Page 47 of A Gathering Storm
Ward moaned again, seeming to like that idea, and Nick liked it too, though he knew they were nonsense words. Ward would never be truly his. Only for tonight and tomorrow, and for whatever other scraps of time they might share together before Ward grew bored of him or left Porthkennack.
Pushing that depressing thought aside, Nick deepened the kiss and shuffled forward, urging Ward to step back, then back again, till he was leaning against the wall between the two chambers.
“I want you so much,” Nick breathed against Ward’s lips. “It feels like years instead of just a week since last time.”
“I want you too,” Ward whispered back urgently. “Nicholas—I want you inside me tonight. Will you do that with me? I’ve brought oil. I’ll teach you how.”
Nick groaned, far too close to climaxing just from this—from these kisses, and Ward’s foolish, whispered promises. Nick loved Ward’s whispers. The tone of Ward’s speaking voice might be raw, but his whispers were just like anyone else’s: rich with emotion and yearning.
Just then, a rap at the door invaded the silence.
Nick leapt back from Ward as though he’d been burned, lifting his hands to smooth his ruffled hair. Ward righted himself more calmly, with the confidence of the wealthy man who never expects anyone to open a door on him without invitation.
“Come in,” Ward called out. The words emerged in his usual bark, and the expression on the face of the little maidservant who opened the door a moment later was wary.
“Pardon me, sirs,” she said. “But Mrs. Bassett sent me up to tell you she’s set aside the small dining parlour for you for dinner and it will be served at seven and do you think you’ll be wanting a bath brought up in the meantime?”
Ward didn’t even consult Nick, merely nodded. “Yes, please. A bath each for myself and Mr. Hearn.”
Nick opened his mouth to say there was no need to have two baths—he could just as easily jump in Ward’s water when he was finished—but then it occurred to him that was very far from appropriate. What gentleman would want to share another’s bathwater? So instead he closed his mouth and resolved to enjoy the rare luxury of a tub of hot water all to himself.
FromThe Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I
One evening, during that first year at Cambridge, George and I went to see a mesmerist, a Monsieur Beaumier, who was touring the music halls of England. The things we witnessed that evening were undeniably miraculous, and quite shocking. Beaumier put several assistants into mesmeric trances and having done so, was able to persuade one to hold her hand directly over a candle flame even as it scorched her palm; another to sit, unflinching, as Beaumier discharged a pistol next to his ear; and a third to sit quietly as a long, sharp needle was repeatedly stabbed into the tender flesh beneath her fingernails. Later, I would learn of the work of James Braid and come to understand better the true nature of the trance Beaumier’s subjects had been in—what Mr. Braid called neurypnology, or hypnosis. I would learn that the bringing about of such a state was far simpler than the mesmerists would have it, and the state itself far more subtle. Mr. Braid had the most important of all qualities in a scientist: open-mindedness. He had heard tales of the mesmerists and felt sure they must all be tricksters, but when he went to see a performance for himself, he was open-minded enough to own that there was something to their claims. The difference between Mr. Braid and certain well-known supporters of Mesmerism was that, whilst he accepted the truth of what he witnessed, he rejected the explanation given to him as to why it had occurred. Instead, he sought out his own explanation, one that was consistent with rational scientific principle.
The “small” parlour contained a table big enough to seat eight comfortably, but Ward and Nicholas were dining alone. Ward asked the maidservant who showed them to their table where the other guests were and was told they were all eating in the common dining room. Mrs. Bassett apparently reserved the small parlour for “special guests,” a class to which, as a titled gentleman, Ward belonged.
The inn was bustling with custom. Even with the door closed, Ward and Nicholas could hear voices from the common dining room a few doors down and, more noisily, from the taproom further along the corridor. When the maidservant brought their soup, her gait was swift, her expression harried, and she’d barely put the dishes down before Mrs. Bassett was shouting for her again, her sharp voice impatient. “Mary! Where are you, girl?”
“You’re run off your feet tonight,” Nicholas said to her when she returned to clear away the soup plates.
Ward glanced at Nicholas, surprised by this idle conversational gambit. Ward rarely engaged in everyday conversation with servants outside of his own home. Not beyond asking for what he wanted. Nicholas’s casual observation—and the sympathetic smile that accompanied it—struck Ward as overly familiar. Perhaps that was unfair. Nicholas probably felt quite differently about such interactions than Ward did. Whilst Nicholas’s present station in life was far above the maid’s, it hadn’t always been so. Indeed, a girl such as this might even have looked down upon Nicholas when he was a mere stable boy.
The girl returned Nicholas’s smile with a small one of her own. “Yes, sir, it’s been ever so busy,” she confided in a warm Cornish burr. “Mrs. Bassett turned the other girl off three days ago for thieving. She’s not managed to get a replacement yet, so I’m having to do everything.”
“You must be worn out,” Nicholas said with a sympathetic smile.
“I am that,” she said, heaving a sigh.
“Well, you can take your time serving us,” Nicholas said. “We’re in no hurry.”
He got a grateful look for that before she hurried off again.
“Youmight not be in hurry,” Ward said, when the door closed. “But I’d like to get back to my bedchamber.” He smiled. “I have plans for the rest of the evening.”
Nicholas smiled, foxy-like. “We can go now if you like. I’m not even especially hungry.”
“Let’s go after the next course. That should be enough of a showing to stave off any remarks from Mrs. Bassett.”
“Done,” Nicholas replied, eyes gleaming.
A few minutes later, Mary was back with a platter of roast chicken, suet puddings, and vegetables. Ward let her serve him a too-large portion and thanked her politely. Then he picked at his plate half-heartedly, barely tasting the food he was putting in his mouth as he watched Nicholas eat.
Nicholas was as bad, his attention all on Ward, his bright gaze lingering on Ward’s mouth so often, Ward felt it almost like a touch. It was Nicholas who finally pushed his plate aside first, his dinner barely half-eaten.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Ward croaked.
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” Nicholas replied, a tiny smile teasing the corner of his mouth.