The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

"So then…"

John Paul looked at her for a moment. Those were the first words he'd heard her speak since he had started the story, but it seemed that was all he would get out of her for now.

"So I went along, so to speak, to smooth things over with the leadership, if things went poorly."

"And did they?"

"Not especially, I suppose."

"So what's the secret, then?"

"Well, I went with the Lieutenant along with a troop of men. They weren't many; there were only a few dozen, and we had them badly outnumbered. The rebels had been relying on surprise to take down larger units than themselves, but they had no surprise advantage when we took them.

"They had been stealing from convoys, and taking donations from sympathetic locals, and had amassed themselves some money. But we had no suspicion that they had anything like what they did."

"Gold? Henry mentioned something about gold."

"Did he, now," John Paul answered vaguely. "Well, yes. About a hundred-fifty, two hundred kilograms of the stuff. Enough to buy your own tropical island across the pond."

"But aren't you supposed to report that sort of thing?"

"Yes," John Paul replied flatly. "I had to pay more than a few men to keep silent about it. Of course, the Lieutenant had no problem with it. He kept almost a third of it himself, and I kept the perhaps half. After all, it all hinged on me, didn't it?"

"I don't understand."

"If it's a Lieutenant's word against a Colonel's, which do you think that command will believe? That's why I was there in the first place, after all."

"I see," Lydia said, looking doubtful. "But you didn't have to kill anyone over it, did you?"

John Paul sighed. "If you have to kill someone, your plan's already failed, my dear. And in general…well, it all sounds awfully cute now, but there was a time when my plans didn't generally fail."

He laid his head back on the pillow. "Do you have a way home?"

"No," she said. "But I know someone in the area who has a few extra beds."

He smiled, his eyes still closed. "Do you, now?"

"I do," she said, and kissed him. She was almost out of the room when she turned back. "Thank you for telling me all of that."

Then she pushed the door open and she was gone. John Paul pushed his legs off the side of the bed and grasped his cane. He stood up and hobbled across the room to the light and flipped the switch off. Then he hobbled back over to bed and let sleep take him.

John Paul awoke the next day to find the world buzzing around him. He neede groomsmen; that much was clear by itself, but he was a bit surprised to find so many on offer, as each of the men he'd served with struggled to help him fit into his suit. It had been made only recently, but even still it hung off him. No one thought it wise to bring the matter up to him.

He stood with his weight fully on his cane. If there was any sort of gossip about Lydia's early arrival—and, indeed, the arrival of the rest of the Wakefield clan separately and much later—then the guests had the tact not to mention it. And after all, it was a large house and they'd woken her paramour from a cold sleep quite alone in his bed, so they had no evidence of anticipating their marriage.

John Paul's mind buzzed, though, not with the excitement of the marriage to come. It didn't even seem real around him; he felt as if in a dream. This was his finishing line. He had made it, somehow, in spite of it all. He tried not to think too hard on the argument with Lydia. She would forgive him, in time.

He was kept in the kitchen, with Jacob fussing over his coat, punctuated by Thomas running into the room with messages from the bride, or the Reverend, or from the groomsmen.

He could hear music beginning to play in the garden; it was nearly time, then. Little wonder that Henry hadn't come to see him. It seemed as if the lad were avoiding him. John Paul thought that he was right to be avoiding his uncle. Nothing that had happened the night before had reflected kindly on the boy.

&n

bsp; He was led out into the garden. It wasn't traditional, certainly, but neither did he want to embarrass himself by tripping over his own feet on the way to the altar. He saw Lydia, saw her dress. She looked positively radiant. As beautiful as she had always looked. She rubbed wetness out of her eyes and smiled.

He hadn't decided what he would do with Henry. Perhaps the entire affair was a big misunderstanding. It might not be poison. He could have simply been trying to comfort Lydia and mistakenly made it seem to the outside world that he had been more physical with her than altogether intended. The possibilities were there, certainly, and he would rather have not ignored them. But he couldn't let all of it go unanswered, either.

He only awoke from his reverie when he felt someone jab into his side, and the Reverend looked at him pointedly. "Do you, John Paul Foster, take Lydia Wakefield to be your lawfully wedded wife?"