Page 12 of A Gathering Storm

Hearn remained impassive, though Ward saw his throat bob just before he asked, “Why are you here then?”

“I was looking for you in the village,” Ward replied carefully. “Someone told me you’d come up to the mill stream, so I followed you. When I realised you weren’t alone—” he broke off, sudden shame flooding him “—I should have left. I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to . . . witness anything.”

Hearn was pale now. “So you overheard?”

Ward’s cheeks blazed even hotter. “I didn't intend to,” he repeated miserably, then, compelled to honesty, “But yes, I did overhear your . . . disagreement.”

Hearn swallowed again and ran his hand over the back of his neck, agitated. Beside him, the white dog snuffled, bumping its head against his lower leg.

“Mr. Hearn,” Ward said, holding up his hands, palms outwards. “The reason I wanted to speak with you was because Iverymuch want you to help me with my studies. Ideally I would like to work with at least half a dozen subjects, but if I can only get one, you seem to me to be a particularly suitable candidate.” He paused, then added, more firmly, “In short, Ineedyour assistance, Mr. Hearn.”

Hearn turned his silvery gaze back on Ward. A watchful, wild wolf.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” Ward replied, nodding vigorously. “I want you to agree to work with me, Mr. Hearn.” He offered what he hoped was a winning smile. “And I’m not generally considered to be the sort of man who’ll take no for an answer.”

There was a brief pause, then Hearn laughed. It wasn’t a real laugh though. It was an angry, unamused sound that made Ward’s own smile wither.

When Hearn spoke, his voice was bitter. “Christ, you must be thanking your lucky stars you stumbled on me and Gabe.”

For a moment, Ward was bewildered by Hearn’s furious words. Then the light dawned.

Hearn thought Ward was blackmailing him.

Ward nearly laughed aloud—only the disgusted expression on Hearn’s face stopped him. Ward opened his mouth to reassure him that he had no such intention . . . but no words came out. He remembered their last encounter. Hearn’s words.

“Thank you for the offer, Sir Edward. But I already have a position that pays me well enough. I really have no need of any other employment.”

He realised then that there was no chance of Hearn agreeing to help him with his studies willingly. Saw too that this was . . . an opportunity, and as ignominious as it might be to take advantage of it, it was likely his only chance to obtain Hearn’s assistance.

His work mattered.

George mattered.

Heart thudding, Ward spoke slowly.

“I would like us to help each other, Mr. Hearn.”

FromThe Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I

George and I were sent away to school when we were nine years old, but after my illness, I had to stay at home. A tutor was secured for me as a temporary measure, but it was intended I would return to school when I was well enough. As it happened though, under my excellent tutor’s watch, I became, for the first time, a devoted student and began to excel in my studies. As a keen geologist, Mr. Lucas instilled within me a passion for the sciences that would prove to be lifelong.

When I confessed to my mother how much I had hated being away from home when I first went to school, she decided she would prefer me to remain at home. No doubt, she was influenced by her conviction that I was now of a delicate constitution and required gentle handling, a misconception I am ashamed to say I took ruthless advantage of. She spoke to my father, pointing out that under Mr. Lucas’s tutelage, I had progressed far quicker than George and the other boys in our age group at school, and suggested it would be better to allow me to complete my studies at my own swift pace. At length, my father, despite being a Winchester fellow through and through, agreed I might be educated at home. And so it came to pass that I was ready for university two years before George, but never learned how to row, box, or bowl anyone out at cricket nearly as well as he could.

8th May 1853

As soon as Nick awoke the following Sunday morning, before he even came to full alertness, he knew there was something he had to do that day. It took a few moments before he remembered what it was, but when he did, he groaned aloud, throwing an arm over his face. He had to go up to Varhak Manor.

For a while he lay in bed, mulling over the stories he’d heard in the village about what Sir Edward did to his “subjects.” It was all rather vague. Tom Cadzow claimed he couldn’t even remember what happened, but he was a dozy lad, that one. As for Jago Jones, his family claimed that Sir Edward had put him into a trance and shocked him with electricity. They said that was what made him so addled he’d overturned his own buggy. Nick didn’t believe that for a minute—he’d known Jago for years, and he was fairly sure that Sir Edward’s version of events was nearer the truth. It was brandy and ale that had addled Jago’s brains that day.

But what if it was true? What if Sir Edward wanted to shock Nick? The very thought made Nick shudder. Men didn’t benefit from being struck with lightning, did they? And then there was the prospect of being put in a trance. Being in someone else’s control. He hated that idea. It was almost enough to resolve him to defy Sir Edward, until he considered the other, more pressing danger he faced. If he was brought up on charges, at worst he’d be looking at the noose, at best prison. Maybe even a spell in the stocks. The local mob wouldn’t stay its viciousness against a sodomite.

Just thinking about that made Nick keenly aware of his aloneness in the world. Growing up, he’d been the Romany boy—the Gypsy woman’s bastard. As if that hadn’t been enough to set him apart, Godfrey Roscarrock had stepped in when he was twelve years old, plucking him out from the pack of village boys to educate him and elevate his station in life. Now, his position was far above the men he used to play with when he was a boy, and he knew that at times he was resented for it. He wasn’t one of them anymore, but nor did he belong with the Roscarrocks and their sort. Sir Edward Fitzwilliam’s sort. People like them would never see Nick as an equal. In their eyes, he was no more than a well-paid, well-educated servant, one with a distinct disadvantage in his far-from-respectable birth.

As for his Romany family. Well, he didn’t even know them.

He belonged nowhere, and to no one. If he was sent to gaol, no one would be waiting for his release. If he was broken and beaten in the stocks, no one would be there to mend his hurts. Those stark truths were painful to contemplate.