A Gathering Storm (Porthkennack Book 2)

by Joanna Chambers

  Mr. Pipp stopped in front of a closed door and softly knocked.

  A moment later, the door opened to reveal Isabella. Her red hair was loose about her shoulders and she wore a simple maid’s gown. It gave him the oddest feeling, seeing her dressed like that. This was how she’d have looked if she’d been born into the same circumstances as himself. He almost expected her to bob a curtsey, but instead she reached for him, taking hold of his shirtsleeve and pulling him inside.

  “Thank God,” she said. “Come in. He’s been barely holding on, waiting for you.”

  Godfrey had been accommodated in a small sitting room. A chaise longue and a writing desk had been pushed back to make room for the truckle bed on which he lay. Eyes closed, breathing laboured, his thick mane of hair was like tarnished silver against the pillow beneath his head, and his skin had a waxy, clammy look to it.

  Dr. Ferguson was sitting by the bed, but at Nick’s entrance, he rose and stepped to the side, ceding his place.

  “Mr. Roscarrock has been asking for you,” he said, and Nick felt the same stab of disbelief in response to that assurance that he’d felt when Ward had said it.

  Nick looked at the empty chair, then glanced uncertainly at Isabella. She gave him a nod of encouragement, and after a brief pause, he sat himself down, perching on the edge and looking down at the old man.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s Nick here,” he said. “I hear you’ve been asking for me.”

  Godfrey’s eyelids fluttered, and his hand on the blanket twitched. A long, silent moment passed then, impossibly quietly, Godfrey breathed his name. “Nick.”

  “Ayes,” Nick said gently. And then, because it seemed the right thing to do, he set his own hand on Godfrey’s, something he’d never done before.

  The old man’s hand was cold, the pouchy, liver-spotted skin unexpectedly soft. Nick stroked it with his thumb, thinking, oddly, how this reminded him of stroking Snow’s velvety ears.

  “Wish I’d—” Godfrey began. Paused for breath. “—owned you to the world.”

  Pain stabbed Nick in the heart, stabbed him there and twisted so hard he felt like a fish being gutted.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “Does,” Godfrey whispered, his laboured breathing making it clear how difficult every word was to utter. “You’re like me.”

  Like Godfrey? Christ, no!

  Nick patted the old man’s hand and said softly, “Not I. I’m a feckless Gypsy, just like you always said.” He said it lightly, almost fondly, but long-held resentment soured the words in his mouth, and he wondered if Godfrey heard that bitter echo.

  Godfrey shook his head minutely and turned his hand, clutching Nick’s fingers. “I mean . . . you love this place.” Long pause. “Like I do.”

  Nick was silent. He did love this place. He loved Roscarrock House, and the harsh, rocky coastline, and the tumbledown village he’d grown up in. He felt connected to these places in ways he couldn’t express in mere words. That feeling of connection went beyond the land and the sea and all the little piles of bricks and mortar that made up Porthkennack. He felt connected to this grim old man too, and to the tearful girl standing by the door, and to the villagers he’d grown up with. But now, most deeply, he felt connected to Ward. When the stagecoach had rumbled out of Porthkennack earlier today, it was Ward who had been the first of all those everyones and everythings he had mourned, as well as the reason he’d needed to leave.

  “I changed my will last week,” Godfrey went on. “Been thinking about it since I sold this land to Fitz—Fitzwilliam.” He had to stop for a bit then, breathing hard for a good half a minute before he was able to go on. “Left you the rest of the plot that you’ve been on at me to start working.”

  Astonished, Nick could only stare at him for several long moments. “What?” he said at last. “Why?”

  Godfrey got his stubborn look. “You said you—” another pause “—wanted to farm it.”

  “But I’m not a Roscarrock. You always said you wanted to keep everything in the Roscarrock name. You didn’t even want to sell this bit to Wa—Sir Edward at first.” Nick felt himself flush at his betraying almost-use of Ward’s name, but Godfrey didn’t seem to notice.

  “You’re the only one who ever gave a damn for the place,” he wheezed.

  “Oh Grandy, that’s not true!” Isabella interrupted, stepping closer. Nick glanced at her. Her face was white, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She looked genuinely hurt by Godfrey’s comment, but Godfrey just waved her off with a weak gesture.

  “He’s the only man who gives a damn,” he muttered, and Isabella stared at Godfrey unhappily, her throat working.

  Godfrey clutched at Nick’s hand, the grip of his cold fingers weak but determined. “Stay here,” he whispered fiercely. “Your name might be Hearn, but—but underneath that Gypsy skin, you’ve a good bit of me in you.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Twice what Harry’s got.”

  “Grandy—” Isabella began.

  “Hush,” Godfrey told her. “I’ll have no complaints from you. You’ve a dowry fit for a duchess, and Harry’s getting the rest. I just want—”

  “I’m not complaining,” she protested.

  He went on as though she hadn’t spoken, his eyes boring into Nick’s. “I want you to have a bit of it. Something you can pass on to your children. And them to theirs.”

  Nick stared at Godfrey. At this old man who had dominated his life for so long. He’d been giving Nick scraps from the Roscarrock table for years and years. And yes, arguably this was just another scrap—the land he was supposedly leaving Nick was far from ideal farmland—but still, it was quite a recognition. About as public a declaration of Nick’s paternity as Godfrey would ever make.

  But why now? Right at the end of his life, and only after Nick had handed in his notice and left Porthkennack once and for all. Had he intended to try to lure Nick back? But if so, why not just tell him before he’d gone?

  “You’re like me . . . You’re the only one who ever gave a damn for the place.”

  Perhaps Godfrey had decided that Nick was his legacy—more of a legacy in some ways than Harry. Oh, Harry would carry on the Roscarrock name, but Nick would carry on something else. Perhaps something that, in Godfrey’s eyes, was more essential, more personal than that precious family name.

  Perhaps Nick was to be the keeper of Godfrey’s dreams.

  That was what happened when people saw death coming. They wanted their dreams to live on. It was the same with his mother. In those last weeks of her life, she’d become preoccupied with her estranged family and had begged Nick to go and find them when she was gone. It was why he’d headed for Penzance as soon as he’d decided to leave Porthkennack. For more than a year now, that old dream of Ma’s had been sitting in his pocket, demanding to be fulfilled.

  But you couldn’t live other people’s dreams for them, he realised. It was hard enough to find your own dream. Hard enough to give it voice and pursue it. That was one of the things he admired about Ward. That Ward saw what he wanted and acted on it, even if what he wanted didn’t meet with other people’s approval. Even if it made no damned sense. At least he had a dream—what did Nick have?

  What did Nick want for himself?

  The answer was already in his heart, waiting. He didn’t even need to think about it.

  He wanted his mate. He wanted Ward.

  He wanted love and a home. Wanted that ever-elusive sense of belonging he’d only truly felt for the first time in Ward’s arms.

  And maybe, perhaps, Ward wanted that too? Nick would never have dared hope for that before tonight, but tonight Ward had come for him. On the night of the storm Ward had been waiting for since he’d arrived in Porthkennack, he’d abandoned the work that had driven his every moment for the last year and instead ridden out into the night to find Nick, to bring him here, to his dying grandfather.

  “Nick—”

  His name was a whisper, carried on the lightest of breaths. A sigh,
almost.

  Nick looked down at the old man again. Godfrey was fading. His eyes were clouding over, growing vague.

  “Bella,” Nick said without turning. “Come here.”

  She came to his side, putting her hand to Godfrey’s cheek. “Grandy.”

  Together they looked down at the old man.

  “Ni—” he tried again, watery eyes pleading.

  In this moment, Nick wanted only to be generous. He said carefully, “I won’t leave, Godfrey. I’ll stay for good and work that land.”

  The old man’s tight, pained expression eased.

  And then he was gone.

  From The Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I

  In the following months, I became so preoccupied with finding a scientific explanation for what I had experienced on board on the Archimedes and at the séance conducted by Mrs. Haydn, that I entirely abandoned the work I had been pursuing for so many years before that. Disenchanted with London and with the circles I moved in at that time, and having inherited my father’s sizeable fortune and title, I purchased a plot of land in Cornwall with the intention of pursuing my new studies there. In the spring of 1853, I began my new life.

  Isabella Roscarrock was crying. Not in a pretty, ladylike way, but with great wrenching sobs that made her whole body shake. Ward stood aside, bowing his head in respect, as Mrs. Waddell led her upstairs, to the bedchamber that had been prepared for her.

  It was over then.

  A few moments later, Nicholas emerged into the hall where Ward had been pacing, waiting for news. Unlike his cousin, Nicholas was calm and silent, the only sound from him the quiet click of his boot heels on the marble floor. When he caught sight of Ward, he straightened slightly, his body growing somehow more attentive, more aware.

  “He’s dead,” he said bluntly.

  Ward nodded. “I thought as much. Miss Roscarrock seemed very upset.”

  Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck. He looked tired, and Ward wished he could step forward and put his arms around him. Wished he had the right to touch him with kindness and concern. To offer comfort. But there was an invisible barrier between them now that couldn’t be breached. All Ward could do was stand on the other side, watching as Nicholas managed his own grief and exhaustion.

  He cleared his throat. “Pipp’s made a bedchamber up for you. Why don’t you go and sleep? You look exhausted.”

  But Nicholas shook his head and said, “Let’s go to the Hole.”

  Ward blinked. That was the last thing he’d expected to hear.

  “You’ve waited months for a storm like this,” Nicholas went on. The corner of his mouth twitched with a small, rueful smile. “The least I can do is see you through what’s left of it.”

  For a moment Ward was silent, then he said, “The worst of it’s already passed, I think. It’s just the rain left.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “I think there may be more to come. Possibly not, but it’s worth a trip up there, isn’t it? It won’t take long.”

  “Are you sure?” Ward asked, doubtful.

  Nicholas shrugged. “I really don’t think I could sleep just now anyway.”

  Ward managed a nod. “All right then. If you insist, I’ll be glad of the company.”

  Nick’s clothes had mostly dried on him while he sat with his grandfather, but his coat and hat were still sodden, so Mr. Pipp took out some oilskins and a cap for him. Mr. Pipp had a lantern for each of them too, which he handed them in turn as they went out.

  “Careful,” he said sternly to Ward, and Ward nodded, though he looked distracted.

  Nick caught Mr. Pipp’s eye and said, “I’ll make sure of it.”

  The rain was brutal still. It had been driving down for hours now, and the ground was boggy with it, sucking at their booted feet as they walked the short distance to the Hole. The wind howled too, whipping the rain into their faces as they trudged along and ripping at the flames inside their lanterns, which flickered weakly, tiny beacons against the great dark force of the storm and the endless night.

  “Watch your feet,” Nick called. “There’s scores of rabbit holes round here.”

  When they reached the edge of the Hole a few minutes later, Nick began to seriously doubt the wisdom of what he had suggested. The Hole was bad enough in the daylight. In the dead of night, in the midst of a storm, it was terrifying: a dark chasm full of jagged rocks and wild sea spray, its edges blurry and indistinct. Holding his lantern up, Nick warily eyed the nearest platform and the ladder that led down to it. The platforms had looked reassuringly solid the last time he’d been here, but shrouded in shadow, they seemed fragile and rickety.

  Ward didn’t seem concerned though—he was already on his way, stepping onto the upper rungs and climbing nimbly down.

  Nick wanted to protest. To shout No! and demand they return to the safety of the house, but this had been his own foolish idea, so instead he waited patiently till Ward had safely reached the platform and stepped aside before following him, gripping tightly to the rungs as he descended, half expecting to be blown off by a sudden squall.

  He wasn’t much reassured when his feet finally touched the solid platform—somehow the storm conditions felt even more intense here in the zawn. Maybe the wind was spiralling up from the sea. It was certainly whistling all around him, plastering his oilskins against him, near ripping off his cap, and drenching him with seawater spray from the churning ocean beneath them.

  Christ, it was dark . . .

  “The smell of ozone is stronger down here,” Ward shouted over the wind, his eyes a faint gleam in the darkness. Nick inhaled, but if there was any identifiable scent in the atmosphere, it wasn’t one he could put a name to. He could only detect the indistinct, nameless smell of rain.

  Ward knelt and unfastened his knapsack, drawing out something and laying it next to the lantern he’d set down on the wet surface of the platform. The silver match-safe box. Nick stared at it, suddenly dismayed. What had he been thinking, suggesting this?

  Just then, a low, threatening rumble of thunder sounded. The first in a while. Ward looked up quickly from his kneeling position. With the lantern next to him, Nick could just about make out his expression—he looked happy and excited.

  “You were right,” he shouted. “The storm’s coming back!”

  Nick’s stomach churned. He didn’t want to be right anymore. He should have done what Ward suggested and gone to bed, only taking Ward with him—that was what he’d really wanted. He should have crossed the two impossible feet of space that had separated them in Ward’s hallway and just told Ward he loved him, instead of embarking on this absurd quest. That was all this was anyway—Nick trying in his clumsy way to show Ward how he felt.

  Another roll of thunder came, this one impossibly long and deep, like the rumbling growl of a slumbering dragon beginning to stir. The very earth seemed to shudder, and Nick couldn’t help but picture the flimsy platform on which they stood shaking loose from the rocks, breaking apart, tumbling down, down, down to the sea.

  “It’s close,” he told Ward, sounding calmer than he felt.

  The thunder rolled again, closer still—Christ, it was coming in fast!—Nick dropped to his knees beside Ward. “Perhaps we should go back up. This doesn’t feel safe.”

  Ward shifted towards him and raised his hand, cupping Nick’s cheek. His fingers were cold and wet, but the touch was still comforting, easing Nick’s sudden panic.

  “We’re safe,” he said. “These platforms were carefully built to hold fast and the lightning rods will draw any strikes away from us.”

  Nick said nothing, transfixed by Ward’s earnest gaze and the light brush of his fingertips against his cheek.

  Then the thunder came again.

  This time it was directly overhead, and no longer a rumbling threat, but the threat made terrifyingly good—a sharp crack followed by an immense bellow of godly rage, and on its heels, the first strike of lightning, like a fissure in the heavens. A bright white-b
lue vein. A celestial strike of pure ’lectricity that lit up Ward’s awed face for an instant.

  “Jesus,” Nick gasped. “This is—” He broke off, unable to find words for the immensity of it.

  Ward’s eyes shone in the darkness. “Just like on the Archimedes.”

  They stared at each other.

  All right then.

  Nick swallowed and made himself ask, “Where do you want me?”

  Ward had him sit with his back against the rocky surface of the zawn, his legs stretched out in front of him while Ward knelt beside him. He held up the match-safe box, and Nick tried to focus his attention upon it.

  It was impossible. He could barely make the box out in the darkness, and every time there was another roll of thunder or crack of lightning, he jolted, his concentration wrecked.

  “You have to focus upon the box,” Ward yelled after several minutes.

  “I know,” Nick cried. “But I can’t even see it properly.”

  Ward looked about him, frustrated. “Let’s try this,” he said, lifting the lantern. “Look at the flame.”

  They tried the flame alone, then the flame behind the match-safe box, casting light on its silver surface. Nothing worked.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t,” Nick said at last, sick at heart. “Between the noise and the wind and the rain, it’s impossible to concentrate.”

  Ward sighed, his disappointment plain. “Why don’t I give it a try? I’ve hypnotised myself before.”

  “All right. I’ll hold the box for you,” Nick said.

  They switched positions. Nick held the box up, trying to keep as still as possible despite the ache in his knees from the wooden platform. But though Ward stared and stared, the trance state eluded him too. They tried the lantern then, both with the silver box and without it. Nothing worked.

  As Ward’s expression grew more desperate, Nick began to wish again he had not suggested this. What had possessed him to do so? He had never believed this would work anyway. It was just that . . . he had wanted to give Ward something.