Page 27 of A Gathering Storm
Ward said, still serious, “I don’t know—what are ghosts usually like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Look.”
Ward pointed and Nick followed the direction of his arm, towards the wet sand where the waves lapped the shore. And there he was: the Plague Doctor, unmistakable in his cassock coat, beaky mask, and low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat, moving with that eerie glide that Nick still remembered from when he was small and terrified.
Why that gliding movement should fill Nick with such sickening, appalled horror, he couldn’t fathom, but it did. And when the ghost turned to look at him, staring at him with unfathomable, glassy eyes, he was overwhelmed by terror. Could have sworn he felt his very heart slowing, his blood growing sluggish, like the mill pond in winter when it bloomed with ice crystals.
Fear gnawed at his belly as he gazed upon the Plague Doctor—there was something so profoundly and obviouslywrongwith him. So wrong it made the hair stand on end on Nick’s body and a bone-deep shudder run through him. Just thedeadnessof him, in the living world.
It was then Nick realised that Ward was walking towards the ghost, his elegant, well-tailored figure full of purpose. Nick tried to scream, to call him back, but he couldn’t make his mouth move. He tried to stumble after the man, but he was weighed down with stones. They were in his pockets, tumbling out of his hands. He fell to his knees, among the stones, and tried to call after Ward, but couldn’t manage anything but a gibbering sort of sound—gah-gah-gah—and the man didn’t even turn, just kept walking inexorably towards the ghost.
Ward was going to die. The deadness of the ghost was going to infect him—Nick was so suddenly sure of that, he finally he found his voice and screamed, a wild, unhinged scream that ripped from his throat—and woke him up, sweat-soaked and tangled in his blankets, in his own bed, in Rosehip Cottage. Trembling and panting, in the early light of dawn.
After Nick woke from his nightmare, there wasn’t much point in going back to sleep. He got up, dressed in his oldest clothes and, with Snow at his heels, walked the coastal path right round the headland, then back to the cottage, across fields that were wet with dew.
He changed his damp breeches and oldest boots for something more respectable before walking over to Roscarrock House. The kitchens were already busy. Mrs. Hughes, the cook, was kneading dough at the big table while her maids ran around, attending to her orders as they chattered.
“Mornin’, Mr. ’Earn,” the cook greeted him. “Take yoursel’ a seat at table.” She nodded at his usual place, then lifted her chin and called, “Polly, fetch Mr. ’Earn’s breakfast.”
Ten minutes later, a plate of eggs and ham with a thick slice of bread, still warm from the oven, was set down before him. Hungry from his long walk, he ate quickly, then tarried over his tea, listening to the maids gossip and watching as Mrs. Hughes worked another batch of dough with her massive arms.
After breakfast, he headed over to the stables. Leaving Snow with Tom, the youngest stable lad, Nick asked one of the grooms to saddle up Valentine, a big, powerful chestnut gelding. While he waited for the horse to be readied for him, he decided to look in on Isabella’s new mare, now named Callista.
When he leaned over the half door of her stall, the mare turned her head, all haughty disdain. Seeing it was Nick, though, she approached him. He reached into his pocket, drew out one of the sugar lumps he’d purloined from the kitchens, and offered it to her on his open palm.
She considered the treat for a moment before lowering her great head and taking it delicately, huffing hot, moist breath against his hand.
“I saw that, you knave,” said an amused but faintly cross voice behind him. “You’re bribing my horse.”
Nick glanced over his shoulder at the pretty girl who stood there, pert in her pale-blue riding habit, an outrageously impractical confection of a hat perched on her bright curls.
“And good morning to you, Miss Bella,” he replied evenly. He turned back to the mare, patting her powerful, dappled neck.
Isabella joined him at the stable door, reaching up a gloved hand to pat the animal too. The mare gave her a scornful look and sidestepped.
“Oh!” Isabella exclaimed, dropping her hand. “Callie, you’re so infuriating! You let Nick fawn over you but turn your nose up at me?Iam your mistress!”
Callie ignored her, instead butting Nick’s shoulder with her head and whickering softly.
Nick chuckled. “Nobody can be master or mistress of an animal like this. You should be pleased that she graciously allows you to admire her.”
“Well, that is not how it is supposed to be,” Isabella grumbled. “Grandy says one must always be master of one’s horse. I should thrash her soundly.”
“I’ll thrashyouif you try it,” Nick replied, though he didn’t think for a minute she meant the threat. Bella was spoiled and thoughtless at times, but not unkind. “Besides, there’s a difference between being able to guide and persuade a horse to do what you want and mastering it the way old Godfrey means. You are able to guide Callie, aren’t you? You rode her beautifully the other day.”
“I suppose,” Isabella muttered.
“Well then, that should be enough for you. You don’t need to master her as well.”
Isabella rolled her eyes. “Guiding, persuading, mastering—however you put it, it all comes down to the same thing.”
She was wrong, but Nick just shook his head, uninterested in arguing the point further. He was fond of his spoiled cousin in his own way, but he wasn’t much in the mood for her company today. She needed too much entertaining. Was always prattling on when he wanted to be quiet.
Theirs was an odd bond, delicately balanced. When Nick had first come to work in the stables at Roscarrock House, Harry had already been sent away to school, leaving his younger sister with no playmates. Little Isabella had taken a shine to Nick and followed him around like a puppy. Even now she had an annoying tendency to dog his heels from time to time, claiming to want to know more about the workings of the estate. In that sense, she was the supplicant between them. But she knew, too—had always known—that she was above him, and that knowledge coloured all their dealings. He couldn’t help but resent her at times.
“You’ll have to excuse me. I need to be off,” he said now, spying the groom approaching with Valentine. “I’ve a busy morning ahead.”