The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

The fact that he would be able to distract himself for one more day didn’t hurt, either.

Finally, the next day came; John Paul found it quite impossible to sleep, and watched the sun come up with exhaustion clawing at him, but even still he found himself unable to close his eyes for more than a moment.

He took breakfast and set about touring the house to ensure that everything was in working order before ducking back into his room to dress for the evening’s festivities. He looked into the mirror and tried to stand with his back straight.

Simon Wakefield was not a short man, but he was dwarfed beside John Paul, and the Colonel wondered momentarily if it wouldn’t be a better idea to slouch just so, to make him feel a bit more comfortable. He tried it on in the mirror and decided he looked an utter fool when he tried it.

He took the mare into town, hours before he was intended to see the Wakefield boy. No, he corrected himself, Mister Wakefield, now. John Paul wandered anxiously around town. He found that there was no place where he felt so comfortable that he might spend hours, not in the mood he was in currently.

He stopped for a moment in a bar and ignored his desire to walk straight back out. He sat down on a stool and waited, his fingers tap-tapping on the bar. He inspected his fingernails and went back to drumming his fingers while a young woman took his order and came back a moment later with a gl

ass half-full of amber liquid and ice.

His nervousness threatened to overwhelm him. Who had ever heard of such a silly thing, he wondered. That a man of his background would be so nervous about, what—talking to a twenty-two year old boy! It was absolutely unthinkable, but he found himself very nearly sweating.

He sat down on a stool and waited, his fingers tap-tapping on the bar. He inspected his fingernails and went back to drumming his fingers while a young woman took his order and came back a moment later with a glass half-full of amber liquid and ice.

He absently took out a couple shillings and slid them across the table before picking up the glass and taking a comfortably large gulp of the stuff. It burned his throat, but the fire in his belly felt nice. He took another sip.

The Colonel looked at the glass, noticing a prominent bubble in the thick bottom. It drew, it seemed, an inordinate amount of his attention, and he looked at it idly as he waited for his time to be up. He took another drink and checked his watch. Ten more minutes here, and then forty minutes to the Wakefield home.

He had plenty of time. Still too much time, if he was being honest. He took another sip and savored the woody flavor and the thick burn that went down after.

John Paul looked again at his watch. Only another eight minutes here… he cut the line of thought off by taking another large swallow, upending the glass to get the very last of it out, and then set it back down, the ice rattling satisfyingly. He got up and straightened his jacket, then walked out the door.

The walk to the Wakefield home was leisurely, by design. He had far too much time left, but he had nothing much to do, and as he walked the area became increasingly residential. By the time he was a kilometer away, he knew that if he wanted to stop into a shop he would have to turn back, but he didn’t.

When John Paul Foster finally knocked on the door of the Wakefield home, it was four twenty-seven, and he’d been strolling the perimeter of the home just out of sight for the past five minutes or so.

There was only a moment’s wait before someone answered the door who he couldn’t put a name to.

“Mister Foster,” the young man inquired.

“Yes,” John Paul answered.

“Follow me, sir, Simon is in the parlor.”

John Paul followed him past a few closed doors to the parlor, where he’d first sat with Lydia and chatted when he had come to call on her. Inside, there was a thin, nearly gaunt man who turned to greet John Paul. He had an exhausted look, but if he ignored the way that his skin seemed stretched and waxy with exhaustion and grief, John Paul could just recognize Simon Wakefield.

“Ah! Mister Foster!” he cried out, with an enthusiasm that belied his sickly appearance. He stepped forward with a hand outstretched for a handshake, which John Paul accepted.

“Mister Wakefield,” he answered. Simon’s expression faltered for a moment, as if he was unused to being addressed as such.

“No, no,” he said, softly. “I’m Simon. Mister Wakefield is my father.”

He gave a mirthless laugh at his own joke and smiled.

“Simon, then,” John Paul said. “Is everything alright?”

Simon was silent for a moment before answering.

“Things have been better, mister Foster. I hope I won’t sound too cruel in saying that this couldn’t possibly have come at a worse time. I have quite a full plate taking over from my father.” He looked down at the floor. “I know the trade well enough. I can take over the business, without a doubt, but I…”

John Paul waited for him to finish.

“It’s quite rude of me to say this, mister Foster. I know that. And understand, my permission is not contingent upon your answer. But I worry that debtors will take my father’s business from me if I cannot pay them soon. I simply couldn’t bear it if my mistakes were to hurt my family, sir.”

John Paul frowned. His reasoning was sound enough.