“Thank you—”
“Martha, could you bring us some tea?” James Wakefield called into the kitchen.
Neither of the men spoke as they waited; the clock ticked loudly from the side of the room, and through it time seemed to be expressing itself physically as best as possible. After a few minutes, a woman came in, perhaps two or three years Nan’s elder, carrying a platter of cups with a kettle in the middle.
She filled the cups and put them on the table within easy reach of both men. She looked up at James questioningly, and when she received no response she stood and hesitated for a moment before leaving the room. John Paul could read the nervousness on her face as if it were written there plainly. When she’d finally left, John Paul broke the silence.
“Sir,” he said, and then stopped. He swallowed. “I intend to marry your daughter.”
The silence was palpable. Suddenly, with a sick feeling, the Colonel realized his mistake. “With your permiss
ion, of course.”
At this point, John Paul nearly got up and left. He felt as embarrassed as he ever had, and he had no concept of how to proceed. He had no nieces, no connection to anyone in his family to speak of to have heard any sort of conversation like this one, and he’d never done it before. He wished silently that he might be charging a mob of rebellious aboriginals, rather than sit and wait for a response, or to utter one more solitary word.
After a long moment, James Wakefield nodded thoughtfully.
“What is your trade? Have you any sort of income? Lydia’s lifestyle is not so bad, you know that you’ll have to keep her in a manner to which she’s accustomed, of course.”
“That’s no concern at all. I have ten thousand pounds in a bank in London, and another few thousand here in Derby. Of course, the majority of my day-to-day expenses are covered by my Army pension.”
Mister Wakefield’s eyes widened slightly. John Paul saw, then, that the number had been higher than he had expected. If he'd been presented with it himself, he might have had the same response.
“And your family?”
“Ah,” John Paul’s thoughts locked up for a moment. “Passed on, sir.”
“But in life?”
“My grandparents moved to London, where they raised my parents. We were also raised in London.”
“What sort of trade did they take?”
John Paul swallowed.
“Ah,” he said. His throat felt tight. “My grandparents were farmers, until they moved to London.”
James nodded and tried to mask his expression.
“My father was a writer.”
“Would I know anything by him?”
“No,” John Paul answered flatly. “He wrote for a magazine in London, and we didn’t do as well as we might have liked.”
“Any living relatives?”
“I have a nephew,” he answered.
“What does he do?”
“Henry lives with me, now. Before, that… I haven’t asked.”
“So,” James Wakefield said, “The money isn’t from your family, then. If you don’t mind my asking, where does a man from your family get ten thousand pounds?”
John Paul’s face blanched.
“Well, sir, of course, you can come into a certain amount of money working in Her Majesty’s service.”