The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) (11 page)

“Mister Wakefield,” he answered. Simon’s expression faltered for a moment, as if he was unused to being addressed as such.

“No, no,” he said, softly. “I’m Simon. Mister Wakefield is my father.”

He gave a mirthless laugh at his own joke and smiled.

“Simon, then,” John Paul said. “Is everything alright?”

Simon was silent for a moment before answering.

“Things have been better, mister Foster. I hope I won’t sound too cruel in saying that this couldn’t possibly have come at a worse time. I have quite a full plate taking over from my father.” He looked down at the floor. “I know the trade well enough. I can take over the business, without a doubt, but I…”

John Paul waited for him to finish.

“It’s quite rude of me to say this, mister Foster. I know that. And understand, my permission is not contingent upon your answer. But I worry that debtors will take my father’s business from me if I cannot pay them soon. I simply couldn’t bear it if my mistakes were to hurt my family, sir.”

John Paul frowned. His reasoning was sound enough.

“I hope you’ll understand that I don’t have any sort of money with me. I could give you a fiver, but no more at this exact moment; after all, I haven’t got anything else.”

“No, no, that much is obvious.”

“How much do you need?”

“Oh,” Simon said softly. “Did I not tell you?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“E—eight hundred pounds.”

John Paul’s eyes widened.

“That’s quite a sum, Simon. How does a man get into that sort of debt?”

“I won’t ask you where you got your money, John Paul Foster. Please, don’t ask me that.”

John Paul opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Eight hundred pounds? I’ll need to make some calls.”

“I swear I’ll pay you back,” Simon said.

“If you pay me back, that will be wonderful,” John Paul said, sitting back into one of the chairs. He had a pit in the bottom of his stomach. The money wasn’t so much, in the grand scheme of things. It was a sum he could afford, certainly. But giving away so much in a single sitting… he strained to put himself past it.

“Now,” Simon said, sitting across from him. “About the marriage.”

“Yes.”

“Of course, as I said, Lydia will need to be in mourning for a suitable period. Of course she can’t marry in that time. We’ll say it’s a year since his death, so we’ll announce the wedding in a week, and then we’ll have the engagement set for a year after that. Does that… sound right?”

“I don’t know,” John Paul answered truthfully. “I haven’t had any sort of experience with this type of thing.”

“Nor have I,” said Simon, and the pair of them sat, both looking shaken and tired.

“So, a June wedding, then?”

“Just so.”

“I’ll bring my nephew to the engagement dinner, then?”

“Of course, sir. You’re to be my brother, aren’t you? Then I should know my new family, and he his.”

“Of course,” John Paul said. He considered his words for a moment before he asked, “How has Lydia been these two weeks?”

“You can ask her yourself, as soon as she’s finished dressing for dinner tonight. I imagine she’ll be down any time now.”

“But has she been well,” John Paul pressed.

As he said it, there was a knock at the door, and Simon cut in: “Come in.”

Lydia stepped through the door. She wore black, and her hair was covered, but she was every bit as beautiful as she had been. She gaped when she saw John Paul sitting there across from her brother.

“I’ve just been talking to your fiancé,” Simon said. There was a trace of smugness on his face.

“So—”

“I’ve agreed to the marriage.”

Lydia’s expression went through a thousand transformations all at once, looking from Simon to John Paul and back, happiness and confusion and relief simmering across her features for a moment before she turned and stumbled back out the door, nearly tripping over herself.

“She’s pleased to hear the news, I see,” Simon said, turning back to John Paul.

“So you didn’t tell her I would be coming?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise! Happy surprises are the best surprises.”

“I suppose they are.”

The two men sat in the room and waited, both silently lost in their thoughts, but both of them watching the door to see if Lydia would reappear. After a while, when she hadn’t, Simon rose and reached out a hand to John Paul.

“Come on, now; join me in the dining room. The other guests will be arriving soon.”

John Paul took his hand, but stood under his own strength; he followed the younger man a bit further down the hall, which opened up to two large tables, each set for eight. Simon pulled out a chair at the foot of the table, and made a gesture for John Paul to sit down, then took the head for himself. He sat down gingerly; whether he was comfortable sitting there or not, the Colonel couldn’t tell, but clearly Simon was unused to it in either case.

After a few minutes, a knock at the door, and a couple was guided in, the man several years John Paul’s senior, while the woman may have been Nan’s age. The two men already seated stood to greet them;

“Mister and missus Raymond, I’m so glad you could come. This is our guest, Colonel—it is Colonel? Yes? Good—John Paul Foster, who is joining us today. He’s a very good customer, and has been spending time with our Lydia of late, before the terrible accident. Colonel, this is Mister Timothy Raymond, who runs the lumber mill that supplies our humble shop, and his lovely wife Martha.”

“How do you do,” John Paul said automatically. Chairs were pulled out for the new guests, who sat down.

“Are you English, mister Foster? Or…”

“Yes,” John Paul answered. “I had the honor of serving Her Majesty overseas for several years, and the local accent seems to have touched my voice a little bit.”

“So then, what do you think—” Timothy Raymond’s line of questioning was cut off when his wife gave him a firm glare.

“It’s very nice to meet you both,” John Paul said softly.

The family slowly filtered down, and another few guests arrived, mostly friends of the late Mister Wakefield. The dinner itself, John Paul noted, was quite good. He found himself quite the celebrity, whether for his accent or his military background, or merely that he was nearer in age and experience to the guests than any of the Wakefields. Lydia came down last of all.

She had a curious aspect, and when she came to the table she touched John Paul’s hand as she passed. He could feel his face flush, and knowing looks from the Raymonds made him flush harder.

The dinner, after that, was nearly impossible to get through. Somehow he managed it, though with plans made for Lydia to come out to his home for supper a few days after, to meet Henry properly.

Part 3

Chapter 11

The days that followed ground slowly by. John Paul told his nephew that he’d have a guest over on the fourth; Henry gave no indication if he concerned himself with it in the days that followed. He spent most of his time doings Lord-knows-what.

John Paul saw him for the most part at meal-times, though he regularly looked throughout the estate, checking on progress of the various jobs around. The repaneling of the floors on the third floor progressed nicely, he thought.

The new floors were absolutely perfect, he thought, though the workers were careful to remind him that there was considerable work left to do even once it was finished being laid. They would have to sand it, seal it… the Colonel listened, but a good deal of it went in one ear and out the other. By the time that the fourth came, they had laid nearly the entire third floor.

The men didn’t need him to sit there and babysit them; John Paul knew after only a couple of days. There was nothing up there to steal, and they knew their trade well enough that he didn’t need to supervise them. But he found himself enjoying the time he spent watching them, so he stood by the stairs where he would be as out of the way as can be expected and watched.

After lunch he made sure to remind Thomas for the third time that day that they’d have a couple of guests over, so he should be sure to make supper impressive and sizeable. The cook let him talk. Mister Foster was visibly nervous, so it was no skin off his back to let him complain.

Lydia arrived at five o’clock. Henry was sitting in a chair, reading a magazine, and John Paul was alternately standing by the window and pacing the floor.

“Sit down, Uncle,” Henry said softly. “There’s no reason to be nervous.”

John Paul ignored him and continued pacing when a knock came on the door. He crossed the room in the space of a breath and opened it to find a pair of women on his doorstep. He held the door open for them.

“Ah! You’re here, wonderful,” he said. “Do come in.”

“Thank you, Mister Foster,” said Nan, stepping through first, followed by Lydia Wakefield.

Both of them were clothed in black crepe; as they stepped in, Lydia removed her hat and handed it to John Paul, who hung it on a hook.

“Can I take your coats?” John Paul asked.

They let him slip their coats off, and he hung them as well beside the hat. Henry looked up as they all walked in and stood.

“Uncle?”

“Ah, yes, of course. Henry, you’ve met Lydia and…” John Paul paused for a moment. Had he ever heard her name?

“Sarah Jacobs,” she cut in.

“Mrs. Jacobs. Lydia, this is my nephew, Henry Roche, you’ve met, yes?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Lydia’s voice faded into a silence that took the air out of the room, then was replaced with the sound of a hammer echoing down the stairs.

“I apologize, the house is not in exceptional shape, miss.”

“Oh,” Lydia said. “I was just thinking how much better than I had expected it had looked. The house has been abandoned since before I was born, you know.”

John Paul flushed, but didn’t answer. Nan reached over and pinched Lydia’s shoulder; prompting her to yelp. Lydia gave an annoyed look and Nan returned it, leaning in to whisper something into Lydia’s ear. Lydia turned back to John Paul.

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

“Not at all,” he answered. “It’s an old house, but I felt it had some charm, so I decided to have it repaired.”

Lydia nodded.

“I agree, it’s very pretty now that it’s being taken better care of.”

“Are you both hungry?” John Paul asked.

Lydia didn’t immediately answer, but Nan answered for her.

“Lead the way, mister Foster.”

He did; the dining room was one of the nicest rooms in the house, once they’d changed the furniture, and he pulled out chairs for the women before stepping through the kitchen doors. Thomas stood back from the oven, watching it disinterestedly.

“Is dinner nearly finished?”

Thomas looked over.

“Yes, sir; it’s all ready, just keeping it hot. I’ll have it out momentarily.”

“Very good,” John Paul answered, already stepping back toward the door.

Lydia and Nan sat silently across from Henry, who was looking from Lydia to the door. When John Paul reentered, Henry smiled at him.

“Is it almost ready?”

“Thomas says the food will be on its way out momentarily,” he answered, and took his seat at the head of the table. Lydia sat to his left and Henry to his right; he took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze before folding his hands in front of him to say grace before dinner.

He opened his eyes to see Thomas push through the door, carrying a large platter aloft as he went; he set it down in the middle of the table, and then rush back through the doors and out again carrying another few dishes on his arms.

John Paul turned and got glasses from a glass-faced cabinet behind him; he set them down and turned then to a row of bottles stacked on the far wall.

“What would you like?”

Henry got up and walked over, while the ladies asked for whatever he recommended. John Paul looked across the selection and picked up a bottle, leaving Henry to pick what he wanted for himself.

The dinner, he found, was intensely awkward. He had no sense for the passage of time, except that it was slow, and he had no sense for his nephew’s mood except that it was not good. Lydia smiled at him, though; her beautiful face shone through the worries. As long as she was smiling, everything was going well.

Only, he saw, her smile faded. Not little-by-little, but all at once. And then, immediately afterward, he slumped face-first into his plate.

As he woke, he felt someone shaking him roughly. He felt around and found himself in the same chair he’d been sitting in. Putting his weight on his hands, he pushed himself back up into the seat.

“I’m…”

Lydia was crying. When she heard his voice, she looked up and relief washed over her face.

“I don’t know what came over me. I’m terribly sorry,” he muttered through a confused fog. Lydia stood up suddenly, her chair falling back and clattering behind. John Paul winced at the noise, but she didn’t seem to notice.

She had a handkerchief in her hand, which she had balled up in her fist, and she walked until she stood over John Paul, her arms straight at her sides.

“Don’t you scare me like that, John Paul Foster!”

“I’m—”

She grabbed his face in both hands and pressed a kiss hard on his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’ll never scare you like that again.”

John Paul tried to push the incident from his mind, but in the days that followed, as he waited for the engagement party, he found that the thoughts continually came back into his mind. He fretted over it at all times, at all hours, and worse, he feared there was nothing to be done but to hope it wouldn't happen again.

There was, after all, no immediate recurrence. If there was any reason for concern, it wouldn't happen only once. Then he would know to a certainty that there was a pattern.

If he had any sort of incident once more, then naturally, that would be the best time to go and investigate medical options. Until then, he would simply wait, and it was probably all the stress of having his betrothed meet his nephew.

After all, Henry was acting awfully rude, perhaps even brusque. And it was stressful, whether he admitted it or not. That it had had such an effect, though, was mortifying. Still, the Colonel pushed the thoughts from his mind. He had nothing to be embarrassed about; after all, he hadn't chosen to pass out like that. And he had quite a few things over his head. In a few weeks, the new flooring would be laid, and he would be prepared to move on to the next steps in his renovations. It wouldn't be too hard, he reasoned.

He continued watching the men lay the third floor. It seemed as if, before he knew it, they had reached the stairs and were taking them down as well, one by one. He watched from the bottom of the steps, now, as the men worked above him. It all looked terribly dangerous from down here, walking up a five-meter staircase only on the width of a few bits of pine. As if at any moment they might slip, like Henry had. But they didn't.

There was another matter to attend to, as well, though John Paul put it off as much as he could. He was surprised to find himself so dreading writing to his acquaintances in the Colony, to inform them of his betrothal. He had received some such notices himself, when he had served; it was always fairly easy to get leave for a few days to go and attend a wedding, and it was a welcome distraction from the work. But for whatever reason, he found that when it was his own engagement, he worried.

With the shifting power, a wedding might be an unwelcome distraction from more serious work, and worse, he might find that himself ignored. He didn't think himself misliked, but that didn't mean that he was not.

He pushed the thoughts away as best he could. There was something to be done, and he would need to do it. How embarrassing would it be for Lydia, he reasoned, if only her own friends and acquaintances were at the wedding to wish them well?

So John Paul, against his instincts, sat at the writing desk that he'd set up in the bedroom and stared at a stack of blank cards. Who would he even call on? He'd found himself increasingly insular as his career had come to an end. A good deal of his time the past year had been commanding military police, and the men did not always take particularly kindly to being policed.

Andrew Wright, of course, he thought, and write the name down on a slip of paper. And there was Chester, sure. They hadn't spoken in a few years, but neither of them had ever indicated that it was anything other than an unhappy coincidence that they hadn't found the time to speak. The men who'd served under him, he made a list for memory. Then there was General Smith; of course. He looked down at the list and found that it had grown to quite a few names.

Now, he wondered, how to write the thing? He set the pen down on the table and frowned. How indeed?

He went and laid in his bed. It was getting late, he saw. If he was to rise at any sort of respectable hour, he would need to sleep soon. Perhaps the letters would seem clearer in the morning. And then in the evening, he would be attending the Wakefields' home for the announcement of his engagement to Lydia.

He dreamt that night of her face, of her smile. He could imagine her on the day of their wedding, in a flowing white dress as the sun rose on the horizon. He woke tasting her lips on his and remembered her kiss when he had passed out.

Perhaps, he thought, the entire affair wasn't completely embarassing. One good thing had come from it, after all. Now if only he could prevent it happening again, without also preventing the kisses along with it. He lips tingled and he touched them.

The cards lay on the table, untouched from the night before. He rose and walked across to them.

What had the cards he had received said? He thought of several that he had received over the years, but for whatever reason nothing came to mind. He looked at the stack once again and frowned. Well, then, in either case he would need to figure out something.

As long as he was clear, it wasn't as if he would be struck low for not being poetic or romantic enough in letters to a couple dozen soldiers. Lydia needn't even read them, after all.

He pulled the chair out and lowered himself back into it and started to write. The words didn't come easily, but he pushed through even still. He sat back and scratched his head. It had seemed appropriate not to concern himself overmuch with creating the most perfect letters ever written, but as he read the draft back, it seemed that this, perhaps, might be a bridge too far. He tore it in half after reading only two sentences. Too sentimental, yet not artful enough.

After trying and failing once again to remember what the cards he had received over the years had looked like, he sat back. Perhaps that was the wrong tact. Perhaps he should ask himself what sort of card he would have liked to receive. That was easier, he thought, than trying to remember what the best had looked like.

Of course, promise of leave was implied. To say it would be tantamount to implying that he was too stupid to realize it, so it would be left out. He found that discussions of the impossible beauty of the bride were tiresome. They were never, as a rule, as pretty as promised. Lydia was every bit as beautiful as he could image, but even still he wondered if it wouldn't be too much.

After a great deal of deliberation he sat back from his second effort. It was short, and perhaps just a bit too direct, but he thought it would do the job.

"Andrew," it opened.

"I am writing to inform you of the engagement of myself and a young woman I met back home. When the marriage is approaching, I hope- you'll come to join us at the wedding in a year's time."

He looked down at the paper and read it over again. John Paul winced at it; he was certainly no writer. He set about copying it for the next name on the list. He made good headway; it was easier to copy the notes than it had been to write the first. As he folded the sixth card over, though, his stomach twisted itself into a knot and made an unpleasant squelching sound. He pushed through the remaining cards and set off to the lavatory.