Page 55 of A Gathering Storm
“What were your lessons at Roscarrock House like?” Ward asked.
Nick shrugged. “They were all right. I had them from four till seven each day. At first, my teacher was Harry’s tutor. He was a nice gentleman. Mr. Price.”
“Isn’t that rather late in the day for a boy to be doing lessons?”
Nick was puzzled by the question. “I was a stable boy—I had to do my work first. I started at seven in the morning, but they let me finish early for the lessons, since Harry’s were done by then and they couldn’t have Mr. Price working all night.”
At Ward’s look of surprise, Nick chuckled. “You didn’t think Harry and I got our lessons together, did you? As though Godfrey would have allowed that!”
Ward just blinked. “And you were working? How old were you?”
“Twelve when the lessons began, eleven when I started in the stables. Godfrey wanted to get my measure before he wasted any time or money on me.” He forced a smile, but had a feeling it was probably little more than a twist of his lips.
Ward looked troubled. “How long did the lessons go on?”
“Till I was nineteen. Mr. Price left when Harry went to school. After that, it was a mix of the village schoolmaster, the curate, and Mr. Lang—he was the steward before me.”
“What did you learn?”
Nick shrugged. “When I was younger, the same as any other schoolboy: mathematics, grammar, history, geography, a little Latin. Then later, the business of being a steward: animal husbandry, bookkeeping, that sort of thing.”
“Did you ever read a book just for fun?” Ward asked, his expression curious.
Nick frowned, thinking. He honestly couldn’t think of one.
Ward must have read the answer on Nick’s face because he didn’t wait for a reply, merely said, “I’ll wager I can find you a book that you’ll enjoy reading. You wait and see.”
They spent a long time in the next bookshop, wandering around together this time. Ward kept pulling out volumes and telling Nick about them. He seemed to like Mr. Thackeray and Mr. Dickens especially. After a while, he handed Nick a small fat volume bound in dark-red morocco leather. Nick opened it. The flyleaf read,The Thousand and One Nights, commonly called in England, The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments, a new translation from the Arabic with copious notes, by Edward William Lane.
He glanced up at Ward. “What’s this about?”
“It’s a series of tales, told by a woman, Scheherazade, to her husband, over a thousand and one nights.”
“Hasn’t she anything better to do with her time than sit around telling stories?”
Ward smiled. “Scheherazade is telling the stories to save her life. After he discovered his first wife was unfaithful to him, Shahryar decided to marry a fresh virgin every night, then behead her the very next day. He does this hundreds of times, till Scheherazade comes along. But Scheherazade is well-read, cultured, and clever so her stories are marvellous, and each night she leaves a loose end trailing so that Shahryar has to let her live to find out what will happen next.”
“He sounds dreadful. Does she escape?”
Ward laughed. “No, she runs out of stories after a thousand and one nights, but he’s fallen in love with her by then so decides to keep her.”
Nick made a sound of disgust and shoved the book back at Ward.
Ward laughed again. “Honestly, Nicholas, it’s good. Well worth it for Scheherazade’s stories. I’m going to buy it for you.”
Now Nick was laughing too. “But I don’t want to read about a scoundrel like this Shahryar. I swear, if you dare to buy it for me—”
“Nick?”
That was a new voice.
Nick dragged his gaze from Ward to look at the man who was walking towards them.
His heart sank.
“Gabe,” he said stupidly. “What are you doing here?”
Gabe had been smiling, looking pleased to see Nick, but at Nick’s tone his eyebrows drew together in a tiny frown. “Well, Idolive here.”