Page 74 of A Gathering Storm

“You’re like me . . . You’re the only one who ever gave a damn for the place.”

Perhaps Godfrey had decided that Nick was his legacy—more of a legacy in some ways than Harry. Oh, Harry would carry on the Roscarrock name, but Nick would carry on something else. Perhaps something that, in Godfrey’s eyes, was more essential, more personal than that precious family name.

Perhaps Nick was to be the keeper of Godfrey’s dreams.

That was what happened when people saw death coming. They wanted their dreams to live on. It was the same with his mother. In those last weeks of her life, she’d become preoccupied with her estranged family and had begged Nick to go and find them when she was gone. It was why he’d headed for Penzance as soon as he’d decided to leave Porthkennack. For more than a year now, that old dream of Ma’s had been sitting in his pocket, demanding to be fulfilled.

But you couldn’t live other people’s dreams for them, he realised. It was hard enough to find your own dream. Hard enough to give it voice and pursue it. That was one of the things he admired about Ward. That Ward saw what he wanted and acted on it, even if what he wanted didn’t meet with other people’s approval. Even if it made no damned sense. At least hehada dream—what did Nick have?

What did Nick want for himself?

The answer was already in his heart, waiting. He didn’t even need to think about it.

He wanted his mate. He wanted Ward.

He wanted love and a home. Wanted that ever-elusive sense of belonging he’d only truly felt for the first time in Ward’s arms.

And maybe, perhaps, Ward wanted that too? Nick would never have dared hope for that before tonight, but tonight Ward had come for him. On the night of the storm Ward had been waiting for since he’d arrived in Porthkennack, he’d abandoned the work that had driven his every moment for the last year and instead ridden out into the night to find Nick, to bring him here, to his dying grandfather.

“Nick—”

His name was a whisper, carried on the lightest of breaths. A sigh, almost.

Nick looked down at the old man again. Godfrey was fading. His eyes were clouding over, growing vague.

“Bella,” Nick said without turning. “Come here.”

She came to his side, putting her hand to Godfrey’s cheek. “Grandy.”

Together they looked down at the old man.

“Ni—” he tried again, watery eyes pleading.

In this moment, Nick wanted only to be generous. He said carefully, “I won’t leave, Godfrey. I’ll stay for good and work that land.”

The old man’s tight, pained expression eased.

And then he was gone.

FromThe Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I

In the following months, I became so preoccupied with finding a scientific explanation for what I had experienced on board on theArchimedesand at the séance conducted by Mrs. Haydn, that I entirely abandoned the work I had been pursuing for so many years before that. Disenchanted with London and with the circles I moved in at that time, and having inherited my father’s sizeable fortune and title, I purchased a plot of land in Cornwall with the intention of pursuing my new studies there. In the spring of 1853, I began my new life.

Isabella Roscarrock was crying. Not in a pretty, ladylike way, but with great wrenching sobs that made her whole body shake. Ward stood aside, bowing his head in respect, as Mrs. Waddell led her upstairs, to the bedchamber that had been prepared for her.

It was over then.

A few moments later, Nicholas emerged into the hall where Ward had been pacing, waiting for news. Unlike his cousin, Nicholas was calm and silent, the only sound from him the quiet click of his boot heels on the marble floor. When he caught sight of Ward, he straightened slightly, his body growing somehow more attentive, more aware.

“He’s dead,” he said bluntly.

Ward nodded. “I thought as much. Miss Roscarrock seemed very upset.”

Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck. He looked tired, and Ward wished he could step forward and put his arms around him. Wished he had the right to touch him with kindness and concern. To offer comfort. But there was an invisible barrier between them now that couldn’t be breached. All Ward could do was stand on the other side, watching as Nicholas managed his own grief and exhaustion.

He cleared his throat. “Pipp’s made a bedchamber up for you. Why don’t you go and sleep? You look exhausted.”

But Nicholas shook his head and said, “Let’s go to the Hole.”