by Kris Tualla
“Finally!’ Sydney laughed. “Do you like her?”
“I do. She’s a fine young woman. So, is anyone hungry?” Ciara’s eyes twinkled at their unanimous acknowledgement. “I believe supper is almost ready. Robert, will you show them to their rooms to freshen up?”
“I can take Kirstie,” Sydney offered.
“Over my dead body,” her mother cooed.
***
Sydney sat on the top step of the staircase to nurse Kirstie away from Nicolas’s distracting snore. She wanted her daughter to sleep, though that state eluded her this first night. Too many childhood memories jostled their way into her thoughts, each one demanding her full attention. Sleep just was not that interesting in comparison.
“I thought I heard you,” her mother whispered, lowering herself quietly next to Sydney. She held a single candle in a brass holder.
“I’m sorry we woke you,” Sydney whispered back.
Ciara stroked Kirstie’s curls. “I’m not! I was hoping.”
Sydney smiled and leaned against her mother. “What do you think of him?” she murmured conspiratorially.
“Nicolas?” Ciara shook her head slowly. “He’s such a big man, and exceedingly handsome, and so… so…”
“Different from Devin?”
“In every way I can imagine,” she concurred. “And he is good to you?”
“In every way I can imagine,” Sydney giggled.
Her mother’s blush was visible even in the candlelight. “You have been blessed, Siobhan. God has seen you through your trials, and blessed you richly.”
Sydney looked down at the healthy nursing babe in her arms. “He has, Mother. He truly has.”
Kirstie closed her eyes and sighed contentedly as if to agree.
The days in Shelbyville flew far too quickly in Sydney’s mind. Though she knew Nicolas was anxious to move on, gentleman that he was, he never let it show.
And, after Sydney repeatedly hugged her mother goodbye, and Robert Bell drove the Hansen family back to the port at Louisville, Nicolas held Sydney in his lap while she cried.
Not once did he complain that she soiled three of his freshly-laundered handkerchiefs in the process.
Chapter Five
Eastern Pennsylvania
June 17, 1820
The wind had shifted.
Cool gusts from the northwest replaced the mild southerly breezes that had accompanied the Hansen’s canvas-covered Conestoga wagon across Pennsylvania for the last week. Dawn was nebulous; nothing more than a gradual graying of the night sky.
The heavy, hugging air smelled waterlogged. Insects buzzed, frantically searching for a haven. Even the blue jays and squirrels ceased their arguments. Nicolas drove the horses hard in hopes of beating the coming storm.
“We’ll have warm, dry beds tonight,” he promised over his shoulder. “We should reach Philadelphia by candlelighting!”
The ashy afternoon aged slowly as an old man. Then the first rumbles of thunder nudged toward them from the north. Once again, Sydney experienced the terror that always made her feel like a foolish child. She didn’t know why she feared thunderstorms; she only knew that she did. And, as ashamed as she was, she couldn’t make her fears disappear.
“How are you doing back there?” Nicolas twisted to look at her.
“We’re tired, cramped and hungry. So I suppose we’re fine!” she attempted to joke. The sky grumbled again, louder and closer. Her heart grumbled louder as well.
“Mamma! That’s thunder! Can I sit with Pappa and watch the lightning?” Stefan looked eagerly to his father.
Nicolas patted the seat next to him and Stefan scrambled into it. “Sydney?” he asked.
She clenched her jaw. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll get us there as quickly as I’m able.”
“I know.”
The storm had stalked them all day and now had them in its trap. Clouds above them were cut open by daggers of light and they bellowed their displeasure. Ripped repeatedly, they couldn’t hold the rain. They poured out their contents on the lone wagon slogging along the road in the deepening gloom. Sydney curled around her baby daughter and prayed for the storm to die.
A few eternities later, Nicolas stopped the wagon under the large portico that extended from the front of a darkened house. It provided welcome relief from the rain that had pounded the wagon’s canvas covering for hours.
Nicolas climbed down from the wagon and Sydney eagerly followed his lead. The front door was locked, so Nicolas reached above the tall doorjamb and retrieved a key hidden there. With a reassuring smile, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. Then he re-hid the key.
“I’ll take the horses to the barn. See if you can find a lamp.”
Sydney nodded and held Kirstie close to her bosom as she stepped through the door. Maribeth followed with Stefan’s hand gripped in hers and closed the door behind them. The house was black inside.
Sydney wondered how she was supposed to find anything in the unfamiliar darkness, when a quick succession of blinding flashes outlined everything in pale blue light. She could not help herself; she shrieked at the immediate punch of thunder and dropped to her knees.
In the quiet aftermath, a man’s voice sent the lightning through her veins and thundered in her gut.
“Ladies, I recommend that you stay right where you are.”
Sydney heard the terrifying click of a rifle hammer. Shaking, she reached for Stefan and pulled him behind her. Kirstie squirmed against Sydney’s crushing grasp. A brief flash of sparks ignited a lamp at the top of the stairs. The man held the lamp so that Sydney couldn’t see his face. But she could see the gun.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“S-sydney Hansen.”
“Hansen?” The voice sounded skeptical.
“Yes. My husband owns this property.”
“You’re lying.”
Sydney’s mouth popped open. She shook her head, but before she could speak, another flash-boom combination caused her to flinch and cry out.
“Who are you?” the man demanded again. He slowly descended the stairs.
Between the man with the gun and the terrifying storm, Sydney fought the urge to burst into hysterical tears. She mustn’t; Maribeth and the children were in her charge. She looked up at the threat again, and he held the lamp slightly to the side. Now she could see that he wore a distorted version of her husband’s face.
“G-gunnar?” she stammered.
He stopped. “Tell me who you are!” he bellowed. Stefan pressed against her back and Kirstie began to fuss. Maribeth stood still as a statuette, and just as silent.
Certain that she now knew who addressed her, Sydney struggled to her feet. She tried her best to sound confident, friendly.
“My name is Sydney Bell Hansen. I am married to Nicolas Hansen. This is our daughter, and his son.”
The lamp swung in lieu of a pointed hand. “What’s your name, boy?”
Sydney pulled Stefan from behind her. “Tell your Uncle Gunnar your name.”
Squinting at the lamp, he obeyed. “Stefan.”
“How old are you?”
“Six-and-a-half.”
The door behind them jerked open and Nicolas blew in with a gust of wet air. He pushed the door shut and looked toward the lamp on the staircase.
“Hva helvetet er De gjøre her?” he blurted. What the hell are you doing here?
“Og hva helvetet er De gjøre her?” Gunnar responded.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the brothers rushed each other. They punched, hugged and slapped in a physical expression of pure male joy. Their booming laughs echoed as they shouted in a garbled mixture of Norse and English. Finally, Nicolas pulled Gunnar toward Sydney.
“This is my wife, Sydney. And this is our daughter, Kirsten. And you know Stefan, of course. This is our maid Maribeth. Was she at the manor when you visited last?” Nicolas beamed at his brother.
Sydney looked up at Gunnar. Though not
as broad, he was a good two inches taller than Nicolas, whose arm angled up as he draped it over his younger brother’s shoulders.
“Maybe she was.” Gunnar’s eyes were on Sydney, not Maribeth. “But when did you get married again, Nick? I never thought that would happen.”
“It’s a long story. One that plays well over dinner,” Sydney demurred. “Perhaps tomorrow we might satisfy your curiosity?”
Gunnar ogled the traveling troupe as if seeing them for the first time. “You’re all wet!”
“And tired and hungry!” Nicolas added. “Might you give us a hand with the horses? And could we find a bite to eat before we retire?”
***
Sydney fell onto the mattress and didn’t move. It took them over an hour to unload the wagon, dress everyone in dry nightclothes, and serve up soup and bread from Gunnar’s pantry. Another hour was required to settle the children into bed while Maribeth washed the dishes and Nicolas and Gunnar tended the horses.
The bedroom door creaked open and clicked shut. A whisper floated toward her. “Sydney?”
“Mm.”
“Are you asleep?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Nicolas chuckled. She heard his boots drop to the floor before he slipped out of his nankeens. He grunted a little as he pulled the shirt over his head. Then he slid against her. His skin was icy and damp.
“Oh, my Lord!” Sydney squealed and jerked aside.
“Warm me, wife!” Nicolas pulled her back against him. It was their first night alone—and in a real bed—for a week and a half. Though his torso was chilled, one stiff part of him was quite warm already.
“Warm me,” he breathed into her ear and bit her earlobe. “Warm me, min presang.” He put her hand around his firm flesh.
Sydney turned to face him and pulled her nightgown up to her waist. She eagerly wrapped her legs around Nicolas as he lowered himself into her. She shuddered as his cold body and heated groin pressed her into the mattress. Moving slowly at first, Nicolas groaned his pleasure and Sydney purred in response. She ran her hand through his damp hair and twisted her fingers in it. She bit his lip and played with his tongue. She lightly scratched his buttocks with the nails of her free hand.
Nicolas responded with swift, powerful strokes that carried her outside of herself. She arched her back and squirmed beneath his massive bulk as everything faded from her awareness but the clenching pulse that radiated from their joining. Nicolas shook and gasped, his face screwed tightly into the expression that mimicked pain, but signaled exquisite pleasure. He collapsed, panting, beside her. They lay in a tangle of hot and cold, hard and soft, wakeful and drowsy.
His culminating kiss was deep, soft, perfect.
“I like Philadelphia already,” Sydney whispered.
June 18, 1820
Philadelphia
The sun grew tired of playing hide-and-seek, so she burned away the remnants of the storm. Then she pushed her beams through the curtains and spilled them across the bedroom floor. Sydney rolled out of bed and spread the drapes for her first look at Nicolas’s land. Mist rose from the wet ground and it water-colored the landscape under an aquamarine sky.
Tilled fields extended from the house, neatly furrowed and sprouting bright green. A bank of deciduous trees outlined each field and pasture. Cows grazed to the north. Small white houses sprouted here and there.
The drive below emerged from the portico and curved back toward the road. Squinting through the haze, Sydney could make out tall, brownstone townhouses, white church spires, and red brick buildings which comprised the center of Philadelphia.
“What do you think?” Nicolas had one eye open, the other buried in his pillow.
“It’s beautiful! And very impressive, to be sure. How much of what I see is yours?”
The eye closed. “All of it.”
Downstairs, Sydney asked Maribeth to help her raid the pantry. Together they pulled together a late breakfast of pancakes, eggs, steak and fried potatoes. Sydney set the table, then sat with Kirstie on her lap. Maribeth poured coffee for everyone while Gunnar retrieved a bottle of cream from the cool bottom of the well.
“Can I have coffee, Pappa?” Stefan was acting very grown-up since he took his meals with the adults.
Nicolas grinned at his son. “You may. But be careful, it’s hot.”
“Add some cream and sugar,” Sydney suggested. “I believe you’ll find that more to your liking.”
Stefan nodded, pushed his hair out of his eyes, and put four spoons of sugar into his cup.
“That’ll do.” Nicolas stopped him from adding a fifth. “Now the cream.”
Stefan added cream until his cup brimmed. The color of the beverage closely resembled oatmeal. He leaned over the cup and slurped it without lifting it from the saucer.
The door to the kitchen opened with its spring twanging. Then it slapped shut.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Gunn, but the pastor was so long-winded this morn! I swear, sometimes—Oh!”
Mouth wide and brown eyes wider, a woman in her mid-twenties stopped smack in the doorway. She wore a burgundy skirt and peasant-style blouse. A white crocheted shawl draped over her arms and looped behind her. Her outrageously red hair was tied up on the sides and hung down her back in a riot of ringlets.
“Bridge… Um, Brigid. Flaherty. This is my brother, Nicolas.” Gunnar blushed from chest to scalp. “His wife, Sydney. Their children Stefan and Kirstie. And their maid, Maribeth.”
“His wife?” Brigid’s brows dipped. “But you said she was—”
“His second wife,” Gunnar interrupted.
“Oh.” Brigid dipped in an awkward curtsy. “Pleased to make your acquaintances.”
“I know you.” Nicolas squinted. “Don’t I?”
“My mother was the housekeeper here, and her mother before her.” Brigid’s glance shifted to Gunnar and back to Nicolas. “Now I’m, um…”
“Brigid keeps the house for me,” Gunnar jumped in.
“Of course!” Nicolas smacked the table. “When I was here as a youth! You must have been only, what, ten or eleven years old? I do remember you!”
Brigid stepped into the dining room and pointed at Nicolas. “Nicky, right? That’s what they called you? You used to play awful tricks on me! Scared me half out of my wits!”
Nicolas threw his head back; his booming laughter filled the room. “My, but you were a gawky little thing!”
“Yes. Well.” Brigid flushed and cleared her throat. “Gunn—um, Mr. Hansen. I’ll clean the kitchen. Please inform me when your guests are finished and I’ll take care of the dishes.” With an awkward curtsy, Brigid quit the room.
Sydney looked at Nicolas, fully expecting him to address the electricity that snapped between Gunnar and Brigid. But before he could speak, Gunnar clapped his huge hands together and faced his older brother.
“So. Tell me how this marriage came to be,” Gunnar suggested. He did not acknowledge the beautiful redhead’s arrival.
“I’m going to feed Kirstie in another room,” she demurred, rising from the table. “You go ahead, Nicolas.”
Nicolas smiled at her, eyes twinkling, and turned his attention to Gunnar. “Are you ready for a good story?”
***
Nicolas stood in the back yard of the huge house and lifted his chin. The sun warmed his skin and he inhaled the fertile bouquet of wet soil. Green foliage under a sapphire sky filled his field of vision. Suffused by a sense of peace, he walked the property with Gunnar at a leisurely pace.
“I didn’t expect you to be here, Gunn. When do you go back to the navy?” he asked.
Gunnar stepped ahead of him and picked up a branch blown down by yesterday’s storm. His hunched stance foreshadowed his words. “I don’t.”
That stopped Nicolas. “What?”
Gunnar turned, his expression clenched. “I’m not going back. I resigned my commission.”
Nicolas stared stupidly at his younger brother. “When?”
“Last October.
”
“You’ve been here since then?”
“I have.”
Gunnar stalked off, peeling leaves from the branch. Nicolas followed in cool silence. Several minutes passed without any offered explanations before he asked, “Will you tell me why, Gunn?”
“It’s complicated,” he clipped.
Nicolas waited. Their pace dwindled in contrast to his growing frustration. “Complicated? Is that all you have to tell me?”
Gunnar whipped the denuded branch in whistling arcs. “Since I was a boy, the navy was all I wanted to do. But when I approached thirty years of age, things began to change.”
“What sort of things?” he prodded. His brother was not making this an easy conversation and he wondered why.
“I began to think I might want a wife. Children.” Gunnar’s tone hardened. “Like you.”
Nicolas considered his sibling, puzzled at the rising anger coloring his cheeks and darkening his eyes. His chin jutted in a manner that was distinctly Hansen.
“So I pondered my opportunities for a year or so, and decided to resign.”
“What did you need to ponder?” Nicolas frowned his confusion. They stood in the speckled shade of a large elm tree. Cheerful lozenges of sunlight chased over their tense forms.
The branch arcs grew faster, wilder. “How to live for one. And where.”
“And you chose here, then?” Nicolas pressed.
Gunnar stopped swinging the branch and rounded on him. Nicolas prepared for the strike, but it didn’t come in spite of Gunnar’s fisted hand.
“How can I ‘choose’ here, Nick?” he sneered.
Nicolas shook his head and spread his hands in question. What on earth was Gunn’s point? He was a naval officer—a ship’s captain—and he had an entire country to choose from. Why not choose Philadelphia?
Gunnar narrowed his eyes and spoke slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. “This isn’t my estate, Nick. It’s yours.”
Before Nicolas could respond, he slammed the branch hard against the tree, frightening a flock of doves.
“Everything is yours!” he shouted. The branch launched; like an unbalanced javelin it tumbled end-over through the air before Gunnar’s stride chewed the space between them. He threw his arms wide and growled, “Every damned thing we can see is yours!”
