The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

“It pales in comparison to you, miss,” he answered.

Before Lydia could respond, Nan appeared atop the stairs. She had a hat on, and pressed one into Lydia’s free hand as well.

“Is everyone ready,” John Paul asked of no one in particular. When no one answered, he finished, “Then we’ll head out.”

He got out and helped the women into the carriage before stepping himself up to the seat. The ride to the theater was cool, the wind blowing gently across John Paul’s face, and he smiled. Tonight was the night, he thought. Whether he would have his bride or not, he would have at least this one more evening to spend with her. This one, and many more to come.

The play, he found, was a bit more entertaining than the last in his own estimation. He preferred the biblical story to the fantastical Danish nonsense. There was, of course, just as much blood, but he could as easily have done without it.

When Salome did her dance of the seven veils, he found himself captivated. It was not the curves of the dancer’s hips and her graceful movements, but the image of Lydia's curves and hips doing the same dance.

He pushed the thoughts away as best he could when he realized exactly how impure his thoughts were becoming. But in the back of his mind, the idea remained.

John Paul said nothing about marriage during the intermission. He let Lydia do the talking, and she went on about costuming and the acting.

She was surprised at how well they had managed to make the whole thing so convincing. The actors, in her estimation, were top notch. John Paul couldn’t disagree.

As the play continued, John Paul found himself more and more distracted by his own doubts. Would she accept his proposal this time? Would it even be appropriate to ask, or should he leave things as they were? Furthermore, was it even appropriate to be asking her, when her father had left matters the way he had?

John Paul tried in vain to push his anxieties away, but in the end they won out. He struggled to follow any but the most basic elements of the rest of the show.

At the end, he waited in his seat for miss Wakefield to stand, but she didn’t. Neither did Nan. All around them, patrons rose from their seats and began shuffling their ways toward the exit.

Finally, the room was very nearly empty, and still he waited. He couldn’t figure whether this was intentional on her part, or perhaps she was as distracted as he. He could, however, see her watching him. Oh well, he thought. The time is now.

“Miss Wakefield,” he said, trying to control his voice and still the beating of his heart.

“Yes?”

He looked into her eyes and saw infinity. Every line on her face, every feature, was more perfect than it had ever been. Yet, it seemed that before his very eyes her beauty grew, still.

“Miss Wakefield, have you given any thought…” He cut himself off. He could hear the words coming out of his mouth and they sounded stodgy and tired. He hadn’t envisioned himself sounding anything but dashing and gallant, but now it all sounded wrong.

“Yes?” She prompted him again. Right, he thought, I have to come out with it.

“If you will have me, miss, I would very much like to marry you.”

Her hand, twisted up beneath her jacket, came out and she set it on his own. John Paul could not resist lifting a thumb and running it along the edge of her palm. They stayed like that for a second, and though John Paul suspected her answer, an awful feeling in his gut worried him.

“It will not be easy,” she said at last, “to convince Father.”

“I know. I’ll find a way,” John Paul said. His voice spoke of a confidence on the issue that he didn’t feel.

“In time, I believe he’ll come around, mister Foster.”

“So you will?”

“With my father’s permission, of course.”

John Paul took her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers, and they walked back to the carriage with their fingers entwined. Whether Nan had concerns about it, she kept them to herself. John Paul’s heart soared the entire way back to her house. The night had grown chill, but he couldn’t feel it except as the most distant sensation.

When the three of them arrived back at her home, Lydia leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek. John Paul could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as the ladies stepped inside. The Colonel turned to go, until he heard a man’s voice calling his name.

He turned to find Simon standing outside the front door. He had no coat on, so he could not have intended to be out long, but he closed the door behind himself, so that the pair of them stood alone on the lawn.

“Mister Foster,” he said. He hesitated, and John Paul remembered that the last time they had spoken, he had done something similar.

“Yes,” John Paul prodded. The chill was finally beginning to touch him a bit, and he wanted to go and fetch a coat from the boot. He came back over to Simon instead.