Page 70 of A Gathering Storm

Despite the persistent melancholy that had dogged him these last weeks, now that he was ready to go, a glimmer of Ward’s old enthusiasm began to return, a stirring of the familiar excitement at the prospect of imminent discovery.

He offered Pipp a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

Pipp sniffed, but some of his tension eased.

He was halfway to the Hole when he saw her: a young woman on a grey horse, soaked to the skin, her red hair half-up, half-down, long strands of it plastered to her pale face. Her elegant riding habit was sodden, and a tiny, crushed hat with a broken feather listed from her ruined coiffure.

As she drew closer, he saw she was frightened—frantic even.

“Are you all right, miss?” he called.

She came closer, halting her mount beside him. “Thank God I saw you!” she gasped. “I need help—I thought I’d have to go back to the village. My grandfather’s been thrown by his horse—he’s hurt! Please, will you come? He’s very near.”

“Of course,” Ward said. “Where is he?”

“Scarce more than two hundred yards.” She pointed in the direction she’d come from. “We can both ride Cally if you like.”

Ward shook his head. “Since he’s so close I’ll stay afoot. Lead the way.”

She nodded and turned her mount, setting off, Ward following at a brisk pace.

He saw the riderless horse first, its reins trailing on the ground, then the man lying there, unmoving. Christ, was he dead?

The rain was coming down in sheets, the thunder rumbling incessantly. Ahead of him, the young woman dismounted and rushed to her grandfather’s side.

As Ward drew nearer, he realised he knew the man. It was Godfrey Roscarrock. He’d called on Ward a few weeks after his arrival in the village to welcome him. They’d shared a polite half hour’s conversation during which Ward had been struck by the old man’s light-grey eyes, so much like Nicholas’s.

Now those eyes were closed, the big, raw-boned frame ominously still.

Isabella Roscarrock—he assumed it she—looked up at him, terrified eyes huge in her white face. “When he fell, he struck his head on a rock. I couldn’t rouse him, but he was breathing when I left him.”

Ward dropped to his knees beside her and bent to examine the old man. He was still breathing, thank God, though he looked to be in a bad way, a large, purplish bruise marring one side of his face. He mumbled inaudibly when Ward asked if he could hear him, but his eyes stayed closed and his complexion was waxy, his breathing thready.

“You’ll be all right, Grandy,” Miss Roscarrock assured him shakily as Ward checked him for broken bones. “We’ll have you all sorted out in no time.”

Godfrey just gave a faint moan.

“His limbs seem sound, but he could have injured his back or neck,” Ward told Miss Roscarrock. “We’ll have to be careful how we move him. I’ll ride to Varhak Manor and bring a carriage back for him while someone runs down to the village to fetch the doctor. Can you wait here with him while I’m gone? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Sir Edward—you are Sir Edward, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “Yes, and you are Miss Roscarrock. I am sorry to make your acquaintance in such circumstances.”

She swallowed and nodded. “Take my horse,” she said. “I don’t want you getting thrown too.”

While Ward, Pipp, and William the groom fetched Godfrey Roscarrock back to Varhak Manor in the carriage, Mrs. Waddell readied a room for him on the ground floor. There were no bedchambers there so the bed was a narrow truckle one, but it meant they didn’t have to jostle him more, carrying him upstairs.

Dr. Ferguson arrived soon after. Ward waited outside in the corridor with Miss Roscarrock, now dressed in a clean, dry gown provided by Mrs. Waddell, while the doctor examined the old man.

Every now and again the thunder would roll, and he would have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from groaning his frustration that he was sitting here, instead of out in the storm, doing his work. Hopefully he would be able to escape soon—once the doctor had emerged to give his verdict, and Ward had dealt with whatever immediate arrangements were needed for the benefit of his unexpected guests. But even then, by that time, the storm might be over. Christ, but he could scream.

“I should have tried harder to stop him going out,” Miss Roscarrock muttered, wringing her hands. “But he insisted he wanted to go riding despite the storm clouds, so I said I’d go with him. I didn’t imagine for a moment that this would happen! There’s no way a startled horse would’ve been able to throw Grandy in the old days, but he was all riled up about Nick and not paying attention—”

“Nick?” Ward repeated, his heart in his mouth. “You mean Nicholas Hearn?”

She looked at him. “Yes, do you know him? He was Grandy’s—” a brief pause “—steward.”

“Yes, I know him. Why was your grandfather upset about him?”