to go down the Hole in the only storm he’d seen since he’d come to Porthkennack months before?

  “I’ll go after the stagecoach and fetch him back,” he blurted.

  Isabella turned him. “Would you, Sir Edward?” she whispered, her damp eyes full of hope. “I’d be so grateful.”

  He nodded. “It’s the least I can do.”

  The stagecoach to Truro was very slow and very crowded. In this weather, it was also very wet. There were numerous leaks in the roof of the old carriage that let in the rain. It trickled down the corners of the carriage walls, pooling on the floor, and dripped from several places in the ceiling too. The passengers sat in hunched misery, angling their hats to stop the water running down their necks. There was much grumbling in the dark.

  The stagecoach windows were obscured by scraps of curtain, but even if they hadn’t been, Nick wouldn’t have been able to see where they were. As if it were not enough that the stars and moon were obscured by the thick storm clouds, the driving sheets of rain made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.

  Poor Snow shivered at Nick’s feet, cold and miserable—though at least not barking or vomiting, thankfully. The floor of the carriage was wet and cold but when Nick had tried to have Snow on his knee, the other passengers had complained. He was lucky the coachman had allowed Snow on at all, he supposed. That was mainly thanks to the additional coins he’d slipped to the driver before they left.

  The rain hammered on the roof of the carriage ceaselessly, a loud drumming that prevented either conversation or sleep. It was so loud that it took time for the sound of approaching horses’ hooves to penetrate. Nick lifted his head, listening. Heard a distant male voice calling out, “Hold up! Whoa there!”

  The passengers sat up, shifting in their seats, alarmed. What was this? Highwaymen?

  The large woman next to Nick began to fret as the stagecoach slowed. “What’s ’e stopping for?” she demanded of no one in particular. “They’re not supposed to stop, are they?”

  At length the stagecoach came to a halt. There was a rumble of voices outside—the coachman and whoever had been hailing him, Nick surmised, though with the rain hammering on the roof, he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  A few moments later the door of the stagecoach opened and—to Nick’s utter astonishment—there stood Ward.

  It was dark as could be, both inside and outside the coach, but Nick knew him instantly despite the gloom. There were a hundred tiny clues in the outline of his form and the shadowed planes of his face and in the way he held himself. In the slow sweep of his head as he looked over the huddled group of wet, miserable passengers.

  In the way he froze when his gaze landed on Nick.

  “Ward?” Nick said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Nicholas— I—” He broke off, then a moment later said hoarsely, “Your grandfather’s had an accident.”

  For a moment, Nick was genuinely bewildered. “My grandfather?” he said stupidly. Then, “You mean, Godfrey?”

  Ward nodded. “He was thrown from his horse near Varhak Manor. Your cousin came to me for help.”

  Nick felt as though his brain wasn’t working. “Why are you here?”

  “I’ve come to fetch you. Godfrey’s asking for you.”

  “For me?” He was genuinely astonished by that. “Did he strike his head? Ward, I doubt it’s me he wants. He’ll be confused.”

  A pause.

  “The doctor said it was you he wanted.” Those rasped words were harsh and toneless, but for some reason, Nick felt soothed by them, by their quiet certainty.

  “I suppose I’d better come then.” His heart was pounding so hard, it was a surprise to hear how calm his voice came out. He began to extricate himself from his wedged-in position. “Come on, Snow.”

  “I think Snowflake had better stay with William,” Ward said.

  “William?”

  “He rode down with me,” Ward explained as Nick shuffled past the other passengers to the open door where Ward stood. “You’ll ride his horse back with me while he takes your seat to the next stop. Then he’ll get the next stagecoach back to Porthkennack with your luggage and Snowflake.”

  “I’m not sure about that, Ward,” Nick said. “Snow doesn’t know William.” He jumped down, landing in the mud next to Ward and no doubt covering them both in filthy splashes—the road was already a quagmire.

  “The doctor said we need to be quick,” was Ward’s reply.

  “Is Godfrey going to die?” Nick asked, surprised to find how hollow, how bereft that thought made him feel, when Godfrey had only ever treated him like a favoured servant, and sometimes not even that.

  “I don’t know,” Ward said simply. He didn’t offer anything else. No platitudes. No promises. Just the plain, unvarnished truth.

  Snow’s familiar grunt-wheeze made Nick turn back to the coach. The dog stood at the open door of the coach, shifting anxiously, his noisy breaths edged with a soft whine.

  “Don’t worry, Nicholas,” Ward said. “William will take very good care of him. Won’t you, William?”

  Ward’s groom nodded, striding past. “I will, sir.”

  William climbed into the stagecoach then, pausing to ruffle Snow’s ears and take hold of his collar before settling into Nick’s empty seat, with Snow at his feet. Snow gave one of his rarely heard whines and the heartbroken sound wrenched at Nick. He swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat. He hated leaving Snow, but he couldn’t ride at any sort of pace and keep the dog safely beside him, especially in this weather. Snow shot him one last betrayed look as Ward shut the door behind them.

  “Come on,” Ward said, tugging at Nick’s forearm. “The horses are over here.”

  It turned out that the stagecoach hadn’t gone nearly as far as Nick had thought. The ride back to Varhak Manor took little more than an hour. It certainly helped that they didn’t have to contend with wheels that might get stuck in mud, and that their mounts were bi
g, hardy beasts built for strength and stamina. Nick watched Ward’s horsemanship with interest. He wasn’t the natural horseman that Nick was, but he was competent and confident. Fully in charge of his animal.

  As they rode, the rain continued to fall incessantly and the thunder rolled, over and over. Twice they saw flashes of lightning over the sea.

  Ward had been waiting for a storm like this for months, but instead of working, he was here, fetching Nick back. Nick wasn’t sure what to make of that, and he couldn’t ask. The weather put paid to any chance at conversation.

  It was just after nine o’clock when they finally reached Varhak Manor. A boy was waiting for them as soon as they arrived to take charge of the horses, and Mr. Pipp stood at the front door.

  Nick followed Ward up the steps and into the hall.

  “How is he?” Ward asked Mr. Pipp once the butler had closed the door behind them.

  “Hanging on, sir,” the servant said gravely. He turned to Nick, his expression kind. “Let me take your coat,” he said, letting his usual formal air drop away. “The sooner you get in there, the better.”

  Nick’s gloveless hands were icy and numb from gripping the reins, but somehow, falteringly, he managed to work the buttons of his coat free, and shrug the sodden thing off into Mr. Pipp’s waiting hands. He was just about as wet beneath his coat after riding through that deluge, and he shivered with cold.

  “He needs fresh clothes,” Ward said.

  “No time,” Mr. Pipp replied without ceremony. “Wrap this round yourself, lad.” He handed Nick a woollen blanket, and Nick shook it out before wrapping it round himself like a cape.

  “This way,” Mr. Pipp said, and Nick followed him across the chequered marble floor and down the corridor of the west wing, his gut twisting with nerves. He was still finding it difficult to believe that Godfrey had asked for him. That of all people, it was Nick he wanted to see. Worse, a part of him—a small, mean part—felt like thumbing his nose at the request and walking away. But you didn’t do that to a man who was, it seemed, on his deathbed. Nick knew he’d regret it forever if he refused such a simple, final request.