Chapter 4
John Paul announced the next morning that they would spend the day working on the balcony. The lumber was all ready outside, and they would need to use it before rain came and started to warp the whole pile.
Henry and his uncle walked off in opposite directions. Henry tasked to go and retrieve a hammer and some nails, while John Paul strode out to the pile of lumber.
It was maybe twelve long planks at a glance, and he grabbed what looked like half of the stack and hefted it up onto his shoulder. It wasn’t heavy, but he decided that he had better not try to make a single trip of it. He carried the boards up the stairs and dropped them in the room before he went back for the second half.
In the end he thought better of making a stack on the ground and leaned them against the wall. They were only just tall enough to stand up inside the room, and he was careful not to scrape the ceiling. Then Henry arrived with the supplies and John Paul sent him back off to find a saw. He thought he might have seen one in the shed.
By the time Henry had come back, John Paul had already begun pulling the nails from the rotten boards. They came up easily, and he had gotten maybe a quarter of the surface removed by the time Henry had run downstairs and returned with a saw.
John Paul had watched him walking out to the shed through the hole in the floor of the balcony he’d made. It had made a humorous sight, with his nephew scurrying while trying not to appear rushed, all stiff legs and arms and back. Then John Paul stopped watching and got back to work. He pulled another board up and stood as his nephew returned with the saw.
There were several chairs in the room, and he laid one of the planks across its arms. It made an imperfect saw horse, but it would certainly suffice for the time being. Neither of them had hoped to become carpenters, and so a facsimile should work nearly as well as the real thing in a pinch. He laid the rotting wooden plank over it to use as a cutting guide while Henry took over the nail pulling.
John Paul took a measure of the wood and made a mark with his pencil, and then began to cut. He tested the fit by slipping the plank out across the frame where he’d already removed some of the wood, and it fit well enough. Pleased, he dropped the rotten bits of wood through the frame and they watched it fall, breaking into pieces as it hit the ground below.
The job went quickly, it seemed, but at the same time it took quite a bit longer than it had seemed, as well. John Paul wiped the sweat from his brow and pulled a watch out of his pocket. It had been two hours, and they had just finished pulling the last of the boards and sawing the new ones. All told, there sat beside him two dozen planks of roughly a meter in length.
They were unpainted, but a bucket sat in front of him with a pair of brushes beside it. He popped the top with a small pry-bar and they each dipped a brush into the bucket and started to slap the paint onto the boards thickly. The work was mindless and the pair of them had little difficulty in getting them all done quickly, perhaps a half an hour.
John Paul had taken to laying them out across the frame to dry in the afternoon sun. It would be hours until they could finish the job. The paint would need to dry, and they had no reason to believe that would take less than the rest of the day. He decided they would do that the next day. He could spend the last few hours before dinner trying to finish the trimming as best he could.
Henry picked up a plank and started carrying it across the room. John Paul looked up and saw the whole thing in slow motion. It was as if he knew what would happen even as Henry stepped up to the edge and leaned out to place the plank down. He was stepping onto a joist as John Paul rose as fast as his legs would allow.
Then his foot slipped off the side of the joist and he started to fall with nothing between him and the granite below but six meters of open air. John Paul’s arm shot out and grabbed at his nephew, his hand closing around the back of the younger man’s suspenders as he fell. Then time restarted.
Henry’s weight hit John Paul’s arm hard, and he nearly dropped him again. Henry cried out in fear, and then again in pain as his leg twisted between the joists and pulled at his hip. The board flew up and over the railing as Henry’s arms flew up in panic. John Paul reached with his other arm and wrapped it around the boy’s chest and pulling until they both fell back onto the rug.
Both of them panted with the panic and adrenaline that ran through them both. John Paul could see his nephew’s expression, gaping wide through the double doors that he’d fallen through.
John Paul said nothing to him, not right away. The terror was something he had faced before, and he had no words to comfort boy or soothe the fear. He still woke some nights, sweating with fear of what would have happened if he had stepped out from behind cover just one second sooner. What if he’d been just a bit slower ending the hard-fought duels that had seemed to provoke him at every opportunity.
As they sat on the ground panting and waiting for their heartbeats to slow, John Paul rose first, still gulping down breaths. He looked out the door and then looked down over the edge, at the plank that lay on the ground and the splat of white paint around it. He grimaced for a moment and decided they could rest for the evening. That had been more than enough excitement for one day.
He told this to his nephew, who didn’t respond at first. He just laid his head back down and stared at the ceiling, alone with his thoughts just as John Paul was alone with his. John Paul walked over to him and knelt down.
“Do you need help getting up?”
Henry didn’t respond at first. His uncle could see the panic that was thick on his face. John Paul knew, he was still standing there on the joist, feeling the weight go out from under him. He could barely hear what his uncle was saying, never mind really comprehend it.
So he offered a hand out, and Henry’s eyes cleared just so, reaching up to take it. John Paul pulled him up and Henry climbed to his feet. Then he followed his uncle out of the room, down the stairs, and the pair of them settled into chairs.
John Paul watched his nephew's face, watched the shock play out on it. There was a fine balance to coping with panic; if you let it sit too long, then it would wreak all sorts of havoc. Yet, try to push it away too soon and you could only fail.
He pulled out his novel and read a few more pages, and then a chapter, and then another. After an hour or so had passed, Henry stood, his hands shaking badly, and started to walk toward the bedroom he'd claimed for his own. John Paul decided that it was the right time to step in.
“Wait a moment. Would you fancy a bit of fencing? We have time, you know.”
Henry nodded, his eyes not quite seeing. “Yes, that would be nice.”
John Paul guessed that his nephew’s mood would turn around once he got started. His was an aggressive style, and lent itself quite well to an emotional approach. All he needed to do was to get started in that way, and the mood was sure to follow. He wondered if it was healthy for the mind, but he dismissed his concerns. It was only a bit of sport, and any man might give himself over to his baser instincts in sport.
Henry had put the mask and blade into his own room, and John Paul had not begrudged it of him. He thought of it as a sort of gift, and if that was a good enough gift then he did not mind it one whit. He fetched his own equipment from his trunk, where he’d replaced it, and waited for his nephew to return.
When they were together again, John Paul led him outside. They stood in the grass a few meters apart, with the sun near to setting, and waved their blades in salute. Then Henry was attacking again, as he had days before. He committed himself just a bit less, this time, and John Paul saw that the attack would never have succeeded. He was too slow to counterattack.
John Paul decided that if he was going to be of any use at all, he needed to correct his nephew, rather than simply treating him as an opponent. He pushed the blade aside, but didn’t riposte immediately. Indeed, he sat back and let his nephew attack, which was not hard. He would have attacked anyways.
The Colonel thought about Lydia for a moment. How
unlike Henry’s dueling their conversation had been. His side of it had born a remarkable similarity, in a certain sense. He was always sitting back and waiting for an opportunity to present itself. In conversation, unlike in swordplay, he knew none of the right moves. The opportunities seemed never to present themselves until she offered them.
Then a blade came barreling down on him and he had no more time to think about conversations or beautiful young women. He smacked it away, centimeters from his chest, and put the point of his blade up finally, pushing forward.
He saw several problems; some of them were easier to fix than others, and John Paul struggled for a few moments with where to start. When he saw Henry’s blade slap his own away, he saw the largest, and perhaps the easiest to fix.
Henry moved his hand only a little, but the point of his blade went flying wide. When he tried to swing it back around to thrust back into his uncle’s chest, John Paul easily recovered to make a parry of his own.
The Colonel's riposte was not so hampered. He pulled off his mask after the touch and gestured for Henry to do the same. The entire bout had lasted maybe a minute, and there was a change to make, now. Something he could fix.
“Henry,” he said, “Let me show you something.”
Chapter 5
The days were agonizingly long until he could call on Lydia once more. He cleaned the house, finished the repairs on the balcony, practiced with Henry. Henry was getting the hang of a tight parry; with the most glaring problem dealt with, he was becoming a formidable opponent. Even still, John Paul found little in the way of relief from his impatience.
When, at long last, the week had finally passed, he called on her once more. He felt the same trepidation he had felt before, the desire to not attend the appointment. He thought again about the days he had spent looking forward to this meeting, and he realized how foolish that would be. He rapped at the door and waited for someone to receive him.
Rather than Nan’s disaffected smile, though, he was greeted by a large man with a warm grin. He hid his surprise as best he could.
“Hello,” the man said. “We’ve been expecting you, Mister Foster. I’m Simon Wakefield, Lydia’s elder brother. If you’ll just sit down here for a moment, I’ll…”
He might have finished the thought, but he didn’t stop in earshot for John Paul to hear it. He left the room as if it hadn’t occurred to him that someone might not hear through walls. As he waited, John Paul tried to still the beating of his heart. It was a struggle to push back against his nerves, which threatened at all times to overwhelm him. He heard voices through the door, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
And then the door opened, and Simon led beautiful Lydia through the door. He had a confident, self-congratulatory smile on his face that didn’t quite fit the situation. He was positively beaming as John Paul rose to greet Lydia.
“Miss Wakefield, it’s lovely to see you again.”
“And you as well, Mister Foster.”
Simon stood there, watching the pair of them in silence. Where Nan could be a background object who could be ignored if you chose, Simon had an obtrusive aura that made it impossible not to notice him. As if he wanted to be seen.
John Paul corrected himself mentally: It wasn’t as if he wanted to be here, surely. Nan must have fallen ill, and they would need a stand-in for her, certainly. It wasn’t his usual role in the family to try to fit seamlessly into miss Wakefield’s life at all times.
John Paul stood there for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other. He was not usually one to push a situation, but it was unclear how to handle the change.
“Shall we take a walk, ma’am?”
Miss Wakefield showed her agreement by way of a tiny nod of her head. Simon opened the door for them, and followed the pair out into the open air. They didn’t have the large estate that John Paul did, and no yard to speak of, so they would need to take their walk through the city streets. It suited John Paul well enough, he decided.
He liked the city, though he wouldn’t live there if he had the choice, not after so long in New South Wales. They went for a long time without speaking, just walking beside one another. John Paul stole glances at Lydia from time to time, to avoid being seen in the process for reasons he didn't understand himself. As if her knowing of his admiration would ruin the whole thing. He never saw her looking at him, but he could feel her eyes on him as well.
Simon, for his part, managed finally to avoid becoming a distraction, for most of this time. He walked a step or two behind, and he said nothing, and it was easy to forget that he was there, when he wasn’t standing right in front of you.
“The weather certainly is nice today,” Lydia said finally.
John Paul agreed with her, and he told her so. It was sunny, but not too hot, and a gentle wind blew through, enough to create a relaxing sort of atmosphere without being tiresome. A perfect day, he thought, with the perfect woman. He didn’t tell her that.
He was happy to hear her comments on whatever came to mind, and when she finally started to talk, he let her. No, more than that, he encouraged it. She told him about the quality of the clothes in this boutique, told him about the food at that restaurant. He bobbed his head as she spoke, finding her quite agreeable in all respects. Eventually, she stopped and looked up at a large, beautiful old church steeple.
It startled John Paul to see a church; he hadn’t been to a service in a month. First he’d been returning to the motherland, and stayed in London for only a few days, so of course he wouldn’t have tried to lay any roots. Then he was in Derby, but he had been so busy that the thought hadn’t occurred to him. He made a mental note to attend that Sunday at all costs.
Simon cut in, then, and John Paul could feel his anger rise even as he controlled it.
“Did they have churches like this in Australia, Mister Foster?”
John Paul wondered for a moment if he’d been serious in asking the question; it must have been, though, even as ill-timed as it was.
“Yes, Mister Wakefield. They have churches in Australia.”
The questions, it seemed, never stopped, then. Simon’s lengthy period of quiet had come to a sudden and lasting halt. John Paul could see Lydia give him an apologetic look, but she didn’t say anything, and John Paul was left at his mercy. He answered dozens of questions about what Australia was like, if he’d ever seen one of the Aboriginals, and so on. What's more, the questions did not seem to be ending any time soon.
It was tiring, but he dismissed it as the irresistible magnetism of having something new in your circle of influence. Some questions were inevitable, whether he faced them now, or after the engagement.
It surprised John Paul to be thinking in those terms. He’d known the woman a little past a week, and yet his mind whirled with possibilities.
As they came back to the house, John Paul stopped outside the door. Simon opened it and Lydia stepped halfway through and offered her hand. John Paul took it gently in his own hand and kissed it. He could see her blushing as she turned and stepped inside.
Then Simon was standing on the stoop looking at him.
“So,” he said. John Paul stood at eye-level with him; John Paul was a tall man, and it was a bit unusual to look someone straight in the eye. He could see that Simon was struggling with something.
“Yes?” He asked at last.
“If it’s not too much to ask,” Simon started, and then stopped.
“If what’s not too much to ask?”
Simon looked down at his feet and bit his lip.
“Never mind, Mister Foster. Have a good day.”
And then he, too, stepped through the door and into the house.
John Paul dismissed it and set off back to his horse. It was standing there, the same as he’d left it, eating from a feed bag. He climbed up, took a moment to catch his bearings, and started back home.
He returned home to find Henry lounging in a chair, leafing through a magazine.
“Ah,”
Henry said when he heard John Paul walk in. He stood and smiled, setting the magazine down. He had his arms wide open. “You’re back!”
“Were you waiting for me?”
“Not as such, uncle. But it’s a bit tiring to be alone here all the time, is it not?”
“I suppose so,” John Paul answered.
It had been much easier since he had begun to call on Lydia. He could remember the first week, with neither Henry nor a woman in his life, and how slowly the days had passed. It was enough to drive a man mad, but with Henry around, the help bustling throughout the house, and the visits he made to see Lydia, time passed with blinding speed.
“Well, I’ve a solution for you, uncle. I’ve found…” he paused here for a moment, as if to build the suspense, “… the finest tailor in Derby. You really must see his work.”
“I don’t know if I have the time,” he said.
“Think about it. There’s no harm in going to look, you know. We can let the help have the night off. I’m sure he has some business to attend to, and having a day of freedom might be nice.”
John Paul thought about it for a moment before agreeing. He had never had any good experience going to buy clothing, and now would be little different, he decided. Clothes were an annoyance, and buying them bothersome. But Henry insisted, and that was reason enough to indulge him.
After all, the only time he seemed to see the lad was at meals, and when he was working, the past few weeks. Indeed, that was how it seemed he’d set up his entire time there, to be either sleeping, working on the house, or eating. The situation wasn’t how he’d intended it, and if there was something Henry wanted to do then they would do it by way of apology.
They gave Thomas the night off, set up the carriage with Mark's help, and set off, the four of them, into Derby. He didn’t expect Thomas back until the next morning, at the earliest. Mark had promised to keep an eye on him, and they set off together, arm in arm. John Paul watched them walk a ways, until they turned out of sight and he couldn’t see them any longer. Then he stepped down to join his nephew, waiting below.
The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) Page 4
