The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

“Yes, yes, of course,” James cut off. “But ten thousand is quite a bit. My cousin, he joined the Army, served in India. Made himself a reasonable amount of money.”

He gave John Paul a sideways glance. “Skimming off the taxes, you know how it is, I’m sure.”

“I never—”

“That’s how it goes with taxes. Everyone takes a shilling here and there, all the way up. It’s a surprise that any of it at all makes it to the royal coffers. But my point is this. He came home with a princely sum of three thousand pound, and he made away better than some of them if he tells the stories true. Where did you find more than thrice that?”

“It comes, this way or—”

“No, John Paul Foster, that’s not good enough. You’ll tell me the truth, now, or you can go back to your house in the country.”

“I—”

There was a moment where John Paul considered telling him. It wouldn’t turn into a court-martial if the secret was kept between him and a civilian. But the risk was too great. He had promised himself to take the secret to his grave. That was the only safe way.

“I need time to think about it,” he said, finally.

“I can see that,” Mr. Wakefield answered. He sucked on his gums and finally added, “I’m not saying you can’t see her any more. In time, maybe you’ll be more forthcoming. But I won’t have my daughter married to someone who can’t say where his money comes from, do you understand me?”

“I understand you, sir.”

“Very good.”

John Paul stood and for a moment wasn’t sure what he should do. He picked up the forgotten tea cup and took his first, and last, sip.

“The tea is excellent, thank you.”

“Have a pleasant evening, Mister Foster,” James Wakefield said without looking at him.

“And you, as well.”

John Paul walked out into the late spring evening and un-hitched his horse. It would be a long ride home, and it was beginning to get dark. He set off without delay

The days passed slowly, from that point. John Paul seemed to have all the time in the world, but it didn’t matter over-much. He thought of telling James Wakefield everything, about the cave, and the gold. He would understand having not reported it, and the details could be glossed over. It would be simple. But there were questions, even then, that he couldn’t answer.

Ten thousand pounds was a hundred kilograms. How did he carry something so heavy over any distance to speak of alone? If he didn’t carry it alone, how did he get away without splitting it? If he had split an even greater sum than ten thousand pounds, why was nobody else out spending like a drunken sailor?

They were all good questions, and questions for which John Paul couldn’t give an honest answer. Refusing to answer would be better for his reputation, but would throw the entire story into doubt.

He could lie, of course. He’d never struggled to craft a convincing lie, but to base a marriage around such a lie… it defied morality. The idea had barely crossed his mind before he refused it. No, he would find a less complicated version of the truth to tell. That way, should it ever come out, he had only been a bit reticent to share his private matters, rather than outright a liar.

It was with all of these thoughts in mind that he called on the Wakefield house again a few days later. This time, when the young man answered the door, he said simply that he was calling on Lydia, which was true enough. They’d made plans a week beforehand to go to a play, Shakespeare’s Macbeth. John Paul had no special interest in tragedies, but Lydia had asked, and he couldn’t refuse her.

He could see the elder Wakefield inside, his back to the door, his head down. Lydia came down, Nan alongside, and she walked over and gave him a kiss, and then joined her escort outside. He opened the carriage for them and stepped up. Perhaps it would be proper for him to hire a driver, he thought, and he made a mental note to consider it further as he set off toward the playhouse.

The entire affair wasn’t terrible, he had to admit. In the first act, they established some nonsense about witches seeing the future, though, and John Paul made it an effort not to snort at the notion. Witches, he thought, did not have any sort of power at all, but that given to them by Satan. That it was a play made no difference; it wasn’t particularly realistic or believable, he thought, and it hurt the story over-all.

None of this seemed to matter to Lydia, though, who watched with rapt attention. He could see her reacting, every so often, before something would happen, and he wondered if she’d seen it before. It was a well-known play, he knew, but couldn’t imagine why someone would go to see the same one twice. After what seemed like hours, the curtain closed and a man stepped out in a suit, loudly addressing the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll now take a fifteen minute intermission, please enjoy the rest of the show.” And then the lights cut on.

People stood and left or chatted among themselves quietly, and Lydia leaned over to him and whispered. “You don’t like it.”

“Not at all,” he lied. “It’s wonderful.”

Lydia abandoned the line of questioning and sat straight again. This time it was John Paul’s turn to lean over, softly speaking a few centimeters from her ear. “Will you marry me, Lydia Wakefield?”

And then, feeling as if only a few minutes had passed since the intermission had begun, all around them the patrons were back in their seats were turning off, and before she had time to respond, the curtain opened on the King in his throne room and the play began, the actors and audience reinvigorated from their brief respite.