The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) (5 page)

Chapter 5

The days were agonizingly long until he could call on Lydia once more. He cleaned the house, finished the repairs on the balcony, practiced with Henry. Henry was getting the hang of a tight parry; with the most glaring problem dealt with, he was becoming a formidable opponent. Even still, John Paul found little in the way of relief from his impatience.

When, at long last, the week had finally passed, he called on her once more. He felt the same trepidation he had felt before, the desire to not attend the appointment. He thought again about the days he had spent looking forward to this meeting, and he realized how foolish that would be. He rapped at the door and waited for someone to receive him.

Rather than Nan’s disaffected smile, though, he was greeted by a large man with a warm grin. He hid his surprise as best he could.

“Hello,” the man said. “We’ve been expecting you, Mister Foster. I’m Simon Wakefield, Lydia’s elder brother. If you’ll just sit down here for a moment, I’ll…”

He might have finished the thought, but he didn’t stop in earshot for John Paul to hear it. He left the room as if it hadn’t occurred to him that someone might not hear through walls. As he waited, John Paul tried to still the beating of his heart. It was a struggle to push back against his nerves, which threatened at all times to overwhelm him. He heard voices through the door, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

And then the door opened, and Simon led beautiful Lydia through the door. He had a confident, self-congratulatory smile on his face that didn’t quite fit the situation. He was positively beaming as John Paul rose to greet Lydia.

“Miss Wakefield, it’s lovely to see you again.”

“And you as well, Mister Foster.”

Simon stood there, watching the pair of them in silence. Where Nan could be a background object who could be ignored if you chose, Simon had an obtrusive aura that made it impossible not to notice him. As if he wanted to be seen.

John Paul corrected himself mentally: It wasn’t as if he wanted to be here, surely. Nan must have fallen ill, and they would need a stand-in for her, certainly. It wasn’t his usual role in the family to try to fit seamlessly into miss Wakefield’s life at all times.

John Paul stood there for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other. He was not usually one to push a situation, but it was unclear how to handle the change.

“Shall we take a walk, ma’am?”

Miss Wakefield showed her agreement by way of a tiny nod of her head. Simon opened the door for them, and followed the pair out into the open air. They didn’t have the large estate that John Paul did, and no yard to speak of, so they would need to take their walk through the city streets. It suited John Paul well enough, he decided.

He liked the city, though he wouldn’t live there if he had the choice, not after so long in New South Wales. They went for a long time without speaking, just walking beside one another. John Paul stole glances at Lydia from time to time, to avoid being seen in the process for reasons he didn't understand himself. As if her knowing of his admiration would ruin the whole thing. He never saw her looking at him, but he could feel her eyes on him as well.

Simon, for his part, managed finally to avoid becoming a distraction, for most of this time. He walked a step or two behind, and he said nothing, and it was easy to forget that he was there, when he wasn’t standing right in front of you.

“The weather certainly is nice today,” Lydia said finally.

John Paul agreed with her, and he told her so. It was sunny, but not too hot, and a gentle wind blew through, enough to create a relaxing sort of atmosphere without being tiresome. A perfect day, he thought, with the perfect woman. He didn’t tell her that.

He was happy to hear her comments on whatever came to mind, and when she finally started to talk, he let her. No, more than that, he encouraged it. She told him about the quality of the clothes in this boutique, told him about the food at that restaurant. He bobbed his head as she spoke, finding her quite agreeable in all respects. Eventually, she stopped and looked up at a large, beautiful old church steeple.

It startled John Paul to see a church; he hadn’t been to a service in a month. First he’d been returning to the motherland, and stayed in London for only a few days, so of course he wouldn’t have tried to lay any roots. Then he was in Derby, but he had been so busy that the thought hadn’t occurred to him. He made a mental note to attend that Sunday at all costs.

Simon cut in, then, and John Paul could feel his anger rise even as he controlled it.

“Did they have churches like this in Australia, Mister Foster?”

John Paul wondered for a moment if he’d been serious in asking the question; it must have been, though, even as ill-timed as it was.

“Yes, Mister Wakefield. They have churches in Australia.”

The questions, it seemed, never stopped, then. Simon’s lengthy period of quiet had come to a sudden and lasting halt. John Paul could see Lydia give him an apologetic look, but she didn’t say anything, and John Paul was left at his mercy. He answered dozens of questions about what Australia was like, if he’d ever seen one of the Aboriginals, and so on. What's more, the questions did not seem to be ending any time soon.

It was tiring, but he dismissed it as the irresistible magnetism of having something new in your circle of influence. Some questions were inevitable, whether he faced them now, or after the engagement.

It surprised John Paul to be thinking in those terms. He’d known the woman a little past a week, and yet his mind whirled with possibilities.

As they came back to the house, John Paul stopped outside the door. Simon opened it and Lydia stepped halfway through and offered her hand. John Paul took it gently in his own hand and kissed it. He could see her blushing as she turned and stepped inside.

Then Simon was standing on the stoop looking at him.

“So,” he said. John Paul stood at eye-level with him; John Paul was a tall man, and it was a bit unusual to look someone straight in the eye. He could see that Simon was struggling with something.

“Yes?” He asked at last.

“If it’s not too much to ask,” Simon started, and then stopped.

“If what’s not too much to ask?”

Simon looked down at his feet and bit his lip.

“Never mind, Mister Foster. Have a good day.”

And then he, too, stepped through the door and into the house.

John Paul dismissed it and set off back to his horse. It was standing there, the same as he’d left it, eating from a feed bag. He climbed up, took a moment to catch his bearings, and started back home.

He returned home to find Henry lounging in a chair, leafing through a magazine.

“Ah,” Henry said when he heard John Paul walk in. He stood and smiled, setting the magazine down. He had his arms wide open. “You’re back!”

“Were you waiting for me?”

“Not as such, uncle. But it’s a bit tiring to be alone here all the time, is it not?”

“I suppose so,” John Paul answered.

It had been much easier since he had begun to call on Lydia. He could remember the first week, with neither Henry nor a woman in his life, and how slowly the days had passed. It was enough to drive a man mad, but with Henry around, the help bustling throughout the house, and the visits he made to see Lydia, time passed with blinding speed.

“Well, I’ve a solution for you, uncle. I’ve found…” he paused here for a moment, as if to build the suspense, “… the finest tailor in Derby. You really must see his work.”

“I don’t know if I have the time,” he said.

“Think about it. There’s no harm in going to look, you know. We can let the help have the night off. I’m sure he has some business to attend to, and having a day of freedom might be nice.”

John Paul thought about it for a moment before agreeing. He had never had any good experience going to buy clothing, and now would be little different, he decided. Clothes were an annoyance, and buying them bothersome. But Henry insisted, and that was reason enough to indulge him.

After all, the only time he seemed to see the lad was at meals, and when he was working, the past few weeks. Indeed, that was how it seemed he’d set up his entire time there, to be either sleeping, working on the house, or eating. The situation wasn’t how he’d intended it, and if there was something Henry wanted to do then they would do it by way of apology.

They gave Thomas the night off, set up the carriage with Mark's help, and set off, the four of them, into Derby. He didn’t expect Thomas back until the next morning, at the earliest. Mark had promised to keep an eye on him, and they set off together, arm in arm. John Paul watched them walk a ways, until they turned out of sight and he couldn’t see them any longer. Then he stepped down to join his nephew, waiting below.

“Where is this shop?”

Henry nodded his head toward the north and started walking. John Paul followed behind.

“Oh, you’ll love it, Uncle.”

“As you say,” John Paul answered cautiously.

“You don’t need to keep buying bulk clothes, you know. You have enough money to afford nicer clothing than that.”

John Paul’s tried to hide his sourness. He had no appreciation for some boy telling him his business, nor for comments on his finances. Not even if that boy was his nephew. But he counseled himself to relax; there was no reason to snap. He must have meant the remark innocently.

They walked for a few kilometers before arriving at the store; finally, Henry turned on his heels and swung an arm ‘round. “We’re here,” he added, if his manner hadn’t already been enough.

John Paul stood away from it for a moment. The top read Wittham Tailors, and in the front there were large glass windows. There was only a single stand with a suit jacket on display on a bust, but John Paul could see the quality already. Perhaps this wouldn’t be such a waste, after all.

They stepped inside, and a small man in his seventies looked up at them over his thin spectacles. “Ah,” he said. “Mister Henry Roche! Is this your uncle I’ve been hearing about?”

“Yes, I’ve finally talked him into getting some real clothes,” he announced.

“Now, then—” John Paul tried to protest, but Henry smiled.

“I’m only joking, Uncle.”

John Paul stepped up to the counter.

“So, what can I do for you, Uncle?”

“John Paul Foster.”

“Very well, Mister Foster.”

“I suppose I should get a few new suits. I will need at least two. One for the summer, and one for the winter, at least.”

“At least,” the old tailor agreed.

“I confess, I’ve never done this sort of thing before. I have really only shopped at department stores.”

“Yes, I can tell that, sir. What comes next, then?”

“What comes next, indeed.”

“Next, I’ll take your measurements, and we’ll discuss fabrics, and then you’ll leave and I’ll get to work. In a week or two, I’ll contact you when your clothing is done, we test the fit, I fix any issues, and then you take it home.”

“Very well.”

“So you’ll need to strip. Step into the back here with me.”

John Paul did as he was told. He stepped behind a curtain and stripped down to his smallclothes, piling his clothes on a stool. And then the small old man pulled out a tape measure and began making notes on a slate.

When at last they finished with that, John Paul dressed once more, and then the tailor walked him back to the front, where Henry waited. The old man offered a half-dozen appealing cotton and linen fabrics for the summer. Then he offered another half-dozen complementary wool fabrics for the cold.

John Paul looked at them for a moment before deciding that he had no frame of reference and couldn’t decide. He gestured for Henry to come over and have a look. He looked for a moment and then looked up at Wittham.

“I would go with the houndstooth for the heavier, and the gray linen for the lighter.”

The tailor’s eyes flicked from the younger man to the elder.

“Is that alright?”

“He seems to know more about it than I do,” John Paul confessed.

“Very good, sir,” the tailor said, making another couple of notes on the slate. He set it aside with ‘J.P. Foster’ written across the top. “About the matter of payment…”

John Paul left with a receipt and the promise of a couple of new suits that fit properly, and thought that seemed like a fair enough trade.

John Paul’s mood was far too restless for sleep, but he had sensed that Henry was tired and so he’d pushed for them to retire early. A thousand thoughts buzzed at the back of his mind as he lay in bed, but foremost in his mind was his next appointed rendezvous with Lydia. It was four days’ time from now, thanks to a long list of obligations he had little interest in interfering with. And yet he wanted to see her still.

He got up from his bed and looked out the window at the dark sky. He could just see the moon through the trees, a little to the south. He dressed perfunctorily and started to walk towards town. He didn’t know exactly where he was going, but it seemed as good a direction as any. There would certainly be less concern about roving animals than his last night excursion.