Page 58 of A Gathering Storm
“How?” Gabe asked. “How is he different from me?”
“Ward is—”
Extraordinary. Endlessly fascinating. Utterly infuriating at times. The most comely man Nick had ever seen, with the filthiest imagination. Demanding. Giving. And unapologetically just exactly who he was.
And Nick . . . loved him.
He dropped his head into his hands. “Bloody hell.”
FromThe Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I
In 1851, I finally set up my own laboratory in London. My father, softened then by ill health, had become reconciled to my refusal to join the Church and finally allowed me access to my portion to enable me to take this momentous step. I was excited beyond measure and embarked upon my work with the single-minded enthusiasm of a monomaniac. I would have thought that nothing could have diverted me from it. But a year later, as I returned home from a trip to Trinity College, Dublin, something happened to me during the sea-crossing from Ireland that would change the path of my life forever.
Ward was dressing in his evening clothes when Nicholas returned.
He heard the scrape of the lock of the next-door chamber first, then the tread of boots. Moments later, Nicholas appeared in the doorway that connected the two rooms.
“I’m back.”
Ward’s gut still burned with anger over the events of earlier—he kept his eyes on the mirror and continued to fasten his necktie. “We’re dining at six this evening, so you should get ready.”
“All right,” Nicholas said, but he didn’t move. After a pause, he added, “I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have gone off with Gabe like that. It’s just that when you said—”
“It’s quite all right,” Ward interrupted. He gave his necktie one last tweak then turned to meet Nicholas’s troubled gaze. “But you really ought to get ready. The séance is at half past seven and we mustn’t be late.”
Nicholas didn’t say anything for the longest time. He seemed to be considering how to respond, but at last he just nodded and turned away, saying, “I won’t be long.” Then he disappeared back into the small adjoining room and closed the door behind him.
He reappeared a few minutes later in fresh clothes, with his hair neatly combed, and followed Ward down to the dining parlour in silence, remaining subdued all through dinner. Ward was quiet too, both because of what had happened in the bookshop and at the thought of what the evening before him held. He wondered what sort of man Stephen Bryant would prove to be. A medium with genuine abilities, or just a fraudster, preying on grieving families?
At last, towards the end of the meal, Nicholas sighed and said, “Are you still angry?”
He looked and sounded irritated, and that made Ward’s own annoyance spike. Even though Nicholas had apologised when he’d first returned to the inn, he didn’t seem to truly feel sorry about going off with Gabe Meadows this afternoon. Indeed, from the scowl on his face, it seemed he had his own gripes about what had happened, though Ward couldn’t imagine what those might be. On another evening, Ward would probably have asked Nicholas outright what the problem was, but not this evening. He was in no mood to entertain that argument now, not with his stomach clenched up with nerves at the prospect of the séance.
“I’m not in the least bit angry,” he lied.
“Fine,” Nicholas replied, looking away. “You’re not annoyed with me at all.”
His scepticism was obvious. Well, that was Nicholas, wasn’t it? He was a sceptical character, and not just about Ward’s stupid lie—most likely about the whole night ahead.
In fact, thinking about it, Ward found it difficult to remember why it was he’d asked Nicholas to come along tonight at all. One of the great ironies of their friendship was that Ward had initially wanted to get to know Nicholas because he’d believed that, with his unusual background, Nicholas would be more open to the idea of communicating with spirits than anyone else in Porthkennack. In fact, it had transpired that the opposite was true. The only chink in Nicholas’s considerable scepticism was his—possible—childhood sighting of the Plague Doctor. And in truth, from what Nick had said during his trances, Ward wasn’t convinced that the encounter hadn’t simply been the fevered, if vivid, imaginings of a sick child.
Even when his own mother was mentioned, Nick would usually just make some throwaway comment that hinted at a lack of belief in her supposed abilities.
“She was very astute. Very good at understanding what people wanted to hear. . .”
Not that Nick’s belief or lack of belief should make any difference, given that Ward was supposed to be approaching this evening’s events with the objective disinterest of a scientist. He was here to assess Stephen Bryant, to find out whether he might be a credible subject for Ward’s studies. Except the truth was, Ward didn’t feel the least bit objective. He felt . . . hopeful. Hopeful, and desperately afraid to be hopeful, that George might come to him again, as he had on board theArchimedes.
Because if Stephen Bryant was a true medium, that might well happen.
Stephen Bryant lived on the outskirts of Truro in an area of the town Nick was unfamiliar with. He and Ward walked there in silence, Ward still quietly remote after their mostly silent dinner. Nick wasn’t sure how much of Ward’s distance was lingering annoyance over Nick’s going off with Gabe that afternoon and how much was preoccupation with the events of the evening still to come. Whatever it was, he wasn’t minded to try coaxing Ward into a better mood.
The address Mr. Bryant had provided to Ward led them to a sizeable villa but when the front door was answered—by a sullen lad of around fourteen years in a grease-stained coat—it became apparent the house was divided into a number of separate apartments. The boy led them up two flights of stairs to Mr. Bryant’s rooms, rapped at the door in an irritated way, called out “Morevisitors!” in a tone that suggested his patience was sorely tried, and stomped off without waiting to see if they’d get an answer.
A few moments later, the door inched open, revealing the lugubrious, jowly face of a middle-aged man. His hair was very black—too youthfully black for that sagging, lived-in face—and his eyes were heavy lidded and somewhat bloodshot.
“Good evening,” he said in a deep, refined voice. “Are you here for the séance?”
“We are,” Ward replied.