The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) (2 page)

Just before he completed his order, John Paul remembered the other things he needed as well: a new door, of course. A pair of gardening shears would be lovely as well. The shears, at least, Rhett had in store in the back of the establishment. It would be relatively little trouble to fish it out.

John Paul paid with a stack of pennies and a shilling’s deposit on the lumber to be delivered the next day. He carried the shears out in a large sack made from a burlap material that chafed his hands somewhat.

They got back to the carriage and John Paul pulled the knife from his pocket and cut the rope free. He tossed it into the carriage alongside the shears. Then he and his nephew together took the chair down from the top and carried it through the street. Wakefield Furniture’s was not far, he thought, and when they came to the door they pushed through, setting it down just inside.

John Paul paused momentarily to put his thoughts in order. He needed to phrase his complaint without being rude, while being firm enough to prevent any argument. Then, his entire speech prepared, he looked up from his chair to see not a young man, but a pair of women.

The elder lady was sitting back and knitting, making as if not to be paying attention. It was the younger of the two, though, perhaps in her lower twenties, that caught his eye. Her skin was an alabaster white, with dark hair piled onto her head in a way that implied the shape of her neck.

John Paul could feel himself staring and pulled his eyes away from her. He approached the counter and tried not to stare any more. Who, he wondered, was this beautiful creature?

Before he had a chance to begin, the young woman spoke, and another spike drove into John Paul’s heart at the beauty of her voice. “Can I help you, sir?”

John Paul gaped, his speech gone entirely from his mind. He wanted, he found, only to stay here with this young woman and wait on her every need. He would give anything to have only a few more moments’ time to spend with her, to hear her speak once more. And oh, to speak
his
name… He struggled to regain his consciousness and looked at the counter.

“Ah, yes,” he said, looking up again. She waited patiently, sweetly, her face unmarred by any hint of frustration. Yet the silence seemed to stretch on for an agonizing eternity as he struggled to find the words to answer.

“I ah, purchased this chair several days ago now, and it arrived with a crack in it. Of course, I can’t sit in it; I would be afraid for the leg breaking underneath me. I can’t accept this, so I shall need…” he trailed off. His complaint had carried itself entirely on its own momentum. When he looked up from the counter, though, he found himself distracted by her beauty. and the words died unspoken on his lips.

As if in spite of his earlier thoughts of devotion, he thought angrily that he could not bear one more moment of her presence. Everything else seemed of secondary importance compared to her, while he had so much left to do. It was absolutely impossible, he decided, to finish a thought; yet he had to try. He furrowed his brow a bit and struggled to get the words out.

“I shall need to have a replacement or a refund, madam.”

The woman didn’t respond immediately, looking down at the counter herself. He wondered if he saw her blush, but it must have been in his imagination. Her face was unmarred by any implication of human frailty. She met his eyes a moment later.

“I apologize, sir, but my father is out.” She looked to her chaperone, who did not look back at her, before continuing. “I certainly can’t disagree with your complaint, but I shall have to have you leave a message for him.”

John Paul nodded his understanding, and nearly turned on his heel and walked right out of the place. He stopped himself when he recalled that he had to place a new order, as well. “Oh, yes, miss, I should also be needing to order a couple of new beds, if that should be alright.”

She bobbed her head while scrawling everything down onto a scrap of paper. He put down a deposit on the furniture, took his receipt, and left.

It was only after he had left that he realized his mistake: he had forgotten to ask her for her name. It would be far too embarrassing to do it now, he decided. He frowned and walked on. He could see Henry’s face, a perversely amused smile twisting across the young man’s face.

“And now dinner?” he asked, and John Paul was glad that whatever his thoughts, he kept them to himself.

“Yes,” John Paul replied. “Now dinner.”

Chapter 2

John Paul could see something bothering his nephew when they returned home. He thought for a moment before he realized that they had done quite a bit of work so soon after his nephew's arrival.

“Do you know how to fence, young man?”

He imagined Henry had tried it. He had a considerable interest in matters of war and fighting, and fencing was the closest that a civilian come to it. It had a certain romance that any young man would yearn for. Henry was better suited than most young men.

Of course, John Paul had taken to it himself. It wasn’t every day that one could have a proper duel; there had to be some sort of provocation. Then the combatants had to find some place out of the way, and then there was the matter of the injuries or deaths.

With the new sport fencing, he could practice day in and day out, and so he had, for several years. As much as the military life led to stories worth telling, much of it was waiting. He had been one of several men who had thought that the sport was an enjoyable enough one to while away the hours.

“Naturally,” Henry answered. John Paul pulled out a mask and tossed it to his nephew, who pulled it on. He then pulled out his own, worn and marked with sweat stains that hadn’t washed out, and fit it around his own head.

The mesh of the mask muffled John Paul's voice when he spoke: “Does the fit suit you?”

“Well enough,” came the hollow, muffled voice from his nephew. They cleared a space in the middle of the massive foyer, and Henry stood for a moment to look at his uncle. They both waved their weapons in a sign of salute and then they each raised their weapons.

Henry was the first to move. John Paul had always preferred to let his opponent make the first move, particularly in the first meeting. It allowed him to observe them, and sometimes that allowance was enough to win the bout.

This was one of those times, he saw. Henry’s moves were rough, lacking the lightning speed of some of his fellow officers from the colonies. Though it was only a matter of a centimeter, John Paul dodged the buttoned point of the blade and touched the blade on his nephew’s chest.

Henry stepped back and lowered his guard, touching his chest where the button had jabbed him. Then he stepped back into a defensive posture and saluted once more, taking the offensive once more. He thrust in, but this time was a feint; he leapt back at the last second.

John Paul smiled at the attempt, and then he lifted his front foot and lunged. He closed the distance in a step and jabbed the button-tip of his blade once again into Henry’s chest. The young man was starting to learn, though he had a long way to go before he became any sort of challenge. John Paul held up his hand to signal a pause, put his blade under his shoulder, and pulled the mask up.

“Wait, wait,” he began, but his nephew gestured with the point of the blade and prepared once again to attack without waiting.

This time, though, John Paul didn’t wait. He was beginning to suspect that Henry thought he might win, if only he were a bit more aggressive, with a bit more bravado and emotion. John Paul needed to teach him a lesson here, and not just about fencing.

He stepped hard with his front foot and made a soft jabbing motion with his hand; it wasn’t the best feint he had made in his life, but it was enough. Henry’s blade moved to slap away a thrust that wasn’t coming.

He dipped the point just under his nephew’s flying weapon and then the thrust came again. As his nephew again moved to parry he saw that that attack, though it had seemed so committed, had been a feint as well. The point dipped once more below his blade before shooting up with blinding speed into his chest.

John Paul smiled. It was a simple strategy, of course, but simplicity was all that he would need for today. He could take points at his own leisure, as he wanted them, and there was little that Henry would be able to do about it.

That was enough for now, he thought. Whether Henry wanted to continue losing or not was his own business, now. John Paul had no intentions of depriving him if he wanted to continue.

An hour passed before Henry pulled his own mask off, sweat matting his dark hair to his forehead. His disappointment mixed with the bloody thrill of the chase, creating a muddled expression. John Paul was almost surprised at the young man’s growth in so short a time.

No miracles had occurred. It was never close, but the Colonel had watched his nephew grow for that hour. At first he had shown aggressive speed, but he had evolved to a game of cat and mouse. Of course, John Paul was ever the cat and Henry ever the mouse. If the young man had developed the sort of reflexes his uncle had, then with his quick learning he might have scored a few points himself.

“Go to bed now,” John Paul said, his breathing only barely ragged, “And in the morning, we'll get on to the work.”

John Paul entered the parlor the next morning to find Henry sitting in one of the chairs with the slate in his lap.

The Colonel came up behind and looked down over his nephew's shoulder.

“The lawn is a concern,” John Paul thought aloud. Henry nodded to himself but didn’t respond. For a moment John Paul wondered what he was thinking about. Then, at long last, Henry spoke.

“I suppose the moss should come off, as well. So I’ll take care of that.”

With that the pair of them set off to work. John Paul walked into the knee-deep grass, out to the shed. Inside, he found, was a lawn trimmer that he pulled out. It would need some work; he spied a can of oil lying beside. He poured it onto the joints where the spinning blade met the frame, and that got it spinning well enough.

It was slow going. Each few feet, the blades would catch on a twig that had not been visible for the depth of the grass, or even on a too-thick tuft of grass. Each time he stopped he found himself more tired of the work, wondering why he hadn’t just paid someone else to do it.

There was no reason to pay someone for so simple a task, though, and he already had far too much idle time to himself besides. The time working on this was time that he had something to fill with, he reminded himself, though it was little consolation.

He sat down for a moment, looking back on the trench he had cut in the deep grass. He could see the yard extending hundreds of meters, though he guessed that it would be faster going once he started in earnest. He dusted himself off, pulling his shirt from where it stuck to his skin with sweat, and then got back to work.

There was a tree, he saw, in the middle of the yard, a focal point for it, like a sort of pine from a distance. When he got closer, he saw curious spiraled spine-like leaves that stuck out at all angles. Its curious shape distracted him completely from his work for a moment.

He could hear Henry calling something in the distance, but he paid it no mind. He was back to work before he knew it, the grass churning beneath his booted feet. He would need to stop early, he decided, to clean his boots before they went back into Derby for supper. They would finish it in the morning, but in the last half an hour or so he would push as hard as his schedule allowed.

He replaced the trimmer in the shed and stepped back into the house, stripping his clothes off in the middle of the parlor. There was no one to see, after all, and he couldn't go out in such clothes after the work he had done. He make a laughingstock of himself.

As he pulled on new clothes, pulled from his chest, he looked back through the rear doors at the work he had done. Half the lawn now sat proud of the other half and the entire lawn had the strong, distinct smell of cut grass. He could even walk through a good deal of the rear yard without worrying about a snake in the grass coming out of nowhere.

He sat down for a moment, catching his breath, and then he got up once more. The towel he had been using so often was slung over the back of a chair to dry, and he picked it up along with a bit of polish from his trunk.

He settled into a chair wearing only an undershirt and trousers and got to work polishing the things. John Paul knew, vaguely, that there were boys who did such a thing for a few pence. It mattered little. He had no need to pay someone else to do what he could do himself.

He was no cook, and no expert on the workings of a stable, and so he needed those things. A gardener might be worth the time, as well, once he and his nephew had finished the chores.

But shoe shines, he thought, could were easy to do by oneself if you only took a modicum of time and effort. If there was one thing that John Paul was always prided himself on, it was taking the time where he could.

His entire career had shown it, and even the gold had been in part the result of his fastidiousness. A less cautious man might have made a mistake. Somehow lost the fortune at the poker table, or into the hands of a superior, or lost it in bribes.

John Paul was the right man to keep his money, and in the end he reckoned that his efforts had paid for themselves. He didn't need the pension the army had offered, though it would have seen him comfortably through the latter half of his life. Now he had enough for five lifetimes, and every intention of passing as much to his family as he could, and for them to pass it on as well.

He had every intention of the Foster name coming to mean something in this part of the country, even if it took five generations to do it. So for now, he would save the penny on the shoe-shine and do the damn job himself. As it was meant to be. He hoped silently to get the chance to teach the same lesson to his children one day.

He stood up, pulling a shirt and stockings on, and then boots over that, and it looked nearly as if he hadn’t been working in the yard at all. Like a proper, respectable gentleman. A waistcoat completed the effect, and he stepped outside, wondering if Henry had finished with the front of the house.

He went to the front stoop and saw, to his relative astonishment, nobody there. There was a massive pile of moss folded up like some curious sort of linen, but no Henry at all.

For a moment, John Paul wondered where his nephew had gotten off to. The answer was made clear when he heard the sound of hoof-beats rhythmically clomping around from the paddock. He walked across the road to investigate.

What he found was little surprise—Henry sat atop a horse, riding it around in a great circle. The look of concentration in his eyes was such that John Paul wondered how much time, if any, he had spent on a horse. It may have been that he’d only ever seen it done, if he’d only ever taken the omnibus or been driven in carriages.

John Paul was beginning to learn something about his nephew: he had a thirst for new experiences that was quite boundless. It seemed to include many of the things that John Paul himself found to be rather mundane affairs, like riding or fencing. Further, the young man threw himself at them with an admirable vigor.

That he was less than talented meant little. For a man with ambition—and John Paul was learning that his nephew had some degree of that—it was easy to improve himself. It would come with time, with practice, and there was little other than time out in the English countryside.

Riding, he would pick up quickly; swordplay, quicker still, with a particularly high target to aim at like his uncle. What sort of ambitions would he discover after that?

He leaned down onto the fence and watched. Henry rode with increasing speed around the courtyard. Each passing moment the horse sped up until it was moving at a full gallop. It ran the tightest circle it could manage, as Henry held on with a grim determination that almost hid the fear in his eyes.

It wasn’t a passing fear, like the discomfort of looking down from a great height, but a deeper fear that held Henry Roche in its grip. John Paul knew it well enough, a mix of madness and fear that he had felt in the heat of battle.

It had made him feel more alive than he could have imagined. Each second filled him to the brim with the feeling of aliveness. That, he suspected, was what Henry felt now.

The horse seemed to have relative control of itself. The boy hadn't pushed it to dangerous speed, either. Yet one misstep could send Henry flying out of the saddle and into the railing around the paddock, and he would be dead. The trick was to trust the horse not to kill you, and hope that your trust wasn’t misplaced.

At long last the horse began to slow down, finally, as the fatigue set in, and Henry relaxed. He looked around and spotted his uncle standing there, watching. He lifted a hand to wave, but immediately regretted the decision and slapped the hand back down onto the saddle-horn.

John Paul climbed the fence of the paddock and jogged up in front of the horse. It, too, was a little spooked, he saw, feeding on the fear and excitement of its rider, and he took the reigns from his nephew. Walking with the horse a bit, he waited until it had calmed down before he stopped it and looped the reigns around a post.

Henry, he helped down, and then went to take the horse back in. The entire incident had only lasted a few moments; the horse was fine, and would even be able to take them into town given a moment's rest.

“Would you like to eat anything?”

Henry looked over at him, his face now drawn into a neutral expression that almost managed to hide his panic, and nodded.

“Alright. Your choice, then.” John Paul said as he stood and pulled on a waistcoat and jacket.

The horses were ready in only a few moments, and then he took them out, hitched them up, and climbed up onto the seat. Henry climbed into the carriage, rather than joining his uncle.