The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

John Paul looked at the rings and found that he had no idea what sort of things were the fashion. He knew that he should take the initiative in situations like this one; a young woman needed a strong male presence in her life, and John Paul knew that in most parts of their life together he could be that. In fashion, though, and jewelry, he was the student and she the master and he found himself deferring to her.

"This one is lovely," she said to him softly. He looked at the ring she was pointing at, and he had to agree. It was lovely. He had to restrain himself from immediately asking how much it would cost; that was certainly no issue at all, and she had nearly instantly moved on to another glass container of rings that the proprietor had moved over to. She reached toward him without looking and gestured for his hand.

"Come here," she said, and he grasped her hand and walked over. There was the one, he knew. He didn't see her pointing at first, but his eyes were drawn to a ring in the center. It was perfect for her; intricate and bright. A large sapphire was set into a ring of diamonds. The more he looked, the more he realized its perfection. The sapphire seemed clear and bright.

“This one?”

“That one,” she said. John Paul smiled. Perhaps it wasn’t so hard after all.

As much as he would have rather continued each day spending his time attending to Lydia's every need, John Paul had things to attend to at home, as well, and the time was approaching to spend the day and move the household, as much as possible, up to the third floor that they might lay down the lumber on the lower floors.

He had been looking forward to it, when he had been waiting for the day of the engagement. Now it seemed a distraction that was neither welcome nor pleasant. Still, it was not a job that he could avoid. It needed to be done sooner or later, and Lydia was working, so Thursday morning seemed as good a time as any.

John Paul had felt sick, as he had found more and more that he had been feeling. It was never quite so bad as the night of his engagement party and for that he was certainly thankful, but at the same time he seemed to have more upset stomachs, more fits. He must have a flu, he thought, and that was worrying enough to have seen him to a doctor who said he seemed perfectly healthy.

Of course, if the symptoms continued, he said, the Colonel could feel free to come back and seek a second opinion. The condition hadn't been bad enough that he had returned.

John Paul called the boys into the parlor to explain the day's labors. He would be pushing most things up the stairs and heading back down to help with the next item. After all, he had plenty of experience with manual labor, and it would be no issue to do it again.

They picked up the front room, first, and each of the seven of them carried a chair or a table; the journey was no great difficulty for any of them and they started to carry the other things in the front room next; coats and hats and racks and the like. It was no great challenge, but when they came to the beds John Paul felt himself struggling.

They had been working for perhaps thirty minutes with no rest, up and down two flights of steps, but he was sure he was tiring much too quickly. He pushed the thought away. It was probably his imagination.

He did, though, start looking for signs that the others were tiring. A gasping breath, or needing t stop to catch a new grip; any sign that he was not the only one who was suffering. Instead, he found that he seemed to all signs to be the only one, after all. He grit his teeth and continued.

The bed frames went next, three men working to haul each up the steps one after the other. John Paul took the bottom, as he had been doing for the entire effort; it allowed him to take most of the weight, and he was the strongest of the group by a fair sight, and the largest by nearly a stone.

It stood to reason, then, that he should be the one there, but after a dresser nearly fell atop him on the second set of stairs he hefted it one more time, to sit on the landing, and then he sat down. His breaths came hard and his chest burned.

"I just need a moment, Thomas. Take Mark and carry that into the room for me; without the stairs in the way it should be doable with two people, I think."

He sat on the stoop and tried to catch his breath. He was surprised to find that this was the first time he thought of Lydia in the entire operation that they'd committed to. He was too tire d for any sort of thoughts other than work, when he was working.

He'd almost certainly worked harder before, he thought. There was no excuse, absolutely none, for this sort of dalliance. it couldn't be, though, that he had gotten weaker? He still did his morning exercises most days. When he wasn't too tired or too sick.

He didn't have the creaky old bones that he'd heard pensioners talking about before. He just felt a little ill. Struggling with a two hundred kilogram gazebo was one thing; a hundred kilograms should be easily lifted by three strapping men. One of them was large and strong, as well. It was worrying how much of a toll the job was taking on him.

He forced himself to stand back up. There was more work to be done, after all, and he couldn't ignore it just because he was a little bit tired. He could push past it, whether he was tired or not. As long as he continued working, he would be fine.

He started back down the steps before he saw Thomas and Mark coming to follow, but he heard them a few meters behind once he was down the stairs a bit. The next room was his, and he had the desk to move along with the dresser and the bed that was in all the other rooms.

"Do you want us to take the bottom spot, mister Foster?"

He stopped and turned. Mark was standing a few steps above. He didn't look concerned, but John Paul wondered whether or not he might be thinking that the Colonel was too old to do the work.

"No," he snapped. "I can do it; I'm not an old man yet, Mark Reede."

"I didn't mean..." He stopped talking without finishing his thought.

It was a good choice, John Paul thought. He was about to lose his temper, whether the young man was right about his fatigue or not. He could do as much work as either of the younger men, fatigue or none. He pushed the door open and pushed open a drawer, pushing his papers inside to clear the top of the desk.

"Ready?"

He squatted down and grasped the bottom of the desk, the wood pressing uncomfortably into his cheek-bone. It was far from an ideal position, but he had no place better to grasp, either; higher would tax his fingers, no matter where he chose and so he would take the uncomfortable cheek over pained fingers.

"Yes, sir." Thomas answered, and they stood up together on a count of three, tilting the desk to fit it through the door.

The fatigue was still there on the way up the steps this time, but John Paul expected it and braced for it. All he had to do was to ignore it for a few more moments, and easy as that he would be able to push past it.