Page 63 of A Gathering Storm

Mathilda Harris didn’t answer, just stretched out one hand and ran the tips of her fingers down the wall. It was the oddest thing—till quite suddenly, Ward realised what had her so transfixed.

There was anedgesticking out.

It was, Ward realised as he peered, the edge of an almost invisible panel, the sides of which were designed to cunningly follow the pattern of the striped wallpaper.

A panel that happened to have been left the tiniest bit ajar.

“Miss Harris—” Bryant said hurriedly. He tried to get out of his seat, but he was hemmed in by the ladies on either side of him, and though both Mrs. Peasland and Mrs. Harris obligingly shifted their chairs to let him out, he was too late to stop the girl from sliding her fingertips down that errant edge and tugging the panel open.

The space behind was big enough—just—for a person to stand upright in.

And someone did. A young woman holding a bell in her hand.

FromThe Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I

The year that followed my brother’s death was a difficult one. Six weeks after the news arrived, my father suffered an apoplexy. It was his second in as many years, but this time he was paralysed after, and died a few days later. My poor mother, having lost both her eldest son and her husband in a matter of weeks, was distraught. It was some months after my father’s death that she heard of an American woman who had arrived in London, a Mrs. Haydn, who claimed to be a spiritualist medium. Mrs. Haydn was holding séances throughout the city at that time, and gathering quite a reputation. My mother begged me to take her to one of these séances, and so I did, and spent an extraordinary evening watching as Mrs. Haydn summoned numerous departed spirits who identified themselves by giving the dates of their deaths and accurately answering questions posed by their grieving relations. The spirits’ responses were given by rapping noises, the origin of which were a mystery to all present, some sharp, some dull, and seeming to come from all about the room, even under the floor. There was a message for me, from George:All will be well. I wept to hear those words again, the same he’d used to me that night, months before, on theArchimedes.

When Ward got back to the Fox and Swan, Nicholas was not there.

Ward settled down to wait for him. He opened one of the journals he’d brought with him to read in the coach, but couldn’t concentrate on the contents. His eyes slid over the words, unable to take them in. His mind was drifting elsewhere, his ears primed to hear the slightest approaching noise. He kept getting up to look out the window.

But Nicholas did not come.

Hours passed and he did not come. Eventually, at one in the morning, Ward retired to bed, only to lie there, awake and fearful, wondering where Nicholas was. If he’d tracked down that Gabe fellow or, worse, if he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere.

It wasn’t until dawn that Nicholas finally returned.

Ward had fallen into a fitful doze, but his eyes opened at the scrape of a key in a lock and he sat bolt upright, not quite awake, yet somehow aware that this was important. Then memories of the night before flooded his mind, and he scrambled out of bed, looking for the source of the noise. It came from the other, smaller room.

Ward crossed the floor and pushed the connecting door open. Nicholas was in the act of closing the door that gave onto the corridor, apparently as quietly as possible. He turned at Ward’s entrance, and his expression of dismay made Ward’s gut wrench.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” Nicholas said. “I’m just here to get my bag. The stagecoach leaves in an hour.”

“The stagecoach,” Ward repeated. “What do you mean?”

“I’m going home,” Nicholas said calmly. He reached for his valise.

“You don’t need to take the stagecoach, Nicholas. I have the carriage. If you wish to leave earlier—now even—we can do that.”

Nicholas ignored him. He wadded up a discarded shirt and shoved it into his bag.

“Nicholas,” Ward said, “please. I want you to travel back with me. We have things to discuss.”

Nicholas looked up. “And I want to leave on the stagecoach,” he said flatly.

For a moment, their gazes held, then Nicholas looked away, resuming his packing. It didn’t take long. Within moments he was buckling the strap.

“I’ll get going, then,” he said, once he was done.

“Nicholas, please—” Ward’s rasping voice was desperate. “I’m sorry about what I said at the séance. You’re angry with me, and I’m sorry, truly sorry.”

Nicholas turned. His expression was furious, silver eyes glittering. “I’m angry withmyself,” he bit out. “I’m angry that I was actually beginning to believe you saw me as an equal and not as someone who’s here just to serve you. I’m angry because I know better than that. I know what your sort are like, and sure enough, you showed your true colours today in front of Gabe and again tonight.”

The furious hurt in those words took Ward aback. “I do see you as equal,” he whispered. “I really do.”

“No, you don’t,” Nicholas snapped. “You told me you wanted me to call you Ward, but the moment you thought I was getting above myself, you changed your mind. You only want to listen to me when I’m saying something you agree with. Otherwise, I’m to stay quiet and biddable.”

“No—” Ward protested.