But if they told him that he would need to postpone the wedding…he couldn't bear it. He needed to be able to provide for Lydia, and he couldn't do that after his passing if they weren't married. It was a simple arithmetic problem. Simon had solved it, ages ago it seemed now, by borrowing the money. But for John Paul it wasn't so simple. He wouldn't be able to 'pay back' any loans.
He sat in the back, his cane across his lap, and watched the countryside outside the window. It seemed like just yesterday he was riding down these roads, but at the same time it seemed as if it had all been in another life, a hundred years ago. Before things had gone so wrong.
They made good time, he thought. They beat the eleven o'clock train by twenty minutes, which was plenty of time even for the hobbled to John Paul to find an empty bench from which to watch the trains come in.
Lydia was as beautiful, he realized, as he had ever seen her. More. She was perfect, absolutely perfect, and there was nothing he wanted more than to see her a thousand more times. He tried not to wonder if that was an option for him, with the way that his condition was deteriorating.
There was absolutely no excuse for such worrywarting, not when he was seeing his betrothed for the first time in ten weeks. He forced a smile on his lips and forced himself up from the seat.
Mark waved beside him.
"Miss Wakefield," he shouted, loud enough that more than just Lydia looked. She smiled and waved and started toward them, a porter behind carrying her luggage. When she saw John Paul, she stopped short and blinked. He saw the look on her face, a look of mixed surprise and horror, that she covered up a moment later. She swallowed hard and kept on.
"John Paul, dear God! Are you alright?"
"You're here, darling. Nothing could be better." He stretched a weak smile across his face as best he could.
"You look awful. Have you seen a doctor?"
John Paul coughed. "Henry has one coming in, he's been coming up every couple of days with some medicine."
"And?"
"I don't want to talk about that right now, dearest. Tell me about your trip."
"No," Lydia said, stepping back. "You're scaring me, John Paul Foster, now tell me what is going on right now or—"
John Paul sat back onto the bench and leaned on his cane.
"I don't know, Lydia. I don't know what's wrong. I…have my suspicions, but…"
But they were wrong, it seems, he thought. He hadn't known who on earth it could have been, either. The quack doctor, perhaps? Simon could have gotten to him. It wouldn't be especially difficult for him to have elicited the information from Henry about which doctor his uncle was seeing, and to the best of his knowledge the colonel thought that the pair were still spending time together. He frowned.
"Simon won't stand for this, John Paul. You should come and stay with us, there's no way that he's like to refuse. He'll want you to be near a hospital, if he knew how bad your condition was."
"Are you saying he doesn't know, then?"
The words came out before he thought it through, before he considered the ramifications of what he was saying, and he regretted them instantly. But he pushed the regret away. There was nothing he could do about it now.
"What does that mean?"
Lydia sat down beside him. John Paul was tired. He hadn't exerted himself so much for weeks, and he was quite ready to slip back into bed now, but he was in town and that wasn't a choice. He looked at her face. She looked concerned, but her expression was guarded, as well. He shrugged his shoulders up for a moment and looked away.
"I can't imagine that Henry hasn't told him; they're together often enough, aren't they?"
"Is that a bad thing?"
John Paul slumped back against the back of the bench.
"No," he said. He was tired of fighting. It seemed as if she had only been back a moment before he'd upset her, and that was the worst part of all.
"Please," Lydia said, tugging lightly on his sleeve. "Just come and stay with us for a few days, until the wedding."
He didn't answer right away. It might even be smarter. Enemies closer, and all that; and he would be closer to her, in case things turned for the worse he would be able to spend his last few weeks with her.
"No," John Paul answered after a long moment. "I need to stay in the house and make sure things are prepared for the wedding. There's still work left to be done on the house; it should be done soon, but I need to be there to oversee it. They can't go forward without my go-ahead."
Lydia looked at him, and he at her, and for a moment he thought she would ask him again. He would accept if she just said the words again; he didn't have it in him to refuse her a third time. But she didn't say anything, and he didn't volunteer to change his mind.
"I can take you home, if you like, ma'am," Mark volunteered.
"Oh," Lydia said softly. "That would be better than a coach, certainly. What do you say?"
She directed the last question at John Paul, who pressed himself up with some difficulty from the bed. His legs hurt.
"Absolutely."
He hobbled a little way behind them, except for Lydia, who slowed purposefully to match his pace. He didn't tell her how thankful he was for it.
The night passed uneventfully.
Rather, John Paul returned home and Mark helped him back up the steps. He didn't go all the way to the third floor; it seemed a bridge too far, and there were plenty of empty bedrooms, seemingly all of them having been filled piecemeal over the past few months. He slipped into one of the beds and fell asleep near immediately.
He woke feeling surprisingly rested. He had been so exhausted from the trip the day before that he fell asleep readily, effortlessly. He didn't dream; he was too exhausted for it.
His bones still hurt; he rose earlier than he would have otherwise preferred, but the throbbing of his knees was such that he couldn't have gone back to sleep. So he rose. There was a sound of working downstairs, much to his surprise.
He reached out for the cane he'd left on the bed-side table and used it to push himself up, and then took his time in walking to the stairs. He leaned hard on the bannister; he was glad for the renovations, because the structure bore his full weight, though it was much less than when he had moved in.
He saw the carpenters working on the floors. They were installing a dense parquet pattern; for a moment, John Paul was puzzled. He certainly hadn't cleared any such work, and they had come to him for nearly every step of the operation before this. Further, such a complex pattern almost certainly had to be more expensive than simply laying down lumber; that was an expense that he had by no means cleared, and there they were incurring it.
And then he saw Henry. He was leaning against the wall, standing in the hallway opposite the stairs. He hadn't seen his uncle yet, but he feared it was only a matter of time, Eventually the boy had to notice him.
He slid down to the ground and started to drag himself across the floor. Using the cane was noisy; he couldn't afford to risk being heard by using it, but neither could he afford to stay there. There were too many questions.
He had always been clear with Henry; he was the head of the house, and as such he needed to be consulted before money was spent. Particularly additional expenses, particularly household expenses. That he hadn't been was a surprise.
He thought for a moment before he decided that it was probably innocent, however. He was becoming paranoid as his illness spread, that was all. He had blamed even Lydia for it, for a brief period. He sat back against the wall.
More likely he wasn't doing anything dubious whatsoever; he was probably just finishing the work for his uncle as a present, knowing how much his condition had deteriorated in the past few months.
With that in mind, John Paul found himself feeling very foolish indeed. What sort of madness was taking his mind that he was blaming anyone, on any evidence whatsoever, for his malady? He frowned. There was a good deal he had done in his life that he had come to regret, and more than likely this was his just
reward for those misdeeds.
He stood back up and slipped back into his bed. There was nothing he could do when he was hardly able to stand up. It was only a few weeks until the wedding. Then he could turn his attention in the days that followed toward putting every effort into recovering from whatever had laid him so low. He only had to make it a few more days. And the best medicine, he thought, was to sleep.
Chapter 19
For a few hours in the morning, John Paul had seriously been considering the notion of going into town with Mark and greeting his old army mates properly. It would have been a nice gesture, and even when he'd come to his senses, the colonel was frustrated by the fact of his own absence. It was rude, to say the least, and he had been looking quite a good deal forward to seeing them; even still, it was hardly any sort of problem if he couldn't meet anyone.
They would, after all, be coming straight to the estate. He had rooms and food enough to keep a half-dozen men for a few days without much difficulty. He let his nephew talk him out of it, trying to keep up the show of disappointment and annoyance. He would let them talk him out of going, but he wouldn't make it seem as if he were happy about it. First because he wasn't happy about it, of course, but also because it was shameful enough being barely able to stand for a prolonged period. To have accepted it…John Paul shuddered. He hadn't, though, so it was better not to dwell on it.
He pushed himself up out of the chair when they had left to lean against the door frame and watch the carriage trundle down the road. They would be back in a few hours with his old friends. He was worried what they would say when they saw him. Perhaps no one would comment on it at all; he had seen men balloon to twice their size after getting out of the army, so perhaps deteriorating as he had was simply the outside case and they'd seen his like before. Not that it was especially likely.
He pushed himself away from the wall and caught himself with his cane, moving slowly to the north wall. They'd had a bookshelf put there, and he had asked Henry to move his books down to it after bringing his supper a month ago. He had the boy bring him books on occasion, and then take back down the ones he had finished, but he hadn't been in a mood for reading. It seemed as if he were too exhausted for all of it; his mind too foggy and too preoccupied with the wedding.
He wasn't any less preoccupied, but he needed a distraction, and it would be several hours without going back up the stairs to nap the afternoon away, so reading seemed the best way to pass the time. He stood there trying to decide which book to read when Thomas joined him from the kitchen.
"Oh, sir, you're still here."
"Of course," John Paul replied grouchily.
"I just assumed you would be going into town."
"Yes, well. My nephew says I'm 'too ill' to take the trip; he would rather I stayed here, and I'm in no position to argue with him, am I?"
"I suppose not, sir. Would you like something to eat?"
John Paul didn't answer for a moment, examining the shelf again before he started hobbling back over to a chair. Thomas rushed to help him, grabbing his arm and helping to prop him up.
"I can make it myself, Thomas! Don't coddle me like an old man." The colonel closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I have a few hours to spend here; I don't suppose it would be trouble to prepare something to eat?"
"Not one bit," the cook answered.
"Excellent," he said distractedly.
It seemed there was nothing more to be done. He would do his best to make it through the wedding, but unless something changed in the next couple of weeks, John Paul knew, he had little hope for a long and prosperous future with his new bride. The best he had to hope for was that he could leave her and her family in a good position for the future, with plenty of money to survive on as long as they could.
"Thomas," he said softly, as the cook returned with a plate of sandwiches that he set down the table beside his employer. "Will you sit and talk with me a few moments?"
The cook wiped his hands on his apron and sat.
"Is everything alright?"
"My fiancee. You've spent some time with her, cooking lessons or some such, is that right?"
"Certainly," he said, though he looked uncertain where the line of questions was going.
"Was she a good cook, did you think?"
Thomas smiled and looked at his hands for a moment before he answered.
"Without a doubt, sir. She's smart, capable of doing what she needed to do, and she works hard. You know she's cooked several meals for you. Gives me a nice night off, so I don't mind."
"I know," John Paul said, thinking.
"Why do you ask?"
The colonel didn't answer right away. He looked out the window; a bird was landing on the stables across the road, and another came up beside it and perched down as well. Then a third, and a fourth, and before he knew it there was a dozen or more of them, then they flew away as suddenly as they'd come.
"I don't think I've just been ill, Thomas."
"What do you mean?"
"I think that someone's been trying to make me ill."
"What?"
"I don't know who it could be. It couldn't have been Lydia, could it?"
"No," Thomas agreed. He replied forcefully enough that John Paul looked at him for a moment before he continued.
"Her brother owes me some money, so I had initially thought that it might be related to that."
"That seems unlikely," Thomas said, making a face. "I didn't even know she had a brother; I certainly don't think he could have been making you sick without ever stepping foot in the house. Not the way you've gotten sick."
"No, it doesn't seem likely. Indeed, given that we had no visitors over the winter whatsoever, it stands to reason that it absolutely must have been someone in the house. Doesn't it?"
Thomas frowned.
"I'm not sure what you're trying to say. I had nothing to do with anything at all, sir."
"Is that right," the colonel answered, ruminantly. He shook his head. "I don't know any more. I don't know who it could be."
"I just make enough food for the lot of us, plus a little, and Henry comes and takes your food to you. You don't think…"
"You're eating the same food I am, Thomas."
"Absolutely, sir."
"But why on earth would Henry have any reason to do anything against me? I've never raised a hand against the boy. Indeed, I raised him up out of who knows what sort of life he'd had before, gave him a good home and a very reasonable allowance."
"I don't know, sir. I'm sorry I can't be more help."
"No, of course not, Thomas. You're free to go about your business, I won't keep you any longer."
"Sir," Thomas said, but he stayed in his seat. John Paul could feel his eyes even as he leaned his own head back and closed his eyes. He couldn't nap upstairs, he thought. But that didn't mean he couldn't rest his eyes a moment.
He opened them again when he heard footsteps outside the door. Someone was coming; indeed, several people. They'd arrived, then. Good. He blinked the tiredness from his eyes, rubbed at them, and then pushed himself up out of the seat.
"Gentlemen," he said, smiling, as the door opened. There they all were. General Smith, Andy, Chester, Wally. The twins. Andy stepped inside first and stopped dead.
"John Paul," he said after a moment. "Is that really you?"
He stepped out of the way of the door after a moment and let the others through.
"Is something wrong, then?" He stepped toward them, leaning on his cane, and held out a hand to shake his guests' hands.
"You look like death, man." Chester said it, speaking softly. "Have you seen a doctor? What on earth happened to you?"
John Paul coughed hard. "I have been seeing a doctor in town. I'm sure it'll all be taken care of shortly."
It was an obvious lie, and nobody there believed it for a moment, but neither did they want to argue.
"If you like, Henry and Mark will show you to some empty rooms. Dinner will be served at five t
hirty. The wedding—well, you know that much, I suppose."
He hobbled back to his chair and sat down. His legs, his knees, his ankles all hurt. He wanted little more than to fall back asleep, but he had to play the host as best he could.
John Paul rose days later, feeling exhausted. It was warm; he knew that much, and it was becoming dark outside. He looked out the window and gasped. There was a great massive gazebo, not dissimilar to the one they had taken down together what felt like an eternity ago when he had been able to get up out of bed without exhausting himself.
He could very nearly see himself there, standing on it with his cane, saying his vows beside Lydia.
He recounted the days on his fingers. March eleventh she had returned. April, she had come. John Paul could see in her face how difficult it was for her to spend time with him in the state he was in. June had come. Then the second, and now the third. On the fourth, he thought.
The fifth…tomorrow he would stand there, in front of a half-dozen men he'd known his entire life, in front of his nephew, beside a woman he'd decided to spend the rest of his life with. Beside a woman who had decided the same, in spite of the fact that there was little doubt that she knew that the rest of his life could be a very short time.
He loved her for that, he realized. More than her looks, more than her fire, more than anything, he loved that she'd had faith in him and devoted herself in spite of his condition. He wanted to tell her, and he would.
He thought of that letter on the desk, upstairs. He wondered what it said, now. If he'd been there, he might have opened it right then and there, but he didn't.
Instead, he decided that he had work to do. There was likely a good deal left to be done in the house, and until the wedding had gone off perfectly, without a single hitch, he wouldn't be ready to call it quits. It would be difficult; indeed, he wasn't certain how he would manage at all, but he needed to go and have a look around the estate. To ensure that whatever happened, he would have left a happy memory for Lydia.
The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) Page 17
