The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) by Michael Meadows Page B
Authors: Michael Meadows
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he drew it to a halt. Mark came out from the front door of the main house after a moment and took the reigns of the horse. The Colonel went into his house.
He hadn’t seen Henry, it seemed in weeks, though he’d seen him only three days before. He wondered where the lad was, but he didn’t bother to ask. It was entirely possible he’d been in his room, or in the dining room taking a late snack. But John Paul didn’t care to go and investigate, so he didn’t.
His bed was less comfort than he had hoped for; his fears and self-pity bore too great a burden on his mind, and he lay awake, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
What would he do now, he thought. There was nothing to do. He would send her a card, that much was certain, but beyond that he couldn’t think of a single thing that would take the place she had held in his days, in his thoughts.
Perhaps, after a few weeks, she would be ready to receive visitors again. Perhaps he would be able to get her brother’s consent for marriage. The thoughts provided little comfort. He wouldn’t be seeing her for a very long while, it seemed; he might be away from her as long as he had been with her, and the thought tugged hard on his heart.
He turned over for what felt like the hundredth time and tried again to fall asleep to no avail. It was a long night, and when he finally arose, it was long before the sun. He didn’t wake Thomas, but instead brewed himself a cup of tea and sat down.
There was work to be done around the house, and he would set himself to it. That was the only thought that gave him any sort of comfort. That would be his distraction. He lit a candle and started to write a card.
He had no special talent for correspondence, but it seemed as if he needed to do it. It would have been rude not to.
He wrote slowly, poring over the words, trying to think of exactly how to phrase the entire thing. It reminded him of the first time he had called on Lydia, which only served to make him feel worse, but he pressed on.
In the end, he read it back to himself.
Dearest Lydia.
You have my deepest sympathies over the passing of your father. I hope that with time, your grief will be lessened.
Yours always,
JP Foster
He closed the whole thing up in an envelope and set it aside. It would have to be posted in the morning.
John Paul set his pen down. The sun, he saw, was just beginning to rise. He would take breakfast, then, but afterward he would set about doing work. That was the best way to pass the time, to be certain.
He pushed himself up from his chair and trudged out of the room and headed to the foyer. He saw from down the hall Thomas step out of a room and turn around and close it softly. He turned and started down the hall, jumping in surprise when he saw John Paul standing in front of him.
“Sir!”
John Paul settled back into a chair.
“Could I get breakfast, Thomas,” he said softly. “I’d like to get working as soon as possible.”
The cook took a brief moment to catch his breath after having been startled before he answered.
“Yes, of course, sir, one moment.”
He pressed open the door to the kitchen, which swung closed behind him. It didn’t take more than a few minutes before Thomas came back out, now wearing an apron over his shirt, and pressed a plate into his hand.
John Paul didn’t look to see what sort of food he’d been given, but immediately took up a fork and began eating. Eggs, he saw only a moment before they were speared on a fork and pushed into his mouth. And beside them biscuits covered in gravy.
He finished after another couple of moments and put the plate on a table. He started towards the back door, rolling up his sleeves. There was another big job to take care of, now that the gazebo was down. He noted with mute satisfaction that the ruins of it had been mostly destroyed some time in the past two days.
It wasn’t the gazebo, however, that he was concerned with. He squatted down and took a grasp
He hadn’t seen Henry, it seemed in weeks, though he’d seen him only three days before. He wondered where the lad was, but he didn’t bother to ask. It was entirely possible he’d been in his room, or in the dining room taking a late snack. But John Paul didn’t care to go and investigate, so he didn’t.
His bed was less comfort than he had hoped for; his fears and self-pity bore too great a burden on his mind, and he lay awake, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
What would he do now, he thought. There was nothing to do. He would send her a card, that much was certain, but beyond that he couldn’t think of a single thing that would take the place she had held in his days, in his thoughts.
Perhaps, after a few weeks, she would be ready to receive visitors again. Perhaps he would be able to get her brother’s consent for marriage. The thoughts provided little comfort. He wouldn’t be seeing her for a very long while, it seemed; he might be away from her as long as he had been with her, and the thought tugged hard on his heart.
He turned over for what felt like the hundredth time and tried again to fall asleep to no avail. It was a long night, and when he finally arose, it was long before the sun. He didn’t wake Thomas, but instead brewed himself a cup of tea and sat down.
There was work to be done around the house, and he would set himself to it. That was the only thought that gave him any sort of comfort. That would be his distraction. He lit a candle and started to write a card.
He had no special talent for correspondence, but it seemed as if he needed to do it. It would have been rude not to.
He wrote slowly, poring over the words, trying to think of exactly how to phrase the entire thing. It reminded him of the first time he had called on Lydia, which only served to make him feel worse, but he pressed on.
In the end, he read it back to himself.
Dearest Lydia.
You have my deepest sympathies over the passing of your father. I hope that with time, your grief will be lessened.
Yours always,
JP Foster
He closed the whole thing up in an envelope and set it aside. It would have to be posted in the morning.
John Paul set his pen down. The sun, he saw, was just beginning to rise. He would take breakfast, then, but afterward he would set about doing work. That was the best way to pass the time, to be certain.
He pushed himself up from his chair and trudged out of the room and headed to the foyer. He saw from down the hall Thomas step out of a room and turn around and close it softly. He turned and started down the hall, jumping in surprise when he saw John Paul standing in front of him.
“Sir!”
John Paul settled back into a chair.
“Could I get breakfast, Thomas,” he said softly. “I’d like to get working as soon as possible.”
The cook took a brief moment to catch his breath after having been startled before he answered.
“Yes, of course, sir, one moment.”
He pressed open the door to the kitchen, which swung closed behind him. It didn’t take more than a few minutes before Thomas came back out, now wearing an apron over his shirt, and pressed a plate into his hand.
John Paul didn’t look to see what sort of food he’d been given, but immediately took up a fork and began eating. Eggs, he saw only a moment before they were speared on a fork and pushed into his mouth. And beside them biscuits covered in gravy.
He finished after another couple of moments and put the plate on a table. He started towards the back door, rolling up his sleeves. There was another big job to take care of, now that the gazebo was down. He noted with mute satisfaction that the ruins of it had been mostly destroyed some time in the past two days.
It wasn’t the gazebo, however, that he was concerned with. He squatted down and took a grasp
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