Disappointment flooded Ward. “You’re sure you won’t stay?” He wished the croaked words unsaid as soon as they were out of his mouth—Nicholas’s alarm at the question was unmistakable. His gaze flashed with brief panic, and though he schooled his expression quickly, he wasted no time tugging himself free of Ward.
“No, I need to get back,” he said, rising from the bed, his back carefully to Ward. “I’m up early tomorrow.”
Since Nicholas wasn’t looking Ward’s way, Ward allowed himself the luxury of staring as the man gathered his discarded clothes. It was no hardship to look at him. Nicholas had a strong, masculine frame, broad in the shoulders and chest, with lean, well-muscled thighs. A horseman’s thighs, Ward thought absently, propping himself up on his elbows. He stifled a groan at the sight of the man’s taut arse as he bent down to retrieve his rumpled necktie.
Nicholas began to dress. Once he had his shirt and drawers on, he turned to face Ward. He looked calm now, and steady, but Ward couldn’t help wondering if he regretted what they’d done. He certainly seemed keen to leave.
“Are you all right for Friday still?” Ward blurted. For once he was glad of the harsh monotone that disguised the craven desperation behind his words.
“To go to Truro with you?” Nicholas asked. “Yes, of course.”
“Just checking,” Ward murmured, swinging his legs out of bed. “Let me get dressed and I’ll let you out. Pipp will have locked up by now.”
“All right, I’ll get Snow,” Nicholas said. “He’s probably fast asleep.”
Nicholas disappeared through the door to the study while Ward pulled on his trousers, fastening the buttons at the placket with nimble fingers. Without his suspenders, his trousers settled loosely on his hips, and he sighed, irritated. He couldn’t be bothered getting dressed properly, so he fetched a dressing gown out of his wardrobe, a sumptuous garment of crimson satin, and put it on. By the time Nicholas returned, Snowflake at his heels, Ward was fastening the black silk frogging that ran down the front.
“What are you wearing?” Nicholas said. He was frowning.
“A dressing gown.” Ward cocked a hip, raised a brow, and said, “Do you like it?”
Nicholas didn’t even answer. “What will your servants think if they see you like that?”
“Oh, they’ve gone to bed.” Ward waved his hand in an airy gesture. “The only person who might still be around is Pipp, and he won’t think anything of it. He understands how things are with me.”
“Well, he doesn’t understand how things are with me.”
Ward shook his head. “Nicholas, you don’t need to worry. Truly. I often dress like this in the evenings. None of the servants would think anything of me wearing a dressing gown if they saw me—it doesn’t signify anything.”
Nicholas gave an impatient shake of his head. “Men like you don’t seem to think the people who serve you have the ability to form thoughts or opinions of their own. You just assume they will accept whatever you tell them, whatever you want them to think.”
“That’s not true,” he protested. “What you don’t understand is that I know Pipp, probably better than anyone else in this world, and he knows me, and—”
“And Mr. Pipp isn’t the only servant in this household,” Nicholas interrupted flatly. “You have a cook, several maids, a groom, a gardener. You think they don’t have eyes and ears?” He looked away, shaking his head, as though astonished by Ward’s obtuseness. “I’ve sat around plenty of servants’ tables in my time, and I can tell you they all talk, they all gossip.”
Ward tried again. “Pipp is very discreet—”
“I daresay he is,” Nicholas said. “But you are not.”
Ward bristled at that, but Nicholas wasn’t finished.
“I realise you don’t need to be as wary as I do,” he said, holding up a staying hand. “You’ve plenty of money to protect yourself. You could buy off a gossiping servant if you wanted, or up sticks to go and live somewhere else.” He paused, settling his silvery gaze on Ward. “But you have to understand that I am not in the same position. If gossip starts up about me in this village, it will never be forgotten. I will have no choice but to deal with the consequences of that or find myself a new position.” He shook his head. “And that would be no easy business for a man of my birth.”
He was right, Ward realised with a stab of shame. Ward was always assuming that Nicholas shared the same privileges that he himself enjoyed, but that was not the case.
Slowly, Ward began to undo the black silk clasps on his dressing gown, then he peeled off the garment and tossed it aside, reaching for his shirt instead.
“Thank you,” Nicholas said.
Ten minutes later, fully dressed, Ward led Nicholas downstairs. As they reached the bottom of the staircase, Pipp appeared—in his dressing gown as it happened, though his was a sight less ornate than Ward’s ostentatious, crimson one.
“Allow me, sir,” he said, drawing out his enormous key ring and flipping through the many keys there.
“Thank you for dinner,” Nicholas said to Ward, politely. “And the, ah, conversation.”
“Not at all. Thank you,” Ward returned awkwardly. “I’ll see you next Friday for our trip to Truro. Shall we leave around two o’clock? If that’s not too early?”
“Two o’clock will be fine,” Nicholas said as Pipp wrestled the door open and stepped aside to let him pass.
It was very dark outside, a cloudy night with no stars or moon to be seen. But Nicholas went out into it without hesitation, Snow a pale shadow at his heels.
“Good night, Sir Edward,” he said and set off down the path.
“Good night,” Ward echoed.
Nicholas didn’t look back.
The shadows of the night had already swallowed him up by the time Pipp closed the door.
From The Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I
My brother and I went up to Cambridge together, though my brother only stayed a year. At the end of that year, George persuaded my father to purchase him a commission with the 80th Foot, his lifelong ambition having been to join the Army. Later, when George died in Burma, I took great comfort that we had had that year at Cambridge together. We shared rooms, ate together most days, even attended the same classes—though George was not as interested as I. As the months passed, we regained that closeness we’d shared as boys, finishing one another’s sentences, seeming sometimes to share the same thoughts—though no one would now have mistaken one of us for the other, with George topping me by several inches.
24th June 1853
By the time the following Friday came around, Ward was on tenterhooks at the thought of seeing Nicholas again. The strange formality of their parting, after all that had gone before, had unsettled him. All week he’d found himself reexamining the things Nicholas had said to him about privacy and privilege and consequences.
“Spoken like a true gentleman . . .”
“The rest of us aren’t so lucky . . .”
He was finishing his luncheon when Pipp announced Nicholas’s arrival.
“Mr. Hearn, sir,” Pipp said, and when Ward looked up, there was Nicholas, framed in the doorway of the dining room, wearing his customary tweeds and carrying a modest valise.
He was alone. No pale shadow at his heels today.
Ward rose from his seat. “Nicholas—come in, sit down.” He glanced at Pipp and added, “Mr. Pipp, will you arrange a plate for Mr. Hearn?”
“Of course, sir,” Pipp said. He took the valise from Nicholas, who looked faintly surprised at having to give it up, and left the room.
“You’re always feeding me,” Nicholas said, taking a seat. “It’s quite unnecessary.”
“Indulge me,” Ward croaked. “I expect you’ve just had some bread and butter or some such thing. It’s half a day’s journey, you know. I don’t want you expiring on the way.”
Nicholas chuckled softly. “All right. Since you and Mr. Pipp are determined to fatten me up between y
ou, I may as well let you.”
“I was expecting to see Master Snowflake,” Ward said as he settled his napkin over his knee again. “Have you left him downstairs?”
“No, I’m not bringing him. I’ve left him with my friend, Gid,” Nicholas said. “Snow hates carriage journeys—just frets and frets. And Gid’s good with him.”
“I don’t mind if you want to bring him,” Ward said. “The journey only takes around three hours. I can tolerate a fretful dog for an afternoon.”
Nicholas shook his head. “The last time I took him on a coach, he barked near enough incessantly and ended up vomiting all over the floor. The other passengers were ready to string the two of us up.”
“Ah,” Ward said. Then after a pause, “Will he be all right without you, though? I honestly don’t mind if you want to bring him, barking and vomiting notwithstanding.”
Nicholas’s smile-frown made an appearance at that. He seemed both touched and amused by Ward’s assurance. “That’s kind of you,” he said, “but it’s not just because of the journey that I’m leaving him. Truro was where I found Snow in the first place. The one time I’ve taken him back there, he started shaking as soon as we got near. He probably thought I was going to abandon him there.”
Ward pondered that. “It’s true that some animals display the most astonishing sensory abilities. Dogs, of course, are renowned for their acute sense of smell. Perhaps Snowflake detected something in the air unique to that place—something you would not have noticed with your duller olfactory senses—” He broke off at Nicholas’s sudden grin. “Is something amusing?”
Nicholas chuckled. “No, it’s just that you’re such a curious fellow.”
Ward swallowed and looked away. He’d been told many times before that he was curious. An eccentric. A quiz. Usually he didn’t care, but for some reason, coming from Nicholas, it stung.
How pathetic.
“What’s wrong?” Nicholas said. Then comprehension dawned. “Oh for God’s sake, I didn’t mean curious like that! I meant curious. Interested. Fascinated by the world around you.”
Ward glanced warily at Nicholas.
“Ward—I like that about you,” Nicholas added softly, and some knot in Ward’s belly loosened.
“I know some people think I’m rather odd,” Ward admitted. “I daresay the villagers think I’m positively unhinged with my plans to communicate with spirits. But when an idea takes hold of me, I—” He halted, unable to find the words to express what it was that drove him.
“I know,” Nicholas said simply. “You’re passionate about what you do. About finding out why things happen a certain way. How they work.”
Ward felt the oddest rush of gratitude. Gratitude that Nicholas understood this about him, and that he could put it into such simple words when Ward had been so entirely unable to do so. That he didn’t think Ward was an odd duck—or perhaps that he did, but he didn’t care so very much.
They set off for Truro after luncheon. Ward’s carriage was the first word in luxurious travelling with wide seats upholstered in butter-soft leather and woollen travelling rugs folded at the end of each bench. As Nick climbed in behind Ward, he noted a large, flat wooden box on the floor of the carriage and a basket full of foodstuffs and beverages tucked in beside it.
“Bloody hell,” he chuckled. “This carriage is fit for a king. Old Godfrey likes his comforts but he’s got nothing on you. This must be near twice the size of his coach.”
“I do a fair bit of travelling,” Ward replied, as he sat himself down. “I’m fortunate that I have the wherewithal to do it in a manner that minimises the discomforts of long journeys and enables me to pass the time as fruitfully as possible.”
“I’ll say,” Nick said, settling onto the bench opposite Ward and watching with fascination as the man lifted the flat wooden box onto his knee, turning it into a compact writing desk with a few practiced moves, the ever-errant lock of hair tumbling over his forehead.
Outside, the coachman shouted an instruction to the groom as he readied to depart.
“That basket looks as though it could feed the five thousand,” Nick said, eyeing the hefty muslin-wrapped packages and cork-stoppered pot bottles that filled it. “And we’ve only just had luncheon. We’ll certainly reach Truro before I’m peckish again.”
Ward bit his lip, seeming oddly embarrassed. “Pipp has a tendency to overprovision—he’s convinced I don’t eat enough. I’ve tried telling him not to bother with baskets for such short journeys, but he gets ever so offended, so now I just let him do it and give the basket to the coachman.”
The carriage lurched then, and they were off, though slow to start with as the coachman navigated the narrow path that led from Ward’s front door to the road proper.
“How long exactly has Mr. Pipp worked for you?” Nick asked. He couldn’t imagine any of Godfrey’s servants ever being so familiar with him as it seemed Mr. Pipp was with Ward, at least in private. Nick wouldn’t be so familiar with Godfrey and he was related to the man by blood.
Ward tapped his finger on his chin. “It’s been a long while. Since I was twelve at least. He was a footman in my parents’ house and my mother selected him as my personal servant.”
“Your personal servant? You mean, your valet?”
Ward smiled. “Not quite. It was when I was convalescing. Mother wanted someone to see to my needs. Lift me in and out of bed and push me around in this ridiculous bath chair she’d obtained for me. She was quite determined that I should get up each day and take the air, you see. Even if it took me all morning to wash and dress.” He gave one of his raspy laughs. “It drove me wild, but she was probably right.”
“So Mr. Pipp was your nurse?”
“In a manner of speaking. As I grew stronger—and older—he seemed to naturally fall into the role of valet. And when I left home to attend Cambridge, it was convenient for him to join me as my general manservant. We’d become used to one another by then—it was obvious that he would be the head of my household when I came to set one up.”
“You must know each other very well,” Nick observed.
“We do. I trust Pipp absolutely. He knows me inside out.”
“Even that you . . .?” Nick trailed off, raising a querying brow.
“Even about my preference for men? Oh, yes. It was Pipp who found Alfie for me—without my asking him to do so, I might add.” He gave a loud bark of laughter. “That was a mortifying conversation, I can tell you!”
Nick pondered that revelation for a moment before asking, “Is he like us, then?”
Ward shook his head. “No. I gather there was a lady who disappointed him when he was quite young, but he tells me his taste runs to ‘the motherly sort’ these days. I understand he and Mrs. Waddell have had some sort of mutually beneficial arrangement for the last few years.” He shuddered as if at the thought, making Nick grin.
The coach slowed, and Nick glanced out the window. They were at the bottom of the path now. The coachman executed a tight swing onto the main road—making the basket of food and drink slide across the carriage floor, till Nick stopped it with his foot—and then they were straightening again and the coachman was snapping his whip and urging the team of four into a smart trot. They were off, and Nick was conscious of a pang of excitement at the thought. He ruthlessly suppressed it, though, forcing himself to concentrate instead on pushing the basket back into place on the other side of the carriage and wedging it more securely with one of the travelling blankets.
When he straightened, he returned determinedly to their previous topic of conversation. “It’s strange to me that you and Mr. Pipp are so tight with one another. Old Godfrey isn’t like that with his servants. He doesn’t even look at them. He treats them like they’re part of the furniture. Says things in front of them as though they don’t have ears.”
Ward frowned at that. At last he said, “Does he talk to you?”
“Yes, but I’m not a—” Nick began, then stopped. He felt suddenly queasy
to his stomach. The words had come unprompted, before he’d really thought about the question. Only now did he realise how betraying they were, revealing that in his secret heart, Nick believed himself to be something more than a servant to his grandfather.
Despite all the evidence to the contrary.
Nick risked a glance at Ward—the man’s gaze on him was painfully, unbearably sympathetic, and Nick looked swiftly away, turning his head to stare unseeingly out the carriage window at the hedgerows.
After a long pause, face burning with humiliation, he said quietly, “What I mean is, he has to talk to me. I’m his steward—there are always matters of business to discuss.”
“Yes, of course,” Ward said politely. “I can see that.”
They fell into an awkward silence.
At length, Ward drew a sheaf of journals out from the single drawer in the travelling desk and began sorting through them. Selecting one, he put the others away and began to read, his brow furrowed with concentration. After another minute, he produced a pencil from his inside pocket and began jotting down notes in the margins. The pencil was a plain steel propeller one, quite short, and when he wasn’t he using it, he stuck it behind his ear. Nick thought it made him look like a shopkeeper, and that made him smile. The thought of Ward measuring out sugar and tea leaves and lengths of fabric for sharp-eyed housewives was an amusing one.
Ward was too absorbed to notice Nick’s attention on him, and a couple of hours passed thus, in companionable silence. Nick didn’t mind the silence a bit. He was a man who enjoyed his own company very well. He didn’t need constant chatter—indeed, sometimes he craved silence more than anything. On days like that, if he could, he would set off from Rosehip Cottage with Snow at his heels and some bread and cheese in his pocket and just walk the whole day, not so much as a word passing his lips. Whenever he felt out of sorts, that would fix him, having the living earth beneath his feet and the wind on his face.
His mother had been the same. Sometimes she needed to be outdoors. She even used to eat her breakfast outside, hunkering down on the front stoop of the cottage, even though there was a perfectly good kitchen table inside. When Nick was a boy, he’d thought it was because she missed the travelling life, but it wasn’t the moving around she longed for. Ma didn’t mind being in one place—it was living on the land she missed. Sitting round a campfire at night with the heat on her face and the cold at her back. Sleeping under the wide sky.
A Gathering Storm (Porthkennack Book 2) Page 15