He dreamt that night of her face, of her smile. He could imagine her on the day of their wedding, in a flowing white dress as the sun rose on the horizon. He woke tasting her lips on his and remembered her kiss when he had passed out.
Perhaps, he thought, the entire affair wasn't completely embarassing. One good thing had come from it, after all. Now if only he could prevent it happening again, without also preventing the kisses along with it. He lips tingled and he touched them.
The cards lay on the table, untouched from the night before. He rose and walked across to them.
What had the cards he had received said? He thought of several that he had received over the years, but for whatever reason nothing came to mind. He looked at the stack once again and frowned. Well, then, in either case he would need to figure out something.
As long as he was clear, it wasn't as if he would be struck low for not being poetic or romantic enough in letters to a couple dozen soldiers. Lydia needn't even read them, after all.
He pulled the chair out and lowered himself back into it and started to write. The words didn't come easily, but he pushed through even still. He sat back and scratched his head. It had seemed appropriate not to concern himself overmuch with creating the most perfect letters ever written, but as he read the draft back, it seemed that this, perhaps, might be a bridge too far. He tore it in half after reading only two sentences. Too sentimental, yet not artful enough.
After trying and failing once again to remember what the cards he had received over the years had looked like, he sat back. Perhaps that was the wrong tact. Perhaps he should ask himself what sort of card he would have liked to receive. That was easier, he thought, than trying to remember what the best had looked like.
Of course, promise of leave was implied. To say it would be tantamount to implying that he was too stupid to realize it, so it would be left out. He found that discussions of the impossible beauty of the bride were tiresome. They were never, as a rule, as pretty as promised. Lydia was every bit as beautiful as he could image, but even still he wondered if it wouldn't be too much.
After a great deal of deliberation he sat back from his second effort. It was short, and perhaps just a bit too direct, but he thought it would do the job.
"Andrew," it opened.
"I am writing to inform you of the engagement of myself and a young woman I met back home. When the marriage is approaching, I hope- you'll come to join us at the wedding in a year's time."
He looked down at the paper and read it over again. John Paul winced at it; he was certainly no writer. He set about copying it for the next name on the list. He made good headway; it was easier to copy the notes than it had been to write the first. As he folded the sixth card over, though, his stomach twisted itself into a knot and made an unpleasant squelching sound. He pushed through the remaining cards and set off to the lavatory.
He stopped at a bar in Derby on the way to his engagement party, feeling nauseated and anxious. He made a bee-line for the restroom and wiped his face clean, looking into the mirror. He looked like death, he saw, but he had to ignore it. His face was pale, and he could see deep circles under his eyes. He pushed himself back straight.
There wouldn't be any time for any sort of dalliance; he would just need to soldier on. He found realized that he was using that term a lot, in his mind. He would have to keep going, would have to continue. He thought it was worrying that on the night of his engagement, he repeatedly thought of it as having to 'soldier on' through the evening, but he pushed the thought away.
The nerves were getting to him, that was all. He ordered a drink from the bartender and swallowed it in one go. The bill was only a few shillings and he paid a pound.
"Keep the change," he muttered as he pushed the door open and walked back into the evening air. The only thing now would be to get back on the horse and go back to the Wakefield home. It was only a party, he reasoned. That they would be announcing the engagement was a wrinkle to the party, and there was no reason to be nervous whatsoever.
He pulled himself off the horse and wrapped the reigns around a post.
"Mister Wakefield," he heard the man say as he stood at the door. "It's nice to see you."
John Paul didn't recognize the young man, but he let the boy take his coat nonetheless.
"John Paul," a voice said, and he turned to see Simon standing in a doorway, smiling. "It's nice to see you again."
"Nice to see you, too, Simon." John Paul made himself answer politely, but it didn't feel nice to see him. He felt distracted by the pain in his stomach, and he had a thick wad of bills that he'd be giving to the young man. He swore that he would pay it back, and John Paul hadn't personally found any reason to doubt him, but he wondered if this wasn’t a case of robbing Peter to pay Paul, and he didn't want to be caught holding the bag at the end of it. He pushed the thoughts doubts away and moved up to greet the Wakefield boy.
"About that loan you asked for, Simon—"
"Not here," he said softly, and stepped back into the room, beckoning John Paul to follow.
The Colonel did, though not without hesitation, and as he stepped inside the younger man locked the door behind them.
"Do you have the money?" he asked softly.
"Right here," John Paul answered and patted his breast pocket.
"Okay, very good. Thank you so much, mister Foster. I really can't..." he trailed off.
John Paul pulled a stack of bills out of his waistcoat and started to count them onto the table. One, two, three... In total, there was eight thousand pounds in the stack. He straightened them on the table and handed the stack over.
"Is everything in order," he asked softly.
"Of course, mister Wakefield. Thank you so much. You don’t understand how much this means to me, to our family. I'll begin repaying you as soon as I possibly can, and until then I hope you can enjoy our hospitality for a few hours tonight."
The Colonel smiled weakly. "I'll do my best, Simon. Thank you."
"You don't look too good, are you sure you're feeling alright?"
"I'm fine, I assure you."
"Good," Simon answered, though he looked doubtful. "I wouldn't want you to be too ill; I really don't know what Lydia would do with herself. After father died..."
"I know," I said. I didn't feel alright, or fine, or great, but I wouldn't spend one minute, not one second admitting it, whether to Simon or to Henry, and if Lydia asked then I was feeling the best I'd ever felt. It was only a matter of time until I could leave and then I'd be home safe, sleep off the nausea, and that would be the end of it. That I was tired now made no difference, because I had to be here. For Lydia's sake.
Chapter 12
John Paul stood by the door as Simon opened it back up again. He'd taken the bills and fit them into his own waistcoat pocket; they puckered the fabric just so, and anyone looking might have known that his wallet looked awfully thick, but he seemed not to mind it. Perhaps he preferred it, being as perennially troubled with money as he seemed to be.
"Where is my sister," he said softly, looking around the front area. From where the two men stood, they could see into two rooms, and in both of them several dozen guests bustled about, holding thin-stemmed glasses full of honey-colored drinks that thy sipped from on occasion. However, of Lydia Wakefield there was no immediate sign.
"I'll just pop upstairs and see if she's powdering her nose, perhaps."
"Of course,” John Paul answered, and started into a room to find a glass for himself.
He found it, a moment later, on a tray being carried by another staff member he'd never seen before. He took one and stalked back to the front of the house, waiting on Simon to come back downstairs with the verdict. He found after only a few moments’ wait that he was agitated, perhaps even worried by Lydia's absence.
Where could she be, that it took more than a few moments to find her in her own house? She couldn't have been having some sort of trouble, could she? Nor, he hoped was there any chance that
she might have left. He shuddered at the thought. If she was worried, and her brother seemed to suggest that she almost certainly was, then he realized that he was at least as worried as she. His stomach had made it difficult to tell for certain, but as he thought now he realized exactly how much he worried about the entire thing going off according to plan. The only way he would get any relief, it seemed would be to see her, to have some confirmation that things would work out as planned.
But he didn't get to have that relief, when Simon reappeared alone atop the stairs, stepping down them two at a time. As he came to the bottom he slowed, his hurried footsteps became more relaxed, and he turned to John Paul.
"I don't know what to tell you, mister Foster; I can't find her. She's not upstairs, and I didn't see her in the Lounge..."
He spread his hands out wide in a gesture of apology.
"Perhaps she's in the kitchen, or in the back of the house somewhere?"
Simon looked uncertain.
"It's definitely possible, I suppose, but..."
"But nothing," John Paul said softly but firmly. "I'm going to look, and you may accompany me. I am sorry if I am being too terribly rude, but I—"
"No explanation is necessary, Colonel. I understand implicitly. Let's go."
The first door on the left was a parlor. A half-dozen ladies stood around the center of the room; when they saw the door open they grew quiet, though there had been a fairly obvious buzz of voices from the door. One of them looked up at John Paul through the doorway.
“Ah, mister Foster! So nice to see you again.” Through the fog of anxiety and fatigue, the Colonel recognized missus Raymond. She looked worried, and for a moment he failed to make the connection between his condition and her concern.
“Missus Raymond,” he answered. “It’s nice to see you, as well. Have you seen Lydia?”
“Lydia,” she repeated back to him, as if she were just hearing the word for the first time. “No, I haven’t seen her since my husband and I arrived.”
“Thank you,” he said and left promptly. He heard the women start talking again almost immediately after he had left, Simon hot on his heels as well. He ignored them and kept moving.
She wasn’t in the next room, either, though it took them longer to check. A small room, but a dozen people mingled and talked, some coming and some going. Nobody had seen Lydia, either. John Paul felt his exhaustion beginning to get the better of him, combined as it was with his mounting concerns that Lydia had, for whatever reason, decided to quit the engagement before it had even properly begun. With his showing signs of illness days before, and with the growing illness he felt now, he couldn’t blame her after the death of her father.
He was stopped by Timothy Raymond, who asked idly where his wife had gotten off to; John Paul pointed him back to the room, but when John Paul made a motion to leave, mister Raymond walked with him instead.
“You look awfully pale, my boy.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” the Colonel answered distractedly. He kept pushing the sick feeling in his stomach to the back of his mind, hoping that the next door he opened would have Lydia on the other side. He pushed open the back door and stepped through into the cool evening air.
He’d never been out the back of the Wakefield home, and he found that they had a perfectly attractive back deck. Facing away from him was a young woman in black.
“Lydia,” he said, breathless.
“Yes,” she answered, turning to look. Then she saw John Paul and rushed over to him. “You’re so pale!”
“So I am told,” he answered, and gave a weak laugh. “I think I just drank some turned milk with breakfast, it’s quite alright. I’ll be fine in the morning. They’re holding a party for you, and the guest of honor was nowhere to be found!”
She frowned. Whatever her private thoughts, John Paul couldn’t guess them. At last she spoke.
“Yes,” she said. “We should get inside.”
They started to walk, arm-in-arm, back toward the door.
“And then,” she said, leaning into him, “you need to get home and rest.”
“Yes, miss.”
The next day wasn't quite so bad as the night before. John Paul found himself a bit too ill to take lunch, though, and he’d made plans for the afternoon. After a good deal of money being spent on champagne and having to call a driver to cart him home for fear he might fall off his horse, he found myself at home the next morning with no need for anything but to deal with the consequences of his marriage to a beautiful young woman. When they'd stood there with Simon announced their engagement, he smiled as Lydia beside blushed and hid her smile. John Paul's head ached with the drink and his stomach churned with the last ebbs of nausea from the night before.
He rose late in the morning, and almost immediately returned to bed after only taking the time to fetch a glass of water. He looked at the ceiling. In a few scant hours, he would be heading back out to Derby again to meet Lydia. Together they would head out to purchase a ring for her. He could feel himself stirring inside to think of it. That was something in his mind that he couldn't quite wrap his head around. It was done. Now it was only a matter of time. He dressed finally and looked out the window. He could see through the slats in the blinds that Jacob was in the back with Theodore, a young man he'd brought on to work. The pair of them were trimming hedges. In a few hours, he guessed, they would probably be cutting the grass. It was getting long, but Jacob has d never given him any indication that he would leave it sitting for too long.
He saw Henry in the front room with another magazine and a newspaper folded beside him. He rose when John Paul entered the room. He looked vaguely excited to see something in the newspaper and jabbed a pointy finger at the text.
"See this," he asked. John Paul did not see; there was a finger in the way, after all. But after a moment he looked and his eyes adjusted to the text and he read that it was about him.
"ANNOUNCING ENGAGEMENTS" it read, in large block letters. Below, in smaller text, was his name, with the words “Colonial Governor” beside it. He winced and tried to ignore it.
John Paul tousled Henry's hair and gave him a weak smile. The time was growing nearer by the second for when he would need to leave though, so he left without explaining further. He took one of the horses and headed down the road.
Though it was a long way, he found that more and more often he was able to ignore the entire route, as if the horse knew it well enough that he didn't need to move it. Or perhaps his hands moved automatically and he managed to go without thinking. But in either case, he was not entirely surprised to find that he was in town before he knew it, even though ninety minutes or more must have passed in the journey.
Lydia was waiting in the front room behind the maid who opened the door, and she picked up a handbag and followed him out the door without a moment's delay.
"You look better," she said after a moment's walk. She had a smile on her face that he hadn't seen the night before. Perhaps his illness had taken a bigger toll on her than he had imagined.
"Thank you," he said, unsure of how to respond. "I feel better. I told you, only a day or two and I'd be all better."
"I'm glad," she said, and they fell silent as they walked. It was the first time they had been together without Nan there, and neither knew exactly how to act under the circumstances.
"That was a lovely party last night," John Paul said, hoping that she would have something to add. She didn't say anything, but she did nod and make an agreeable sound.
The silence was palpable, and John Paul felt the awkwardness firming between them. It was suffocating; if he did not divine a way to get her to act more comfortable with him, he feared that they might have the entire day unsure how to deal with each other, and the fate did not bode well for their future together either. He was concerned, to say the very least, but he pushed the thoughts away.
The greatest worry of all, he thought, was the one that you let get to you in the end. As long as he knew what needed to
be done, there was no reason to concern himself overmuch with the possible consequences; all that would do would be to make it all the more difficult to act.
"Would you like to go to dinner with me this evening? We could make a day of it," he said.
"Oh," she said. She had a look on her face that he recognized immediately.
"Don't worry, if you need to tell your brother, you know we can go straight home after we see the jeweler and tell him."
'Tell him,' he had said. Not ask him, and it was not accidental that he had phrased it that way. He showed a big, toothy smile to Lydia and she laughed.
"I've absolutely never seen you smile like that, John Paul Foster, and if you want to see me again, you'll smile like yourself!"
He laughed back at her. Then he gave her a bigger, sillier smile.
"That's it," she said, a large warm smile spreading across her lips. "I can't do this. The engagement is off,"
And then she followed him into the Jeweler's shop. The man inside looked up, a short thin man who looked more like a boy except for the thick lines around his eyes. "May I help you?”
"Yes, I'm John Paul Foster, and this is my fiancée; we needed to buy a ring. For the engagement."
"Of course," he said. He had a mousy look to him, and his spectacles were large and round and stood out against his face. "Right this way, I'll show you what I have."
John Paul looked at the rings and found that he had no idea what sort of things were the fashion. He knew that he should take the initiative in situations like this one; a young woman needed a strong male presence in her life, and John Paul knew that in most parts of their life together he could be that. In fashion, though, and jewelry, he was the student and she the master and he found himself deferring to her.
"This one is lovely," she said to him softly. He looked at the ring she was pointing at, and he had to agree. It was lovely. He had to restrain himself from immediately asking how much it would cost; that was certainly no issue at all, and she had nearly instantly moved on to another glass container of rings that the proprietor had moved over to. She reached toward him without looking and gestured for his hand.
The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) Page 11
