Page 65 of A Gathering Storm

The debate prompted two of the gentlemen to attend the next séance held by Mrs. Haydn for themselves. They subsequently penned an article supposedly exposing her as a charlatan, to which I responded with a letter of rebuttal. My letter was published by the same newspaper, as were a half dozen replies from men of science I knew and respected, including the man I had considered my mentor, Professor Kenneth Arnold. Each of them expressed their astonishment at my naïve credulity and disapproval of my public support for Mrs. Haydn.

For five years I had been working and writing ceaselessly in my chosen field and in so doing, had built an enviable reputation for a man of my years. Now that reputation had been publicly savaged, not by one of my peers but by six of them. The episode rocked me to the core. The only comfort I could find was in my vow to prove them wrong.

8th July 1853

“I don’t understand this,” Godfrey said, scowling. The lines on his forehead seemed deeper than before. He had aged quite suddenly this year, and for the first time in Nick’s life, the old man looked frail.

“It’s very simple,” Nick said. “I’m going to find my mother’s family. I may even travel with them for a while, if they’ll let me. If not, well, I’ll see about that when it happens.”

Godfrey sat back in his leather wingback chair. “I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life!” he snapped. “You live here. You belong here!”

It was an effort, but somehow Nick managed to keep his expression neutral. Words, though, were beyond him. He could not agree with that final statement and anything he did say would be far too betraying.

“What about your duties?” Godfrey demanded.

“You’ll find someone else. All you have to do is advertise the position.”

“You’re not giving me enough notice!” Godfrey replied angrily. Then, pettily, “I’ll have to hold back the wages owing to you for that.”

Nick had grown so used to Godfrey’s threats over the years, he didn’t even blink. “Well, if that’s what you want to do, I can’t stop you.”

Godfrey’s fury seemed to boil over at that. “I cannot fathom your ingratitude,” he spat out. “I gave you that position! I gave you Rosehip Cottage—”

“You own the cottage still,” Nick pointed out evenly, “so it’s yours to do with as you please once I leave. As for the position: you’ve had my labour in return. The salary you paid me was the same as anyone else would’ve got.”

For a moment they stared at each other, Nick implacable and Godfrey fuming. Godfrey was first to look away. Nick wondered what he was thinking. If he had any regrets. Probably not. Godfrey Roscarrock was not a man given to regrets. He was a man who believed himself right in all things and would defend his decisions to the bitter end, no matter how poorly made they might be.

He waved a hand now. “Fine, have the wages.”

“Grand. I’ll take them,” Nick said. “Since I’ve earned them.”

Godfrey just scowled, keeping his face averted, staring instead outside the window.

There was a long silence then. Just as Nick was about to break it—to take his leave—Godfrey finally spoke again, his voice gruff.

“Are you ever going to come back?”

He didn’t so much as glance at Nick, but kept his gaze directed out the window, at the moody Cornish sky that was sending down a steady drizzle of rain. He looked old and melancholy.

“I don’t know,” Nick said honestly.

Godfrey closed his eyes. For a moment Nick thought, perhaps, that he minded Nick going. Maybe even that he was going to ask Nick not to leave. But in the end all he said was, “You’d better get back to work then.”

Nick nodded once and left the old man alone.

Out of habit, he headed out via the kitchens. Mrs. Hughes was extracting a tray of figgy hoggans from the oven, and the familiar scent of warm, spiced pastry filled the air. It was a scent Nick had always associated with Roscarrock House. For some reason, today, it made him feel hollow and sad.

He stood there in the doorway to the kitchens, watching Mrs. Hughes close the door of the huge cooking range while two kitchen maids chattered and peeled vegetables at the table. He’d been coming to this kitchen since he was eleven years old. Back then, the cook had been an old battle-axe, Mrs. Crowe. Mrs. Hughes had come when Nick was seventeen and had just started working with the old steward, Mr. Lang. She had always been kind to him.

Catching sight of Nick, Mrs. Hughes smiled wide and beckoned him in.

“Have a cuppa, Mr. ’Earn?”

He shook his head and tried to force a smile. “No, thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I need to be off.”

“Well, take an ’oggan at least,” she urged, and he let her press one into his hands.

Snow was waiting patiently outside the kitchen door. He lumbered to his feet at the sight of Nick, giving his characteristic little grunt-wheeze of pleasure, and trotted to his side, giving the hoggan a hopeful look with his single eye.