Page 73 of A Gathering Storm
Godfrey had been accommodated in a small sitting room. A chaise longue and a writing desk had been pushed back to make room for the truckle bed on which he lay. Eyes closed, breathing laboured, his thick mane of hair was like tarnished silver against the pillow beneath his head, and his skin had a waxy, clammy look to it.
Dr. Ferguson was sitting by the bed, but at Nick’s entrance, he rose and stepped to the side, ceding his place.
“Mr. Roscarrock has been asking for you,” he said, and Nick felt the same stab of disbelief in response to that assurance that he’d felt when Ward had said it.
Nick looked at the empty chair, then glanced uncertainly at Isabella. She gave him a nod of encouragement, and after a brief pause, he sat himself down, perching on the edge and looking down at the old man.
He cleared his throat. “It’s Nick here,” he said. “I hear you’ve been asking for me.”
Godfrey’s eyelids fluttered, and his hand on the blanket twitched. A long, silent moment passed then, impossibly quietly, Godfrey breathed his name. “Nick.”
“Ayes,” Nick said gently. And then, because it seemed the right thing to do, he set his own hand on Godfrey’s, something he’d never done before.
The old man’s hand was cold, the pouchy, liver-spotted skin unexpectedly soft. Nick stroked it with his thumb, thinking, oddly, how this reminded him of stroking Snow’s velvety ears.
“Wish I’d—” Godfrey began. Paused for breath. “—owned you to the world.”
Pain stabbed Nick in the heart, stabbed him there and twisted so hard he felt like a fish being gutted.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“Does,” Godfrey whispered, his laboured breathing making it clear how difficult every word was to utter. “You’re like me.”
Like Godfrey? Christ, no!
Nick patted the old man’s hand and said softly, “Not I. I’m a feckless Gypsy, just like you always said.” He said it lightly, almost fondly, but long-held resentment soured the words in his mouth, and he wondered if Godfrey heard that bitter echo.
Godfrey shook his head minutely and turned his hand, clutching Nick’s fingers. “I mean . . . you love this place.” Long pause. “Like I do.”
Nick was silent. He did love this place. He loved Roscarrock House, and the harsh, rocky coastline, and the tumbledown village he’d grown up in. He felt connected to these places in ways he couldn’t express in mere words. That feeling of connection went beyond the land and the sea and all the little piles of bricks and mortar that made up Porthkennack. He felt connected to this grim old man too, and to the tearful girl standing by the door, and to the villagers he’d grown up with. But now, most deeply, he felt connected to Ward. When the stagecoach had rumbled out of Porthkennack earlier today, it was Ward who had been the first of all those everyones and everythings he had mourned, as well as the reason he’d needed to leave.
“I changed my will last week,” Godfrey went on. “Been thinking about it since I sold this land to Fitz—Fitzwilliam.” He had to stop for a bit then, breathing hard for a good half a minute before he was able to go on. “Left you the rest of the plot that you’ve been on at me to start working.”
Astonished, Nick could only stare at him for several long moments. “What?” he said at last. “Why?”
Godfrey got his stubborn look. “You said you—” another pause “—wanted to farm it.”
“But I’m not a Roscarrock. You always said you wanted to keep everything in the Roscarrock name. You didn’t even want to sell this bit to Wa—Sir Edward at first.” Nick felt himself flush at his betraying almost-use of Ward’s name, but Godfrey didn’t seem to notice.
“You’re the only one who ever gave a damn for the place,” he wheezed.
“Oh Grandy, that’s not true!” Isabella interrupted, stepping closer. Nick glanced at her. Her face was white, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She looked genuinely hurt by Godfrey’s comment, but Godfrey just waved her off with a weak gesture.
“He’s the onlymanwho gives a damn,” he muttered, and Isabella stared at Godfrey unhappily, her throat working.
Godfrey clutched at Nick’s hand, the grip of his cold fingers weak but determined. “Stay here,” he whispered fiercely. “Your name might be Hearn, but—but underneath that Gypsy skin, you’ve a good bit of me in you.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Twice what Harry’s got.”
“Grandy—” Isabella began.
“Hush,” Godfrey told her. “I’ll have no complaints from you. You’ve a dowry fit for a duchess, and Harry’s getting the rest. I just want—”
“I’m not complaining,” she protested.
He went on as though she hadn’t spoken, his eyes boring into Nick’s. “I wantyouto have a bit of it. Something you can pass on to your children. And them to theirs.”
Nick stared at Godfrey. At this old man who had dominated his life for so long. He’d been giving Nick scraps from the Roscarrock table for years and years. And yes, arguably this was just another scrap—the land he was supposedly leaving Nick was far from ideal farmland—but still, it was quite a recognition. About as public a declaration of Nick’s paternity as Godfrey would ever make.
But why now? Right at the end of his life, and only after Nick had handed in his notice and left Porthkennack once and for all. Had he intended to try to lure Nick back? But if so, why not just tell him before he’d gone?