“What would you like?”
Henry got up and walked over, while the ladies asked for whatever he recommended. John Paul looked across the selection and picked up a bottle, leaving Henry to pick what he wanted for himself.
The dinner, he found, was intensely awkward. He had no sense for the passage of time, except that it was slow, and he had no sense for his nephew’s mood except that it was not good. Lydia smiled at him, though; her beautiful face shone through the worries. As long as she was smiling, everything was going well.
Only, he saw, her smile faded. Not little-by-little, but all at once. And then, immediately afterward, he slumped face-first into his plate.
As he woke, he felt someone shaking him roughly. He felt around and found himself in the same chair he’d been sitting in. Putting his weight on his hands, he pushed himself back up into the seat.
“I’m…”
Lydia was crying. When she heard his voice, she looked up and relief washed over her face.
“I don’t know what came over me. I’m terribly sorry,” he muttered through a confused fog. Lydia stood up suddenly, her chair falling back and clattering behind. John Paul winced at the noise, but she didn’t seem to notice.
She had a handkerchief in her hand, which she had balled up in her fist, and she walked until she stood over John Paul, her arms straight at her sides.
“Don’t you scare me like that, John Paul Foster!”
“I’m—”
She grabbed his face in both hands and pressed a kiss hard on his lips.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’ll never scare you like that again.”
John Paul tried to push the incident from his mind, but in the days that followed, as he waited for the engagement party, he found that the thoughts continually came back into his mind. He fretted over it at all times, at all hours, and worse, he feared there was nothing to be done but to hope it wouldn't happen again.
There was, after all, no immediate recurrence. If there was any reason for concern, it wouldn't happen only once. Then he would know to a certainty that there was a pattern.
If he had any sort of incident once more, then naturally, that would be the best time to go and investigate medical options. Until then, he would simply wait, and it was probably all the stress of having his betrothed meet his nephew.
After all, Henry was acting awfully rude, perhaps even brusque. And it was stressful, whether he admitted it or not. That it had had such an effect, though, was mortifying. Still, the Colonel pushed the thoughts from his mind. He had nothing to be embarrassed about; after all, he hadn't chosen to pass out like that. And he had quite a few things over his head. In a few weeks, the new flooring would be laid, and he would be prepared to move on to the next steps in his renovations. It wouldn't be too hard, he reasoned.
He continued watching the men lay the third floor. It seemed as if, before he knew it, they had reached the stairs and were taking them down as well, one by one. He watched from the bottom o
f the steps, now, as the men worked above him. It all looked terribly dangerous from down here, walking up a five-meter staircase only on the width of a few bits of pine. As if at any moment they might slip, like Henry had. But they didn't.
There was another matter to attend to, as well, though John Paul put it off as much as he could. He was surprised to find himself so dreading writing to his acquaintances in the Colony, to inform them of his betrothal. He had received some such notices himself, when he had served; it was always fairly easy to get leave for a few days to go and attend a wedding, and it was a welcome distraction from the work. But for whatever reason, he found that when it was his own engagement, he worried.
With the shifting power, a wedding might be an unwelcome distraction from more serious work, and worse, he might find that himself ignored. He didn't think himself misliked, but that didn't mean that he was not.
He pushed the thoughts away as best he could. There was something to be done, and he would need to do it. How embarrassing would it be for Lydia, he reasoned, if only her own friends and acquaintances were at the wedding to wish them well?
So John Paul, against his instincts, sat at the writing desk that he'd set up in the bedroom and stared at a stack of blank cards. Who would he even call on? He'd found himself increasingly insular as his career had come to an end. A good deal of his time the past year had been commanding military police, and the men did not always take particularly kindly to being policed.
Andrew Wright, of course, he thought, and write the name down on a slip of paper. And there was Chester, sure. They hadn't spoken in a few years, but neither of them had ever indicated that it was anything other than an unhappy coincidence that they hadn't found the time to speak. The men who'd served under him, he made a list for memory. Then there was General Smith; of course. He looked down at the list and found that it had grown to quite a few names.
Now, he wondered, how to write the thing? He set the pen down on the table and frowned. How indeed?
He went and laid in his bed. It was getting late, he saw. If he was to rise at any sort of respectable hour, he would need to sleep soon. Perhaps the letters would seem clearer in the morning. And then in the evening, he would be attending the Wakefields' home for the announcement of his engagement to Lydia.
He dreamt that night of her face, of her smile. He could imagine her on the day of their wedding, in a flowing white dress as the sun rose on the horizon. He woke tasting her lips on his and remembered her kiss when he had passed out.
Perhaps, he thought, the entire affair wasn't completely embarassing. One good thing had come from it, after all. Now if only he could prevent it happening again, without also preventing the kisses along with it. He lips tingled and he touched them.
The cards lay on the table, untouched from the night before. He rose and walked across to them.
What had the cards he had received said? He thought of several that he had received over the years, but for whatever reason nothing came to mind. He looked at the stack once again and frowned. Well, then, in either case he would need to figure out something.