by Kris Tualla
It took Bronnie only three good pushes before a black-swirled head emerged. Sydney wiped it clean and maneuvered the shoulders through. A long vernix- and blood-smeared body somersaulted into Sydney’s lap.
“It is a girl!” Sydney shouted. “And she’s tall already!”
The infant gulped and wailed.
“A girl? I have a girl?” Bronnie’s tired grin split her face. “Oh, my beautiful baby girl.”
While she covered her daughter with kisses, Sydney tied off the cord and waited for the afterbirth. Taycie sidled up beside her.
“Miz Hansen?”
“Yes, Taycie?”
“You, I mean, she… She didn’t scream very much.”
“I try to show the women how to breathe through the contractions. They concentrate on that and forget to scream,” Sydney explained.
Taycie looked over her shoulder at the leather bag. “The oil?”
“Helps keep the skin from tearing.”
Taycie squinted at Sydney, her mouth working tightly. She drew a deep breath. “Might you show me? Teach me, I mean?”
“To be a midwife?”
Taycie nodded. “Some o’ the older womens, they make the girls scared. Real scared, with their spells an’ all. An’ we can’t have white midwives, you know.”
Sydney drew a slow breath in an unsuccessful attempt to calm her sense of injustice. “I would be happy to teach you, Taycie. I’m certain Master Rickard wouldn’t mind. Your women deserve to know as much as mine do. I will talk to him about it soon.”
“Thank you, Miz Hansen.”
Sydney considered Taycie’s flawless chocolate skin. “How old are you, Taycie?”
“As best I know, I am seventeen. Maybe eighteen.”
The clock struck two. Rickard pushed the door tentatively and peered around its edge.
“Come on in, papa!” Sydney pulled on the handle. “Come meet your daughter!”
Rickard moved toward the bed on legs that wobbled like saplings in a spring storm. “Are you well, Bron?” He pushed a lock of rich, brown hair from her forehead. Her brown eyes lifted to his, her love for him so obvious that it made Sydney blush.
“Oh, Rick! Look at her! Is she not the most beautiful baby you have ever seen?”
Rickard lifted the tiny bundle and held her in front of him. Her bluish-brown baby eyes squinted at him. “Hello, darling! I’m your father,” he whispered.
“What’s her name?” Sydney asked
“Glynnis Lara Atherton?” Rickard looked to Bronnie for confirmation. She nodded.
“I like that.” Sydney finished packing her leather bag.
Rickard sighed, looking a bit stunned. “I—I have a daughter.”
Chapter Two
Sydney slumped into a chair in the Hansen kitchen and brushed loose strands of hair out of her eyes. She felt every speck of the road dust covering her skin and she longed to wash. The Hansen’s housekeeper, Anne McCain, set a cup of chamomile tea in front of her, and then pulled a sweet-potato pie from the oven.
“That smells wonderful, Anne.” Sydney stirred a little cream into her cup. “You’re a gifted cook, that’s certain.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Anne’s dark eyes shifted to hers. “Was it a hard birth?”
“Not hard, really. But slow. How long have I been away?” Sydney squinted at a small clock on a shelf.
Anne’s eyes followed hers. “You left in the middle of the night, and it’s almost two.”
Sydney grunted and sipped her tea. “I’ll lie down and rest before supper. Please don’t let me sleep past six.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The cadence of knuckles on the front door, though feminine, was nonetheless demanding. Sydney pushed to her feet and untied the midwife’s apron she still wore.
“I’ll see to that, Anne.” Moving down the hall, she ran her fingers through her tangled hair and wiped her face with the least filthy corner of the apron. She knew she still looked worse for wear, but there was no hope for it. She grasped the brass handle and pulled open the heavy carved-oak door. Shock traveled to her extremities, and she gripped the door for support.
“Hello.” Pause. “Sydney.”
Lily Atherton was, as always, dressed impeccably. Eyes that swept over Sydney with unconcealed disdain glowed as turquoise as her gown. Her light auburn hair was pinned back, and draped in perfect coils on her shoulders. Sydney felt the prickle of sweat, undoubtedly turning the unfortunate layer of dust into a mud pack.
“May I speak with Nicolas?”
Sydney lifted her chin. “He’s not here, Lily. He’s in St. Charles.”
“Has he left you already?” Lily teased. She didn’t smile.
“Is there something I might help you with?” Sydney asked, though she didn’t intend to be helpful in any way. “Besides delivering your niece this morning, that is?”
“Oh! That was you? Since when are you a midwife?” Lily scoffed.
Sydney was too tired to be polite to this particular woman. “What do you want?”
Lily pulled a face and heaved a slow humming sigh. “My husband and I have only just arrived back in Cheltenham and wish to invite Nicolas and—you—to dinner at my estate.”
“You’re married?” The surprise of it pulled the words from Sydney before she could bite them back.
Lily’s rouged lips quivered and one brow lifted triumphantly. “He’s quite wealthy. Quite.”
“Oh.” Sydney was unsure how else to respond to that. “So… when is this dinner to be?”
“When will Nicolas return?”
Sydney’s brows dipped as she struggled tiredly to remember what day today was. “The day after tomorrow, I believe.”
Lily waved her gloved hands as though the date was unimportant. “Then the day after that.”
“Have Rickard and Bronnie agreed? She’s only just given birth.”
Lily shook her head. “This is my dinner party, not hers.”
“Dinner at Rickard’s estate, then. I’ll tell Nicolas when he comes home. Thank you for the invitation.” Sydney started to close the door but Lily stopped her.
“At my estate,” she corrected. “I do own half, now that our mother has passed.”
Sydney nodded politely and pushed the portal closed. She listened for Lily’s heeled shoes to tap their way out of her hearing.
“Welcome back, Lily,” she whispered. “Now go far, far away.”
October 22, 1821
St. Charles
The sun was well over the horizon when Nicolas emerged from the room. He clomped down the brothel stairs, scratching his belly and acting, for all the world to see, like a man well satisfied. Madam Purple, sans the eye paint and looking bleary-eyed, met him in the drawing room.
“I trust your evening here was satisfactory?” she asked softly and retied her silk wrapper.
“Very. So much so, that I wish to do some additional business.”
“Oh?” She let the wrapper fall open. “And what sort of business might that be?”
Nicolas inhaled the scents of coffee and baking bread. “Might I order breakfast while we talk?”
“Of course! How inhospitable of me. Please, come this way.” Madam opened double doors and sashayed into the adjoining room. Nicolas saw that the brocade debacle was not limited to the drawing room.
“Please, do sit down, Mister—?”
“Hansen.” Nicolas settled into a black armchair at one end of a polished table. “Thank you.”
“I shall see to your meal, Mister Hansen.” Madam trailed her hand across his shoulders, and leaned close to his ear. “Then we can talk of other appetites,” she whispered.
Platters of eggs, ham and potatoes appeared, followed by freshly baked rolls with jars of jam and honey. A pot of strong black coffee was set in front of him and Madam Purple poured.
“Shall I give you cream?” she purred the double entendre.
“No. Black. I prefer black,” Nicolas doubled her right back.
Madam
slipped into the seat next to him and leaned close. “We are not speaking of coffee.”
“We are not.”
One veined hand slid along the neckline of the wrapper; the silk rustled softly. “So you enjoyed the maid?”
“I want to buy her.”
Madam leaned away, surprised. “She isn’t for sale.”
“Madam, everything is for sale. It’s only a matter of price.” Nicolas took a big bite of eggs and hoped his revulsion for the idea didn’t show.
Madam’s eyes swept over Nicolas, obviously attempting to judge what price he might afford to pay. He had dressed carefully for that eventuality. Not shabby, so he was believable. But not overly fancy, either. No point in paying more than he needed to.
“What price are you offering?” Madam fingered her hair, affecting nonchalance.
Nicolas shrugged. “How much did you pay for her?”
“I don’t recall.”
“How long has she been here?” Nicolas tested.
“Oh, I’m not sure. Five years at the least,” she lied. It was less than two years since the couple crossed Nicolas’s path in their attempt to escape.
Nicolas spread jam on a roll. He ate it slowly without speaking. Madam began to squirm.
“Would you care for anything else?” she asked, pushing the platters closer to Nicolas.
Nicolas leaned back and drummed his fingers on the table. It was the only sound in the room. Madam’s smile drooped.
“Fifty dollars.”
“Pah! Sir, you insult me!” Madam stood and walked to the opposite side of the table.
“She is only a scullery maid, Madam. She brings in no revenue.”
“Until now!” She looked over one shoulder at Nicolas. “Now that you’ve broken her in, I can offer her to others with your particular tastes.”
Nicolas raised one eyebrow. “And in the ‘five years’ she has been here, no one else has asked about her?”
“Well, of course they have!”
“But you saved her just for me.” Nicolas’s sarcasm was blatant.
“Well—I— ”
“Sixty.”
Madam frowned. “I will have to replace her. She is very valuable to my establishment.”
“And wherever might you find another Negro maid in a slave state?” Nicolas pushed his empty plate away. “You’re wasting my time.”
Madam faced him and rested her hands on the table. Her wrapper fell open and Nicolas was treated to the sight of her sagging assets. He averted his eyes.
“One hundred dollars,” she said.
“Now you insult me.” Nicolas stood and dropped his napkin over his plate.
“Ninety!” she squeaked.
Nicolas leaned his hands on the table and glared at her. “Seventy. It’s my final offer.”
Madam’s mouth worked furiously. Her gaze fell away, then returned.
Nicolas straightened, stepped around his chair and pushed it in. “Good day, Madam.”
“Seventy-five!”
Nicolas slid his eyes to hers. He let his slow stare work its way down her body and back up again. Madam clutched the wrapper to her throat.
“Seventy-five,” she repeated, chin jutting, lifted. “Have we reached an agreement?”
Nicolas narrowed his eyes, jaw clenched. “Fine. Have her out front in ten minutes.”
He pulled the double doors wide open and headed to the front portal. Outside, he sent Jaqriel to retrieve Fyrste, his stallion, and instructed him to wait at the stable. He warned the tired and anxious man not to react when he saw Sarah.
“You’ll have the opportunity to express yourselves once we are away from St. Charles,” Nicolas explained. “We mustn’t expose our true motivations before that. Do you follow my logic?”
Jaqriel nodded. “Y-yes. Sir.”
Nicolas gave Jaqriel money to pay the stable bill. Then he took his purse inside to pay for Jaqriel’s wife.
Sarah was waiting by Rusten when Nicolas returned. Hands gripped tightly in front of her, her belongings rested at her feet in a satchel tied with string. He folded her ownership papers and stuck them in his pocket. Tying Sarah’s small bundle in front of the saddle, Nicolas mounted the gelding and pulled Sarah up behind him. She took hold of his shirt. He felt her tremble.
“Jack has gone to get my other mount. He’s waiting at the stable,” Nicolas spoke over his shoulder. “I’ll ride that one, and you two on this animal.”
“Yes, sir,” Sarah whispered.
“You’ll have a chance to talk to him once we are away from St. Charles. Before that, I insist that you hold your tongue.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nicolas guided Rusten through the newly-crowded streets of the town that was designated Missouri’s first, though temporary, capitol city. When they reached the stable, Jack stood out in front with Fyrste. The stallion stomped his huge black hooves and bobbed his head, black mane flopping and tail twitching. He snorted, eager to be on the move.
Without a word, Nicolas lifted Sarah down into Jack’s outstretched hands, then swung his leg over Rusten’s back and dropped to the ground. He traded reins with Jaqriel and climbed into the ornate Cheyenne saddle on his mottled-gray stallion. Fyrste pranced at the familiar weight, muscles bunching.
Jaqriel’s shoulders rose and fell as he breathed. He didn’t look at Sarah when he lowered her from Rusten so that Nicolas could dismount. She pressed against him, and slid down his chest out of necessity. His jaw worked, cheeks rippling with the effort.
Sarah’s fear of her husband was palpable. Eyes wide, her nervous gaze jumped from Jack to Nicolas and back again. Jaqriel pulled himself into Rusten’s saddle. He stretched a silent hand to his wife. Only then, did he meet her eyes.
Sarah’s hand drifted up to Jaqriel’s. He gripped it, softly at first, then his arm tensed visibly under his chambray workshirt. He pulled her up behind him. Once she settled, her fingers looped through his belt, he turned to Nicolas and nodded. He never spoke or smiled.
“Let’s go!” Nicolas kicked Fyrste to an easy canter and Jaqriel did the same to Rusten. They headed south, towards St. Louis, ten miles distant. Traffic was heavy between the cities. Road dust clogged their nostrils and settled on their clothes and faces. When the party was halfway between St. Charles and St. Louis, Nicolas nudged Fyrste off the road and deep into the woods.
“Go ahead, over there.” Nicolas pointed further into the trees. “I’ll wait here.”
Jaqriel dismounted and helped Sarah down. Wordlessly, he led her away from Nicolas and the resting horses. When they had gone thirty yards or so, he finally turned to face her.
Nicolas watched Sarah’s hands wave, grasp, and then hide. Her shoulders jerked and she curled into herself. Her sobs floated to him, disconnected a bit by the distance.
Jaqriel covered his face. His body shook. Deep, raw moans echoed from surrounding rocks.
Sarah dropped to her knees. Her slender hands wrapped around Jack’s ankles and her forehead touched the pine-needled forest floor as she bowed in supplication.
After what felt like hours, Jaqriel squatted and Nicolas released the breath he didn’t know he held. Forgiveness apparently granted, he circled Sarah’s wrists. He tugged her hands away from his feet and to his waist. Jaqriel then embraced his wife, holding her tightly until her arms hesitatingly encircled him. They stood under the canopy of branches, beginning anew.
Nicolas saw her relax. He smiled when he caught Jack’s eye.
Jack smiled back.
Chapter Three
October 23, 1821
Cheltenham
Nicolas was gone four nights and Sydney missed him far more than she anticipated. It wasn’t only his seductive warmth in her bed; his big, solid presence on the estate seemed to stabilize all of its inhabitants. But at the age of thirty-two, Sydney would have guessed herself more independent, especially since she and Nicolas had yet to celebrate their second anniversary.
“You have fallen harder than you knew,” she c
hided herself as she examined her reflection in their bedroom mirror. Leaning closer, she searched for the signs of the injuries that brought her here in the first place. A thin line above one dark brow was nearly indiscernible. And the split lip left no scar at all.
Sydney pulled the neckline of her dress to the side. A faintly pinkish line ran diagonally from below her right shoulder to halfway under her collarbone. The scar was a reminder of her traitorous first husband, Devin Kilbourne. Sydney sighed and readjusted her décolletage. That was long past. Today, Nicolas would be home.
The dress she selected was the perfect color of green to enhance her gray-green eyes. It also contrasted nicely with her dark brown hair. She pulled her straight hair back on the sides and let it hang loose down her back, the way Nicolas preferred.
Sydney pinched her cheeks and bit her lips. Temporary measures, to be sure, but she would repeat them when Nicolas arrived. She smiled, pleased with the overall results.
“Hurry home, husband,” she whispered. “God speed your mission.”
The shouts of welcome came mid-afternoon. Completely forgetting to pinch and bite, Sydney burst through the front door and ran into Nicolas’s reaching arms. He swept her in a circle—laughing—and kissed her soundly before setting her on her feet.
“Å min Gud! How I missed you!” Nicolas grinned at her.
Sydney felt she was drowning in the deep ocean-blue of his eyes; it was an entirely wonderful sensation.
“And I, you, husband!” she replied. She looked past him then, to the Negro couple dismounting from Rusten. “You accomplished it!”
“That I did! And for only seventy-five.” Nicolas led Sydney to the pair.
“Only?” Sarah’s eyes went to Jaqriel, then to Nicolas.
“I was prepared to pay a hundred, as I did for Jack,” Nicolas explained. “Sarah, might you remember my wife, Sydney?”
Sarah curtsied. “Yes, sir. Pleased to see you again, ma’am.”
“Welcome to the Hansen estate, Sarah, modest though it is.”
Nicolas reached into his pocket and retrieved several coins. “I believe I’ll give the additional twenty-five dollars to you to set up housekeeping.”
