John Paul nodded his understanding, and nearly turned on his heel and walked right out of the place. He stopped himself when he recalled that he had to place a new order, as well. “Oh, yes, miss, I should also be needing to order a couple of new beds, if that should be alright.”
She bobbed her head while scrawling everything down onto a scrap of paper. He put down a deposit on the furniture, took his receipt, and left.
It was only after he had left that he realized his mistake: he had forgotten to ask her for her name. It would be far too embarrassing to do it now, he decided. He frowned and walked on. He could see Henry’s face, a perversely amused smile twisting across the young man’s face.
“And now dinner?” he asked, and John Paul was glad that whatever his thoughts, he kept them to himself.
“Yes,” John Paul replied. “Now dinner.”
Chapter 2
John Paul could see something bothering his nephew when they returned home. He thought for a moment before he realized that they had done quite a bit of work so soon after his nephew's arrival.
“Do you know how to fence, young man?”
He imagined Henry had tried it. He had a considerable interest in matters of war and fighting, and fencing was the closest that a civilian come to it. It had a certain romance that any young man would yearn for. Henry was better suited than most young men.
Of course, John Paul had taken to it himself. It wasn’t every day that one could have a proper duel; there had to be some sort of provocation. Then the combatants had to find some place out of the way, and then there was the matter of the injuries or deaths.
With the new sport fencing, he could practice day in and day out, and so he had, for several years. As much as the military life led to stories worth telling, much of it was waiting. He had been one of several men who had thought that the sport was an enjoyable enough one to while away the hours.
“Naturally,” Henry answered. John Paul pulled out a mask and tossed it to his nephew, who pulled it on. He then pulled out his own, worn and marked with sweat stains that hadn’t washed out, and fit it around his own head.
The mesh of the mask muffled John Paul's voice when he spoke: “Does the fit suit you?”
“Well enough,” came the hollow, muffled voice from his nephew. They cleared a space in the middle of the massive foyer, and Henry stood for a moment to look at his uncle. They both waved their weapons in a sign of salute and then they each raised their weapons.
Henry was the first to move. John Paul had always preferred to let his opponent make the first move, particularly in the first meeting. It allowed him to observe them, and sometimes that allowance was enough to win the bout.
This was one of those times, he saw. Henry’s moves were rough, lacking the lightning speed of some of his fellow officers from the colonies. Though it was only a matter of a centimeter, John Paul dodged the buttoned point of the blade and touched the blade on his nephew’s chest.
Henry stepped back and lowered his guard, touching his chest where the button had jabbed him. Then he stepped back into a defensive posture and saluted once more, taking the offensive once more. He thrust in, but this time was a feint; he leapt back at the last second.
John Paul smiled at the attempt, and then he lifted his front foot and lunged. He closed the distance in a step and jabbed the button-tip of his blade once again into Henry’s chest. The young man was starting to learn, though he had a long way to go before he became any sort of challenge. John Paul held up his hand to signal a pause, put his blade under his shoulder, and pulled the mask up.
“Wait, wait,” he began, but his nephew gestured with the point of the blade and prepared once again to attack without waiting.
This time, though, John Paul didn’t wait. He was beginning to suspect that Henry thought he might win, if only he were a bit more aggressive, with a bit more bravado and emotion. John Paul needed to teach him a lesson here, and not just about fencing.
He stepped hard with his front foot and made a soft jabbing motion with his hand; it wasn’t the best feint he had made in his life, but it was enough. Henry’s blade moved to slap away a thrust that wasn’t coming.
He dipped the point just under his nephew’s flying weapon and then the thrust came again. As his nephew again moved to parry he saw that that attack, though it had seemed so committed, had been a feint as well. The point dipped once more below his blade before shooting up with blinding speed into his chest.
John Paul smiled. It was a simple strategy, of course, but simplicity was all that he would need for today. He could take points at his own leisure, as he wanted them, and there was little that Henry would be able to do about it.
That was enough for now, he thought. Whether Henry wanted to continue losing or not was his own business, now. John Paul had no intentions of depriving him if he wanted to continue.
An hour passed before Henry pulled his own mask off, sweat matting his dark hair to his forehead. His disappointment mixed with the bloody thrill of the chase, creating a muddled expression. John Paul was almost surprised at the young man’s growth in so short a time.
No miracles had occurred. It was never close, but the Colonel had watched his nephew grow for that hour. At first he had shown aggressive speed, but he had evolved to a game of cat and mouse. Of course, John Paul was ever the cat and Henry ever the mouse. If the young man had developed the sort of reflexes his uncle had, then with his quick learning he might have scored a few points himself.
“Go to bed now,” John Paul said, his breathing only barely ragged, “And in the morning, we'll get on to the work.”
John Paul entered the parlor the next morning to find Henry sitting in one of the chairs with the slate in his lap.
The Colonel came up behind and looked down over his nephew's shoulder.
“The lawn is a concern,” John Paul thought aloud. Henry nodded to himself but didn’t respond. For a moment John Paul wondered what he was thinking about. Then, at long last, Henry spoke.