The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) (6 page)

BOOK: The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1)
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He had been walking for an hour or more when he passed a pair of bodies on the road. For a moment he feared that they might be hurt. A quick inspection showed them to be alive and well, with the strong smell of ale on their lips. Even in the thick blackness, John Paul recognized his servants and smiled. Well, he thought, they tried to get back anyways.

For a moment he considered taking them back. Carrying either one wouldn’t be too difficult, and then he could come back for the second and that would be no more difficult. Then he decided against it. Better not to disturb them.

John Paul looked up the street towards Derby. There was no sign of it from this distance, not even the tiniest twinkle of a street lamp. He shivered at the April cold, then thought for a moment and pulled off his coat. He laid it down over the sleeping pair as best he could, shivered again, and set off back toward his house.

He certainly didn’t waste any time this time ‘round; the April chill nipped at his heels the entire way. By the time he stepped through the door and closed it behind, he was ready to dive under his thick, warm blankets.

 

The next morning, his coat hung on a hook by the door, and a pair of bleary-eyed young men sat in his leather chairs dozing lightly. They opened their eyes the moment he walked into the room, of course, and he pretended not to have noticed.

They stood to greet him, and Thomas immediately set off to get started on a breakfast. It wouldn’t be too strenuous, and after all his wages were being paid whether he worked or not, so John Paul let him go. It was better that than to refuse him, after all, in either case.

He sat down beside Mark and waited for the breakfast to be ready. If Henry weren’t awake by the time it was, he’d wake the lad then.

“Long night?”

“Oh.” He stopped for a long pause, and for a moment John Paul thought he wanted to drop it. Then he spoke up once more. “Yeah, long night. Yeah. We made a few shillings in a card game, but… I shouldn’t be telling you this, should I?”

John Paul barked a laugh. “I was a soldier all my life, boy. I know how young men pass an evening.”

“Yeah, I suppose you would, sir, begging your pardon.”

“Freely given,” he said, before the two of them sank into moody silence.

A few moments later, a fresh-faced Henry Roche stepped into the room to join them both. A moment later Thomas carried a platter of eggs and a few muffins out of the kitchens. We dished them out and ate them, all four of us, sitting down on the seats in the front room. When he had finished, John Paul rose and set his plate down on the table.

“Thank you, Thomas. Mark, Henry, have a good time, I’ll be heading into town for a few hours.”

Without waiting for a response, he left them all sitting there in the front room eating their breakfast. It was maybe an hour’s ride into town, if you weren’t in any special hurry, and John Paul wasn’t. He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted there, except for the overwhelming feeling that he should go.

The first place he did go, when he arrived, was the bookstore. He smiled at the young man behind the counter and asked if he had any sort of recommendations. The young man smiled back and pulled a book from the shelf. John Paul ignored his sales pitch; he would buy it regardless. There wasn’t much reason to spoil the surprise, so long as it was good.

He paid the man and stepped outside, slipping the book into a saddle bag. They hadn't seen much use, though they had seemed a smart purchase when he’d made it, so he was glad that he’d found an excuse to use them now.

It wasn’t long before he found himself walking past the front glass of Wakefield’s furniture shop. He didn’t need any furniture, but he did know that Lydia would be there. And that was all he needed to know, in terms of where he might go. He had told himself that it wouldn’t be an excuse to visit, but that was what the trip had become.

He kept pretending it was not, though. He walked right by the front door, careful not to look at it as he walked. He was going to resist the temptation to stop in and waste everyone’s time with idle chit-chat. Only, just after he’d gone past, he recalled a particularly nice pair of gloves that sat in a store window, and so he had to go back and have a look. After all, his old gloves were beginning to wear a bit thin.

Then he had to go back again, to see what he’d missed on the other side. Before he knew it he was doing little more than taking a particularly long course of pacing in front of the store. The fact settled in that he was looking for an excuse to walk by the door, teasing himself with the temptation of talking to Lydia.

He had little patience for the whole exercise. If he was going to hem and haw around, then he would just go inside. He stopped outside the door for a moment before pressing it open easily.

Part 2

 

Chapter 6

He heard the bell ring as the door swung open, and Lydia looked up from the customer she was speaking to for a moment. He could see her smile, though she had always been quite good at hiding it and he was only just learning how to see when she was glad and when she was being polite. Then she returned to the customer.

He hadn’t even considered the possibility that someone might be there. The place was usually empty when he came in, though he’d seen people inside before, and the thought that he might have to wait seemed utterly foreign. He stood off to one side and stared at a bookshelf.

It seemed as if the man standing at the counter took forever to leave; John Paul had quickly lost interest of the bookshelf, as fine as the craftsmanship was, and had moved on to a desk, and then a chair that seemed very nearly the twin of the ones in his front parlor. He had almost sat down in it out of exasperated boredom when he heard the bell twinkle again, and when he turned to look, the room was empty save for a pair of women sitting behind the thick wooden counter.

“Mister Foster,” the angelic voice said. “How can I help you today?”

He stepped into the middle of the room and faced Lydia.

“I was wondering if I could accompany you to lunch, whenever you take it.”

Lydia looked to Nan, who gave a barely perceptible nod. “That would be lovely,” she said with a smile.

“When shall I come to get you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

She picked up a card from behind the counter and put on a coat. Nan slipped her knitting into a bag and stood, as well, pulling her own coat from the rack behind them, and then they stepped through the gap and stood beside him.

“Lead on,” Lydia said.

“Of course,” he said, and stepped through the door, holding it for the ladies.

As she walked through, Lydia hung the card from a hook in the middle of the glass. From where he stood, he could read ‘Out to lunch.’

He closed the door behind them, and Lydia produced a key from her handbag, latching the door shut, and then she stood back straight.

“All finished?”

“Yes, that’s all.”

“Very good, Miss Wakefield,” John Paul said, and started off. He had recalled her making a comment about one particular diner as they’d passed it on one of their walks, and he tried now to remember the name or location of it.

At long last he managed to find something that sounded about right, a place with the name Starr’s written above it, and stepped up to the front counter. They were taken to a table, where the menus sat already out. Lydia pointed out an item from the list and when the waiter came to take their orders, John Paul ordered for himself and his companions after what they’d indicated to him.

The conversation was light, but not disappointing. John Paul found himself enjoying even Lydia’s simple presence. Time seemed to slow down in all the right ways, yet when he bid them good-bye, as Lydia unlocked the front door of the store, their time together seemed all too short.

 

The next week, it seemed, passed in agonizing slowness as he waited for another chance to call on her.  And then he got a card in the post from one C. Wittham, who was writing to inform him that his suits were ready to be picked up.

John Paul smiled when he saw the card. It was time. In the afternoon he would pick up the suit, and in the evening he would call on the Wakefield home once again. Then he would meet Mister Wakefield, and he would ask a question that would set everything in motion.

The suits were nearly perfect when he tried them on the first time, fitting where they should fit and yet never restricting his movements. And what’s more, he found the silhouette to be incredibly appealing.

It made him wonder why he’d never bought something like this before, after all the years in the army. He’d needed to go to plenty of balls in Australia, was forced to go rather, and had so many opportunities to buy nicer clothing, and yet it had always seemed foolish. Ah, well, he thought, you live and learn, I suppose.

He came back home for supper. He could hardly taste the food, though it was probably as good as it had ever been; he had other things on his mind. He hadn’t been so nervous before, that he could recall. Not ever. But it was necessary, and that was the fact that reassured him as he pulled on his coat and set off to fetch his horse from the stables and set off to Derby for a second time that day.

He came up on the Wakefield home an hour and a half later, with the sun having just begun to dip below the horizon. When he knocked on the door, a young man answered.

“I’d like to speak to Mister Wakefield,” John Paul said.

“One moment, please.”

The door closed. John Paul imagined he heard the young man shouting for Mr. Wakefield, but probably he didn’t do it that way. After all, it would be terrible manners. A few moments later, a man answered the door. John Paul knew his face, but hadn’t spoken to him before directly, and he was more intimidating up close.

He had deep-set eyes and a hard brow, with a strong, thick jaw and a disapproving look to him. His face bore wrinkles near the edges, and though he may have been twenty years or more John Paul’s senior, they didn’t make him look overly aged.

“Mister Wakefield? I’m John Paul Foster.”

His face said everything that needed to be said. “Ah, so you’re the man who’s been calling on my daughter,” he said, and didn’t go on.

“Yes, sir.”

“James Wakefield, at your service. Come in, sit down.”

John Paul stepped through the door and into the home. He’d been there before, of course, under different circumstances, plenty of times. But this time it seemed as if he was crossing an entirely different threshold, like it was a different house wearing a mask of familiarity.

“Thank you—”

“Martha, could you bring us some tea?” James Wakefield called into the kitchen.

Neither of the men spoke as they waited; the clock ticked loudly from the side of the room, and through it time seemed to be expressing itself physically as best as possible. After a few minutes, a woman came in, perhaps two or three years Nan’s elder, carrying a platter of cups with a kettle in the middle.

She filled the cups and put them on the table within easy reach of both men. She looked up at James questioningly, and when she received no response she stood and hesitated for a moment before leaving the room. John Paul could read the nervousness on her face as if it were written there plainly. When she’d finally left, John Paul broke the silence.

“Sir,” he said, and then stopped. He swallowed. “I intend to marry your daughter.”

The silence was palpable. Suddenly, with a sick feeling, the Colonel realized his mistake. “With your permission, of course.”

At this point, John Paul nearly got up and left. He felt as embarrassed as he ever had, and he had no concept of how to proceed. He had no nieces, no connection to anyone in his family to speak of to have heard any sort of conversation like this one, and he’d never done it before. He wished silently that he might be charging a mob of rebellious aboriginals, rather than sit and wait for a response, or to utter one more solitary word.

After a long moment, James Wakefield nodded thoughtfully.

“What is your trade? Have you any sort of income? Lydia’s lifestyle is not so bad, you know that you’ll have to keep her in a manner to which she’s accustomed, of course.”

“That’s no concern at all. I have ten thousand pounds in a bank in London, and another few thousand here in Derby. Of course, the majority of my day-to-day expenses are covered by my Army pension.”

Mister Wakefield’s eyes widened slightly. John Paul saw, then, that the number had been higher than he had expected. If he'd been presented with it himself, he might have had the same response.

“And your family?”

“Ah,” John Paul’s thoughts locked up for a moment. “Passed on, sir.”

“But in life?”

“My grandparents moved to London, where they raised my parents. We were also raised in London.”

“What sort of trade did they take?”

John Paul swallowed.

“Ah,” he said. His throat felt tight. “My grandparents were farmers, until they moved to London.”

James nodded and tried to mask his expression.

“My father was a writer.”

“Would I know anything by him?”

“No,” John Paul answered flatly. “He wrote for a magazine in London, and we didn’t do as well as we might have liked.”

“Any living relatives?”

“I have a nephew,” he answered.

“What does he do?”

“Henry lives with me, now. Before, that… I haven’t asked.”

“So,” James Wakefield said, “The money isn’t from your family, then. If you don’t mind my asking, where does a man from your family get ten thousand pounds?”

John Paul’s face blanched.

“Well, sir, of course, you can come into a certain amount of money working in Her Majesty’s service.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” James cut off. “But ten thousand is quite a bit. My cousin, he joined the Army, served in India. Made himself a reasonable amount of money.”

He gave John Paul a sideways glance. “Skimming off the taxes, you know how it is, I’m sure.”

“I never—”

“That’s how it goes with taxes. Everyone takes a shilling here and there, all the way up. It’s a surprise that any of it at all makes it to the royal coffers. But my point is this. He came home with a princely sum of three thousand pound, and he made away better than some of them if he tells the stories true. Where did you find more than thrice that?”

“It comes, this way or—”

“No, John Paul Foster, that’s not good enough. You’ll tell me the truth, now, or you can go back to your house in the country.”

“I—”

There was a moment where John Paul considered telling him. It wouldn’t turn into a court-martial if the secret was kept between him and a civilian. But the risk was too great. He had promised himself to take the secret to his grave. That was the only safe way.

“I need time to think about it,” he said, finally.

“I can see that,” Mr. Wakefield answered. He sucked on his gums and finally added, “I’m not saying you can’t see her any more. In time, maybe you’ll be more forthcoming. But I won’t have my daughter married to someone who can’t say where his money comes from, do you understand me?”

“I understand you, sir.”

“Very good.”

John Paul stood and for a moment wasn’t sure what he should do. He picked up the forgotten tea cup and took his first, and last, sip.

“The tea is excellent, thank you.”

“Have a pleasant evening, Mister Foster,” James Wakefield said without looking at him.

“And you, as well.”

John Paul walked out into the late spring evening and un-hitched his horse. It would be a long ride home, and it was beginning to get dark. He set off without delay

 

The days passed slowly, from that point. John Paul seemed to have all the time in the world, but it didn’t matter over-much. He thought of telling James Wakefield everything, about the cave, and the gold. He would understand having not reported it, and the details could be glossed over. It would be simple. But there were questions, even then, that he couldn’t answer.

Ten thousand pounds was a hundred kilograms. How did he carry something so heavy over any distance to speak of alone? If he didn’t carry it alone, how did he get away without splitting it? If he had split an even greater sum than ten thousand pounds, why was nobody else out spending like a drunken sailor?

They were all good questions, and questions for which John Paul couldn’t give an honest answer. Refusing to answer would be better for his reputation, but would throw the entire story into doubt.

He could lie, of course. He’d never struggled to craft a convincing lie, but to base a marriage around such a lie… it defied morality. The idea had barely crossed his mind before he refused it. No, he would find a less complicated version of the truth to tell. That way, should it ever come out, he had only been a bit reticent to share his private matters, rather than outright a liar.

It was with all of these thoughts in mind that he called on the Wakefield house again a few days later. This time, when the young man answered the door, he said simply that he was calling on Lydia, which was true enough. They’d made plans a week beforehand to go to a play, Shakespeare’s Macbeth. John Paul had no special interest in tragedies, but Lydia had asked, and he couldn’t refuse her.

He could see the elder Wakefield inside, his back to the door, his head down. Lydia came down, Nan alongside, and she walked over and gave him a kiss, and then joined her escort outside. He opened the carriage for them and stepped up. Perhaps it would be proper for him to hire a driver, he thought, and he made a mental note to consider it further as he set off toward the playhouse.

The entire affair wasn’t terrible, he had to admit. In the first act, they established some nonsense about witches seeing the future, though, and John Paul made it an effort not to snort at the notion. Witches, he thought, did not have any sort of power at all, but that given to them by Satan. That it was a play made no difference; it wasn’t particularly realistic or believable, he thought, and it hurt the story over-all.

BOOK: The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1)
12.16Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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