"I don't know, sir. I'm sorry I can't be more help."
"No, of course not, Thomas. You're free to go about your business, I won't keep you any longer."
"Sir," Thomas said, but he stayed in his seat. John Paul could feel his eyes even as he leaned his own head back and closed his eyes. He couldn't nap upstairs, he thought. But that didn't mean he couldn't rest his eyes a moment.
He opened them again when he heard footsteps outside the door. Someone was coming; indeed, several people. They'd arrived, then. Good. He blinked the tiredness from his eyes, rubbed at them, and then pushed himself up out of the seat.
"Gentlemen," he said, smiling, as the door opened. There they all were. General Smith, Andy, Chester, Wally. The twins. Andy stepped inside first and stopped dead.
"John Paul," he said after a moment. "Is that really you?"
He stepped out of the way of the door after a moment and let the others through.
"Is something wrong, then?" He stepped toward them, leaning on his cane, and held out a hand to shake his guests' hands.
"You look like death, man." Chester said it, speaking softly. "Have you seen a doctor? What on earth happened to you?"
John Paul coughed hard. "I have been seeing a doctor in town. I'm sure it'll all be taken care of shortly."
It was an obvious lie, and nobody there believed it for a moment, but neither did they want to argue.
"If you like, Henry and Mark will show you to some empty rooms. Dinner will be served at five t
hirty. The wedding—well, you know that much, I suppose."
He hobbled back to his chair and sat down. His legs, his knees, his ankles all hurt. He wanted little more than to fall back asleep, but he had to play the host as best he could.
John Paul rose days later, feeling exhausted. It was warm; he knew that much, and it was becoming dark outside. He looked out the window and gasped. There was a great massive gazebo, not dissimilar to the one they had taken down together what felt like an eternity ago when he had been able to get up out of bed without exhausting himself.
He could very nearly see himself there, standing on it with his cane, saying his vows beside Lydia.
He recounted the days on his fingers. March eleventh she had returned. April, she had come. John Paul could see in her face how difficult it was for her to spend time with him in the state he was in. June had come. Then the second, and now the third. On the fourth, he thought.
The fifth…tomorrow he would stand there, in front of a half-dozen men he'd known his entire life, in front of his nephew, beside a woman he'd decided to spend the rest of his life with. Beside a woman who had decided the same, in spite of the fact that there was little doubt that she knew that the rest of his life could be a very short time.
He loved her for that, he realized. More than her looks, more than her fire, more than anything, he loved that she'd had faith in him and devoted herself in spite of his condition. He wanted to tell her, and he would.
He thought of that letter on the desk, upstairs. He wondered what it said, now. If he'd been there, he might have opened it right then and there, but he didn't.
Instead, he decided that he had work to do. There was likely a good deal left to be done in the house, and until the wedding had gone off perfectly, without a single hitch, he wouldn't be ready to call it quits. It would be difficult; indeed, he wasn't certain how he would manage at all, but he needed to go and have a look around the estate. To ensure that whatever happened, he would have left a happy memory for Lydia.
He pushed himself up with his cane. He could feel his hand as he held it, and the shake spread to his entire arm, his arm violently threatening to fall out from under him. He forced himself to still, spreading his weight evenly between his feet, and pulled his clothes on, shoving his feet into his boots.
He took one step, and then another, and before long he found that he was walking as steadily as he had in several days. The stairs had been a near-constant terror for what seemed like an eternity; he had only braved them a couple of times since the trip to the train station, but those trips had given him confidence. He needed to be down them, and he knew that he could do it safely if he took them slowly enough. So he would risk them.
The floor, he saw, was finished. Polished, even. It was absolutely gorgeous. Henry had made a good decision, and it was a fine enough wedding present. To have such a lovely home, he thought. A lovely home, a lovely bride, a fine nephew…a shame, he realized, that he didn't have as long to spend with all of them as he would have liked. He pushed himself toward the back, through the door.
He looked out the back. The lawn was finished finely; Jacob had spent nearly a year working on it now, and he had spent the time well. He started to walk. He was exhausted, he realized. Just going this far was nearly too much to ask from him. He grit his teeth.
Seeing the others, he had realized how abnormally far he'd fallen. He couldn't let the sickness, whatever it was that had claimed him, win. So he pushed himself on. There were parts of his lawn he hadn't seen in weeks; they were blocked by the shrubs, or by the tree. So he went out of his way to follow the gravel path through the garden, looking at everything.
He realized again how masterfully put together it all was, even as his heart pounded hard in his chest and his breaths came hard and hot. This was all perfect. All of it. He lost his balance and fell; he didn't catch himself this time, but the grass cushioned his fall as best it could.
How long John Paul was asleep, he couldn't have said. Only that he wasn't standing any more, and that his cane was awfully far away. He pushed himself up to his knees and felt them threatening to dump him once more onto his face. He reached out with his hands and crawled like a babe across the gravel until he could grasp his cane, and then used it to press himself back up.
His breath came in hot, burning gasps, and he felt deliriously tired. There was nothing he wanted more than to be back in his room, to go back to sleep and forget the entire thing had ever happened. He started back toward the house.
Now that he was standing back up, he saw, it was much later than he had thought. Mid-afternoon, perhaps. He had missed lunch, then. Perhaps he was late to supper, even. He climbed across the back patio and pushed the door open with the last of his strength. However long he had been outside, no one had been waiting for him; the parlor was quite empty, and he heard the sounds of people eating in the dining room.