The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

Further, how could he know that he was not the one being strung along by all of this? A fourth post was heaved out the window, clattering on the stone below. A mildew-smelling mattress joined it a moment later.

He simply had to trust her. Even if she were not simply playing coy, and her father was not simply testing him or some such, he would need to persevere.

Eventually, he would convince them both, or he would be told in no uncertain terms that his efforts could not continue. He pushed the iron bed-frame out the window and leaned out to watch it fall to the ground below.

He went into the Furniture store the very next day. He hadn’t planned on seeing her until Friday, but it seemed as if he had no reason to wait, not when every waking hour seemed an eternity. His need for nearly a dozen rooms’ worth of furniture made an excellent excuse, as well.

He saw Lydia smile when he walked in. He couldn’t help admiring her dark hair, piled onto her head and pinned into place. Lord, he thought, but she is beautiful.

He had planned only on saying hello and doing his business, but it seemed now as if it were impossible not to ask her out to lunch again. He had business to attend to first, though, he reminded himself.

He would address with business first; then he would deal with pleasure. He set the list down on the counter. It was several pages long, and he pushed it across the counter.

“Good morning, miss Wakefield.”

“Mister Foster,” she said. She smiled at him, and he pointed to the stack of papers on the counter.

“I’ve got an order that I’ll need to be filled, miss.”

Lydia picked the papers up and leafed through them.

“I’m sorry to say, sir, that we don’t have all this in stock. Of course, my Father can make do, but it will be a week or two, if that’s acceptable.”

“Of course.”

“And there’s the matter of a deposit, of course.”

“Of course,” he answered again, and pulled a wallet from his jacket, laying down some bills.

Lydia took then and put them into the register, then disappeared into the back room with the list. When she came back, her hands were empty, and she walked up to the counter slowly, smiling at him. He wished that she would stay like that forever, sauntering up to him with that exact warm smile on her beautiful face.

“Is there anything else you needed, mister Foster?”

“Yes, miss Wakefield, I was wondering if you might join me for lunch again.”

“That sounds lovely,” she said, flicking her eyes over to a clock that hung behind her. “But it’s only eleven now. Can you come back in an hour?”

“Of course,” he said again. He tried to burn Lydia’s smile into his mind. If he had no luck with her, then at least the memory of her would be enough to warm his heart, he thought.

He spent the hour patrolling around the block. He had nowhere to go, no one to see, and he found that every time he stopped walking he had an insatiable urge to continue moving. So much of his career had been spent making smart decisions. It had required a healthy patience, and yet now he could not muster even a tiny amount.

He needed to be with her again, and he needed it now. That she had asked him to stay away was all that kept him from waiting inside the store. The only thing that scratched his mental itch was to keep himself busy, to keep moving on and on.

After what seemed like several lifetimes, the clock rang out across the city, twelve loud chimes. He made haste to the store, where he came upon Lydia and Nan locking up the front of the store to meet him.

The choice of where to eat was his, but in reality, his task was to decide what Lydia would prefer without her saying so. He guessed and chose a place on St Peters street and hoped that she wouldn’t mind it too. Her smile told him that either he had chosen well, or that she liked his company enough that it didn't matter.

Lydia gossiped in a loud whisper about the silliness of customers she dealt with on a nearly daily basis, and John Paul laughed.

When finally the meal was over she was flushed in the cheeks and and laughing too hard to tell her stories, which may have been as well. He walked her back to the storefront, but it couldn’t have been enough time to sate his thirst for her attention.

When they reached the store she turned to regard him once more, handing the key to Nan, who busied herself unlocking the door.

John Paul, unable to contain himself any longer, finally exclaimed, “Miss Wakefield, will you not marry me?”

Lydia covered her mouth with one hand, trying to cover up the way her lips curled into a smile. “Not one bit,” she said. “When are you taking me to see Salome, Mister Foster?”

John Pa