The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

He counted on that to get him through the next couple of hours, as he watched Mark go off in the carriage to fetch her. Then he would have to figure out a way to secrete himself in the kitchens, so that the pair of them would act as usual.

Then he could come out after the fact, perhaps secretly or perhaps not, depending on how things went. His mind imagined a lurid scenario that he immediately pushed out of his mind. There was no reason to imagine she would do anything of the sort—certainly not with his cook.

It was positively unacceptable to think such negative thoughts with no motivation whatsoever, he thought. Unacceptable, and he wouldn't allow himself to do it for even a moment if he could help it.

He waited in the front room, pretending to be quite interested in a novel he'd bought several weeks before but hadn't gotten around to. He turned the pages to keep the illusion going for Thomas's sake; the words danced on the page and he found himself quite unable to read for the panic that he was feeling in his heart.

Every time he tried to read, he could hear his heard beating in his chest, so he continued the charade. Thankfully, he didn't have to keep it up for very long; after a little less than half an hour Thomas stood and walked down the hall toward the lavatory.

The Colonel took his opportunity to slip into the kitchen, closing the door behind him as silently as possible. There were dozens, perhaps hundreds of places to hide in a place like this, he saw. He wouldn't struggle to find one; he would struggle to pick one.

He opened the pantry. It was large enough for three men to stand in comfortably, and he closed the doors behind himself, looking out through the slats as he sat down on the ground. He had a reasonably good view of the stove, and anyone looking from the main part of the room shouldn't see much more than a slatted door from a distance.

John Paul smiled. This was a good spot. Then it was just a matter of waiting. The hours passed slowly, but he reasoned

that it would be worth it. Something had to give, and what he needed more than anything right now was someone that he could trust. Someone who would give him good information, information he could use.

Anything else was secondary to his need to know what was going on. If Henry had given him information that he could use, then that was all he needed, surrounded by people who were keeping secrets. One ally who would keep him informed.

After what felt like an eternity in that pantry, he heard the carriage trundle up in front of the house, and a knock at the door. The door opened and he heard a man's voice. Probably Thomas. Then a woman's voice in response. They were not speaking quietly, but they were at such a distance that all he could hear was muffled echoes.

He knew that the woman was Lydia, but he didn't know more. After a moment's conversation, he heard the floor creaking. The carpenters hadn't replaced the first floor yet, so it still creaked badly when anyone walked on it, and now John Paul silently thanked them for taking their time as he heard the footsteps, two sets of them, walking up to the door of the kitchen.

Thomas came in first, wrapping the ties on his apron around back and then knotting them in front, rubbing his hands off on the front. Then a moment later, the door opened and Lydia followed him in. She touched her hair, making certain that it was piled up onto her head, and then pulled a cap on to cover it and reached over to the wall. She grabbed her own apron and wrapped it, though she had to wrap it around her thin waist twice to tie it snugly.

Thomas walked over to the other side of the room, and John Paul leaned to follow the cook with his eyes. He was taking down meat, he saw, from a hook on the far wall. He carried it back and laid it down on the table as Lydia pulled a knife from the wall. With a thick, ugly CHOP she cut off a large chunk of the beef and separated it with the blade of the knife. Thomas hefted the meat back onto his shoulder and walked away as she started preparing.

It seemed less like she was taking lessons, and more like she was simply preparing the food. At times Thomas would stop her and demonstrate something, but then he would let her continue. If she was learning, then she was just about finished learning. Thomas sat back as she set the meat onto the stove, the pan loudly hissing and popping. He got up to look, and then sat back down. He pulled out a book.

It was nearly exactly, John Paul saw, what Henry had suspected. The only difference was exactly how much she was participating. If she wanted to poison him, John Paul realized, not only could she, but Thomas would be none the wiser. He shuddered. That wasn't the position he wanted to be in. Not remotely.

A few hours later he watched Lydia leaving. He was frustrated with himself at being so glad to see her go. She had cooked the meal, he saw, and it had been delicious. Simply delicious, no complaints at all. If he hadn't seen it himself, he might not have believed her when she told him.

It had tasted very much the same as the food Thomas had been cooking for the past months since he had come to the house. He had detected hints, here and there, of different flavors, but she made a terribly convincing attempt at imitating the style. He couldn't blame her, either.

If she cooked such delicious meals for the rest of their lives together, then he would have been overjoyed. But he wondered. In all of that time, had there been anything, a pinch of "seasoning" on his plate after the food were cooked, that had been the ultimate source of all this trouble?

How could he be sure? He couldn't just come out with it directly. There was a laundry list of reasons why he couldn't, which began with the fact that he had been watching secretly, and ended with the way she had looked to him so earnestly to know if he had enjoyed the meal she had made for him.

He had, and he'd told her that he had, but he couldn't exactly come out and then accuse her of trying to have him murdered, either. That would be beyond the furthest reaches of politeness. No matter how he put it, unless he had proof he couldn't accuse her.

He hadn't seen one single hint that she had anything but the best intentions, and he couldn't accuse her brother. That would endanger the entire wedding, and there was a real possibility that unless he could prove it beyond a shadow of doubt, she would never forgive him. He stepped back into the house. Henry was sitting, his feet up, reading, and John Paul sat down beside him.

"Henry, can I talk to you about something?"

"About what?"

"You have to keep this between the two of us, Henry."

"Of course."

"Swear it."

"Okay," he said, his brow furrowed. "I swear. Are you going to tell me what this is about, now?"

"I think," John Paul said. Suddenly it seemed as if all of his thinking was for nothing. He couldn't bring it up, not so directly. Not with no proof. He grit his teeth for a moment. If he couldn't tell someone, then he feared he might go mad. Henry had given him information when it seemed as if everyone around him was busily giving him nothing but more questions, and that was enough that if he had to take the risk of trusting someone, he thought Henry perhaps the best choice. "I think I am being poisoned."

Henry put his book down and leaned forward, listening now.