Page 71 of A Gathering Storm
“Nick handed in his notice a fortnight ago. Told Grandy he was leaving Porthkennack for good.”
“He’s leaving?” Ward croaked.
“He’s already gone. He left today.”
Ward’s stomach turned over, and a lump rose in his throat. Thankfully, the door to the chamber opened and Dr. Ferguson stepped out before Miss Roscarrock could notice his reaction.
She jumped to her feet and went to the doctor. “How is he?” she demanded, her voice cracking with emotion.
The doctor looked grave. “Your grandfather has had a bad fall, Miss Roscarrock. He was not entirely conscious during my examination. To be frank, I’m very concerned about him.”
“Did he say anything?” she whispered.
“Yes. He asked for Mr. Hearn.” After a pause, he added, “He was quite insistent about needing to see him, when he managed to speak at all. Do you think someone could fetch Mr. Hearn? I fear there may not be much time left for your grandfather.”
Miss Roscarrock let out a little sob of distress and covered her mouth, her eyes filling with tears as she shook her head. She swallowed hard, getting herself under control, then said thickly, “Nick left Porthkennack on the coach late this afternoon. I’m not even sure where he’ll be by now.”
Ward’s mind raced. Despite Nicholas’s insistence that he was no more than a servant to Godfrey Roscarrock, Ward had realised from his conversations with Nicholas that the relationship between the two men was more complicated than that. Nicholas felt something for the old man—of that, Ward was sure. So, if old Godfrey Roscarrock wanted to speak his heart to Nicholas before he died, shouldn’t Ward do whatever he could to make sure Nicholas at least got the chance to grant that request before it was too late?
Even if that meant Ward missing out on the chance to go down the Hole in the only storm he’d seen since he’d come to Porthkennack months before?
“I’ll go after the stagecoach and fetch him back,” he blurted.
Isabella turned him. “Would you, Sir Edward?” she whispered, her damp eyes full of hope. “I’d be so grateful.”
He nodded. “It’s the least I can do.”
The stagecoach to Truro was very slow and very crowded. In this weather, it was also very wet. There were numerous leaks in the roof of the old carriage that let in the rain. It trickled down the corners of the carriage walls, pooling on the floor, and dripped from several places in the ceiling too. The passengers sat in hunched misery, angling their hats to stop the water running down their necks. There was much grumbling in the dark.
The stagecoach windows were obscured by scraps of curtain, but even if they hadn’t been, Nick wouldn’t have been able to see where they were. As if it were not enough that the stars and moon were obscured by the thick storm clouds, the driving sheets of rain made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.
Poor Snow shivered at Nick’s feet, cold and miserable—though at least not barking or vomiting, thankfully. The floor of the carriage was wet and cold but when Nick had tried to have Snow on his knee, the other passengers had complained. He was lucky the coachman had allowed Snow on at all, he supposed. That was mainly thanks to the additional coins he’d slipped to the driver before they left.
The rain hammered on the roof of the carriage ceaselessly, a loud drumming that prevented either conversation or sleep. It was so loud that it took time for the sound of approaching horses’ hooves to penetrate. Nick lifted his head, listening. Heard a distant male voice calling out, “Hold up! Whoa there!”
The passengers sat up, shifting in their seats, alarmed. What was this? Highwaymen?
The large woman next to Nick began to fret as the stagecoach slowed. “What’s ’e stopping for?” she demanded of no one in particular. “They’re not supposed to stop, are they?”
At length the stagecoach came to a halt. There was a rumble of voices outside—the coachman and whoever had been hailing him, Nick surmised, though with the rain hammering on the roof, he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
A few moments later the door of the stagecoach opened and—to Nick’s utter astonishment—there stood Ward.
It was dark as could be, both inside and outside the coach, but Nick knew him instantly despite the gloom. There were a hundred tiny clues in the outline of his form and the shadowed planes of his face and in the way he held himself. In the slow sweep of his head as he looked over the huddled group of wet, miserable passengers.
In the way he froze when his gaze landed on Nick.
“Ward?” Nick said. “What are you doing here?”
“Nicholas— I—” He broke off, then a moment later said hoarsely, “Your grandfather’s had an accident.”
For a moment, Nick was genuinely bewildered. “My grandfather?” he said stupidly. Then, “You mean, Godfrey?”
Ward nodded. “He was thrown from his horse near Varhak Manor. Your cousin came to me for help.”
Nick felt as though his brain wasn’t working. “Why are you here?”
“I’ve come to fetch you. Godfrey’s asking for you.”