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

by Kris Tualla

  “The fact remains that you did not trust me enough to tell me any of it.”

  Sydney gazed at him, her heart breaking under the weight of his torment. “I was afraid.”

  He squinted at her. “Afraid of me?”

  “Afraid of causing you pain.”

  “And you believed I would be angry with you.”

  “Yes.”

  Nicolas leaned toward her again. “Did the past year mean nothing to you?”

  Sydney was startled by the shift. “The past year? In Norway?”

  “Yes, Norway!”

  “How is that relevant?” she ventured.

  “What did we do there, Sydney? What?” he pushed. “That entire year, we trusted each other with our lives, our future, our children’s futures! All that we did—we could not even talk openly about it! We had to believe that, in the face of sure disaster, we both held strong. Did we not?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “I trusted you to know, in your heart, that I remained true. That I would do as I vowed, no matter what evidence may arise to the contrary,” Nicolas reminded. “Did you trust me then, min presang?”

  “I did.”

  “Was it easy?”

  “No.” Sydney shuddered. “It was frighteningly difficult at times.”

  “And so how was this worse?”

  Sydney opened her mouth, and then shut it. She had no answer.

  Nicolas’s shoulders slumped. “After all we have been through, min presang, how could you doubt me?”

  “Can you honestly tell me, Nicolas, that you would not have been angry?” Sydney countered.

  Nicolas flashed a wry smile. “Honestly, I cannot. But I would have overcome it. And we would have faced it together.”

  “So the next time…”

  The smile disappeared. “Yes. There may be a next time. I need to grip that thought.” Nicolas narrowed his eyes at her. “It may happen that we have more children.”

  He paused again. “But by God, Sydney, you must always recall that I chose you. I upended my whole life! I risked everything I was to start anew with you.”

  He leaned closer. “Did you ever believe that was lightly done?”

  “No, Nicolas. Of course not.” Sydney’s eyes welled at the memory. She blinked the tears back.

  “Then why? Why did you not trust me?” The confusion and disappointment in his eyes pierced her soul.

  Sydney reached out and grabbed his hand. “Forgive me, Nicolas. I was so wrong! I misremembered; my thoughts went down a different path… You are right, of course. You have proven true and I should have seen it. I should have known. I am so very sorry.”

  “I forgive you, Sydney. And I love you more than life, you must know that. I will do anything in my power to protect you. I always will.”

  “I made you look a fool in front of Lily,” she added, her face heating.

  “Pah!” Nicolas scoffed. “Appearing a fool before a fool is of no consequence. She is nothing to me.”

  He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “It is you, wife. Your amusing wit, your creative mind, your courage, your unshakable faith. All of these things inspire me to be more than I ever was before. Look at me! I’m running for State Legislator, by God!”

  “That is an amazement,” Sydney agreed.

  “So, tell me, are considerations well between us?”

  Sydney bit her lip. “But for one thing. Do not stop touching me, Nicolas. I beg you.”

  “Min presang… Give me a little time, eh?” he pleaded. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Sydney tightened her jaw and nodded. “I am a strong woman, Nicolas.”

  “That is very clear,” Nicolas teased, rubbing the cheek she had recently slapped.

  “I am quite serious!” she scolded, then smirked. “And your marital skills have satisfied me in such a way that I desire more of your satisfaction!”

  Nicolas laughed. “I shall satisfy you again soon, min presang, I promise.”

  He stood and took her hands, pulling her off the bed to stand in front of him. He enveloped her in his long arms.

  Sydney slid her arms around his waist and rested against him. The bulk of his broad chest pillowed her cheek. She let her hands sag down over his sturdy hips and cup his powerful buttocks.

  “Soon,” she whispered.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  April 10, 1822

  St. Louis

  Sydney wanted to choose her most beautiful gown for this evening’s event: a dinner party followed by a ball, with a chance for each candidate to answer questions in between. It was Sydney’s first public appearance since the miscarriage. And, by default, her first since Lily’s accusation of paternity was published by the St. Louis Enquirer.

  Emerald green to match her eyes? Or deep red for contrast?

  “Which do you prefer?” she asked Nicolas. She held one, then the other, in front of her shift and corset.

  Nicolas turned away from shaving and smiled softly. “The first time you took my breath away, you wore green. I prefer that color on you above all others.”

  Sydney hung the red back in the wardrobe, tucking that knowledge in her memory at the same time. “Will you help me with the laces?”

  “Happily.”

  Sydney laid the dress on the bed and swam through the voluminous skirt until her head emerged through its asymmetrical neckline. White lace followed the neckline from her left shoulder, across her bosom to her waist. The other side of the neckline dropped straight down until the two intersected, revealing the high swell of her right breast. Each sleeve was edged in dripping white lace that swung gracefully when she moved, drawing attention to her slender, white hands. While she designed the dress to hide her scar, the elegance of this particular gown had prompted many compliments.

  Sydney wore her hair on top of her head this evening. The rectangle garnet and diamond pendant hung on a slim gold chain close to her neck. The emerald green dress, with its diagonal neckline and white lace, enhanced the effect of the deep red stone. She fingered her wedding ring.

  “How do I look?” she asked, examining herself critically in the mirror. “Tonight, of all nights, I wish to leave no doubt as to whose bed you prefer.”

  Nicolas moved behind her. His eyes met hers in the glass and he frowned a little. “Do you believe anyone would doubt it?”

  “People believe what they read,” she sighed.

  “That is unfortunate.” Nicolas tilted his head, eyes still on hers. “It seems that something is missing.”

  “What?” Sydney asked, her mind cataloging what other accoutrements she had brought with her this time.

  “Jewelry. Earrings, perhaps.”

  “I have some pearls, and a pearl necklace. Would that do?” Sydney suggested.

  “Hmm. No, I think not. I prefer the garnet.” He swung his arm around in front of her. He held a small velvet box. “Try these.”

  Sydney’s jaw dropped. She lifted the box from his hand, looked up at his beaming reflection, and flipped it open. A pair of earrings, matching her pendant, nestled there.

  “They are beautiful!” she breathed.

  “They are a peace offering,” Nicolas said.

  Sydney’s eyes jumped to his. “We were not at war!”

  Nicolas shrugged. “In that case, they reflect sorrow for my culpability in our recent loss and resulting disruption.”

  Sydney turned to face him. “You have become quite adept at politicking, husband.”

  “Does that mean you do not want them?” he teased.

  “On the contrary!” She grinned, fastening one on each earlobe. “Each time I wear them, I will be reminded of your humility and tenderness.” She looked over her shoulder at the mirror. “Am I presentable now?”

  “More than,” he whispered. “Much more than.”

  Sydney looked down and drew her fingers lightly across her bosom. “Thank you, Nicolas.”

  She raised her eyes slowly. His gaze rested on the swell of her breast.
Might it be tonight at last?

  ***

  The ballroom was a hive of buzzing bees, each flitting from spot to spot, wanting to be part of the most important conversation, or share the most pertinent news, or be seen with just the right attendee.

  When Nicolas and Sydney entered, the buzz lowered. The force of their collective stares pressed against them, but Sydney did not retreat. Instead, she smiled graciously, rested her hand in the crook of her husband’s arm, and moved through the crowd.

  She was the queen bee.

  Nicolas played the attentive husband, though it was no act. Awed by her aplomb, entranced by her beauty, and so proud of her that his chest ached, he found himself wondering why she chose him for a mate. His ardor stirred; but flagged again when his gut clenched in recollection.

  Skitt.

  Vincent hurried across the room toward Nicolas, leaving a wake of smiling young women. He would not lack for dance partners tonight, Nicolas mused. But then, he never did.

  “Your table is ready. It is the one on the right up front.” Vincent pointed to a table on a small platform.

  “Who is joining us this evening?”

  Vincent referred to a scrap of paper. “The Reverend and Mistress Paul Gattenby, of St. Charles, and Doctor Lawrence Joss and his mother, Lady Sharon Joss, both of Elleardsville.”

  “And?” Nicolas prompted.

  Vincent blushed. “And myself. With whatever companion I might chose.”

  “Ah!” Nicolas winked at the younger man. “And with that incentive, might I assume your prospects are abundant?”

  Vincent glanced over his shoulder. Several beauties smiled and postured. “They are.”

  “Thank you, Vincent. You are efficient as ever. You are dismissed to make your choice.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Vincent moved away, into a sea of silk and lace.

  Leif touched Nicolas’s elbow. “Have you anyone in mind as yet?”

  Nicolas’s eyes followed Vincent. “Yes.”

  Leif nodded. “I shall be behind him like a tail on a rabbit, Sir.”

  “Thank you, Leif.”

  The boy disappeared as Winston Beckermann approached. His wife followed behind in a gray silk dress that did nothing good for her faded red hair or her middle-aged figure.

  “Mistress Hansen, I am delighted to find you looking so well! Doesn’t she look well, my dear?” Winston twisted to see his wife.

  “Quite.” The smile was negligible.

  “Yes! Quite!” Winston eyed Nicolas. “Are you ready for another go, Hansen?”

  “Always. Especially with such a competent opponent!” Nicolas complimented. “It keeps things interesting.”

  “That it does, that it does. Well, enjoy your dinner.” Winston turned and took his wife’s arm.

  “Is your lovely niece here this evening?” Nicolas called after him.

  “My niece?” Winston frowned, and glanced at his scowling wife. His face grew mottled. “I have no niece, Hansen. You must have me confused with someone else.”

  “I apologize for the mistake.” Nicolas bowed. “Please enjoy your dinners as well.”

  The couple walked away, backs stiff. Sydney nudged Nicolas with her elbow. “Niece?”

  “There is quite a lot of traffic through the apartment across our hall,” Nicolas said and grinned crookedly. He cocked one brow.

  Sydney’s gaze shifted to the departing backsides, and returned to his, amused. “Oh! He was there with a ‘niece,’ was he?”

  “So he claimed.”

  Nicolas and Sydney took their seats. They were soon joined by the Gattenby and Joss parties. Conversation bumped along as it does with strangers who have little in common. Vincent was the last to join them, a pert brunette on his arm.

  “May I present Miss Gail Horne?” he said, holding her chair. “Her father is the owner of Horne’s Wagon and Fixtures of St. Louis.” Introductions and pleasantries circled the table.

  Miss Horne was not a boon to conversation; rather the opposite. Her misplaced interjections had the effect of bringing discussions to a halt, while puzzled participants tried to make sense of her comments.

  Nicolas noticed Vincent’s smile grow more forced and his distraction of the girl’s attentions more frequent. When dinner was finished, he quickly handed her back to her father under the guise of pressing responsibilities.

  Vincent explained to Nicolas that he would allow Sam Stafford to take the podium first and welcome the crowd. That gave Vincent the next turn, and he would introduce the candidates. Winston Beckermann first, Nicolas second.

  “That way, your comments and praises are most fresh in their minds.”

  Nicolas nodded. “Well thought, Vincent.”

  Questions to Beckermann were safe, uncontroversial, boring. Not so when Nicolas took the podium. He was immediately accosted.

  “No, I am not the father of Mrs. Kensington’s child.”

  “Yes, I am absolutely certain. Mrs. Kensington and I have never been together in that way.”

  “Mrs. Kensington has not spent time in my home when my wife was called away. That is a fabrication.”

  “Yes, she somewhat resembles her sister. My wife died in 1813.”

  “I married my current wife in January of 1820.”

  “I never asked Mrs. Kensington to marry me.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know why.”

  “She is trying to claim half of her brother’s estate.”

  “She is married to a wealthy gentleman by the name of Sir Ezra Warpold Kensington.”

  “I don’t have any idea.”

  “My beautiful wife is here by my side.” A gesture to his left. A confident smile and nod from Sydney.

  “Yes, she is training a slave to act as midwife for other Negro women.”

  “Yes, she experienced an unfortunate loss.”

  A pause. “Yes, we were attacked and both men were killed.”

  “Our first apartment in St. Louis was set ablaze.”

  “The ridiculous charge of witchcraft was brought by the other midwife in Cheltenham.”

  “At least ten years. She attended my first wife.”

  “Yes, she died after that birth.”

  “Revenge? I had not considered it.”

  A sigh of relief. “Yes, I believe strongly that slaves, once set free, should not be allowed to be re-enslaved.”

  “Well, throughout the continent, but I expect to only have influence in the state of Missouri.”

  Scattered laughter. Back to policies and relevant issues. Solid footing.

  And finally, Vincent. “Are there any last words, gentlemen?”

  “Mistress Hansen?” called a voice from the back of the room. “What have you to say about that woman’s claims?”

  Nicolas’s head swiveled to Sydney. She rose, and walked to his side as calmly as though addressing large crowds of antagonistic voters were an everyday occurrence for her. Her eyes sparkled beneath black lashes like the emerald gemstones their color recalled.

  She lifted her chin, garnet earrings and pendant framing her slender neck. Her waist, narrowed by corset and laces, was almost small enough for him to encircle with his hands. His ardor stirred again. Skitt.

  “Thank you for asking, sir,” she began. Her voice was clear and strong, loud enough to carry, but not unseemly. “I am acquainted with Lady Kensington. I am also acquainted, rather intimately, with Nicolas Hansen.” More scattered laughter. “I can tell you with complete certainty, that my husband has no need to seek the company of any other woman.”

  “Are you sure about that?” another voice challenged.

  Sydney stared in that direction. A smile grew on her countenance. Slow. Steady. Knowing.

  “Complete certainty,” she answered softly. “No need.” She paused. “Any other woman.” And then, “At all.”

  The room was still. Silent while they absorbed her meaning.

  Then there was deafening applause. Nicolas wrapped his arm around her waist and gr
inned.

  ***

  Vincent was inordinately pleased with how the evening had gone, and he told Nicolas so.

  “And how is your evening progressing?” Nicolas asked as they refilled punch cups.

  “I have managed to avoid any more conversation with Miss Horne,” Vincent said glancing over his shoulder. “And have made the acquaintance of a dignified lady by the name of Amelia Paxton.”

  “Oh?” Nicolas lifted two crystal cups. “Is it she?” He nodded toward a woman with red hair and a pale pink gown with a scalloped skirt of layered organdy.

  “Yes,” Vincent answered. “She is quite interesting. Not your typical void-headed window display. She actually understands politics and holds an interest.”

  “Good luck with her, then!” Nicolas smiled. “And I release you for the remainder of the night.”

  Vincent’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Thank you, sir!”

  As he walked away, Nicolas looked for Leif. He found the boy by one of the doors, leaning against the wall, eating a pastry. Leif met his gaze, and he winked. Nicolas nodded in response.

  “Thank you.” Sydney took the punch cup from Nicolas and drank it rather quickly. “I was so thirsty!”

  “Would you care for more?”

  She set the cup on a nearby tray. “In a bit. Let’s dance.”

  ***

  The evening was drawing to a close. Many had drifted away, after congratulating Nicolas on his handling of the night’s inquisition. As Nicolas and Sydney said their goodbyes to the Reverend and Mistress Gattenby, Leif approached. Nicolas glanced at him, and then returned his attention to the Reverend.

  “It was my pleasure as well. Safe journey,” he said. Leif came right up next to him.

  “We shall, Mister Hansen. Mistress Hansen.” With a puzzled look at the teen, the Reverend and his wife turned to leave.

  Leif tugged at Nicolas’s sleeve. “Come, Sir. Now.” His brown eyes were intent with worry. “Please.”

  Nicolas turned to Sydney.

  “Go ahead,” she urged. “I shall wait here until you return.”

  Nicolas followed Leif from the ballroom and upstairs to a long hallway. Candles cast unsteady shadows on the wallpaper, making its silk-screened images seem alive.