Page 54 of A Gathering Storm
The pain in that confession was audible. Ward wished he could take Nicholas into an embrace and hold him tight, but of course it was impossible. The station master was pottering close by, and there were people gathering on the platform on the other side of the wall as the time for the next train’s arrival approached.
“I was just the Gypsy woman’s brat or the Roscarrocks’ bastard.” Nicholas shook his head. “I didn’t belong in the village, and I didn’t belong at the big house. I didn’t belong anywhere.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, though his voice was deceptively calm when he added, “If I could’ve married, maybe things would be—” He stopped. “Well, there’s no use thinking of that.”
Ward’s heart twisted.
“If I could’ve married . . .”
That very thought had crossed his own mind many times. How much easier life would be if he married. He could have children, creating a branch of his family that would be his to govern, and that would integrate in easy, predictable ways with his wider family, with his sisters and their husbands and children. For a man as wealthy as Ward, a suitable marriage could be arranged with ease. He could even keep a man on the side, to meet his own secret needs—that was what others did. He knew of several men like that, with a family ensconced in one house, and a male lover in another.
But Ward couldn’t do that. He wasn’t sure why it was quite so unthinkable to him, only that it was. To live intimately with a wife and family and yet keep the essence of himself from them—he knew it would eat away at his very soul. Yet the alternative, to never express the part of him that loved men, was equally impossible. Not because he was a slave to his appetites, but because those appetites were intrinsic to who he was and to suppress that would be like cutting off the air he breathed.
“If I could’ve married . . .”
When Nicholas had spoken those words, Ward had known he felt the same way.
And Ward had ached for him.
Ward stared at Nicholas’s strong, square hands resting on the wall in front of them. He glanced around to see if anyone was looking at them, checking his surroundings with the ingrained habit of a man used to being careful. No one was watching. No one seemed the least bit interested, in fact, in the two men standing at the wall, at the back of the platform. No one saw Ward inch his left hand close enough to Nicholas’s right that the sides of their hands touched, from the tips of their fingers, down the length of their pinkies, all the way to their wrists.
To the casual observer, it had the appearance of the lightest, most innocent of touches. Entirely unintentional. And yet Ward felt that touch with every particle of his being, warm and tingling, a spark that zinged between them as bright as the tiny blue flashes Ward had seen sparking above the brim of his hat on theArchimedesthe night he’d last heard George’s voice. Ward realised, with something like amazement, that even as he stood there quietly, staring straight ahead, his heart was thundering, and he was holding his breath.
When he finally worked up the courage to look up from their touching hands, it was to find Nicholas’s gaze fixed on him, his silver eyes stormy and wild. In the distance, a long shrill whistle sounded through the air, signalling that the engine was nearing. The crowd on the platform shifted and murmured with excitement, straining their necks to catch their first glimpse of the approaching locomotive, but Nicholas’s eyes stayed on Ward, and Ward’s on Nicholas, even as the engine screeched to a noisy, gasping halt before them.
After the steam engine had come and gone, Nick and Ward walked into the town proper, strolling at an unhurried pace towards Boscawen Street.
It was past noon now, and Truro was bustling. This was the biggest town in the county, and today, Saturday, its busiest day. The streets were crammed with market stalls selling all manner of things—bolts of fabric, spring cabbages, sprats preserved in vinegar, powdered remedies for every possible ache and pain—an unimaginable variety of goods compared to even the busiest of market days in Porthkennack. Customers from all walks of life thronged the streets, gathering round the stalls to examine produce and bargain with the vendors, while hawkers circled amongst them, laden with baskets and trays that spilled over with bright ribbons, savoury pastries, shiny apples.
Nick had donned his coat again several streets back, before the crowds got busy. As warm it was, he felt better knowing his money was carefully tucked in his inside pocket, out of reach of any thieves in the crowd. Ward seemed far less concerned about such thoughts than Nick, even though he was a more obvious mark in his elegant, expensive clothes. He strolled along with his arms swinging by his sides, seeming relaxed and at ease, practically inviting pickpockets, but Nick made up for his insouciance by glaring at anyone suspicious looking who got too close.
Ward paused to buy a Bath bun from a baker’s boy with a tray of goods hanging from his neck. As they walked away, he broke it in half and passed one half to Nick.
“I thought you said you’d never be hungry again,” Nick said with a grin, before tearing off a corner. It was sweet and tasty, with candied peel and raisins scattered through the warm, fragrant dough.
Ward grinned back. “I was thinking of you. I know you’ve got a sweet tooth and you’re missing Mrs. Waddell’s scones this week.”
They finished the pastry between them, just as they reached Caddo’s Bookshop. Ward brushed the final crumbs from his fingers before he pushed open the narrow door, Nick close behind him.
It was gloomy inside despite the brightness of the day, and the bell rang with a melancholy peal, but the man who sat at the high desk at the front of the shop wore a bright and merry expression when he looked up from his book.
“Sir Edward!” he exclaimed when he spied Ward, and hopped down from his stool. “How good to see you! I’ve several volumes set aside for you to look at that I think you may be interested in.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Mr. Caddo,” Ward replied, stepping forward to greet the man. “I shall be delighted to take a look at them.”
For the next half hour, Ward and Caddo did nothing but talk books. Nick browsed the shelves as he waited, soon realising that the shop sold mainly books of a scientific nature. A few handwritten signs scattered about the shop gave clues:Geology,Mathematics,Natural Sciences.
Ward ended up purchasing no less than four books and two journals. Caddo wrapped everything up in brown paper and string, making a loop at the top that Edward could slot his fingers and thumb through to carry them easily, and then they were on their way again.
“Where’s the next bookshop?” Nick asked.
“Oh, it’s very close—only a few minutes’ walk.”
It was a glorious day, sunny and bright. Ward swung his package of books at his side as they walked and they talked easily of this and that.
After a while, Ward asked, “Do you read much, Nicholas?”
“Not as much as I should,” Nick admitted. “My mother couldn’t read at all and saw little purpose in books—though she could tell a story better than anyone else I ever met. She had scores of them by memory. We never had any books in the house. I did all my lessons up at Roscarrock House, and she didn’t like me bringing books back.”
He saw Ward’s expression shift into one of sympathy, and for some reason, that bothered him. Quickly, he looked away, adding lightly, “I’m not much of a one for reading anyway. I’m more the outdoor sort.”