Page 20 of A Gathering Storm

“Shall we begin?” Sir Edward asked.

“Yes.”

“All right. Why don’t you begin by telling me about your mother?”

Nick thought about that. “She loved the seaside,” he said at last. “She loved the wind.” He could see her, vividly, in his mind’s eye, yanking her skirts up to her knees and calling to him to race her along the sands, black hair flying about her face, teeth flashing in a mischievous smile. “We used to go to Mother Ivey’s Bay when I was a boy. Then we’d walk past Roscarrock House on the way home.”

Sadness flooded him at that memory, an unexpectedly visceral feeling.

“Didn’t you like going there?” Sir Edward asked.

“I liked the bay,” Nick said. “Not Roscarrock House.”

“Why not?”

“We went because Ma wanted to rub my sire’s nose in his mistake. And he hated when he saw us. He hated me.” Nick rolled his head from side to side against the leather headrest in mute denial. There were no words, at least he had no words, for the remembered turmoil of pain and anger that had flooded him each time his father had laid eyes upon him.

Sir Edward’s voice was hesitant, almost reluctant, as he asked, “Are you speaking of Mr. Roscarrock? Your employer?”

Nick shook his head. “No, Jacob. Godfrey’s son.” He said flatly, “Jacob’s dead now. Like Ma.”

There was a long pause. Nick didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t feel any need to do so. Was happy to simply sit, with his eyes closed. Relaxed.

“Do you miss your mother?” Sir Edward asked at last.

“Yes,” Nick whispered, and right then, the way he missed her was a space in his solar plexus that ached and grew. It was white and terrible. Nick rolled his head again, side to side, and something wet rolled from the outer corner of his eye down his face. Clods of sorrow in his throat choked him.

Sir Edward said, “Mr. Hearn, are you all right? Can you hear me?”

When Nick said nothing, only choked with misery, Sir Edward used his given name.

“Nicholas? Nicholas,please. You must breathe for me. In . . . and out. In . . . and out.” He demonstrated what he wanted as he spoke the words—In . . . and out—and at last, Nick managed to do as he said, taking several choppy breaths, then a few longer, slower ones, till it felt as though the white space inside him had contracted and he could send air to his lungs and let it back out again, unimpeded.

“Good,” Sir Edward said, his harsh voice strained. “That’s good, Nicholas. Now keep breathing.”

Nick liked the way the man said his name. Taking the time to say it all, every syllable—Ni-cho-las. He thought about that as he breathed.

In . . . and out.

Ni-cho-las.

Gradually, he calmed. So much so, that he could barely remember having been upset at all. For a while, he drifted.

At last, Sir Edward spoke again, just a gentle murmuring. “Nicholas—”

That utterance of his name was like a signpost in the road, a reminder that time had indeed passed. How much, Nick didn’t know. It could have been hours, or minutes. He wasn’t sure and didn’t much care.

“I’m here,” he said, eyes still closed. His voice was surprisingly ordinary.

“Do you want to try to reach out to your mother?” Sir Edward asked.

No.

No, no, no!

Nick’s gut tensed with absolute physical refutation.

“Nicholas? Did you hear me?”