“Where is this shop?”
Henry nodded his head toward the north and started walking. John Paul followed behind.
“Oh, you’ll love it, Uncle.”
“As you say,” John Paul answered cautiously.
“You don’t need to keep buying bulk clothes, you know. You have enough money to afford nicer clothing than that.”
John Paul’s tried to hide his sourness. He had no appreciation for some boy telling him his business, nor for comments on his finances. Not even if that boy was his nephew. But he counseled himself to relax; there was no reason to snap. He must have meant the remark innocently.
They walked for a few kilometers before arriving at the store; finally, Henry turned on his heels and swung an arm ‘round. “We’re here,” he added, if his manner hadn’t already been enough.
John Paul stood away from it for a moment. The top read Wittham Tailors, and in the front there were large glass windows. There was only a single stand with a suit jacket on display on a bust, but John Paul could see the quality already. Perhaps this wouldn’t be such a waste, after all.
They stepped inside, and a small man in his seventies looked up at them over his thin spectacles. “Ah,” he said. “Mister Henry Roche! Is this your uncle I’ve been hearing about?”
“Yes, I’ve finally talked him into getting some real clothes,” he announced.
“Now, then—” John Paul tried to protest, but Henry smiled.
“I’m only joking, Uncle.”
John Paul stepped up to the counter.
“So, what can I do for you, Uncle?”
“John Paul Foster.”
“Very well, Mister Foster.”
“I suppose I should get a few new suits. I will need at least two. One for the summer, and one for the winter, at least.”
“At least,” the old tailor agreed.
“I confess, I’ve never done this sort of thing before. I have really only shopped at department stores.”
“Yes, I can tell that, sir. What comes next, then?”
“What comes next, indeed.”
“Next, I’ll take your measurements, and we’ll discuss fabrics, and then you’ll leave and I’ll get to work. In a week or two, I’ll contact you when your clothing is done, we test the fit, I fix any issues, and then you take it home.”
“Very well.”
“So you’ll need to strip. Step into the back here with me.”
John Paul did as he was told. He stepped behind a curtain and stripped down to his smallclothes, piling his clothes on a stool. And then the small old man pulled out a tape measure and began making notes on a slate.
When at last they finished with that, John Paul dressed once more, and then the tailor walked him back to the front, where Henry waited. The old man offered a half-dozen appealing cotton and linen fabrics for the summer. Then he offered another half-dozen complementary wool fabrics for the cold.
John Paul looked at them for a moment before deciding that he had no frame of reference and couldn’t decide. He gestured for Henry to come over and have a look. He looked for a moment and then looked up at Wittham.
“I would go with the houndstooth for the heavier, and the gray linen for the lighter.”
The tailor’s eyes flicked from the younger man to the elder.
“Is that alright?”
“He seems to know more about it than I do,” John Paul confessed.
“Very good, sir,” the tailor said, making another couple of notes on the slate. He set it aside with ‘J.P. Foster’ written across the top. “About the matter of payment…”
John Paul left with a receipt and the promise of a couple of new suits that fit properly, and thought that seemed like a fair enough trade.
John Paul’s mood was far too restless for sleep, but he had sensed that Henry was tired and so he’d pushed for them to retire early. A thousand thoughts buzzed at the back of his mind as he lay in bed, but foremost in his mind was his next appointed rendezvous with Lydia. It was four days’ time from now, thanks to a long list of obligations he had little interest in interfering with. And yet he wanted to see her still.
He got up from his bed and looked out the window at the dark sky. He could just see the moon through the trees, a little to the south. He dressed perfunctorily and started to walk towards town. He didn’t know exactly where he was going, but it seemed as good a direction as any. There would certainly be less concern about roving animals than his last night excursion.
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 permiss
ion, 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.”
The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) Page 5
