The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

"Yes—I do."

The preacher's lips pressed together for a split-second, and then he turned to Lydia.

"Lydia Wakefield, will you take John Paul to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

He turned, then, to the seats that had been set out for the occasion, seating the Wakefield clan. Henry had been given a seat; John Paul could see it, if he looked out of the corner of his eye, with a slip of paper on it that said "Henry Roche." No one sat in it.

They had practiced the ceremony before, and John Paul relied on that to get him through. His mind was whirling, but as long as he could keep some measure of attention on the wedding he was able to make it through. At last the reverend asked for the ring.

He produced it out of his pocket; his hands shook violently with nerves, with fatigue, with excitement, and the ring slipped out of his grasp and onto the floor.

He feared, for a moment, that he would need someone else to pick it up for him. He worried that if he tried to reach down for it himself, he would find himself quite unable to get back up again, but he decided to risk it. He leaned down and reached, and then picked it up from the floor more easily than he had expected and pressed himself back up.

This time he didn't drop the ring and slipped it onto her fingers, whatever anxieties having been shaken loose with the dropping of the ring. Things, he thought, could only improve from there.

The Reverend continued on; John Paul did not listen. Could not listen; his attention was pulled too-powerfully by the empty chair, still empty. The preternatural stillness, outside of this small circle. There was no one stirring in the house, no one coming out late.

Wherever Henry was, he wasn't coming. The colonel felt his anger beginning to rise, but he pushed it aside. There would be a time for reprisals, but this was supposed to be a happy occasion.

"You may now seal the promises you have made with each other with a kiss," he heard the Reverend say. He looked finally straight into Lydia's eyes.

She looked concerned; no doubt, she had seen him examining the crowd. Whatever she thought, he did not know, and he pushed his own concerns away. In a few more hours, he could be angry, but for now he was standing in his own wedding ceremony, beside the most beautiful woman in the world. He pushed himself forward and gently laid a kiss on her lips.

After a moment she pulled away, and he looked into her eyes. She looked into his, and then started crying and wrapped her arms around his neck. He smiled and let her lead him off to one of the tables they had set up for the breakfast that had been set for after the wedding.

The Colonel could feel his stomach twisting itself into a knot with hunger, but he ignored it. He needed to eat, of course, at some point, but he worried about the nature of his food. If he were to finally take enough of whatever Henry had been feeding him to lay him low…he worried about what would happen to Lydia.

She might move back in with her brother, of course. But that would mean abandoning the house, abandoning all of her Husband's things in it. The alternative was staying with Henry. John Paul knew how well he could be trusted, now. He felt his anger stirring, and tried to push it aside, but it would not be ignored.

Thomas had a large cake on one of the tables off to the side, and he passed out slices from it, each to a different guest, and then last of all he brought two small cakes to the bride and groom. John Paul cut his, but didn't eat it; he contented himself to watching Lydia eat hers. He couldn't say that he was afraid; that would be embarassing enough on its own, but neither could he take the risk.

Poisoning the food was a dangerous proposition. Everyone would be eating the same meal, dished out from the same dishes. Poisoning one would have meant poisoning them all, or worse, bringing the food personally to John Paul. No, Henry probably wouldn't have risked it. John Paul would not eat it all the same, but it was an unlikely suspect.

The cakes, on the other hand…it was the ideal option, and the Colonel avoided even touching it. He could nearly smell the taint on it, though he thought it was probably all an effect of the mind rather than any real taint on the food itself.

Lydia leaned over toward him.

"Is everything alright, dear?"

"Of course," he lied.

There was nothing wrong with her; nothing wrong that she could address. He merely worried about Henry's absence, about what sort of mischief he could get up to on his own. About his own safety, and the safety of his wife. If there was nothing that she could do, then he would keep her blissfully unaware of his concerns.

After a half-hour or so, with John Paul looking at the food rather than eating it, he saw a largeish man, nearly as heavy as John Paul himself had been though much rounder. The large man was General Smith, and he was making his way terribly slowly to the table where bride and groom sat together, looking out over the dining party.

"Ah, Colonel Foster. Missus Foster. A wonderful ceremony. Wonderful. You've got yourself quite a lovely bride, John Paul." He smiled, his eyes twinkling. "You should be proud of her, for dealing with you all this time."

"Lydia, this is General Reede Smith."

"A pleasure to meet you, General. Thank you for coming."

"Of course," he said. "Of course."

They came like this, one after the other. Next came Andy, and then Waldo, and then Simon sheepishly came and inquired if they were enjoying the food before going on to congratulate them himself. One after the other, like clockwork.

John Paul's anger nearly threatened to disappear altogether; everyone was being so kind. They hadn't mentioned his condition since the first day, had been terribly accomodating. He had to smile. There were times when he had been concerned that he had no friends in the world at all, but it seemed that he had been mistaken.