When Salome did her dance of the seven veils, he found himself captivated. It was not the curves of the dancer’s hips and her graceful movements, but the image of Lydia's curves and hips doing the same dance.
He pushed the thoughts away as best he could when he realized exactly how impure his thoughts were becoming. But in the back of his mind, the idea remained.
John Paul said nothing about marriage during the intermission. He let Lydia do the talking, and she went on about costuming and the acting.
She was surprised at how well they had managed to make the whole thing so convincing. The actors, in her estimation, were top notch. John Paul couldn’t disagree.
As the play continued, John Paul found himself more and more distracted by his own doubts. Would she accept his proposal this time? Would it even be appropriate to ask, or should he leave things as they were? Furthermore, was it even appropriate to be asking her, when her father had left matters the way he had?
John Paul tried in vain to push his anxieties away, but in the end they won out. He struggled to follow any but the most basic elements of the rest of the show.
At the end, he waited in his seat for miss Wakefield to stand, but she didn’t. Neither did Nan. All around them, patrons rose from their seats and began shuffling their ways toward the exit.
Finally, the room was very nearly empty, and still he waited. He couldn’t figure whether this was intentional on her part, or perhaps she was as distracted as he. He could, however, see her watching him. Oh well, he thought. The time is now.
“Miss Wakefield,” he said, trying to control his voice and still the beating of his heart.
“Yes?”
He looked into her eyes and saw infinity. Every line on her face, every feature, was more perfect than it had ever been. Yet, it seemed that before his very eyes her beauty grew, still.
“Miss Wakefield, have you given any thought…” He cut himself off. He could hear the words coming out of his mouth and they sounded stodgy and tired. He hadn’t envisioned himself sounding anything but dashing and gallant, but now it all sounded wrong.
“Yes?” She prompted him again. Right, he thought, I have to come out with it.
“If you will have me, miss, I would very much like to marry you.”
Her hand, twisted up beneath her jacket, came out and she set it on his own. John Paul could not resist lifting a thumb and running it along the edge of her palm. They stayed like that for a second, and though John Paul suspected her answer, an awful feeling in his gut worried him.
“It will not be easy,” she said at last, “to convince Father.”
“I know. I’ll find a way,” John Paul said. His voice spoke of a confidence on the issue that he didn’t feel.
“In time, I believe he’ll come around, mister Foster.”
“So you will?”
“With my father’s permission, of course.”
John Paul took her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers, and they walked back to the carriage with their fingers entwined. Whether Nan had concerns about it, she kept them to herself. John Paul’s heart soared the entire way back to her house. The night had grown chill, but he couldn’t feel it except as the most distant sensation.
When the three of them arrived back at her home, Lydia leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek. John Paul could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as the ladies stepped inside. The Colonel turned to go, until he heard a man’s voice calling his name.
He turned to find Simon standing outside the front door. He had no coat on, so he could not have intended to be out long, but he closed the door behind himself, so that the pair of them stood alone on the lawn.
“Mister Foster,” he said. He hesitated, and John Paul remembered that the last time they had spoken, he had done something similar.
“Yes,” John Paul prodded. The chill was finally beginning to touch him a bit, and he wanted to go and fetch a coat from the boot. He came back over to Simon instead.
“Mister Foster, I was wondering if you could do me a favor, you see.”
The Colonel didn’t respond right away. He would wait. Of the many things he had learned in the army, the first was never to volunteer.
“I…” He paused. John Paul could see that he was clearly struggling, but he did nothing to help, either. If it was to be a favor, then whatever embarrassment would need to be borne out. “There are some men, you see.”
“And you want me to…”
“I owe them a sum of money, you see.”
“Ah,” John Paul said. “So it’s like that, then.”
“I can pay you back, mister Foster. If it takes me the rest of my life, I will pay you back, I swear on it.”
John Paul frowned. It was not the sort of proposition he had hoped for, that was certain. Another ally in the house, though, may prove invaluable.
“Might I sleep on it, Simon?”
John Paul watched him squirm for a moment. If he refused, then he would be get nothing; that much was obvious. Yet, he seemed reticent to wait, as well. John Paul was sympathetic, but not sympathetic enough to compromise. Finally, Simon relented.
“Yes, sir. Make your decision at your leisure.”
“Have a good evening, Simon. I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you, sir. Oh, you won’t regret it.”
John Paul turned and started back toward his carriage. He called back over his shoulder before Simon went to go inside.
“I haven’t decided anything, you know.”
Simon stood there with his hands balled up. John Paul turned back again.
“Of course not,” Simon said evenly. “But you will consider it, of course.”
“I said I would. Good evening,” John Paul said again, and stepped up to the seat of the carriage. He was at home again two hours later, crawling into bed, exhausted. He had a good deal to think about, now, and he was in no state to do it without sleep. So sleep he would get.
Chapter 9
John Paul tossed and turned. He had no conception of how he might convince the elder Wakefield, except by telling him everything he wanted to know. Even still, the house was very nearly empty, and that by itself was something to criticize. He had no family to speak of to keep company with Lydia, and that was a real concern.
As he lay awake in the darkness, the cogs in his mind turned ‘round and round, but he got nowhere. There would be no harm in telling him. So far from Australia, it couldn’t turn into anything. The worst case was paying tax on the money he had made, and he had hidden enough of it that they would not even tax so much of it.
With his mind just about made up, he turned over once more and set his mind on sleeping. When he opened his eyes again after what seemed like only a few moments, sunlight was streaming into the room brightly.
He rose unsteadily, still feeling the tiredness in his eyes, making his shoulders sag. He picked up his pocket watch and flipped it open. Eleven. He had never thought to sleep so late.
In the evening he would need to call on James Wakefield. Had it been a few hours earlier, when he normally arose, he might have done some work. Instead, he had precious few hours to bathe, dress, and brush his hair, to get into town, and at some point in that entire thing, eat a supper. So he set about getting prepared.
The bath was easy enough to draw for himself, though the place had no internal plumbing as yet. He mentally added that to the list of what remained to be done in the house. It was too big a job for him, but that didn’t mean it didn’t need to be done. A plumber might be hired, he suspected, for a perfectly reasonable rate.
While he did that, he set out the clothes he would wear for the evening. He took a basin of water and brushed his teeth while he waited for the rest of the water to come up from the kitchens. When his tub of water, still steaming-hot, sat filled in the middle of the room, he spat out the tooth-paste and settled into the scalding water.
He scrubbed hard. He bathed as much as anyone, but this time seemed somehow more important. He wou
ld need to make an excellent impression, to be certain, and part of that would be his looks.
He felt as if everything was happening too quickly; when he checked his watch as he pulled his clothes on, it was already three in the afternoon by his watch; he barely had time to get into town for supper, and then he’d be able to stop by the Wakefield home and make another impassioned plea to the elder Wakefield.
If he were forthcoming this time, then there would be no doubting him. Mark had the horse saddled and ready for him when he stepped outside; he stepped up and onto the horse, thanked the young man and headed off without any further ado.
Though the time seemed to pass far too slowly, he knew at the same time that he couldn’t push the horse hard for pace. He needed the timing to fit perfectly, and that meant not being later than necessary, but also not being earlier.
He passed into down-town Derby at quarter past five, though when the hour had struck he’d been close enough to hear the church bells chiming loudly. The shops were still open, for the most part, though some, taking their supper early, had signs up marking the clerk as being out for dinner.
He left the horse in a stable and took a walk. He could use with the time wasting. The question of which diner to stop by was on his mind when he found himself walking past the storefront of Wakefield’s Furniture. For a moment, he nearly stepped in, but decided better of it and walked past.
It wasn’t until he was sitting in Robinson’s Diner off Main street that it occurred to him how strange the place had seemed. He couldn’t say for certain, but it seemed as if the lights had been off inside. It wasn’t the time, though, to go and check right that moment.
He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, so even though the Wakefield home was the other way, he went back to the store-front. The lights, indeed, were off. They were closed by now, of course. They had their hours posted every time he had gone in, and they closed ‘round about 5:30 most days.
But today, posted beside the hours, was a hand-written sign, which read:
CLOSED DUE TO A DEATH IN THE FAMILY.
WAKEFIELD & Co. WILL REOPEN ON THURSDAY, JUNE 1st.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE
- Simon Wakefield
John Paul felt a shudder run down his spine and ran down the street. What on earth had happened? And what would it mean for him? The sinking feeling had only gotten worse after reading the sign, and he ran as hard as he could, his chest burning with the strain. He stopped a few houses over and checked his appearance in the glass of a window with the shade down.
His hair was out of place and he tried to press it back into place with his hands, though it wouldn’t stay no matter how he tried. He checked his jacket and was surprised to find that in spite of his vigorous running he had managed to avoid tearing any of the seams, and found the same for his trousers.
He took a moment to catch his breath, and then started to walk again. Simon stood outside, smoking a cigarette. He had long, drawn lines under his eyes. When John Paul stepped into view, he looked too tired to show any surprise at seeing him.
“Oh, Mister Foster.”
“What’s happened?” He tried to make it sound concerned, but he could hear the anxiety thick in his own voice and knew that he hadn’t fooled anyone.
Simon took a heavy drag on his cigarette and looked at the street, where carriages rolled by unfeelingly, pulled by horses wearing blinders. The Colonel wanted to press him to respond, but held himself back. The young man would tell him when he was ready. Simon had heard him, he was certain of that.
“It’s the old man,” he said finally.
John Paul wondered if he would tell what had happened, but he didn’t ask. It would, he thought, have been far too rude. So he kept his questions to himself as best he could.
“I’m so sorry,” he said instead.
“It’s fine,” the eldest Wakefield boy said distractedly. It seemed an odd response, but then again he could tell that whatever was on his mind was weighing heavily.
John Paul saw Lydia through the doorway, wearing a thick velvet dress. She saw him, as well, and for a moment she rebelled against her better manners and wanted desperately to go to him, but then the moment passed and she kept walking.
The Colonel, catching the moment of loss and confusion captured in her eyes, turned back to Simon.
“You have my condolences, mister Wakefield,” he said softly, and he turned to go. His shoulders felt heavy. The shop would reopen in two weeks’ time, plenty of time for the family to recover from the shock and begin to mourn properly. But the engagement was no longer even an issue, he thought.
She would be mourning her father, and he would not call on her until she was ready to receive guests again. His relationship, even his entire life, it seemed, was on hold, and there was nothing he could do about it. He took a deep breath and renewed his effort to walk in an even, controlled manner. He couldn’t let his panic show on his face; the very notion was unthinkable.
He stepped into the labor office for the second time that week.
“I shall need a plumber,” he said.
“Mister Foster,” the man behind the counter began, but he quickly caught the mood. His voice dropped from the sing-song voice of dealing with a customer to a more conversational tone. “What did you need?”
“The estate has no internal plumbing; I assume the family who resided there must have been in a poor state and couldn’t fit it.”
The man nodded. “I guess that does make sense. I’ll have someone out, but it’ll be a big job to fit a place that large.”
“I know,” John Paul said. His voice was tired. Whatever drive had pushed him into the office in the first place, it was gone now, and all that was left was an exhausting feeling that nothing was going right, nor did it seem like it would ever go right again. “But it must be done.”
He left a pound note with the man and walked out without engaging in any further conversation. Indeed, he simply wanted to be home, to lie in bed, and to languish in his own exhausted misery. He preferred it to drinking.
The stable brought his horse out and he tipped the boy three pence before setting off. The two hours back to his estate seemed longer now than they had ever seemed before, the road stretching infinitely out in front of him, the horse trotting far, far too slow.
At times he thought perhaps he could have walked just as fast himself, but he suspected that he was wrong about that, and further he had no special desire to rush.
He let the horse walk seemingly enough in place until his house appeared on the horizon, until the horse was walking stolidly past the stable, when he drew it to a halt. Mark came out from the front door of the main house after a moment and took the reigns of the horse. The Colonel went into his house.
He hadn’t seen Henry, it seemed in weeks, though he’d seen him only three days before. He wondered where the lad was, but he didn’t bother to ask. It was entirely possible he’d been in his room, or in the dining room taking a late snack. But John Paul didn’t care to go and investigate, so he didn’t.
His bed was less comfort than he had hoped for; his fears and self-pity bore too great a burden on his mind, and he lay awake, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
What would he do now, he thought. There was nothing to do. He would send her a card, that much was certain, but beyond that he couldn’t think of a single thing that would take the place she had held in his days, in his thoughts.
Perhaps, after a few weeks, she would be ready to receive visitors again. Perhaps he would be able to get her brother’s consent for marriage. The thoughts provided little comfort. He wouldn’t be seeing her for a very long while, it seemed; he might be away from her as long as he had been with her, and the thought tugged hard on his heart.
He turned over for what felt like the hundredth time and tried again to fall asleep to no avail. It was a long night, and when he finally arose, it was long before the sun. He didn’t wake Thomas, but instead brewed himself a cup of tea and sat
down.
There was work to be done around the house, and he would set himself to it. That was the only thought that gave him any sort of comfort. That would be his distraction. He lit a candle and started to write a card.
He had no special talent for correspondence, but it seemed as if he needed to do it. It would have been rude not to.
He wrote slowly, poring over the words, trying to think of exactly how to phrase the entire thing. It reminded him of the first time he had called on Lydia, which only served to make him feel worse, but he pressed on.
In the end, he read it back to himself.
Dearest Lydia.
You have my deepest sympathies over the passing of your father. I hope that with time, your grief will be lessened.
Yours always,
JP Foster
He closed the whole thing up in an envelope and set it aside. It would have to be posted in the morning.
John Paul set his pen down. The sun, he saw, was just beginning to rise. He would take breakfast, then, but afterward he would set about doing work. That was the best way to pass the time, to be certain.
He pushed himself up from his chair and trudged out of the room and headed to the foyer. He saw from down the hall Thomas step out of a room and turn around and close it softly. He turned and started down the hall, jumping in surprise when he saw John Paul standing in front of him.
“Sir!”
John Paul settled back into a chair.
“Could I get breakfast, Thomas,” he said softly. “I’d like to get working as soon as possible.”
The cook took a brief moment to catch his breath after having been startled before he answered.
“Yes, of course, sir, one moment.”
He pressed open the door to the kitchen, which swung closed behind him. It didn’t take more than a few minutes before Thomas came back out, now wearing an apron over his shirt, and pressed a plate into his hand.
The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) Page 8
