The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

The Colonel thought about Lydia for a moment. How

unlike Henry’s dueling their conversation had been. His side of it had born a remarkable similarity, in a certain sense. He was always sitting back and waiting for an opportunity to present itself. In conversation, unlike in swordplay, he knew none of the right moves. The opportunities seemed never to present themselves until she offered them.

Then a blade came barreling down on him and he had no more time to think about conversations or beautiful young women. He smacked it away, centimeters from his chest, and put the point of his blade up finally, pushing forward.

He saw several problems; some of them were easier to fix than others, and John Paul struggled for a few moments with where to start. When he saw Henry’s blade slap his own away, he saw the largest, and perhaps the easiest to fix.

Henry moved his hand only a little, but the point of his blade went flying wide. When he tried to swing it back around to thrust back into his uncle’s chest, John Paul easily recovered to make a parry of his own.

The Colonel's riposte was not so hampered. He pulled off his mask after the touch and gestured for Henry to do the same. The entire bout had lasted maybe a minute, and there was a change to make, now. Something he could fix.

“Henry,” he said, “Let me show you something.”

Chapter 5

The days were agonizingly long until he could call on Lydia once more. He cleaned the house, finished the repairs on the balcony, practiced with Henry. Henry was getting the hang of a tight parry; with the most glaring problem dealt with, he was becoming a formidable opponent. Even still, John Paul found little in the way of relief from his impatience.

When, at long last, the week had finally passed, he called on her once more. He felt the same trepidation he had felt before, the desire to not attend the appointment. He thought again about the days he had spent looking forward to this meeting, and he realized how foolish that would be. He rapped at the door and waited for someone to receive him.

Rather than Nan’s disaffected smile, though, he was greeted by a large man with a warm grin. He hid his surprise as best he could.

“Hello,” the man said. “We’ve been expecting you, Mister Foster. I’m Simon Wakefield, Lydia’s elder brother. If you’ll just sit down here for a moment, I’ll…”

He might have finished the thought, but he didn’t stop in earshot for John Paul to hear it. He left the room as if it hadn’t occurred to him that someone might not hear through walls. As he waited, John Paul tried to still the beating of his heart. It was a struggle to push back against his nerves, which threatened at all times to overwhelm him. He heard voices through the door, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

And then the door opened, and Simon led beautiful Lydia through the door. He had a confident, self-congratulatory smile on his face that didn’t quite fit the situation. He was positively beaming as John Paul rose to greet Lydia.

“Miss Wakefield, it’s lovely to see you again.”

“And you as well, Mister Foster.”

Simon stood there, watching the pair of them in silence. Where Nan could be a background object who could be ignored if you chose, Simon had an obtrusive aura that made it impossible not to notice him. As if he wanted to be seen.

John Paul corrected himself mentally: It wasn’t as if he wanted to be here, surely. Nan must have fallen ill, and they would need a stand-in for her, certainly. It wasn’t his usual role in the family to try to fit seamlessly into miss Wakefield’s life at all times.

John Paul stood there for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other. He was not usually one to push a situation, but it was unclear how to handle the change.

“Shall we take a walk, ma’am?”

Miss Wakefield showed her agreement by way of a tiny nod of her head. Simon opened the door for them, and followed the pair out into the open air. They didn’t have the large estate that John Paul did, and no yard to speak of, so they would need to take their walk through the city streets. It suited John Paul well enough, he decided.

He liked the city, though he wouldn’t live there if he had the choice, not after so long in New South Wales. They went for a long time without speaking, just walking beside one another. John Paul stole glances at Lydia from time to time, to avoid being seen in the process for reasons he didn't understand himself. As if her knowing of his admiration would ruin the whole thing. He never saw her looking at him, but he could feel her eyes on him as well.

Simon, for his part, managed finally to avoid becoming a distraction, for most of this time. He walked a step or two behind, and he said nothing, and it was easy to forget that he was there, when he wasn’t standing right in front of you.

“The weather certainly is nice today,” Lydia said finally.

John Paul agreed with her, and he told her so. It was sunny, but not too hot, and a gentle wind blew through, enough to create a relaxing sort of atmosphere without being tiresome. A perfect day, he thought, with the perfect woman. He didn’t tell her that.

He was happy to hear her comments on whatever came to mind, and when she finally started to talk, he let her. No, more than that, he encouraged it. She told him about the quality of the clothes in this boutique, told him about the food at that restaurant. He bobbed his head as she spoke, finding her quite agreeable in all respects. Eventually, she stopped and looked up at a large, beautiful old church steeple.

It startled John Paul to see a church; he hadn’t been to a service in a month. First he’d been returning to the motherland, and stayed in London for only a few days, so of course he wouldn’t have tried to lay any roots. Then he was in Derby, but he had been so busy that the thought hadn’t occurred to him. He made a mental note to attend that Sunday at all costs.

Simon cut in, then, and John Paul could feel his anger rise even as he controlled it.

“Did they have churches like this in Australia, Mister Foster?”

John Paul wondered for a moment if he’d been serious in asking the question; it must have been, though, even as ill-timed as it was.