The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) (19 page)

With that in mind, John Paul found himself feeling very foolish indeed. What sort of madness was taking his mind that he was blaming anyone, on any evidence whatsoever, for his malady? He frowned. There was a good deal he had done in his life that he had come to regret, and more than likely this was his just reward for those misdeeds.

He stood back up and slipped back into his bed. There was nothing he could do when he was hardly able to stand up. It was only a few weeks until the wedding. Then he could turn his attention in the days that followed toward putting every effort into recovering from whatever had laid him so low. He only had to make it a few more days. And the best medicine, he thought, was to sleep.

Chapter 19

For a few hours in the morning, John Paul had seriously been considering the notion of going into town with Mark and greeting his old army mates properly. It would have been a nice gesture, and even when he'd come to his senses, the colonel was frustrated by the fact of his own absence. It was rude, to say the least, and he had been looking quite a good deal forward to seeing them; even still, it was hardly any sort of problem if he couldn't meet anyone.

They would, after all, be coming straight to the estate. He had rooms and food enough to keep a half-dozen men for a few days without much difficulty. He let his nephew talk him out of it, trying to keep up the show of disappointment and annoyance. He would let them talk him out of going, but he wouldn't make it seem as if he were happy about it. First because he wasn't happy about it, of course, but also because it was shameful enough being barely able to stand for a prolonged period. To have accepted it…John Paul shuddered. He hadn't, though, so it was better not to dwell on it.

He pushed himself up out of the chair when they had left to lean against the door frame and watch the carriage trundle down the road. They would be back in a few hours with his old friends. He was worried what they would say when they saw him. Perhaps no one would comment on it at all; he had seen men balloon to twice their size after getting out of the army, so perhaps deteriorating as he had was simply the outside case and they'd seen his like before. Not that it was especially likely.

He pushed himself away from the wall and caught himself with his cane, moving slowly to the  north wall. They'd had a bookshelf put there, and he had asked Henry to move his books down to it after bringing his supper a month ago. He had the boy bring him books on occasion, and then take back down the ones he had finished, but he hadn't been in a mood for reading. It seemed as if he were too exhausted for all of it; his mind too foggy and too preoccupied with the wedding.

He wasn't any less preoccupied, but he needed a distraction, and it would be several hours without going back up the stairs to nap the afternoon away, so reading seemed the best way to pass the time. He stood there trying to decide which book to read when Thomas joined him from the kitchen.

"Oh, sir, you're still here."

"Of course," John Paul replied grouchily.

"I just assumed you would be going into town."

"Yes, well. My nephew says I'm 'too ill' to take the trip; he would rather I stayed here, and I'm in no position to argue with him, am I?"

"I suppose not, sir. Would you like something to eat?"

John Paul didn't answer for a moment, examining the shelf again before he started hobbling back over to a chair. Thomas rushed to help him, grabbing his arm and helping to prop him up.

"I can make it myself, Thomas! Don't coddle me like an old man." The colonel closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I have a few hours to spend here; I don't suppose it would be trouble to prepare something to eat?"

"Not one bit," the cook answered.

"Excellent," he said distractedly.

It seemed there was nothing more to be done. He would do his best to make it through the wedding, but unless something changed in the next couple of weeks, John Paul knew, he had little hope for a long and prosperous future with his new bride. The best he had to hope for was that he could leave her and her family in a good position for the future, with plenty of money to survive on as long as they could.

"Thomas," he said softly, as the cook returned with a plate of sandwiches that he set down the table beside his employer. "Will you sit and talk with me a few moments?"

The cook wiped his hands on his apron and sat.

"Is everything alright?"

"My fiancee. You've spent some time with her, cooking lessons or some such, is that right?"

"Certainly," he said, though he looked uncertain where the line of questions was going.

"Was she a good cook, did you think?"

Thomas smiled and looked at his hands for a moment before he answered.

"Without a doubt, sir. She's smart, capable of doing what she needed to do, and she works hard. You know she's cooked several meals for you. Gives me a nice night off, so I don't mind."

"I know," John Paul said, thinking.

"Why do you ask?"

The colonel didn't answer right away. He looked out the window; a bird was landing on the stables across the road, and another came up beside it and perched down as well. Then a third, and a fourth, and before he knew it there was a dozen or more of them, then they flew away as suddenly as they'd come.

"I don't think I've just been ill, Thomas."

"What do you mean?"

"I think that someone's been trying to make me ill."

"What?"

"I don't know who it could be. It couldn't have been Lydia, could it?"

"No," Thomas agreed. He replied forcefully enough that John Paul looked at him for a moment before he continued.

"Her brother owes me some money, so I had initially thought that it might be related to that."

"That seems unlikely," Thomas said, making a face. "I didn't even know she had a brother; I certainly don't think he could have been making you sick without ever stepping foot in the house. Not the way you've gotten sick."

"No, it doesn't seem likely. Indeed, given that we had no visitors over the winter whatsoever, it stands to reason that it absolutely must have been someone in the house. Doesn't it?"

Thomas frowned.

"I'm not sure what you're trying to say. I had nothing to do with anything at all, sir."

"Is that right," the colonel answered, ruminantly. He shook his head. "I don't know any more. I don't know who it could be."

"I just make enough food for the lot of us, plus a little, and Henry comes and takes your food to you. You don't think…"

"You're eating the same food I am, Thomas."

"Absolutely, sir."

"But why on earth would Henry have any reason to do anything against me? I've never raised a hand against the boy. Indeed, I raised him up out of who knows what sort of life he'd had before, gave him a good home and a very reasonable allowance."

"I don't know, sir. I'm sorry I can't be more help."

"No, of course not, Thomas. You're free to go about your business, I won't keep you any longer."

"Sir," Thomas said, but he stayed in his seat. John Paul could feel his eyes even as he leaned his own head back and closed his eyes. He couldn't nap upstairs, he thought. But that didn't mean he couldn't rest his eyes a moment.

He opened them again when he heard footsteps outside the door. Someone was coming; indeed, several people. They'd arrived, then. Good. He blinked the tiredness from his eyes, rubbed at them, and then pushed himself up out of the seat.

"Gentlemen," he said, smiling, as the door opened. There they all were. General Smith, Andy, Chester, Wally. The twins. Andy stepped inside first and stopped dead.

"John Paul," he said after a moment. "Is that really you?"

He stepped out of the way of the door after a moment and let the others through.

"Is something wrong, then?" He stepped toward them, leaning on his cane, and held out a hand to shake his guests' hands.

"You look like death, man." Chester said it, speaking softly. "Have you seen a doctor? What on earth happened to you?"

John Paul coughed hard. "I have been seeing a doctor in town. I'm sure it'll all be taken care of shortly."

It was an obvious lie, and nobody there believed it for a moment, but neither did they want to argue.

"If you like, Henry and Mark will show you to some empty rooms. Dinner will be served at five thirty. The wedding—well, you know that much, I suppose."

He hobbled back to his chair and sat down. His legs, his knees, his ankles all hurt. He wanted little more than to fall back asleep, but he had to play the host as best he could.

John Paul rose days later, feeling exhausted. It was warm; he knew that much, and it was becoming dark outside. He looked out the window and gasped. There was a great massive gazebo, not dissimilar to the one they had taken down together what felt like an eternity ago when he had been able to get up out of bed without exhausting himself.

He could very nearly see himself there, standing on it with his cane, saying his vows beside Lydia.

He recounted the days on his fingers. March eleventh she had returned. April, she had come. John Paul could see in her face how difficult it was for her to spend time with him in the state he was in. June had come. Then the second, and now the third. On the fourth, he thought.

The fifth…tomorrow he would stand there, in front of a half-dozen men he'd known his entire life, in front of his nephew, beside a woman he'd decided to spend the rest of his life with. Beside a woman who had decided the same, in spite of the fact that there was little doubt that she knew that the rest of his life could be a very short time.

He loved her for that, he realized. More than her looks, more than her fire, more than anything, he loved that she'd had faith in him and devoted herself in spite of his condition. He wanted to tell her, and he would.

He thought of that letter on the desk, upstairs. He wondered what it said, now. If he'd been there, he might have opened it right then and there, but he didn't.

Instead, he decided that he had work to do. There was likely a good deal left to be done in the house, and until the wedding had gone off perfectly, without a single hitch, he wouldn't be ready to call it quits. It would be difficult; indeed, he wasn't certain how he would manage at all, but he needed to go and have a look around the estate. To ensure that whatever happened, he would have left a happy memory for Lydia.

He pushed himself up with his cane. He could feel his hand as he held it, and the shake spread to his entire arm, his arm violently threatening to fall out from under him. He forced himself to still, spreading his weight evenly between his feet, and pulled his clothes on, shoving his feet into his boots.

He took one step, and then another, and before long he found that he was walking as steadily as he had in several days. The stairs had been a near-constant terror for what seemed like an eternity; he had only braved them a couple of times since the trip to the train station, but those trips had given him confidence. He needed to be down them, and he knew that he could do it safely if he took them slowly enough. So he would risk them.

The floor, he saw, was finished. Polished, even. It was absolutely gorgeous. Henry had made a good decision, and it was a fine enough wedding present. To have such a lovely home, he thought. A lovely home, a lovely bride, a fine nephew…a shame, he realized, that he didn't have as long to spend with all of them as he would have liked. He pushed himself toward the back, through the door.

He looked out the back. The lawn was finished finely; Jacob had spent nearly a year working on it now, and he had spent the time well. He started to walk. He was exhausted, he realized. Just going this far was nearly too much to ask from him. He grit his teeth.

Seeing the others, he had realized how abnormally far he'd fallen. He couldn't let the sickness, whatever it was that had claimed him, win. So he pushed himself on. There were parts of his lawn he hadn't seen in weeks; they were blocked by the shrubs, or by the tree. So he went out of his way to follow the gravel path through the garden, looking at everything.

He realized again how masterfully put together it all was, even as his heart pounded hard in his chest and his breaths came hard and hot. This was all perfect. All of it. He lost his balance and fell; he didn't catch himself this time, but the grass cushioned his fall as best it could.

How long John Paul was asleep, he couldn't have said. Only that he wasn't standing any more, and that his cane was awfully far away. He pushed himself up to his knees and felt them threatening to dump him once more onto his face. He reached out with his hands and crawled like a babe across the gravel until he could grasp his cane, and then used it to press himself back up.

His breath came in hot, burning gasps, and he felt deliriously tired. There was nothing he wanted more than to be back in his room, to go back to sleep and forget the entire thing had ever happened. He started back toward the house.

Now that he was standing back up, he saw, it was much later than he had thought. Mid-afternoon, perhaps. He had missed lunch, then. Perhaps he was late to supper, even. He climbed across the back patio and pushed the door open with the last of his strength. However long he had been outside, no one had been waiting for him; the parlor was quite empty, and he heard the sounds of people eating in the dining room.

He pushed the door open and looked inside. No one had noticed him open the door, so he stood in the doorway and watched his guests eating for a moment. Henry, he noticed, was not there. That struck him as odd.

Further, John Paul had no appetite to speak of. He slipped into a chair and let sleep come over him.

He woke to the sound of the clock chiming the hour; it was quite late indeed, if he heard correctly. Perhaps nine o'clock. He saw no one in the room with him; they must have seen him sleeping and decided to let him rest quietly. Indeed, he heard nothing at all. The house had an eerie stillness about it.