Page 59 of A Gathering Storm

The man blinked at Ward’s harsh voice, then said, “May I ask your name?”

“Sir Edward Fitzwilliam,” Ward confirmed. “And this is my friend Mr. Nicholas Hearn.”

At this introduction, the man opened the door wide and offered his hand, his sudden smile surprisingly wolfish. “Pleased to meet you, Sir Edward,” he said. “Stephen Bryant at your service.”

He shook first Ward’s hand, ushering him inside, before taking Nick’s. His palm was warm and rather damp against Nick’s, though his grip was firm. Nick had to fight the urge to wipe his own hand on his trouser leg after. He walked past Bryant in response to his gesturing arm, waiting with Ward just inside the narrow hallway while Bryant closed the front door.

“Come through and meet the others,” Bryant said. “First door on your left ahead.”

The door he indicated gave on to a gloomy room that was evidently all set up for a séance. It was dominated by a round table surrounded by eight chairs of various shapes and sizes, all packed tightly together. The table itself was covered by a long black tablecloth, the edges of which brushed the floor. A few lone candles were scattered here and there about the room. Just enough to see by and no more.

“The others are in the parlour,” Bryant said, leading the way past the table, to a door on the other side of the room through which a few low-pitched voices could be heard.

This room was more brightly lit and contained five people. On one couch sat an older woman and a girl of around seventeen or eighteen. Their features were so similar, it seemed reasonable to assume they were mother and daughter. They wore mourning clothes of unrelieved black and the older woman wore several large pieces of jet jewellery: a brooch, earrings, and a thick rope of beads that she twisted between black-lace-clad fingers.

“Mrs. Harris and Miss Harris,” Bryant advised Nick and Ward, gesturing at the ladies. Then to the ladies, “Ladies, this is Sir Edward Fitzwilliam and his friend Mr. Nicholas Hearn.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Ward said, addressing his comments to the older woman.

She nodded gravely. “You are fortunate to be granted entrance to this circle, Sir Edward,” she told him. “Mr. Bryant is a highly sought after medium. He has a waiting list for his séances, you know.”

Bryant gave Ward a modest shrug. “My gatherings are small by necessity, Sir Edward. Too many listeners tend to discourage the spirits.”

“Why would that be?” Nick asked. It was only once the words were out that he realised how combative they sounded. He hadn’t intended to voice his sceptical thoughts aloud, certainly not so early on. Already, though, Stephen Bryant was demonstrating the signs of the professional showman, planting the seeds of the excuses he might need later. It irked Nick. He hated the thought of Ward being taken in by such a man—and he feared Ward would be taken in. Because for all Ward’s talk of objective scientific observation, it was plain that he desperately wanted to believe in this. Wanted to believe his brother’s spirit lived on in some way. And that was precisely the sort of hope that men like Bryant preyed on.

Bryant regarded Nick and his expression was calculating. “The spirits can be volatile,” he said at last. “And shy. Especially when there are coarse, insensitive souls in the room.” The look he gave Nick left him—and the others in the room—in no doubt that Nick was in possession of just such a soul.

Nick pressed his lips together to stop himself retorting—or worse, laughing. Ward would not forgive him if they were thrown out before the séance even started.

Bryant moved on to the next guest. “This is Mr. Wallace,” he said, gesturing towards a shrunken elderly man with wispy white hair and an old-fashioned, though elegant coat that fairly drowned his wizened form.

“Sir Edward,” the old man said in a high, reedy voice. “Mr. Hearn.” They nodded back politely.

“And finally, Mr. and Mrs. Peasland.”

The last two members of the group were a younger couple, perhaps in their late twenties or early thirties. The woman, who was quite pretty, looked like a rich man’s idea of a Gypsy woman. Her simple black gown was cut low over her bosom, imperfectly veiled by the lacy red shawl she wore draped about her shoulders. Her glossy brown hair was woven into two thick plaits that she wore down, past her shoulders, and a bracelet made of string after string of tiny gold coins adorned her left wrist. Her husband was dressed in a similarly Bohemian fashion, in a sort of loose tunic-coat worn over wide-legged trousers.

Mrs. Peasland rose from her chair to greet them, gravitating to Nick first, her expression all avid interest.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Nick said.

“I’m very pleased to meetyou, Mr. Hearn,” she replied archly. “You have—oh, quite alookabout you, I must say.” He wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but instead of offering an explanation, she gave him a brilliant smile before turning her attention to Ward. “And Sir Edward.” She waved a vague hand, still smiling, though less brilliantly now. “Delighted, of course.”

Mr. Peasland offered his hand to each of them in turn, murmuring a quieter welcome.

“It’s not often we get visitors from London, here in Truro,” Mrs. Peasland said, directing her comment solely to Nick. “I do hope you’re not here to steal our dear Mr. Bryant away from us.”

“Oh, I’m not from London,” Nick said. “Sir Edward here is the city man.”

“Are you a Truro native then?” she asked.

“Porthkennack,” he confirmed briefly, not much liking her close attention.

“Of course, I should haverealised,” she gushed. “That Cornish black hair . . . and I’d hazard a guess you have some Romany blood. Am I right?”

“I’d wager you are, Mrs. Peasland,” Bryant said, before Nick could respond. “Mr. Hearn has a distinctlyGypsycast to his features.”

Realising that every eye was upon him, Nick nodded stiffly. “My mother,” he said.