The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

Though the time seemed to pass far too slowly, he knew at the same time that he couldn’t push the horse hard for pace. He needed the timing to fit perfectly, and that meant not being later than necessary, but also not being earlier.

He passed into down-town Derby at quarter past five, though when the hour had struck he’d been close enough to hear the church bells chiming loudly. The shops were still open, for the most part, though some, taking their supper early, had signs up marking the clerk as being out for dinner.

He left the horse in a stable and took a walk. He could use with the time wasting. The question of which diner to stop by was on his mind when he found himself walking past the storefront of Wakefield’s Furniture. For a moment, he nearly stepped in, but decided better of it and walked past.

It wasn’t until he was sitting in Robinson’s Diner off Main street that it occurred to him how strange the place had seemed. He couldn’t say for certain, but it seemed as if the lights had been off inside. It wasn’t the time, though, to go and check right that moment.

He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, so even though the Wakefield home was the other way, he went back to the store-front. The lights, indeed, were off. They were closed by now, of course. They had their hours posted every time he had gone in, and they closed ‘round about 5:30 most days.

But today, posted beside the hours, was a hand-written sign, which read:

CLOSED DUE TO A DEATH IN THE FAMILY.

WAKEFIELD & Co. WILL REOPEN ON THURSDAY, JUNE 1st.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE

- Simon Wakefield

John Paul felt a shudder run down his spine and ran down the street. What on earth had happened? And what would it mean for him? The sinking feeling had only gotten worse after reading the sign, and he ran as hard as he could, his chest burning with the strain. He stopped a few houses over and checked his appearance in the glass of a window with the shade down.

His hair was out of place and he tried to press it back into place with his hands, though it wouldn’t stay no matter how he tried. He checked his jacket and was surprised to find that in spite of his vigorous running he had managed to avoid tearing any of the seams, and found the same for his trousers.

He took a moment to catch his breath, and then started to walk again. Simon stood outside, smoking a cigarette. He had long, drawn lines under his eyes. When John Paul stepped into view, he looked too tired to show any surprise at seeing him.

“Oh, Mister Foster.”

“What’s happened?” He tried to make it sound concerned, but he could hear the anxiety thick in his own voice and knew that he hadn’t fooled anyone.

Simon took a heavy drag on his cigarette and looked at the street, where carriages rolled by unfeelingly, pulled by horses wearing blinders. The Colonel wanted to press him to respond, but held himself back. The young man would tell him when he was ready. Simon had heard him, he was certain of that.

“It’s the old man,” he said finally.

John Paul wondered if he would tell what had happened, but he didn’t ask. It would, he thought, have been far too rude. So he kept his questions to himself as best he could.

“I’m so sorry,” he said instead.

“It’s fine,” the eldest Wakefield boy said distractedly. It seemed an odd response, but then again he could tell that whatever was on his mind was weighing heavily.

John Paul saw Lydia through the doorway, wearing a thick velvet dress. She saw him, as well, and for a moment she rebelled against her better manners and wanted desperately to go to him, but then the moment passed and she kept walking.

The Colonel, catching the moment of loss and confusion captured in her eyes, turned back to Simon.

“You have my condolences, mister Wakefield,” he said softly, and he turned to go. His shoulders felt heavy. The shop would reopen in two weeks’ time, plenty of time for the family to recover from the shock and begin to mourn properly. But the engagement was no longer even an issue, he thought.

She would be mourning her father, and he would not call on her until she was ready to receive guests again. His relationship, even his entire life, it seemed, was on hold, and there was nothing he could do about it. He took a deep breath and renewed his effort to walk in an even, controlled manner. He couldn’t let his panic show on his face; the very notion was unthinkable.

He stepped into the labor office for the second time that week.

“I shall need a plumber,” he said.

“Mister Foster,” the man behind the counter began, but he quickly caught the mood. His voice dropped from the sing-song voice of dealing with a customer to a more conversational tone. “What did you need?”

“The estate has no internal plumbing; I assume the family who resided there must have been in a poor state and couldn’t fit it.”

The man nodded. “I guess that does make sense. I’ll have someone out, but it’ll be a big job to fit a place that large.”

“I know,” John Paul said. His voice was tired. Whatever drive had pushed him into the office in the first place, it was gone now, and all that was left was an exhausting feeling that nothing was going right, nor did it seem like it would ever go right again. “But it must be done.”