Page 13 of A Gathering Storm
When he’d first met Gabe, things had been different for a while. Gabe had come to Porthkennack to take up the position of village schoolmaster. Like Nick, he hadn’t really fit in with anyone else, and they’d drifted into spending time together—sharing a table at the Hope & Anchor in the evenings, walking or going fishing down at the mill stream on Sundays. They’d become friends. Then, one night when Gabe was drunk and Nick stupid, Nick had learned that he wasn’t alone in his desire for his own sex, and they’d become more than friends. For a short while, things had been good. And then Gabe had gone and married Jenny Lamb, without so much as a word of warning to Nick before he did it.
It was that thought that finally got Nick out of bed. No matter what lay ahead of him today, anything would be better than lying in bed brooding about Gabe. He threw back his bedcovers and jumped up, shivering in the cold morning air. Snow lifted his head from his bed in the corner of the room, regarding Nick for a moment before yawning, stretching, and wandering over for some attention, grunt-snuffling his dear, ugly face into Nick’s hand.
Nick patted him affectionately, running his hand idly over the dog’s velvet-soft ears.
“You’ll have to wait here today,” he told Snow apologetically. “I can’t take you with me.”
Snow looked disgusted. He turned away and lumbered back to his rumpled blanket bed, circling three times before settling himself down with his head in his paws, his single, heavy, rheumy eye fixed reproachfully on his master.
Nick sighed. “Sulk if you must then.” He crossed the room and lifted the water ewer, pouring a basinful of freezing water. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he grabbed the soap and washed himself thoroughly. Then he wet his thick black hair so he could comb it down neatly. He hadn’t liked the avid gleam in Sir Edward’s eyes when Jed had been going on about Nick being a Gypsy, and he was determined not to look like anyone’s idea of a Gypsy today. Today he would be Godfrey Roscarrock’s respectable, educated steward, and Sir Edward could like it or lump it.
He dressed in his usual tweeds, tied his necktie neatly, pocketed his silver watch, and fastened the silver watch chain in place between his waistcoat button and pocket. Godfrey Roscarrock had given him this watch three years before. Nick had been summoned to the old man’s study, and when he’d entered, it had been to find Godfrey leaning back in his wingback chair with a long black leather box sitting on the gleaming desk in front of him.
“Open it,” Godfrey had said. “It’s for you.”
When Nick had lifted the lid and seen what lay inside, he’d been astonished. “What’s this for?”
“You’ve worked hard,” the old man had said gruffly. “I had it made for you. Jacob had one just like it.”
Jacob. Godfrey’s son, dead and away. Nick’s—
“Of course, his was gold.”
Nick had looked up at those sharp words, and the old man’s expression had been flat and hard. Unhappy in a way Nick wasn’t sure he understood. His heart had ached with something like pity, even as his gut burned with resentment at the point the old man seemed to be making.
Sometimes he wished he’d thrown the watch back in Godfrey’s face there and then, but it would have been more of a reaction than he’d ever have been willing to let the old man see.
And besides, it was a good reminder, the watch. Of what he was.
So he’d kept his anger tamped down, his expression blank, and thanked Godfrey in a neutral tone that betrayed neither pleasure nor hurt. Giving the old man nothing in return.
Nick checked his reflection in the mirror. The silver watch chain gleamed at his waist. He looked respectable in his smart tweeds, but not wealthy. A difficult man to place, perhaps, if you passed him in the street.
Well, perhaps that was no bad thing, he decided. For the day he had ahead of him.
Sir Edward’s new house was built on land he’d bought from Godfrey Roscarrock. It was part of a much larger plot of unused land that Nick had spent the last two years trying to persuade Godfrey to start farming himself. He’d been close to achieving his objective when Sir Edward had turned up out of nowhere and made an unsolicited, and very generous, offer for a number of acres surrounding the Hole. For now, the rest of the plot remained fallow, and Nick was biding his time before starting in on Godfrey again.
Sir Edward had sited his new house about a quarter mile from the Hole, where Nick and the other village children used to play when he was a boy. It struck Nick as an odd place to choose to build a house—beside an eighty-foot chasm going down to the sea—but Nick supposed the house must be far enough away that there was no concern about subsidence. Certainly, when Sir Edward had first purchased the land, some men had come up to survey the ground. Nick had seen them when he was out walking, pacing around with charts and mathematical instruments. He supposed they must have satisfied themselves on that score.
Varhak Manor itself was a blunt, unapologetic edifice. To Nick’s eyes, it looked defiantly modern, the edges of the masonry sharply perfect, the sandstone bright and unweathered, the great bank of windows at the front of the house glittering with brand-new glass. As he walked up to the front door, his belly churning with a mix of nerves and resentment, it swung open.
“Good morning, Mr. Hearn,” said the man who stood there. He had neatly combed greying hair, a neatly trimmed moustache and beard, and a neat pair of gold-framed half-moon spectacles perched on his long nose. Nick recognised him as the servant who had been with Sir Edward in the Hope & Anchor.
Nick cleared his throat. “Good morning.” He gave the servant a brusque nod, and added, “I’ve an appointment with your master.”
The servant inclined his head. “I am aware, sir. Please do come in.” He stood aside in invitation, and Nick stepped past him, walking though the small porch and emerging into an imposing hallway.
His immediate impression was this had to be the brightest house he’d ever been in. The ceiling of the hallway was the height of the whole house, and on its rear wall, a wide bank of arched windows let through copious sunlight. A grand central staircase led up to a first floor balcony that ran round the perimeter of the hall like a sort of minstrel’s gallery. After a moment, Nick realised a man was standing up there, leaning over the balustrade, looking down at him.
Sir Edward.
This was the man-at-home then, informally attired in fawn trousers and waistcoat with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and a floppy necktie tied carelessly about his neck. He was even more comely like this, a little mussed, with a stray lock of hair falling over his forehead.
“Mr. Hearn,” he called down in that devil’s bark. “You came.” He smiled happily, for all the world as though this was a pleasant surprise, and there hadn’t been a bit of coercion on his part.
Nick regarded him coolly, not offering an answering smile. “Good morning, Sir Edward.”
If the man noticed Nick’s flat tone, he didn’t show it. “Come on up,” he said, beckoning with his arm. “We can have some tea in my study while I explain a bit more about my work.”