The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

The second half was a great deal bloodier, and John Paul found himself more interested. In his life, he had had little time nor inclination toward intrigue in the political arena, but it had been a constant specter lurking in the shadows. To see it made plain was interesting enough, and as Macbeth sunk into madness, the Colonel couldn’t help but find himself feeling sorry for the man.

Once everyone had died, the curtain closed once again, and then the entire cast came out to take their final bows and the lights cut back on once more.

Lydia looked over at him, and suddenly the question he’d asked got under his skin again. He needed her to agree, as well. If they had to wait for her father to support them, then they would wait, but he needed to know that she would wait with him. She leaned into him once more, until he could feel her hot breath on his ear.

“Go with me to see Salome,” she said. “Next month.”

John Paul struggled to hide the confusion that ran over him. Had she forgotten that he’d asked her for a promise of marriage?

“And then ask me again.”

A pit opened up in the Colonel’s stomach. It was a no, but he noted hopefully that it was not always to be no. John Paul hated to be left in the dark, but he hated more the thought of leaving things as they were. With that thought in mind, he pushed his doubts away and rose to his feet.

“Of course, miss.”

Chapter 7

The chores, for the time being, all finished, John Paul rose late the next morning. He had an aching head, an aching heart, and no concrete idea of what to do next. He could hardly form a coherent thought throughout breakfast.

He had never felt so exhausted, except after heavy drinking, which he’d not engaged in, though he had considered it. It was finally seeing Henry walk into the dining room that made him decide to do something with the day.

“Good morning,” he said, and Henry grumbled a response that might have been an appropriate one.

His voice was thick with sleep, and the Colonel silently sympathized with his exhaustion, even as he tried to dispel his own.

John Paul stood and carried h

is used utensils into the kitchen to be washed. Then he sat down in the most comfortable of his chairs and waited for Henry to join him. During that time, he took a mental stock of what had yet to be done.

They hadn’t gotten up the courage to take the gazebo down, and it would need to be done no doubt. The concern was that the roof might fall onto someone. With John Paul and his nephew both exhausted, neither would be in a state to deal with the dangers of such a job.

The patio, as well, had not been fixed. They would need to remove the offending root completely if they were to properly fix it as such, and John Paul had no desire for such a large job.

He looked over at the wall and saw a painting leaned against it. He hadn’t hung it, and from the look of things, neither had anyone else in the house. He stood and walked over to it as Henry walked out of the kitchen and joined him in the room.

John Paul heard him sit back into a chair, but paid him no mind. He could get rid of the old furniture, making room for newer things. The windows were mostly large enough that the stuff could simply be tossed out. Any wood might be kept for kindling over the winter, and the rest could be burned or taken to the local garbage dump.

The Colonel turned, feeling himself pull his shoulders back to hide what little remained of his malaise. He addressed his nephew: “We’ll be doing more work today, my boy.”

Henry looked up at him through heavily-lidded eyes, but said nothing.

“We’ll be heading upstairs and getting rid of the old furniture, I think. Can you manage it?”

Henry nodded, still silent. John Paul clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good lad. I’ll fetch a few pieces of paper; write down whatever was in the room before you toss it, will you?”

Henry nodded again and stretched and yawned. John Paul fetched the papers and handed his nephew a small pencil, and then set off with his own pencil and papers. He went up to the third floor and looked up and down the long hall.

He decided to start on the north side of the building and work his way south. There was no real logic to it, but any orderly fashion was better than none, so he reasoned this was as good a method as any.

The northern-most room was large, with a sloped ceiling that made the room seem smaller than its floor plan implied. There was an armoire against one wall, and a four-post bed nearby to it.

The room was tailored to a woman’s preferences, with portraits of beautiful women from years past. There was a shelf covered in dolls that showed remarkably little of the wear of the rest of the home.

He wrote all of it down save the dolls, which he set in the hallway. He wondered if Lydia would fancy such a toy. With that thought in mind he set off to work tearing down the bed frame. It came apart easily, the glue having long since rotted away and the wood having lost its former strength. He set the windows open and heaved out the first of the posts, hearing a satisfactory ringing from the clatter below.

A second post followed it, and he allowed himself a glance back at the dolls. Perhaps they would make a decent gift after a washing. He was aware that there was cat-and-mouse game of courtship, but he had no notion of how to properly play it. He caught himself leaning back against the wall and stood again. He pulled the bed free from the wall so that he could yank off a third post, then carried it across and threw it out as well.