The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) by Michael Meadows Page A
Authors: Michael Meadows
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surprised to find that in spite of his vigorous running he had managed to avoid tearing any of the seams, and found the same for his trousers.
He took a moment to catch his breath, and then started to walk again. Simon stood outside, smoking a cigarette. He had long, drawn lines under his eyes. When John Paul stepped into view, he looked too tired to show any surprise at seeing him.
“Oh, Mister Foster.”
“What’s happened?” He tried to make it sound concerned, but he could hear the anxiety thick in his own voice and knew that he hadn’t fooled anyone.
Simon took a heavy drag on his cigarette and looked at the street, where carriages rolled by unfeelingly, pulled by horses wearing blinders. The Colonel wanted to press him to respond, but held himself back. The young man would tell him when he was ready. Simon had heard him, he was certain of that.
“It’s the old man,” he said finally.
John Paul wondered if he would tell what had happened, but he didn’t ask. It would, he thought, have been far too rude. So he kept his questions to himself as best he could.
“I’m so sorry,” he said instead.
“It’s fine,” the eldest Wakefield boy said distractedly. It seemed an odd response, but then again he could tell that whatever was on his mind was weighing heavily.
John Paul saw Lydia through the doorway, wearing a thick velvet dress. She saw him, as well, and for a moment she rebelled against her better manners and wanted desperately to go to him, but then the moment passed and she kept walking.
The Colonel, catching the moment of loss and confusion captured in her eyes, turned back to Simon.
“You have my condolences, mister Wakefield,” he said softly, and he turned to go. His shoulders felt heavy. The shop would reopen in two weeks’ time, plenty of time for the family to recover from the shock and begin to mourn properly. But the engagement was no longer even an issue, he thought.
She would be mourning her father, and he would not call on her until she was ready to receive guests again. His relationship, even his entire life, it seemed, was on hold, and there was nothing he could do about it. He took a deep breath and renewed his effort to walk in an even, controlled manner. He couldn’t let his panic show on his face; the very notion was unthinkable.
He stepped into the labor office for the second time that week.
“I shall need a plumber,” he said.
“Mister Foster,” the man behind the counter began, but he quickly caught the mood. His voice dropped from the sing-song voice of dealing with a customer to a more conversational tone. “What did you need?”
“The estate has no internal plumbing; I assume the family who resided there must have been in a poor state and couldn’t fit it.”
The man nodded. “I guess that does make sense. I’ll have someone out, but it’ll be a big job to fit a place that large.”
“I know,” John Paul said. His voice was tired. Whatever drive had pushed him into the office in the first place, it was gone now, and all that was left was an exhausting feeling that nothing was going right, nor did it seem like it would ever go right again. “But it must be done.”
He left a pound note with the man and walked out without engaging in any further conversation. Indeed, he simply wanted to be home, to lie in bed, and to languish in his own exhausted misery. He preferred it to drinking.
The stable brought his horse out and he tipped the boy three pence before setting off. The two hours back to his estate seemed longer now than they had ever seemed before, the road stretching infinitely out in front of him, the horse trotting far, far too slow.
At times he thought perhaps he could have walked just as fast himself, but he suspected that he was wrong about that, and further he had no special desire to rush.
He let the horse walk seemingly enough in place until his house appeared on the horizon, until the horse was walking stolidly past the stable, when
He took a moment to catch his breath, and then started to walk again. Simon stood outside, smoking a cigarette. He had long, drawn lines under his eyes. When John Paul stepped into view, he looked too tired to show any surprise at seeing him.
“Oh, Mister Foster.”
“What’s happened?” He tried to make it sound concerned, but he could hear the anxiety thick in his own voice and knew that he hadn’t fooled anyone.
Simon took a heavy drag on his cigarette and looked at the street, where carriages rolled by unfeelingly, pulled by horses wearing blinders. The Colonel wanted to press him to respond, but held himself back. The young man would tell him when he was ready. Simon had heard him, he was certain of that.
“It’s the old man,” he said finally.
John Paul wondered if he would tell what had happened, but he didn’t ask. It would, he thought, have been far too rude. So he kept his questions to himself as best he could.
“I’m so sorry,” he said instead.
“It’s fine,” the eldest Wakefield boy said distractedly. It seemed an odd response, but then again he could tell that whatever was on his mind was weighing heavily.
John Paul saw Lydia through the doorway, wearing a thick velvet dress. She saw him, as well, and for a moment she rebelled against her better manners and wanted desperately to go to him, but then the moment passed and she kept walking.
The Colonel, catching the moment of loss and confusion captured in her eyes, turned back to Simon.
“You have my condolences, mister Wakefield,” he said softly, and he turned to go. His shoulders felt heavy. The shop would reopen in two weeks’ time, plenty of time for the family to recover from the shock and begin to mourn properly. But the engagement was no longer even an issue, he thought.
She would be mourning her father, and he would not call on her until she was ready to receive guests again. His relationship, even his entire life, it seemed, was on hold, and there was nothing he could do about it. He took a deep breath and renewed his effort to walk in an even, controlled manner. He couldn’t let his panic show on his face; the very notion was unthinkable.
He stepped into the labor office for the second time that week.
“I shall need a plumber,” he said.
“Mister Foster,” the man behind the counter began, but he quickly caught the mood. His voice dropped from the sing-song voice of dealing with a customer to a more conversational tone. “What did you need?”
“The estate has no internal plumbing; I assume the family who resided there must have been in a poor state and couldn’t fit it.”
The man nodded. “I guess that does make sense. I’ll have someone out, but it’ll be a big job to fit a place that large.”
“I know,” John Paul said. His voice was tired. Whatever drive had pushed him into the office in the first place, it was gone now, and all that was left was an exhausting feeling that nothing was going right, nor did it seem like it would ever go right again. “But it must be done.”
He left a pound note with the man and walked out without engaging in any further conversation. Indeed, he simply wanted to be home, to lie in bed, and to languish in his own exhausted misery. He preferred it to drinking.
The stable brought his horse out and he tipped the boy three pence before setting off. The two hours back to his estate seemed longer now than they had ever seemed before, the road stretching infinitely out in front of him, the horse trotting far, far too slow.
At times he thought perhaps he could have walked just as fast himself, but he suspected that he was wrong about that, and further he had no special desire to rush.
He let the horse walk seemingly enough in place until his house appeared on the horizon, until the horse was walking stolidly past the stable, when
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