The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

He pushed the thought away. He was simply accusing everyone, now. Soon he would be blaming the horses, at this rate, once he had pushed away everyone else in the house. He shook his head to clear it.

"Of course that would be alright, dear. Why ever wouldn't it be?"

"No reason, darling. I just wanted to make sure that you wouldn't mind, okay?"

"Of course I don't mind," he answered. They walked out the door together; Mark had already set up the carriage, and he helped her step up inside it, waving goodbye as she started to roll off into the distance.

"She certainly is diligent," a voice said behind him. Henry was sitting back in one of the chairs.

John Paul had been quite certain he wasn't there before, when the two of them had gone through the room on the way out, nor had he heard Henry come in, but there he was now. John Paul regarded him curiously. Perhaps he had missed him come in. Certainly, he could have missed it. He had walked out to the street to help Lydia into the carriage, so there had been plenty of time.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I mean the time she's been spending in the kitchens. Has she been helping Thomas cook supper?"

"I don't—" John Paul stopped himself. There was no sense in admitting that he didn't know what his fiancee was up to. He had let her do what she wanted, certainly, throughout the house. If she had gone to the kitchens, then that was well within her rights, but why would she keep it a secret?

She had never come back into the dining room through the kitchen doors. She had never smelled particularly of food, either. John Paul pursed his lips and sucked on his teeth. There were a few possibilities that immediately came to mind, but he pushed them away. One came back again, though, with redoubled force.

Someone was poisoning him. He knew that to be a fact. There could be no alternative answer. Someone must have been poisoning, and that someone must have been doing it consistently for the past week. He had had no time to recover, none whatsoever. He had taken his antibiotics, and other than at supper he hadn't even eaten.

He had felt no particular appetite since he had discovered his poisoning. He wondered if the desire to eat would ever come back, once he felt safe with food again, and he doubted it. It seemed like the more time passed, and the sicker he got, the less he wanted to eat anything at all.

It all tasted like ash and felt like paper in his mouth. All he could think, even as he looked at Lydia's smiling face, even as he listened to her angelic voice, was that he was getting sicker and sicker and someone was doing it to him on purpose.

He had put them into order, in his mind. Ahead by a good distance in likelihood was Simon Wakefield. He had the strongest, most immediate motive, and everything connected to him quite neatly. Then had been the second choice, his nephew, but he had never been given any sort of indication that his nephew had any sort of motive.

The money was out of the question, of course. Henry had never asked him about it, never pressed him for a larger stipend. He'd made a few poor spending choices, but he was young. It could be excused in any young man, hardly enough to accuse a man of murder.

Of Lydia, he had no doubt she was quite innocent. There was no other possibility at all; perhaps she had been enlisted by her brother, though. The thought occurred to him not for the first time. If her brother were to push her to it... then she may be dangerous.

After all, she was a perfectly obedient girl when she chose to be, and if she were pressed into action by someone whose purposes were less than perfectly pure then her purity might be compromised. But, he thought, she had no devious bone in her body.

"Yes," he answered finally, after a long pause. "Yes, I made a comment about how wonderfully our Thomas cooks, so she is probably trying to get from him some advice on what sort of food I might like. That's all."

"See?" Henry pressed, smiling broadly. "A diligent young woman. Quite perfect for you, Uncle."

"I agree, Henry. Thank you for saying."

"Of course," he said, smiling.

John Paul felt sick to his stomach. He hadn't missed the implication. She was the only one in the position to poison him. The only one, he thought. Thomas wouldn't do it. He had no motive. She had no motive, either, of course.

If she wanted his money then she would have to wait until they were married regardless of her desire to poison him or not. But Simon's debt loomed no doubt heavily over the entire family. She was studious enough that she might be motivated purely by a protective desire for her little brothers and her mother, at the behest of her elder brother.

The Colonel laid in bed and tried to convince himself, one by one, that everyone around him could only be quite innocent of the poisoning. But in the end it was quite futile. He opened his eyes after what felt like a few moments and the sun was up in the sky.

He could feel the beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead and the bedsheets, already thin and cooler than he would have preferred for the winter, stuck to his chest where they had been matted down with sweat. He sat up and dressed quickly. He had things to do before Lydia arrived for the evening, and only a few hours in which to do them.

Chapter 16

The only thing that would solve the issue was watching for her. Of course, there wasn't a good way to do it, he thought. If she weren't wandering the house but rather making straight for the kitchen, then she would see if he went in.

Furthermore, Thomas would see if she didn't and between them, one would certainly point out to the other that something wasn't quite right. So it had to bet a bit more sensitive than that. He had a few options, none of them ideal. He decided to write a short note, explaining his absence.

He was feeling awfully tired, and so he'd be in his room until dinner. He would be quite alright, and she was free to wander the halls until Thomas was ready with dinner. He would join them for dinner around five thirty.

That should be in line with the time that they usually ate, and it would make good sense. She knew how he had struggled with his fatigue lately; she wouldn't be surprised that it had laid him a bit low. Not one bit surprised, in fact.