The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

"Yes," she asked. She looked as lovely now as she ever had, he thought, though she was a bit more undone, her hair clearly having been down before she had been called to him. She pulled a coat around her tightly and shivered in the doorway.

"I'd like it," he said softly. "If you could see fit to join me for dinner for a few days this week?"

"Just dinner," she asked.

"You're free to come earlier, if you would prefer, my dear. I know that I enjoy all of our time together."

"No," she agreed. "If it's to be every day or so, then dinner is sufficient time together, I suppose."

"I thought similarly," John Paul answered.

"Okay," she said. "How shall I get to the house, then? I don't think I should hire a cab for each and every trip, that seems a bit wasteful."

"No," John Paul agreed. "You probably shouldn't buy a cab for each day. I could have one of my boys take the carriage out and fetch you, if you would like."

Lydia thought about this for a moment. "If that's what you think is best."

"What time would be best?"

"Ah," Lydia thought aloud. "Three? Half past?"

"Three o'clock it is, then. I'll have him on the way to get you, and of course he'll take you home as well, my dear."

"Very good," she answered, smiling. "Do you mind terribly if I go back inside? It's a bit chilly out here."

John Paul pulled at his coat and sniffed. "Yes, it is a bit cold, isn't it? Well, I'm sorry to have kept you. Do enjoy the rest of your evening. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

Lydia smiled at him as she stepped back inside the doorway. "And I you, darling."

She shut the door and he went off to fetch his horse back from the stables. He sniffed loudly and rubbed at his nose, which was feeling perhaps more of the chill than it might normally.

He sent out the carriage at one, with plenty of time to take a leisurely pace into town and still make it on time and waited. She arrived promptly at five fifty, and he took her on a second tour of the house, making sure to show her the new flooring, which she acted suitably impressed with.

"It certainly does look quite a bit nicer, all of it," she added hopefully.

"That's very nice of you to say, miss Wakefield."

"Why thank you," she exclaimed.

They ate, talking happily about anything and everything he could imagine. He let her lead the conversation. He was happy to hear her talking; the subject didn't matter so much as that it was her, and that she was speaking to him.

The faces she made as she spoke—she lit up the room like a bright bulb, and he was not surprised to find that he was looking more and more forward to

her visits as the week went on. She developed a habit of walking the house, while he sat in the dining room.

He made apologetic motions, but he was simply far too tired, far too fatigued and indeed far too weak to accommodate such a habit, but he found it quite admirable. Had he been in better condition, not feeling ill, he would have done more to encourage it. Instead he simply accommodated it as best he could.

Perhaps more worryingly, though, was that he wasn't feeling better. He had had a brief couple of days in Derby where he had started to feel better, but now he tossed and turned and found himself quite unable to sleep regardless of his best efforts; he had little appetite, especially when he considered his fears of being poisoned through his food, which he was almost certain was the cause of it.

Though it must have been a coincidence, having gotten sick after eating in town, at a privately-owned restaurant in which Simon could have no influence, it shook him badly. If Simon had gotten to him there, then no place seemed safe.

He had no evidence, though. Combined with the engagement to his sister, which would be put quite on hold by the arrest of the head of their house, John Paul found it difficult, if not perfectly impossible, to level any sort of accusation against the man.

"Lydia, my dear," he said finally after the ninth straight day of their eating together at his house. "I think I am feeling a bit better. I was just..." he thought for a moment. "Just a bit lonely, you see, and now that I've had some time with other people I think I'm quite alright. So you don't need to keep coming here for supper."

"Oh," she responded. John Paul wondered if she didn't seem a little bit hurt; he couldn't tell. She showed a smile. "I'm glad you're feeling better, dearest. Would you mind if I came here one more time, tomorrow?"

He frowned. Why would she be hesitant? There must have been a cause for the illness simply refusing to subside. He had thought for a while that it might simply be that he was having trouble with getting enough sleep, but the idea that it might be further poisoning had not been far from his mind. If she were fighting him, could it be so that she could stay and continue to mix the poison into his food?