A Matter of Principle: Nicolas & Sydney: Book 3 (The Hansen Series: Nicolas & Sydney)

by Kris Tualla

  Warehouse owner and Legislative Candidate from St. Louis County, the Honorable Winston Beckermann, Esq. has his name painted on pretty signs above his warehouse doors. One would assume that all of his assets would be similarly noted.

  This is not the case.

  If it were, then fully one third of the docks in the Port of St. Louis would display such signage. As would the Miss Belle Steam Paddleboat Line, with three vessels sailing and two more under construction at Farthingale’s Shipyard.

  Which should more accurately be titled, Beckermann’s Shipyard.

  As should the commodities trading firm of Quentin & Quentin. And the First Farmer’s Bank of St. Louis. And that notoriously ribald establishment, The Distinguished Gentlemen’s Tavern and Club.

  Such a busy entrepreneur as Mr. Beckermann does require his diversions, it seems.

  It begs the question: what else is Mr. Beckermann hiding from his proposed constituents?

  Nicolas blew a long breath from rounded lips. “At least I’m not the first story this day!”

  He leaned over to observe Sydney from around the bed’s posts. “I should count my blessings, eh?”

  Sydney sat at her dressing table, slipping her shoes on. “Is there anything regarding you?” She sat up straight. “Anything concerning the Ball or your speech last night?”

  Nicolas unfolded the paper. “Here, at the bottom of the front page. By none other than our dear Mr. Percival. Skitt.”

  “Will you read it to me?” Sydney folded her hands in her lap.

  Nicolas cleared his throat.

  N. Hansen: Elected Politician or Kingly Aspirations?

  By Herbert Q. Percival

  At last night’s lavish Ball, held in the aptly named Regent’s Inn, I discovered a startling piece of information: Nicolas Hansen, periodically of Cheltenham and candidate for Legislator, is a prince. He is of royal blood, a close descendent of King Christian the Sixth of Norway.

  The handsome—and aren’t all princes expected to be?—Mr. Hansen returned to Missouri in August last after a fourteen month journey to his kingdom. He went there in search of a throne.

  Allow me to be clear: Nicolas Hansen went to Norway to investigate the possibility of reclaiming the Norse throne from Sweden. And ascending it himself.

  Perhaps His Highness should be reminded that, a mere generation past, Americans fought and died to free the United States from royal tyranny. I, for one, am not interested in a regeneration of rulers with royalist sympathies.

  It was stated previously in this publication that Mr. Hansen had no political experience. It seems that was incorrect. Prince Nicolas has more experience than any free American will care to stand for!

  “Who the helvete is talking to this Percival character?” Nicolas thundered.

  Sydney shrugged, helpless. “If we knew what he looked like, it would be of some assistance.”

  Leif stuck his head in the doorway. “Sir? Do you want me to find him?”

  Nicolas fixed his intent gaze on the teen. Leif squirmed, looking as though he regretted his offer.

  “Yes.” Nicolas nodded. “I believe that I do.”

  A broad smile of relief and excitement split Leif’s narrow face. “When shall I start?”

  “How shall you start, is the question.” Nicolas tapped his chin with the re-folded newspaper. “We have one more commitment here in St. Louis before we go home. I believe you shall accompany us to the event.”

  Leif straightened and ran his hand over his chin. Though he shaved daily, not much grew there as yet. Still, it was good practice. “Yes, Sir! And what shall I do?”

  “Stand behind me at all times. When I see a man I suspect, I will step backwards and bump you. Then I shall turn around and appear to chastise you, very loudly, in Norse.”

  “Chass-tize?” he frowned at the unfamiliar English word.

  “Disiplin.”

  “Oh!”

  “I shall indicate the person I wish you to keep watch over, so there is no question. All in Norse, of course.”

  “Very good planning, Sir!” Leif beamed.

  “Once you have watched him for a while, you will report to me everyone he has spoken to.”

  “I will get a paper and pencil. I will write things I see and hear so I don’t forget anything,” Leif added.

  “And you may speak to me at anytime in Norse, should you have something private to say.” Nicolas winked at Sydney. “We shall trap him yet, eh?”

  January 18, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Sydney waited in her drawing room, sipping tea and chewing distractedly on scones she didn’t taste. While eating often kept her erratic nausea at bay, she was now simply passing time until Leif brought either Rickard, or his promise to visit soon.

  Movement outside pulled her attention to the window. Leif rode into the snowy yard on Rusten, followed by Rickard on a bay stallion. Sydney jumped to her feet and hurried to open the front door. She shivered in the gray midday chill, waiting for Rickard to dismount and climb the porch steps before she spoke.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  Rickard stomped snow from his boots. His glance moved into the house past Sydney, then met her eyes. “Is aught amiss?”

  Sydney held out her hand and Rickard took it. She led him into Nicolas’s study and closed the door.

  His gaze followed her under rusty lowered brows. He shrugged out of his greatcoat and draped it over a chair. He retied his auburn waves while he watched her.

  “If you would like a brandy, I believe you know where Nicolas keeps it,” Sydney offered, waving one hand toward the massive oak desk. She sank into a chair near the fire.

  Rickard opened the top left drawer and lifted the heavy pewter flask. He poured himself a generous glass of brandy, and sat opposite Sydney.

  “What is it, Sydney?” His voice was warm, gentle.

  Sydney had practiced her words, determined not to cry. “I have learned of something, that perhaps you already are aware of,” she began. “About Lily.”

  Rickard paled. “What?”

  “She is with child.”

  Rickard jerked back. “How do you know?”

  “She told me.”

  “How long?”

  Sydney shook her head. “I forgot to ask her.”

  “Forgot?” Rickard was obviously puzzled.

  “I was distracted.” Sydney swallowed and lifted her chin. “Because she threatened to name Nicolas the father.”

  Rickard spit brandy. “I’ll wring her blasted, puny neck, sister or no!” he barked, wiping his palm over his shirtfront. “Does Nick know?”

  “No. I haven’t told him as yet.” Sydney reached out and gripped his hand. “Rick, there’s more.”

  “More? What?” Rickard’s face was blotched with anger.

  “Lily said that she knows every time I attend a birth because Leif comes for Taycie. She said she has a—a drug, or something—that can make a man forget, or maybe not be sensible of, what he has done.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  “I’m not aware. Perhaps.” Sydney’s voice cracked.

  Understanding passed over Rickard’s countenance. “And you think she did such a thing? To Nicolas?”

  “I don’t know!” Sydney’s composure dissolved. She hid her face with her hands. “I don’t know… Oh, Rickard! What if she did?”

  Sorrow pressed her ribs and her shoulders convulsed. Ragged sobs were muffled by her palms but not contained. Rickard was instantly at her side. He pulled her into his embrace and held her, petting her hair.

  “It’s not possible, Sydney. Nick could not be so deceived!” He tightened his hold. “He loves you so deeply that nothing and no one could cause him to be unfaithful to you!”

  Sydney pressed her wet cheeks into Rickard’s shoulder.

  “Even if he were drugged?” she mumbled against his linen shirt, now limp with her tears.

  Rickard paused. She felt his chest expand and then deflate slowly. “Under any condi
tions. Any at all.”

  Sydney’s breath still came in spasms. Her own precarious position exacerbated her volatile emotional state. What if they were both carrying his seed?

  “I am so sorry, Sydney,” he murmured. “This is all my fault, I’m afraid.”

  Sydney pulled back and looked into Rickard’s beautiful hazel eyes. The pain in his expression momentarily overrode hers.

  “No. Rickard, don’t do this.”

  He looked away. “If I would give in to her demands, she would leave us all in peace.”

  Sydney sniffed and ran one hand under her nose. “You cannot do so. You have your own family to consider, now.”

  Rickard shrugged. His face was drawn, showing the strain of Lily’s relentless pressure.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “I should, should I not? But I don’t.”

  Sydney sat and pulled Rickard down beside her.

  “It seems we must remain strong, you and I. For Nicolas, for Bronnie, and for our children.” She stroked his cheek. “We cannot allow a spoiled, selfish woman take them from us.”

  “No. No, we cannot.” Rickard drew a shuddering sigh.

  A thought came to Sydney. “If Lily needs to attack me and Nicolas, does that mean that your mother’s will has proven false?”

  “Not false,” Rickard clarified. “But Nelson says that nothing in that document supports Lily’s claim that our mother wanted to divide the estate.”

  “Is that not enough?”

  “No, unfortunately, it is not. She has another lawyer’s opinion that declares she has a right to half of everything.”

  “A Missouri lawyer?”

  “No,” Rickard smiled, a little. “A North Carolina lawyer. Hard to substantiate, you see?”

  Sydney pulled a deep breath and wiped her eyes. “What shall we do?”

  “I must continue to hold the estate,” Rickard stated. “By sheer force, should it come to that.”

  Sydney laughed, in spite of herself. “And I shall trust in my husband. In his love, in his will, and his strength.”

  “And may God bless us both!” Rickard declared.

  January 25, 1822

  Carondelet

  Sydney sat close to Nicolas on the seat of the carriage. The movement inside made her dizzy, so she braved the chill of the bright winter day. Her fur cloak was wrapped around her shoulders and her legs tucked under the skirt of Nicolas’s greatcoat.

  The man never seemed to be chilled, she mused, admiring how his cold-reddened cheeks contrasted nicely with his blond hair and dark blue eyes. Sometimes, when she considered his intensely masculine beauty, it was hard for her to breathe.

  Or maybe, this was because they were approaching Carondelet.

  Sydney had been back to this town only once since the day her life fell apart. On that occasion, she tried to avoid anyone she knew, wanting to slip in, recover her things, and slip out again unnoticed.

  Now, Nicolas was returning as a legislative candidate, and she was returning as his wife. There would be some explaining to do, no doubt. About a lot of things.

  “How are you holding up?” Nicolas asked, his words forming wisps of white in the frigid, windless sunlight. “Are you ready to face the firing squad?”

  “Don’t even tease about that!” Sydney scolded. “Some of these men might be tempted if they’ve read the newspapers!”

  “I was thinking more of you and Devin,” Nicolas confessed.

  “Oh!” Sydney lowered her face into the collar of her cloak. “Yes,” she murmured. The face of her first husband shoved itself into her thoughts. She shoved it right back.

  “You didn’t need to accompany me, you are aware of that.”

  “I know.”

  He curved one arm around her shoulders. “You have more courage than anyone I’ve ever met, min presang.”

  “You wouldn’t say such a thing if you could feel how my stomach is roiling.”

  Nicolas’s sharp glance alarmed her. “I’ll be fine!” she said quickly. “I’m only nervous.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Sydney managed a decent smile. “Yes, husband. Quite certain.”

  He squeezed her shoulder, and then took the reins with both hands. Guiding the carriage into the town, he drove down the main street and pulled to a stop in front of the schoolhouse. Several men stood around the door, talking, passing a flask. They scrutinized the hulking Norwegian as he climbed from the carriage and lifted down the vaguely familiar brunette.

  Vincent and Leif, who rode comfortably inside, clambered out of the conveyance and began their accustomed tasks. Vincent introduced himself to the men. One of them stepped forward to lead them inside the building. Nicolas and Sydney followed. Leif saw to the horses.

  While Vincent attended to details before the session, Nicolas introduced himself and Sydney to the men who had been waiting outside. As more residents of the small town found their way inside, Nicolas smiled, listened, questioned and informed. Sydney waited to be recognized.

  It did not take long.

  “Siobhan?” Susanna rushed to her side. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Susanna!” Sydney hugged the woman. “Have you met my husband, Nicolas Hansen?”

  Susanna gaped at her. “Your—how is he your husband?”

  Sydney grasped the woman’s elbow and led her away from the gathering crowd. Susanna twisted her neck to look at Nicolas.

  “What happened to Devin?”

  “We divorced.”

  Susanna spun back around. “Why?”

  Sydney knew she would face this question; she had planned her words carefully. “He and I agreed that we were not suited.”

  Susanna blinked. “That’s it?”

  “Yes,” Sydney stated firmly. “And soon afterwards, I married Nicolas.”

  Susanna’s gaze slid over Sydney’s shoulder to the tall blond man. “You lived a charmed life, Siobhan. Or so it seems.”

  Sydney forced a smile; Susanna had no idea of the traumas she had passed through, and there was no reason to elaborate on them.

  “My legal name is now Siobhan Sydney Bell Hansen.” Sydney looked at her husband. He glanced her way and smiled. Her heart thumped an extra beat. “He calls me Sydney.”

  Susanna shook her head. “I don’t understand, Siobhan.”

  Sydney smiled politely and hooked her arm through the other woman’s elbow. “Shall we find our seats?”

  Sydney led Susanna to the benches and sat in the front, off to one side. Vincent stepped to the teacher’s podium and cleared his throat. Men and women settled into place, conversation stilled.

  “Thank you all for coming today,” he began. “It is my great pleasure to introduce our St. Louis County candidate for the Missouri State Legislature. May I present, Nicolas Reidar Hansen!” Vincent started enthusiastic applause.

  Nicolas stepped to the podium. His bass voice carried easily in the confined space. He talked about his childhood in Cheltenham, his education in Philadelphia and Boston, his first marriage, then his second.

  Then he told them about his dreams, his goals. Why he wanted to be part of the new state’s legislature. When he finished, there was a moment of silence. Then one man applauded. Another joined, and then another. The applause rippled through the room until it filled.

  “And now, I am available for any questions you may have.” Nicolas stood in a relaxed stance, smiling at the crowd. Only Sydney knew how apprehensive he truly was about this part of every candidating session.

  One man stood and pointed at Sydney. “Ain’t she the teacher’s wife?”

  “She was married to Devin Kilbourne, yes. They were divorced. She and I married soon after.”

  “How soon?” a voice called from the back of the room.

  “I believe it was six months.” Nicolas looked to Sydney. She nodded. “So not too soon, you see.”

  “What happened to the teacher?” another man asked.

  “He returned to Louisville, as I under
stand. Now, are there any questions regarding me and my quest to be your representative?”

  A rumble rolled through the assemblage. An older man, gray hair combed neatly back, stood.

  “What’s this about you and the throne of Norway?”

  Sydney clenched her jaw. They had read the papers here after all.

  “I am the great-grandson of King Christian the Sixth of Norway,” Nicolas explained. “We did go to Norway this year past. I desired my son to understand his heritage.”

  “And you went to be king?”

  “No. I never intended to take the throne,” he lied. “What else do you wish to know about me?”

  “You own slaves, Hansen?”

  Nicolas glanced at Sydney. “I purchased two slaves with the intention of freeing them as soon as it is safe to do so.”

  “What in blazes does that mean?” a red-haired man called from the side.

  “I would like to instigate laws that protect freed slaves from being enslaved once again.” Nicolas’s gaze swept the room. “I am not in favor of slavery as an institution.”

  “But Missouri is a slave state!” another man shouted over the din that statement provoked.

  “Yes it is,” Nicolas conceded. “And I will uphold her laws. But—” He waited until the room quieted to continue. “I am not required to like it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  January 25, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Anne opened the front door and eyed the stranger warily.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Is the master of the estate to home?” he asked in a clipped English accent.

  “Not at the moment. May I help you with something?” She gripped the handle, pulling the edge of the door close to her side.

  “Quite! I am, you see, doing research in this particular area of Missouri, concerning the presence of ancient Viking artifacts.” He flashed a toothy grin.

  Anne frowned. “Why would there be Viking artifacts in Missouri?”

  “Yes! Exactly the question! What a bright young woman you are! So few understand…” He shook his head.

  “And how may I help you?” she asked again.

  “I understand there are some Viking artifacts on this estate. Have I been misinformed?” his brow wrinkled in consternation.