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

by Kris Tualla

  Sydney held him close for a very long time.

  Chapter Twenty

  February 22, 1822

  The day had dawned gray and grizzled when word came concerning one of the likely apartments. Vincent insisted that they go see it right after breakfast and make a decision before they left for home.

  That particular apartment did not meet their needs; it was far too grand for the temporary role it would play in their lives. But in the building next door, a vacancy sign tempted an impromptu visit. Leif stepped back from the leaded glass door and tugged at Nicolas’s sleeve.

  “When do you wish to hear about Stafford?” Leif asked, eyes jumping to the door and back.

  “Not here, there are too many ears.” Nicolas eyed the city’s foot traffic along the sidewalk. “Tell me on the ride to Cheltenham.”

  The landlord, once sent for, was half-an-hour in arriving. One glance at his prospective tenants resulted in profuse apologies and offers of flexible rental fees.

  “I had no idea it was you that was waiting, sir,” he explained. “Had I known a man of your position was stopping, I would have left my previous meeting posthaste, I assure you!”

  “Do you know me?” Nicolas asked.

  “Why yes, Mister Hansen. You are running for the legislature, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  The man smiled and bobbed his head. “It would be an honor to serve you, sir.”

  Vincent spoke up, “Might we actually see the apartment in question?”

  “Oh! Yes! Of course!” He pulled a ring of keys from his greatcoat. “The key is here, somewhere.”

  The second-floor door was finally opened to reveal a cozy drawing room with a dining table at one end. A door off each side led to a bedroom, one much larger than the other. Another panel opened to a small kitchen containing a Franklin stove, a tall cabinet, and thick wooden counters. Leif lifted a sliding cover in one wall. Ropes for a dumbwaiter hung at the ready.

  “This is quite modern!” Sydney exclaimed, approving. “I would prefer a larger drawing room, but this kitchen may serve us better.”

  “In truth, if my bedchamber is comfortable then I am comfortable,” Nicolas confessed. “And if you are satisfied, I am satisfied.”

  “I like the shelf on the pulley!” Leif injected. “I wonder if I can lift myself in it?”

  Vincent turned to the beaming landlord. “Shall we discuss terms?”

  “Yes, sir!” He led the party back downstairs and into another apartment, presumably his. A Negro woman served them tea and cakes while the rental agreement was drawn up and signed. This business complete, attention turned to lunch.

  “It’s noon and I am starving!” Nicolas stated. “Who wants fried catfish?”

  Sydney’s stomach clenched. She was feeling a little light-headed and did not want to face the smell of the fish place, just in case. “That’s so far away… Might we find someplace closer?”

  When Nicolas looked at her in a suspicious manner, she added, “I fear I am even hungrier than you, husband!”

  Vincent pointed through the window toward a tavern across the street. “If you are going to live in the area, you might as well frequent the nearby establishments!”

  “Very well.” Nicolas’s tone betrayed his disappointment, but he took Sydney by the arm and escorted her downstairs and across the street. The aromas of baking bread and coffee welcomed them inside.

  “It smells like home!” Sydney said, smiling.

  Leif plopped on a chair. “I feel like barbeque.”

  “You always feel like barbeque!” Nicolas laughed.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Leif retorted.

  A plump woman nearing fifty, with gray streaks in her light brown hair, bustled through the dining room and showed them to a table. Conversation buzzed around them as men discussed business over luncheon.

  “We have a lovely fish stew today,” she offered. “Very fresh!”

  “Do you have fried catfish?” Nicolas asked.

  “The best in St. Louis!” the woman bragged.

  Nicolas raised one brow. “The best, you say? I shall have to judge that on my own.”

  “Very good, sir. You shan’t be disappointed, I’ll wager.”

  “I’ll have the fish stew,” said Vincent.

  “Do you have barbeque?” Leif asked.

  “It’s beef today.”

  “Give me that, please!” Leif beamed.

  “I’ll have that as well,” Sydney added. Barbeque was safe, as long as she didn’t overeat. “And bread with butter.”

  “And a pitcher of ale,” Nicolas added. “Four glasses.”

  “Very good, sir!”

  The meal was taken at a leisurely pace, betraying a universal reluctance to journey in the glowering day. As the crowd thinned, Nicolas struck up a conversation with their cheerful hostess. She pulled her husband from the kitchen, and they sat down to discuss politics in general, and the neighborhood specifically.

  “I believe you’ll be glad to take up residence here. Even if it is temporary,” the proprietor opined.

  “Oh, yes!” his wife added. “And there is another political man living on the second floor—what’s his name dear? Samuel something, isn’t it?”

  “Stafford?” Leif offered. Nicolas shot him a look.

  “No, but it’s like that…” She tapped her temple. “Falstaff? Fordham? I’m so bad at names.”

  The husband rolled his eyes. “I believe we should let these folks go. They have a long ride ahead of them, and the day isn’t lightening.”

  “Of course, dear.” She stood and cleared the platters. Nicolas paid for the meal, and added a handsome tip.

  “Thank you, sir. Safe journey. Do come back soon.”

  Nicolas bowed a little. “We shall. Thank you, madam.”

  They had turned toward the door when she called out, “How was the catfish?”

  Nicolas paused, pulled a deep breath, and slid his navy eyes first to Sydney’s and then to the woman’s. “Well, I have eaten a grip of catfish in my day. And I have never tasted anything better.”

  A broad smile split the woman’s face, revealing a missing canine under cheeks flushing red. “Thank you, sir.”

  “No, madam, thank you. Rest assured, I shall return. And often!”

  ***

  It was late afternoon before the Hansen party was ready to head for Cheltenham. Satchels packed and loaded, Sydney and Vincent sat inside the carriage, while Leif drove under Nicolas’s watchful eye. The sullen gray sky threw sporadic moisture at them, some frozen, some not. Leif encouraged the horses to trot, keeping them warm. It made for a bumpy, but hopefully abbreviated, journey.

  “Why did you mention Sam Stafford to the tavern owner?” Nicolas asked.

  “May I tell you about last night now?” Leif countered.

  “Go on then,” Nicolas’s curiosity nudged.

  Leif told about following Sam into the night, how the man seemed to be trying to avoid being followed. “He was not successful,” Leif bragged.

  Nicolas chuckled. “So it appears.”

  “He went into the same building where you just let the apartment. And to the second floor.”

  Leif’s mouth twisted and pinched. The color in his cheeks heightened. His eyes remained fixed on the road. “He met a man there.”

  “Oh?” Nicolas frowned, puzzled by the boy’s discomfort. “Did you recognize him? This Falstaff? Or Fordham?”

  Leif shook his head.

  “Might you recognize him were you to see him again?”

  The nod was jerky.

  “Leif, what is amiss?”

  Leif glanced at Nicolas, then turned back to their path. “I listened at the door.”

  “As would any good spy worth his salt,” Nicolas commended.

  Leif was silent.

  Foreboding pressed Nicolas’s chest. “Tell me, son,” he whispered.

  “There were sounds. Grunts and moans. Bouncing sounds. The kinds of sounds I used to hea
r in the stable, when the stable hands brought whores.”

  Nicolas swallowed his disgust and draped his arm around the boy’s bony shoulders. “So Sam Stafford is a sodomite, is he? I wonder if Beckermann knows.”

  Leif cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t think so, Sir.”

  “No, you are most likely right.”

  They drove in silence as the carriage moved down the road at a steady pace. The matched bays trotted easily; they could go for miles in their shared rhythm. The lazy winter sun never made an appearance and the cloudy sky grew darker by increments.

  When they were only two miles from Cheltenham, a movement off the road caught Nicolas’s attention. Before he had time to think, two men stepped in front of the carriage and blocked its path. Leif jerked back on the reins. The horses stumbled to a halt, their snorted breath clouding around them. In the colorless twilight, Nicolas could not make out either man’s features.

  “Is something amiss?” he called out, keeping his tone light.

  “That depends. Are you in the mood for a fight?” The voice was rough like gravel.

  “Not particularly,” he answered.

  “Well, what if we are?” the second man taunted. “Are you man enough for the challenge?”

  Nicolas rubbed his chin. “If you are looking for a likely victim to rob, we haven’t much with us.”

  “Ooh, robbery. Now there’s an angle we hadn’t thought of!” said the first man.

  “Is that so?” Nicolas leaned back. “You stand out in this freezing rain just to mock passers-by until they fight you? For what purpose?”

  “Our own amusement.” Second Man did not sound amused. “Now, get down.”

  “I don’t care to.” Nicolas pressed his arm against Leif’s. Steady, boy.

  “Get off that buggy!” First Man shouted.

  “Why?”

  “I’ll show you why!” Second Man growled, lifting a musket.

  Nicolas pushed Leif to the footboard. The explosion from the gun echoed through the trees and Nicolas felt the ball pass through his hair. Leif was torn from his side and thrown to the frozen ground with a pained grunt.

  Nicolas catapulted himself off the opposite side of the carriage. He bolted off the road, grabbed a branch from the forest floor, and gripped it like a sword. He pulled his dirk from its home on his belt. Obviously the musket was spent, but he had no idea what other weapons might be used against him. Armed as best he could be, he spun around and charged the men, bellowing a warrior’s cry.

  The branch came down but was met by the musket. Nicolas went on the attack. His body remembered the Norwegian training. His movements were smooth and decisive; branch versus musket in the makeshift swordfight.

  First Man stood transfixed, a pistol sagging by each hip, while Nicolas fought with exhausting grace.

  “Shoot him, damn you!” Second Man gasped.

  Startled from his passive stance, he lifted a pistol and closed one eye to aim. Leif pushed up from the ground and threw himself at the man. Startled by the movement, the man whirled and shot wildly in Leif’s direction. The two fell to the ground, grappling and throwing punches.

  Nicolas stepped back, and when Second Man pressed forward, he sliced the air with his dirk. Missing his mark in the failing light, he thrust again. Something dripped in his eye. He wiped on his sleeve and did not look to see if it was blood.

  Second Man flipped the musket around. Gripping the barrel, he swung the heavy wooden stock back and forth, moving toward Nicolas. Nicolas bobbed and ducked, and looked for an opening for his dirk. Finding none, he pulled back and threw the heavy knife with all his strength.

  He hit Second Man low on his ribcage. The dirk went deep, all the way to the hilt.

  “I’m hit!” the man cried, incredulous. “Help me! I’m hit!”

  First Man rolled away from the berserk youth who pelted him without skill or mercy, swelling his eyes and drawing blood from his nose. He lifted the second pistol and aimed it at the Nicolas, who stood panting and unarmed but for a battered branch in one hand. Second Man fell to his knees. His hand grasped futilely at the dirk, and blood soaked his clothes; he was already dying.

  The flash of the pistol was blinding. In the deep dusk, it illuminated the surrounding forest for a blink, burning that image into his eyes. The report of the powder rolled away into the trees, and the burnt stench stung his membranes. First Man turned toward the carriage. His jaw hung slack in impotent shock.

  Sydney stood by the carriage, the pistol in her hand still smoking. First Man looked down at the hole in his belly and pushed against it with one hand.

  “I’m hit, too, Rodney,” he moaned. “I’m hit, too.”

  Rodney did not answer.

  He lifted the pistol and fired in Nicolas’s general direction. Then he fell forward, flat on his face, not bracing himself at all.

  “Nicolas!” Sydney screamed.

  “I’m here!” Nicolas answered. He leaned down and pulled his dirk from Second Man’s chest. It scraped against bone. Then he moved slowly toward the carriage. “Leif?”

  “Yes, Sir. I’m here.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Only my leg. It’s not broken, I don’t think.”

  Death filled their nostrils. The reek of piss and shit, leaking from bodies unable to hold them back; the iron tang of spent blood. Clouds obscured the moon, so they had to feel their way to each other. Sydney’s hands skittered over Nicolas in a frantic inventory of his bodily parts. Then she held him, trembling, her face pressed against his shoulder.

  “I killed a man,” she sobbed. “Didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “God in Heaven, please forgive me!”

  “You saved my life, min presang,” Nicolas murmured.

  “It’s a mortal sin…”

  “Nonsense. If you had not shot the man, he might have killed us all.”

  “Don’t say such a thing!” she cried, her voice muffled against him. “I cannot think of you dying!”

  “God understands, Sydney.” Nicolas lifted her chin. He could see the whites of her eyes. “You will not be banished to hell for saving your family from a pair of brigands.”

  Sydney stared hard at him. “Losing you would be hell.”

  “I understand.” Nicolas touched her cheek. It was slick with tears. “Of all people, I believe I am most qualified to say that.”

  “What should we do now?” Vincent asked, climbing from the carriage. “Shouldn’t we summon the sheriff?”

  “Yes, we should.” Nicolas wiped something wet from his forehead, dripping in his eyes. This time, he tasted it. It was blood.

  “What about the bodies?” Leif asked.

  “We’ll leave them here. Come back for them tomorrow. Can you drive?” Nicolas felt the weakness that follows such excitement creeping through him. Pinpoints of light framed his vision.

  “Yes,” Leif answered.

  “Good. Because I believe I need to—”

  When he opened his eyes, he was on the ground. He felt frozen wheel-ridges of mud against his back. He could make out the looming carriage on his left, and Sydney kneeling on his right. His head hurt.

  “Did I faint?”

  “Nicolas Reidar Hansen, you gave me the fright of my life!” Sydney sounded furious. “Where are you hurt?”

  “My scalp. I felt the ball pass through my hair, but I thought it missed me.” Nicolas reached for the spot and probed it gently. He felt a gash above his ear. “I guess it caught me after all.”

  Sydney ran her hand up his arm and followed his fingers to the injury. “It will need to be stitched when we get home.” She sounded a bit less angry. “Are you able to get into the carriage?”

  “Of course.” Probably.

  Sydney seized his hand and her tug was just enough to get Nicolas on his feet. He climbed into the carriage and lay back across one seat. Sydney followed and sat facing him. Leif slapped the reins and the horses leaned into the traces, moving them once more toward home. Nicola
s was silent, deep in consideration of the evening’s events.

  “I wonder who sent them,” he mused after some time.

  “Weren’t they thieves?” Sydney asked. “Common highwaymen?”

  “Which are not so common on this road.”

  “That’s true,” Sydney conceded. “Do you believe we were set upon intentionally?”

  “It’s the only explanation that is sensible.”

  He heard Sydney draw a deep breath. “Beckermann?”

  “Perhaps…” Nicolas didn’t wish to concern Sydney more than was necessary. “If he felt that the fire was not effective in dissuading me. Assuming, of course, that was his doing as well.”

  “The debate yesterday night! You were very strong, Nicolas. Your points were clear and well received.”

  “I suppose…”

  “But if it was Beckermann, he certainly sent them far afield to accomplish the task. We are nearly to Cheltenham!”

  “But our departure was delayed,” Nicolas pointed out. “If they went looking for us, they might have traveled all the way to Cheltenham and then turned back.” He quieted, pondering the ramifications of the attack and wondering—again—if this whole endeavor was worth the risk.

  “Yes,” Sydney said.

  Nicolas frowned. “Did I speak aloud?”

  “No. But I am sensible of the way your mind works.” She reached for his hand, fumbling in the dark carriage. When she found it, she raised it to her lips. They were warm and soft, and left a moist, cooling spot on his knuckles after she kissed them. He thought of the previous night and how her skin looked in the lamplight; smooth and rosy, inviting his touch.

  “You may not quit.”

  Her words dragged him back into the cold, jostling carriage.

  “No, min presang,” he concurred. “I shall not.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  February 24, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Sydney felt a tingling up the nape of her neck. Head bowed in prayer, she glanced left, then right. In the opposite pew, Berta O’Shea stared at her, lips pressed to a line. Berta lifted the large pewter crucifix that hung around her neck and kissed it, then touched it to her head, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder. Her lips formed the word ‘witch.’