by Kris Tualla
Sydney chewed her last bite of lamb for a long time before accepting another helping of green beans. Her brow wrinkled. “Add the six weeks to get from St. Louis to Philadelphia and back. That’s eighteen weeks so far.”
“It’s only two days, Philadelphia to Baltimore,” Nicolas quickly pointed out. As though that was in any manner helpful.
“Nineteen. Two months going and two-and-a-half on the return?”
“That’s about right.” Nicolas considered Sydney. She was definitely working up to some point, but whatever it was still eluded him. But her brow puckered attractively and half of her coral-colored lower lip was caught in her teeth. He smiled; his wife was so beautiful.
Maribeth set a warm slice of apple-raisin pie in front of each of them. Nicolas smelled cinnamon and nutmeg steaming from the pastry and his mouth watered in spite of the large meal. He picked off a chunk of crust. It flaked deliciously in his fingers.
Maribeth returned with two cups of strong black coffee. Sydney added cream to hers. “When is the latest you can sail from Norway to come back?”
“The end of September, to be safe,” Nicolas answered through a tasty bite of pie. He sipped the aromatic coffee to wash it down.
Sydney stared directly at him then. Her intense expression pinned him like a hunting dirk. “That’s six months from now. Allowing a month to prepare for the journey, and four-and-a-half months of travel, that means you would have but six or seven weeks in Christiania to complete your business.”
Nicolas gasped and nearly choked on a chunk of hot apple. He coughed it free but his gut twisted, threatening to expel his supper. He now knew her point—and he had walked headlong into it.
No part of her countenance eased, screwing the dirk deeper. “Can you guarantee that’s possible?”
He waved one hand to push the imagined knife from his chest. He tried to sound offhand, confident. “I shall certainly try, of course.”
“And if you’re not successful?” Her words punctured him as effectively as the phantom dirk’s blade. Nicolas tried to concoct a parry to deflect her, but couldn’t. She had him.
“Nicolas?” Her voice was still soft. Like the underbelly of a wolf.
His shoulders sagged, pressed down by truth. “Then I’m there ‘til spring.”
Sydney jerked a nod and leaned back in her chair. “That settles it.”
“What?”
“I’m going with you.”
“What!” he exploded.
She leaned forward and spoke slowly, distinctly. “I am going with you.”
Nicolas scoffed. “What about Kirstie? She can’t be weaned so young!”
“She’s coming as well. And before you ask, so is Stefan.”
“Helvetet med det! That’s absurd!” he shouted.
“Why?”
Nicolas planted his elbows on the table and spoke over tightly clenched hands. His knuckles blanched. “You want to take an infant and a six-year-old halfway around the world? For what purpose?”
Sydney pushed back her carved maple armchair and stood. She rested fists on the table and her glare cannon-balled across it. “You want me to spend the first year of our marriage alone? For what purpose?”
“The journey’s too arduous!” he bellowed.
“Being apart from you would be too arduous! Our full marital relationship has only one month’s maturity!” she retorted, her voice rising in pitch.
Nicolas threw his hands wide, barely missing the wine bottle. “There’s no certainty that I’d be gone a full year!”
“There’s no guarantee that you won’t!” Sydney declaimed. “And I don’t care to spend our first anniversary with you living on another continent!”
Nicolas rose and faced his angry wife across the table. Her stubborn nature and refusal to accept his decrees without argument were in full infuriating force. He attempted to sound calm, using irrefutable male logic in the face of her feminine fury.
“Sydney. Be reasonable. It’s simply too dangerous!”
She glowered at him. “Oh? Might you die?”
Nicolas stepped back with that direct hit, but his wife didn’t flinch.
“Please do me the honor of answering my inquiry, Nicolas.” She hissed his name.
He narrowed his eyes and ground out his words. “There’s always a chance, with ocean travel, that something might go amiss.”
Sydney stood straight; righteous anger made her taller than her five-and-a-half feet. Her eyes burned into his, green flames under thick black smoke. “Do you truly expect me to sit here alone, waiting and wondering for a year, armed with that knowledge?”
Nicolas slammed his fist on the table and the silverware scattered for cover. “Madam! I expect you to obey my wishes!” he shouted.
Sydney crossed her arms. Fierce and defiant, she stared at him with lips pursed so tightly that they lost color.
“Fine,” she spat.
That was unexpected. “What?”
“I said fine.” Her thunderous expression didn’t match her words.
Nicolas cocked his head, wary. “We’re in agreement, then?”
“We’re in agreement. You want me to remain here, with your children, while you go off to Norway. Alone.”
“Yes…” Nicolas felt he was walking into a trap. Ridiculous. As her husband and head of the household he merely asserted his authority. After all, it was the sensible path to take.
“It’s your wish to be separated from me,” she added.
“No! That’s not my wish, Sydney, not at all.” Nicolas relaxed a little and injected a hint of sympathy into his tone. “But it’s for the best. You must know that.”
“I see.”
Sydney sat down to finish her pie and Nicolas followed suit. But she didn’t meet his eyes, nor could he engage her in conversation. She set her napkin by her half-finished dessert. Then she gripped her garnet and filigreed wedding ring and spun it on her finger.
“Our separation shall begin now.”
Nicolas scowled. “What do you mean by that?”
“It’s your belief that you’ll be better off without my company on this ‘arduous’ journey. If that’s true, you should begin your preparation in all aspects. I shall sleep in the nursery.”
“Sydney!” Nicolas barked.
One eyebrow lifted. “What?”
“That’s not at all necessary!”
Sydney stood and, with a very sweet smile, defied him. “Yes, Nicolas, it very much is.”
Chapter Two
April 3, 1820
Nicolas stood in his bedroom staring into his wardrobe. He was washed for dinner and still half-naked, when Sydney came looking for him.
“I need clothes,” he stated.
The carved cherry wardrobe held a few work shirts. Even fewer dress shirts hung next to his navy blue velvet frock coat and brocade waistcoat. Three pair of nankeen breeches lay folded on a shelf next to the calfskin pair. The aromas of camphor and cedar wafted out.
“And a new greatcoat.” He looked down at his wife. “I can’t appear at court wrapped in furs! I’ll go to St. Louis tomorrow and order a suitable wardrobe.”
Sydney plucked a single long blond hair from that dark blue velvet.
“I love the way this color matches your eyes, even if your loosed hairs do stand out against it like chalk on slate.”
She wiggled her fingers and the abandoned strand floated out of sight. “Will you be gone overnight?”
“I see no reason, if I leave early enough and the weather holds.”
“Might I go with you then?”
Nicolas welcomed the idea of her company on the twenty-mile round trip. Perhaps—after sleeping only one night in the nursery—she was already softening toward him.
He smiled down at her. “Even so. Do you have a purpose?”
Sydney nodded. “I want to show Kirstie to Rosie. She hasn’t seen her since she was born.”
“Oh.”
Nicolas wasn’t accustomed to the notion that his new wife and his ex-who
re had become friends. Their daughter’s untimely January birth—away from his estate and in St. Louis—had required Rosie’s help. For her efforts, though, he would remain forever grateful.
“And books,” Sydney added. “Deeply romantic ones. If you intend to abandon me for such a long time, I’ll need some type of suitable diversion in my bed.”
Nicolas clenched his jaw, irritated at the reminder of her mutiny.
“Fine,” he acquiesced. “We’ll leave at dawn.”
Sydney slid her hands over his chest and kissed him very, very well. He pulled her close and tangled his tongue with hers. She moaned a little and pressed her hips against him.
Her hands dropped to his arse and her fingernails raked over his breeches causing his muscles to tense and quiver. He could feel her pulse quicken when his lips dropped to her neck. His need pooled in his groin.
“Min presang?” he whispered.
“Supper’s ready,” she whispered back, and slipped from his grip.
That night she slept in the nursery again.
Forbannet sta kvinne! Damned stubborn woman!
Naked as was his habit, Nicolas tossed in his lonely bed and kicked the cloying covers to the floor. He was completely unable to reason with her because she would not listen to reason!
How could he, in good conscience, take her and the children on such a long expedition? What about the estate? What about Stefan’s schooling? How could infant Kirstie’s needs be adequately seen to?
“Skitt!” he grunted and pummeled his pillow into lumpy submission. “Skitt! Skitt! SKITT!”
He swore he heard a giggle through the nursery door.
Skitt.
April 4, 1820
St. Louis
The morning dawned gray and heavy as the slate and stone that comprised the Hansen manor. Sydney was worried they might be rained on, but by the time Nicolas drove the carriage into St. Louis, the sky had transformed into polished turquoise striated by mere remnants of silver vapor.
Nicolas drove them straight to the tailor shop and hired a boy to carry a message to Rosie for Sydney. Then they got down to the business of creating his Norway-worthy wardrobe.
“Is this the woman who needed the breeches?” The tailor Ibram Mosel eyed her over a pair of wired spectacles. “Did they fit?”
She smiled. “Like a glove, sir! And if they were indicative of your skills, then my husband will be the envy of Christiania!”
“Husband, you say?” Ibram turned to Nicolas, eyebrows echoing the upper curve of his glasses.
“We were married, um, last winter. Year,” Nicolas sputtered.
Sydney felt her cheeks bloom. Their marriage, after all, was only a month older than their daughter.
Ibram winked at the healthy three-month-old in Sydney’s arms. “In plenty of time, eh?” He chuckled and pushed Nicolas toward the mirror. “Let’s see if marriage has changed you in other ways, shall we?”
While Ibram measured her husband, Sydney moved around the small shop, fingering fabrics and examining buttons. She turned and caught Nicolas watching her in the tailor’s tall mirror. His intense navy stare shot straight to her belly. How could she hold on to her resolve to stay away from his bed when his sensual gaze warmed her womb so easily?
Ibram’s voice doused them both. “Stop thinking about her, Mister Hansen. I need an accurate inseam.” Nicolas blushed and his gaze skittered away from hers.
The shop door blew open.
Rosie entered in a whoosh of taffeta and flowery perfume. “Where’s that baby girl?”
Sydney laughed her relief at the raucous distraction and hurried to place Kirstie in Rosie’s eager arms.
“Oh! She’s the spit of Nicky, the poor thing!” Rosie teased. She winked at her erstwhile customer and jerked her head toward Sydney. “Even with a woman this beautiful, you big blond Norwegians still win out!”
“It’s a curse,” Nicolas teased back over Ibram’s head. “Ask the English. Or the Scots. Or the French. Shall I go on?”
“Pah!” Rosie waved her free hand at him.
“Do you have time for coffee?” Sydney asked.
Rosie grinned. “As long as you let me hold this little princess, I have lotsa time!”
The women walked a couple blocks to a café. Silver wisps now burned away, the turquoise sky was unblemished.
“Coffee. Strong and black,” Rosie said to the serving girl. She turned to Sydney. “I’m not always up this time of day.”
Sydney laughed. “I’ll have mine with cream, please.”
Rosie held Kirstie on her lap. “Your marriage is going well?” Rosie probed. “No ghosts?”
“No ghosts. We are in the midst of a minor disagreement, however.” Sydney explained the letter from Christiania, and her desire to go to Norway.
Rosie cocked her head. “Are you sure about that? It’s a long way and a helluva lot of work!”
“I know, Rosie. But I would rather that, than to live without him.” Sydney sipped her coffee before giving her nightmare a voice. “And if something happened to him…”
“Now don’t go thinkin’ such as that! After all you been through, the both of ya? And to find each other and all? Nothing’ll keep you apart.”
A smile tugged one corner of Sydney’s mouth. “I’ve begun a campaign to convince him I should go.”
“Oh?” Rosie leaned forward.
“I’m sleeping in the nursery.”
Rosie rocked back and hooted. “Ha! That’ll win him for sure! I swear, that man’s got the strongest—” Embarrassed horror defined her abruptly silent features.
Sydney rescued her, firmly capping her erupting jealousy. “Yes, Rosie. He does.”
The fancy woman blushed right through her rouge. “I’m so sorry, Sydney.”
“It was before he knew me. Don’t think a thing of it.”
Rosie nodded and petted Kirstie’s hair. The girl squirmed and whimpered.
Sydney stood and lifted the infant from Rosie’s lap. “It seems I need to go to the carriage and feed her.”
Rosie stood as well. Her expression was pensive and a little sad. “Thanks for gettin’ me so’s I could see her. She’s a beauty, and there’s no doubt.”
“I’m glad I saw you, Rosie.” Sydney’s hug crackled Rosie’s abundant taffeta sleeves.
Rosie held her longer than Sydney expected, and then leaned away and winked at her. “Best of luck on your trip to Norway.”
April 9, 1820
Cheltenham
Nicolas and Sydney sat on the front porch after dinner, listening to the forest whisper in the dark. A quarter moon cast weak shadows on the newly greening lawn. There was no breeze to relieve the spring humidity that condensed on his night-cooled skin.
Nicolas sipped brandy as was his habit, but Sydney had already finished her second glass of port wine. Sleeping away from his wife made him jumpy and the brandy did help soothe his nerves. Perhaps she grew tired of their nightly separation and was using the port for the same reason? Perhaps she would open her door soon.
Even though the brandy calmed his nerves, it did nothing to assuage his mounting yearning. He hardened just watching her fingers trail across her throat. Slide along the neckline of her gown. Brush over her bosom. Curl in her lap.
Skitt.
Indignant protests from disgruntled chickens jarred the night. Nicolas grabbed Sydney’s arm and she almost yelped before he pushed his forefinger against her lips and jerked his head toward the front door. He pulled her into the house.
“Stay here,” he commanded. She nodded, wide-eyed.
He trotted down the hall and retrieved his rifle from its nest by the kitchen. Then he slipped out the back door. With an experienced predator’s stealth, he hurried silently toward the chicken coop as his eyes swept the yard, seeking any movement.
The door to the chicken coop opened and Nicolas froze. A man stepped out and carefully closed the door, slipping the latch into place with an almost imperceptible click. He carried a dead chick
en by its feet.
“I would suggest you move no further,” Nicolas warned.
The man’s head jerked in Nick’s direction before he bolted toward the woods. Nicolas fired the rifle in his direction.
“Stop or I won’t miss the next time!” he bellowed. The man whirled to face him. The dead chicken bounced off his leg.
Nicolas trotted closer. When he was a few yards away, he realized the man was a Negro. Discarding the chicken, he charged at Nicolas, fists swinging in wild arcs.
Nicolas had the man by half-a-foot, fifty pounds, and ten years of experience. With an economy of movement he grabbed the Negro by the neck and dragged him toward the house, ripping his shirt as the desperate man resisted his capture. When Nicolas reached the back porch, he planted his sizable fist in the Negro’s belly and then flung him onto the floor. Sydney waited with an oil lamp. Her eyes and mouth rounded when she saw the thief.
“We had a weasel in the coop. He got one of the hens.” Nicolas nudged the man hard with his boot. “Stand up!”
The Negro climbed to his feet and straightened with difficulty. He lifted his chin and turned to face Nicolas. Sydney gasped.
“What?” Nicolas frowned at her.
She pointed and her hand shook. “His back.”
“Turn around!” Nicolas barked.
The black man’s back was a web of pink scars and fresh red weals. Nicolas’s stomach clenched. “Hva i Gud’s navn—are you a runaway?”
“I’ll die before I go back. So if that’s what you have in mind, I’ll ask that you show me mercy and be quick about it.” His educated accent was a surprise.
Nicolas looked at Sydney, but her gaze went behind him. He twisted to look over his shoulder. Standing in the outer light of the lamp was a beautiful Negress with skin the color of lightly creamed tea. She couldn’t be more than eighteen years old. And she was very pregnant.
“Sarah, no-o-o!” the man moaned. “Why didn’t you stay hidden?”
Sarah looked from the man to Nicolas, then to Sydney. For a tense moment, no one moved. Then Sydney stepped forward and held up the lantern.
“You may have the chicken,” she said.
“It’s not your business, Sydney!” Nicolas countered. His harsh tone reflected his concern; helping slaves escape was a serious situation. “Stay out of this.”
