He had been of two minds—was still of two minds—on the entire issue. The Crown had brought civilization to the bush. Before that, there had been people, certainly, but as he had rode through the streets of Sydney he had thought, nothing like that.
He didn't have to rationalize particularly much to sympathize with them, though. If their roles had been reversed; they the British troops and he the natives, he might have rebelled himself. He had wondered about the notion that a few dozen aboriginals had managed to raid an armory, though.
No matter what time of night they'd picked, it was hard to believe that they could make it past a batallion guarding the place. That left only one possibility, then. They must have been let in by someone, and that meant that anyone raiding them had a better than half chance of stepping on some toes. Likely some toes that were higher up the food chain.
So rather than leaving his Lieutenant out to dry, he had come along. It had made good sense at the time, and he still would have made the decision today, even if he might have changed some of the things that had come later.
John Paul pulled the pillow out from under his head and pressed it down on top of his head.
No, he thought. I don't want to think about it. He sat up and looked out the window. The yard was comforting. He dressed and put his coat on, going to stand outside. There was no reason to dwell on the past. It had been a bad series of decisions, and he had sunk deeper than he had thought possible.
He could understand why Simon was doing what he was doing. He could understand it well. With more money than you could ever imagine on the line, the lines between what you want to do and what you have to do become blurred. Nobody understood it better than John Paul.
His heart thumped in his ears. The cold was biting at his fingers so he jammed them into his pockets, but he stayed there on the back patio, looking at the bushes, at the great big tree with its strange, blade-like leaves. He could see the stars so clearly here. He wondered if they were so clear in the city, where Lydia was.
More than likely she was asleep. She wouldn't be looking at the stars, and if she was, he thought, then she should go to bed. So, for that matter, should he. He shivered again and padded over to the dining room. He rubbed the inside of a glass clean with his shirt and poured himself a glass. He swallowed it and felt the familiar burn in his throat. Then he poured another. He woke up feeling remarkably unrested several hours later.
Chapter 17
Henry was sitting in the front room when John Paul woke up. He thought it was a particularly odd change of pace for the boy; usually he was out and gone, nowhere to be found after breakfast, sometimes only home late in the evening, but now he found that he was quite glad for the boy's presence.
He needed someone to go with him, and he needed some advice, and while he could get Mark to go into town at the drop, essentially, of a hat, he couldn't be sure of the hostler's taste in anything. That meant that he was the furthest thing from an ideal choice to go to for advice.
Henry, on the other hand, had his fair share of vices, but John Paul found that he had generally agreeable tastes. He hadn't turned him wrong yet, after all. Looked into a doctor for him, directed him toward a perfectly serviceable tailor. There seemed to be no limit to what the boy would help with if the colonel only thought to ask him about it.
He seemed an ideal, if unlikely, choice. He was, after all, almost never actually around. He'd developed, however, an uncanny ability to be around, it seemed, whenever John Paul had need of him, as if he possessed some sort of strange sixth sense about when there might be trouble. That could come in handy some day, John Paul thought grimly, particularly with his poor health.
The Colonel walked down the stairs and stood in the room for what felt like an eternity, waiting for Henry to notice. When he decided that his nephew wasn't going to notice him after all, he steped into the center of the parlor and sat down beside him.
"Henry," he said with a warmth he hadn't felt for months.
"Yes? I'm sorry, were you looking for me?"
"Not at all, you've been right here the whole time."
"That's right, I've been right here. Did you need me for something?"
"Ah—yes," John Paul conceded. He had thought he might draw the whole hting out, but it seemed as if directness might be the best option after all. "I... am concerned, you see. I have been losing my balance at times, as you'll know."
"And?"
"Well, I thought, perhaps the ideal solution would be a cane. I could just lean on that, and there you go, easy as can be. Am I right?"
"I suppose it does make some sense," Henry admitted.
"So I would like it if you would come into town with me and help me look."
"Do you not know where to look for a cane?"
"Ah—no." John Paul pulled his lips into a mirthless smile. "Do you have any ideas?"
"Let me get my coat," Henry answered, and set the paper aside. John Paul helped him shrug his overcoat on and pulled on his own. The day was especially cold, as Christmas approached. He pulled his coat tight around his waist and tried to wiggle some of the heat back into his hands.
It took Mark only a few minutes to saddle the horses before he went back into the house, back under the blanket they'd found him in.
John Paul rode behind this time. He was too tired for any of this, he thought. He would rather have simply been back at home, and had someone else go and do it. He frowned, and then he felt his face cramping into that position so he stretched his mouth back out. It was far too cold for anyone to be out and about, but he feared it would only get colder until the new century dawned.
He stopped paying attention to their progress for a bit, trying to daydream the entire way to the city, but he found himself looking up after what felt like an eternity to the scene of the road, only halfway to the city.
Soon, in twenty or thirty minutes, they would pass into the outskirts, and the buildings would provide some sort of screen against the wind, which cut through his many layers straight into his bones. He desparately wanted to ask Henry how much further it was.
The road looked somewhat similar the entire way back to Derby; he could very well have been wrong about where they were, but he knew that he wasn't wrong. It was still a fair way to town, whether he wanted it to be or not. There was nothing for it but to keep pushing and keep moving.
Eventually they made it to the store, though. John Paul helped his nephew to tie the horses down. They should be alright even in the cold, he reasoned. They had blankets, and it should only be a few minutes before they returned.
The interior of the store was heated, and the colonel peeled his gloves off and shoved them down into a deep coat pocket.
He breathed into his cupped hands and rubbed them together, feeling the burning sensation of blood and heat returning to his extermities. It hurt badly, but he welcomed it as an alternative to the biting cold. Henry started to walk, and John Paul took a few experimental steps forward after him, his numb thighs rubbing against each other like foreign bodies. Eventually they came to a set of steps and Henry went up them, hurrying two at a time. His uncle took them more slowly, making sure that each step was taken carefully, and then he caught up in a few long, rapid strides.
There were a few canes, he saw; heavy-looking, with brass handles and metal tips. The shafts looked wooden, but he suspected that they were wrapped 'round a metal core. They looked smart, and he hefted one in his hands. It might have been only two pounds, but for such a small thing it seemed incredibly heavy, as if it were denser than it should be. He leaned on it experimentally.
"I suppose this will do," he said softly. Do you think... the black, or the brown?"
"The black looks better, if you ask me," Henry answered quietly.
"Then the black it is."
He carried it down the stairs, leaning heavily on the bannister. He hadn't quite managed to work the numbness out of his legs by the time they left again.
John Paul frowned again. It seemed ages si
nce he had smiled, since before the announcement of his marriage, which he was perfectly embarrassed by. He frowned and watched the hands on the clock. He should have been able to push his way through the day, as he had so many times before. He knew that Lydia would be coming later, but that shouldn't matter. Yet, he found, it did matter, regardless of whether or not it "should."
He was afraid of everything around him, an insidious paranoia that had invaded every part of his life and his marriage had not proven any sort of exception. She would be here, and either he would be putting his life on the line, or he would be making a damned fool of himself, and he couldn't tell which. Perhaps it would be both.
There was a knock at the door and he stood automatically. The most beautiful young woman he'd ever seen stood there, and he watched her for a moment before he opened the door to accommodate her.
"Lydia," he gasped. For a moment he forgot her manners. She still wore her black clothes; she would for a few more months, yet, and even then she would be in mourning until very nearly the day of their wedding, but she looked better than he had ever seen her, positively radiant. "Please come in," he blurted suddenly, when it finally occurred to him that he was being rude.
She smiled. There was simply no way, he decided. Either she was uninvolved, or she was unknowing of her own involvement, but there was no way that she could be in any way involved. It was as simple as that.
She had her hands pushed into a muffler and when she came in and John Paul closed the door behind her, she took one slender hend back out and held it out to him. He took it and pressed it to his lips. She smelled sweet, a peculiar scent that he didn't recognize.
"You're looking a little bit better."
John Paul swallowed a cough and smiled.
"That's very nice of you to say, dear. I wasn't expecting you"
"No?" She looked concerned. "But I sent the telegram, did you not get it?"
"Oh," John Paul said, startled for a moment. "No, I did get it, only a few days ago; I just meant that I wasn't expecting it."
Lydia looked at him, her brow furrowed.
"But it's Christmas," she protested.
"I know that. Mark and Thomas are home with their families; Henry and I were having our celebrations separately, I suppose. Neither of us are particularly used to having anyone around for the holidays, so..." The colonel trailed off. "Are there cabs out and about on Christmas? How did you get here?"
"I'm going out for a few weeks, you see. I have some family in London, and I spent a few years there when I was still in primary school, so I was going to go talk to people about the wedding. It's a little bit early, but it seemed like a good opportunity to take my trips at once."
John Paul sat back onto one of the chairs they'd set up nearly half a year ago, the chairs that had never quite made it out of the room even as they had prepared the rest of the house. Lydia did the same, opposite him.
"So it will be a little bit before we can see each other again, while I'm in London, but I'll be sure to write you."
"And I'll write you, as well, my dear."
"Thank you," she said, smiling. "Oh! I almost forgot."
She pulled her other hand out of the muffler, and held it out to him. There was an envelope, lightly crumpled. It has name on it, in the fine handwriting he had come to recognize as hers. He took it and examined it, but didn't open the flap.
"Merry Christmas," she said, and leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. "I'll be looking forward to when I can see you again in March."
He felt the word March hit him in the stomach. He had no idea how he would spend the months. Perhaps he would recover, he thought bitterly. He was upset at the fact that the thought occurred to him at all, and it showed on his face for a moment.
"John Paul?" She had put her hands back into the muffler and was had taken a few tentative steps toward the door, but now she turned back.
"Yes," he asked. He regretted his dark thoughts immediately.
"I love you," she said softly. So softly that it took him a moment to register what she'd said, as he moved automatically to open the door for her. He stopped still, watching her walk away into the snow.
"I love you too," he answered. She didn't hear him. He watched her climb up into the cab and the horses pulled it away. He didn't feel the chill; it seemed as if the entire thing wasn't happening to him, but to someone he was hearing the story from later. The cold, the snow, none of it touched him.
He looked down at the letter again. A pit opened up in his stomach. He missed her already, and she'd only been gone a moment. How would he deal with three months? He couldn't imagine it, and the truth was that he didn't have an answer, and he didn't find one, either.
Part 4
Chapter 18
The months passed slowly, painfully. For the first couple of weeks, John Paul found himself forgetting. He would wonder what sort of things he would be doing with Lydia, trying to remember when their next day together would be, only to remember that there wasn't going to be one, not for a while at least. Those were the worst times, but eventually that passed, and he forced himself to keep going. Just wake up and get through the day, as long as time passed.
Further, to his great, albeit morbid, pleasure, he found himself not getting any better at all. He was deterioriating, in fact, faster than he had before. He wobbled badly on the cane, struggling even to get out of bed. The furthest he could go, he found, was to go up and down the halls, pacing, and that was how he spent the majority of his time.
When he was still, after all, he thought ever of her, of Lydia, and of how she looked and smelled and felt. Was she enjoying her trip, he wondered, was she alright?
He got letters, of course. Dozens of them, nearly every day. He struggled to write fast enough to get a reply out the door before a new letter came in with his name on it, smelling faintly like her. After a month, he began to wonder if they didn't hurt him more than they helped. He couldn't put his head down and soldier through their time apart with gritted teeth, no. He had to be thinking of it constantly.
The first letter she gave him sat on his desk. He wasn't sure when to open it, even as the snows outside his window melted and the sun started to come back out as March approached. He sat on his bed, massaging the pain from his thighs, and stared at it. He should open it, surely. She had given it to him to read, not simply to look at, and yet it seemed as if that was a perfectly adequate use of the letter to him.
Lydia, John Paul found, was a grand mystery. The letter she'd given him on Christmas, the day she was preparing to leave for London, served only to solidify that mystery, to make her mnore opaque. To make him love her more, he thought.
But eventually, with great difficulty, he made it through the time in spite of himself. The letters started to be shorter, as she began travelling around, tying up missed connections and preparing to return. Finally he received a letter that contained no words at all—just a date and time.
Eleven in the morning, March tenth.
She'd signed her name at the bottom. The paper smelled like her, more than any of the others had. He smelled it and closed his eyes. That was tomorrow, then. He wasn't sure how he would manage it; he had a devil of a time with the stairs, but he wanted desparately nothing more than to come and meet her the very earliest possible moment.
"I've missed you," he said aloud. He tried to stand up, but he fell back onto the bed. He reached for the cane and leaned hard on it to walk. If there could be one thing that he was happy for—her good name, it seemed, was cleared.
He started down the hall again. He did not make good time, but after a few minutes he finished, breathing only a little bit ragged, and leaned against the wall. He turned to look out the window. He could see down the road quite a ways from the third floor, he realized; he could just make out the nearest neighbors, a kilometer or so down the road. Their house was large, at least as large as his. He wondered that he'd never really had a conversation with them. Well, he thought. It was a little bit late now
.
He rose early the next morning and tried to make it down the steps. His joints felt arthritic, and he was ever concerned that he might fall at any moment, but he took the steps slowly, and after a few minutes he found that he'd made it down the steps for the first time in what might have been three weeks.
He saw that at some point in his absence, the carpenters had pulled up the flooring on the front room. They would need to come to him, he thought, if they thought anything special should be done. It was not an ideal situation for either of them, but that was the situation in which they found themselves.
He hobbled over to the wall and pulled a coat off, shrugging it on as he used what little remained of his strength to stand un-aided. The door swung open easily. He'd been stuck inside for so long that it seemed as if it were going to be a major obstacle, but in the end it wasn't. He pushed himself out through the door. Mark was sitting in the stable, a heavy woolen coat on, and was brushing the horses.
"Sir! You're up. Is everything alright?"
"Yes, yes," he said. He was surprised to hear his own voice. He hadn't had much in the way of conversation the past few weeks, since he'd begun to struggle to leave his room. Henry would bring food in the mornings and evenings, often leaving it on his writing desk without a word.
It hadn't bothered John Paul at first, though now he wondered if his loneliness might have been helped by a few words of conversation from someone, anyone. "I need to be at the train station, you see. My Lydia is coming back, and I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Mark smiled. John Paul wondered if he'd seen the lad smile before; it was a memorable thing, and he thought that if he had seen it, then he would surely remember. Then the hostler picked up a chair and set it outside and told the colonel to sit, and then set about preparing the carriage.
John Paul pulled himself up on his own; he wouldn't be helped into the cart like an old man, though he feared that it was a very real possibility that he might need such help. He pushed the fears away. He had better things to concern himself with than a little bit of pridefulness. He would need to see a doctor again.
The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) Page 16
