Page 72 of A Gathering Storm

“Forme?” He was genuinely astonished by that. “Did he strike his head? Ward, I doubt it’s me he wants. He’ll be confused.”

A pause.

“The doctor said it was you he wanted.” Those rasped words were harsh and toneless, but for some reason, Nick felt soothed by them, by their quiet certainty.

“I suppose I’d better come then.” His heart was pounding so hard, it was a surprise to hear how calm his voice came out. He began to extricate himself from his wedged-in position. “Come on, Snow.”

“I think Snowflake had better stay with William,” Ward said.

“William?”

“He rode down with me,” Ward explained as Nick shuffled past the other passengers to the open door where Ward stood. “You’ll ride his horse back with me while he takes your seat to the next stop. Then he’ll get the next stagecoach back to Porthkennack with your luggage and Snowflake.”

“I’m not sure about that, Ward,” Nick said. “Snow doesn’t know William.” He jumped down, landing in the mud next to Ward and no doubt covering them both in filthy splashes—the road was already a quagmire.

“The doctor said we need to be quick,” was Ward’s reply.

“Is Godfrey going todie?” Nick asked, surprised to find how hollow, how bereft that thought made him feel, when Godfrey had only ever treated him like a favoured servant, and sometimes not even that.

“I don’t know,” Ward said simply. He didn’t offer anything else. No platitudes. No promises. Just the plain, unvarnished truth.

Snow’s familiar grunt-wheeze made Nick turn back to the coach. The dog stood at the open door of the coach, shifting anxiously, his noisy breaths edged with a soft whine.

“Don’t worry, Nicholas,” Ward said. “William will take very good care of him. Won’t you, William?”

Ward’s groom nodded, striding past. “I will, sir.”

William climbed into the stagecoach then, pausing to ruffle Snow’s ears and take hold of his collar before settling into Nick’s empty seat, with Snow at his feet. Snow gave one of his rarely heard whines and the heartbroken sound wrenched at Nick. He swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat. He hated leaving Snow, but he couldn’t ride at any sort of pace and keep the dog safely beside him, especially in this weather. Snow shot him one last betrayed look as Ward shut the door behind them.

“Come on,” Ward said, tugging at Nick’s forearm. “The horses are over here.”

It turned out that the stagecoach hadn’t gone nearly as far as Nick had thought. The ride back to Varhak Manor took little more than an hour. It certainly helped that they didn’t have to contend with wheels that might get stuck in mud, and that their mounts were big, hardy beasts built for strength and stamina. Nick watched Ward’s horsemanship with interest. He wasn’t the natural horseman that Nick was, but he was competent and confident. Fully in charge of his animal.

As they rode, the rain continued to fall incessantly and the thunder rolled, over and over. Twice they saw flashes of lightning over the sea.

Ward had been waiting for a storm like this for months, but instead of working, he was here, fetching Nick back. Nick wasn’t sure what to make of that, and he couldn’t ask. The weather put paid to any chance at conversation.

It was just after nine o’clock when they finally reached Varhak Manor. A boy was waiting for them as soon as they arrived to take charge of the horses, and Mr. Pipp stood at the front door.

Nick followed Ward up the steps and into the hall.

“How is he?” Ward asked Mr. Pipp once the butler had closed the door behind them.

“Hanging on, sir,” the servant said gravely. He turned to Nick, his expression kind. “Let me take your coat,” he said, letting his usual formal air drop away. “The sooner you get in there, the better.”

Nick’s gloveless hands were icy and numb from gripping the reins, but somehow, falteringly, he managed to work the buttons of his coat free, and shrug the sodden thing off into Mr. Pipp’s waiting hands. He was just about as wet beneath his coat after riding through that deluge, and he shivered with cold.

“He needs fresh clothes,” Ward said.

“No time,” Mr. Pipp replied without ceremony. “Wrap this round yourself, lad.” He handed Nick a woollen blanket, and Nick shook it out before wrapping it round himself like a cape.

“This way,” Mr. Pipp said, and Nick followed him across the chequered marble floor and down the corridor of the west wing, his gut twisting with nerves. He was still finding it difficult to believe that Godfrey had asked for him. That of all people, it was Nick he wanted to see. Worse, a part of him—a small, mean part—felt like thumbing his nose at the request and walking away. But you didn’t do that to a man who was, it seemed, on his deathbed. Nick knew he’d regret it forever if he refused such a simple, final request.

Mr. Pipp stopped in front of a closed door and softly knocked.

A moment later, the door opened to reveal Isabella. Her red hair was loose about her shoulders and she wore a simple maid’s gown. It gave him the oddest feeling, seeing her dressed like that. This was how she’d have looked if she’d been born into the same circumstances as himself. He almost expected her to bob a curtsey, but instead she reached for him, taking hold of his shirtsleeve and pulling him inside.

“Thank God,” she said. “Come in. He’s been barely holding on, waiting for you.”