As long as he was clear, it wasn't as if he would be struck low for not being poetic or romantic enough in letters to a couple dozen soldiers. Lydia needn't even read them, after all.
He pulled the chair out and lowered himself back into it and started to write. The words didn't come easily, but he pushed through even still. He sat back and scratched his head. It had seemed appropriate not to concern himself overmuch with creating the most perfect letters ever written, but as he read the draft back, it seemed that this, perhaps, might be a bridge too far. He tore it in half after reading only two sentences. Too sentimental, yet not artful enough.
After trying and failing once again to remember what the cards he had received over the years had looked like, he sat back. Perhaps that was the wrong tact. Perhaps he should ask himself what sort of card he would have liked to receive. That was easier, he thought, than trying to remember what the best had looked like.
Of course, promise of leave was implied. To say it would be tantamount to implying that he was too stupid to realize it, so it would be left out. He found that discussions of the impossible beauty of the bride were tiresome. They were never, as a rule, as pretty as promised. Lydia was every bit as beautiful as he could image, but even still he wondered if it wouldn't be too much.
After a great deal of deliberation he sat back from his second effort. It was short, and perhaps just a bit too direct, but he thought it would do the job.
"Andrew," it opened.
"I am writing to inform you of the engagement of myself and a young woman I met back home. When the marriage is approaching, I hope- you'll come to join us at the wedding in a year's time."
He looked down at the paper and read it over again. John Paul winced at it; he was certainly no writer. He set about copying it for the next name on the list. He made good headway; it was easier to copy the notes than it had been to write the first. As he folded the sixth card over, though, his stomach twisted itself into a knot and made an unpleasant squelching sound. He pushed through the remaining cards and set off to the lavatory.
He stopped at a bar in Derby on the way to his engagement party, feeling nauseated and anxious. He made a bee-line for the restroom and wiped his face clean, looking into the mirror. He looked like death, he saw, but he had to ignore it. His face was pale, and he could see deep circles under his eyes. He pushed himself back straight.
There wouldn't be any time for any sort of dalliance; he would just need to soldier on. He found realized that he was using that term a lot, in his mind. He would have to keep going, would have to continue. He thought it was worrying that on the night of his engagement, he repeatedly thought of it as having to 'soldier on' through the evening, but he pushed the thought away.
The nerves were getting to him, that was all. He ordered a drink from the bartender and swallowed it in one go. The bill was only a few shillings and he paid a pound.
"Keep the change," he muttered as he pushed the door open and walked back into the evening air. The only thing now would be to get back on the horse and go back to the Wakefield home. It was only a party, he reasoned. That they would be announcing the engagement was a wrinkle to the party, and there was no reason to be nervous whatsoever.
He pulled himself off the horse and wrapped the reigns around a post.
"Mister Wakefield," he heard the man say as he stood at the door. "It's nice to see you."
John Paul didn't recognize the young man, but he let the boy take his coat nonetheless.
"John Paul," a voice said, and he turned to see Simon standing in a doorway, smiling. "It's nice to see you again."
"Nice to see you, too, Simon." John Paul made himself answer politely, but it didn't feel nice to see him. He felt distracted by the pain in his stomach, and he had a thick wad of bills that he'd be giving to the young man. He swore that he would pay it back, and John Paul hadn't personally found any reason to doubt him, but he wondered if this wasn’t a case of robbing Peter to pay Paul, and he didn't want to be caught holding the bag at the end of it. He pushed the thoughts doubts away and moved up to greet the Wakefield boy.
"About that loan you asked for, Simon—"
"Not here," he said softly, and stepped back into the room, beckoning John Paul to follow.
The Colonel did, though not without hesitation, and as he stepped inside the younger man locked the door behind them.
"Do you have the money?" he asked softly.
"Right here," John Paul answered and patted his breast pocket.
"Okay, very good. Thank you so much, mister Foster. I really can't..." he trailed off.
John Paul pulled a stack of bills out of his waistcoat and started to count them onto the table. One, two, three... In total, there was eight thousand pounds in the stack. He straightened them on the table and handed the stack over.
"Is everything in order," he asked softly.
"Of course, mister Wakefield. Thank you so much. You don’t understand how much this means to me, to our family. I'll begin repaying you as soon as I possibly can, and until then I hope you can enjoy our hospitality for a few hours tonight."
The Colonel smiled weakly. "I'll do my best, Simon. Thank you."
"You don't look too good, are you sure you're feeling alright?"
"I'm fine, I assure you."
"Good," Simon answered, though he looked doubtful. "I wouldn't want you to be too ill; I really don't know what Lydia would do with herself. After father died..."