by Kris Tualla
“Might I ask you a question, Mr. Hansen?” His voice was low and strained. “It’s rather personal in nature.”
“Of course. But please call me Nicolas. Or Nick.”
“Yes, sir. Nicolas.” Jeremy’s face mottled with embarrassment. “Has your wife ever, I mean, have there been times when she, um… refused you?”
Nicolas sucked in a breath. What was going on with the young couple? “Only one week, to be honest. And that was to prove to me that I could not live without her.”
Jeremy’s brows dipped over a crooked smile. “Did it work?”
“I groveled,” Nicolas confessed.
“But she wanted you, true?”
“True.” Nicolas paused. “Does Anne not want you?”
Jeremy turned away. “She does. Well, she says she does. And when we, um, kiss and, um touch, she responds as though she wishes to complete the act.” He sighed heavily, and faced Nicolas again. “But then she pushes me away and cries.”
Nicolas sat on a fallen log. “Has it always been that way between you?”
Jeremy wilted. “No, sir. Nick. It started after the trouble.”
“Oh… The fire in the stable while I was in Norway.”
“Yes, sir.” Jeremy sat next to Nicolas on the log. “Last July.”
“What is she afraid of, do you think?” Nicolas probed.
Jeremy stared at the creek. For a while it was the only sound in the forest. “As best I can make out, she is afraid of making a baby. Another half-breed, like herself.”
“Well, to put a finer point on it, the child would be three-quarters white,” Nicolas pointed out.
Jeremy shrugged. “I said so.”
“And she didn’t consider that before marrying you?”
Jeremy shrugged again. The two men sat without talking. A squirrel high above them got into a raucous argument with a jay, and pine needles rained down on them. The jay flew off, frustrated in its attempt to steal an acorn. The squirrel disappeared into a hole in the tree’s core.
“As I see it, you have to find two solutions,” Nicolas began. “The first one is easy. Use a sheath to catch your seed.”
“There are such things?” Jeremy gaped. “Where would I procure one?”
“You can make them yourself! From sheep’s intestines.” Nicolas smiled. “Tied off like sausage casings.”
Jeremy’s face lit up with understanding, looking like he wished to jump up and butcher a lamb on the spot. “Of course! And the other solution?”
“That one is much harder, because it means flinging your children in the face of ignorance.”
Jeremy nodded. “I’m strong enough to protect them.”
“Is she?”
“She has faced it all her life.”
Nicolas rested one hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “And that may be precisely why she wishes to spare them.”
Jeremy pulled a deep breath and hissed it out between his front teeth.
Nicolas stood. “But until that problem is solved, begin with the other. I believe we should have lamb for supper tonight, don’t you?”
Chapter Thirty
April 26, 1822
Cheltenham
The sheep were sheared, the wool processed. The butchering of meat filled the smokehouse while Anne and John kept practiced eyes on its progress. Addie planted her garden with Anne’s help. And construction began on the McCain’s cabin.
Nicolas enjoyed chopping wood. He loved the swing of the axe, and the resounding jar of its contact with the log. The crack of a trunk splitting down its length made him feel powerful; a master over nature. He loved the sweat and the effort.
He paused to wipe his brow with the rag he tucked in his waistband, and sniffed the air. Rain was coming, he was sure of it.
Nicolas and Jeremy had planned the cabin together. Instead of a root cellar dug underground, Jeremy wanted an undercroft, a half-underground room that would be accessed from a short outside door, as well as a trap door in the floor.
“That way, if the creek floods higher than we ever expect it to, the rooms are still another four feet off the ground,” he explained to Nicolas. “And in a bad storm, we won’t have to go outside to get to our supplies.”
Nicolas commended Jeremy on his forethought. “Now, if you might find a way to get your water pump and your privy indoors, you’ll live like a king!”
Nicolas pondered those possibilities for his own home as the carriage bore him and Sydney to St. Louis yet again. Sydney read the newspaper as they rode.
“Might we have time to see a play this trip?” she asked, peeking at him over the top of the publication.
“Perhaps.” He dragged his thoughts back inside the conveyance. “What is advertised?”
“A local production called She Has Her Ways.”
“If we can fit it in, I have no objection.”
She went back to reading and he went back to engineering. She turned a page.
“Here is something about you!”
“Really?” Nicolas frowned, irritated. “I had hoped they might leave me alone.”
Sydney read silently for a minute. “It is actually rather complimentary.”
Nicolas lifted the top edge of the publication to see the front page. “You are reading the Enquirer, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Hmph.” Nicolas let go of the page. “I wonder what madness has possessed them?”
Sydney smiled. “Shall I read it to you?”
“If you must.”
Nicolas Hansen’s Far Flung Campaign
Legislative candidate, Nicolas Hansen, took his campaign on the road in weeks past, visiting several rural communities in the western regions of St. Louis County. Hansen spoke to groups of men in town halls, taverns, schools and churches. He was generally well received, due partly to the fact that this publication seldom reaches that far into the county, so most there are ignorant of the endless controversies that Mr. Hansen seems to foster.
Being a land-grant owner himself, Hansen’s credibility in the outlying areas remains high. In addition, many rural farms are small, not requiring slaves. Hansen’s anti-slavery ideals are more easily grasped in such places.
Adding to Hansen’s popularity in those areas is Mr. Winston Beckermann’s lack of campaigning anywhere outside the city of St. Louis, proper. When asked to comment, Mr. Beckermann responded, “While I commend Mr. Hansen for his efforts, it is the men of the city who will take the time to vote. I prefer to give them my full attention.”
Sydney lowered the newspaper and gazed expectantly at him.
“I expect that attitude might bite him back in the end,” Nicolas muttered.
“And if it works for him?”
“Then I am not the man for this position, I don’t suppose.”
Sydney tilted her head. Her gray-green eyes pinned him and she bit her lower lip. “What has you discouraged, husband?”
He shook his head. “Nothing in particular. I am feeling as though I want to either get on with the job, or be done with it. This constant travel, being away from home, from Kirstie and Stefan, and not able to care for my home the way I should, is wearing on me.”
“Your home is doing fine,” Sydney insisted. “You have capable people, in whom you have placed your trust and given a reason to succeed. They have risen to the challenge. In fact, they are thriving.”
She smiled suddenly.
“What?”
“Did you and Jeremy discuss anything besides building his cabin last week?” she asked.
One corner of Nicolas’s mouth lifted. “Why do you ask?”
Sydney leaned toward him, giving him a chance to see inside her décolletage. “Because, of a sudden, Anne has been smiling more, and Jeremy cannot take his eyes off of her!”
Nicolas chuckled and explained to Sydney about their situation and his recommendation.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Well it’s no wonder, then!” She ran her hand up his thigh. “I can only imagine how I would
feel.”
Nicolas leaned forward and took her mouth with his.
“I have an idea, wife,” he whispered. “Let’s get supper, and a bottle of wine, and take it to our room and lock our door.”
“A naked picnic in front of the fire?” Her eyes grew smoky and his body reacted.
“We’d miss the play,” he warned.
“Oh, no,” she replied. “I don’t believe we’d miss it one whit.”
April 27, 1822
St. Louis
A new building was being dedicated in the dock area of the city, an iron works to replace one that had burned. Beckermann had his hand in it, of course, so he was there singing his own praises. Vincent got wind of it, and made sure Nicolas was there to ‘congratulate’ his opponent.
Nicolas jumped up on the platform and grabbed Beckermann’s hand, lifted halfway in stunned surprise. Cheers and applause greeted his appearance. Beckermann paled, then his face turned an angry florid.
“Well done, Winston!” Nicolas bellowed. His powerful bass voice carried easily over the crowd. “This building is a testimony to the unstoppable spirit of St. Louis County!”
Nicolas swung his arm wide to include the gathering. Glad to be acknowledged, they cheered again.
“I am sure that my worthy opponent will join me in saying that nowhere can there be found a more resilient, dedicated, independent and capable population than the proud new state of Missouri in general, and the people of St. Louis in particular!” Nicolas shouted, beaming.
He still had Beckermann’s hand, preventing the man from turning to the crowd, or gesturing on his own.
Women pulled their husbands closer to get a clear view of the strapping blond god, with eyes the color of the evening sky, who addressed them with such enthusiasm.
“As you all must know by now, I have been born and raised here,” Nicolas continued. He dropped Beckermann’s hand before the man suffered an apoplexy, and stepped to the front of the platform.
“I have seen this land settled by men, and women, of the most amazing character! In all of my travels, to Philadelphia, Boston, Baltimore and on through Europe, I never encountered anyone, be they royalty or politician, who exhibited the level of fortitude and entrepreneurship that I see in this! Very! City!”
The crowd went wild. They stomped, whistled and whooped. Nicolas let them go on a bit, waving his hands in an adorable self-deprecating manner and grinning sheepishly. Then he applauded them, driving them crazy once more.
When they began to quiet, he waved them to silence. Beckermann stepped forward to re-take their attention, and Nicolas flung his arm around the shorter man’s shoulders.
“St. Louis, I give you Winston Beckermann, an elite businessman and wealthy dock owner, who has invested, once more, in this city’s economy!”
With that back-handed compliment, Nicolas moved to the edge of the stage. Winston cleared his throat to attempt some semblance of his speech, when Nicolas turned and waved good-bye to the crowd.
“I’ll see you all at the fish fry!” he called cheerfully, and pointed toward stalls and tents on the docks. The aromas of wood fires and deep fryers wafted on a spring breeze. Several people began to move that way.
As Beckermann spoke, obviously thrown off his stride, more people drifted toward the food. Nicolas sat at a trestle table in the center, enjoying fried catfish from several stalls, and holding an impromptu contest. Vincent ran around, procuring more samples from vendors eager to ‘win.’
Sydney and Leif brought mugs of beer, and Sydney sat next to Nicolas. She laughed with him, wiped his chin, fed him an occasional bite, sampled some herself, and charmed the crowd with her warmth and beauty.
They were there for four hours. Nicolas ate more catfish than he thought possible, and washed it down with enough beer to toss the average man under the table. Question after question was thrown at him; some about his hopes and ideas, several about his character. Nicolas steeled himself and refused to become angry, even when baited by Sam Stafford.
“Every man has moments—does he not?—when his innocent actions might be misinterpreted,” Nicolas replied, smiling at Sam, but pinning him with a glare. “I am certain you, yourself, have experienced such things.”
“Well, I—”
“I’m not a saint, Sam. That’s to be sure,” Nicolas interrupted. “But I strive to be honest at all times. What else is a man to do? What more can he offer his constituents?” Once again, Nicolas indicated the crowd around him. By that inference, he was already their representative.
Rumbles of support emanated from the men nearby. Sam stopped talking.
Nicolas was jubilant.
“Today was exactly what I needed!” he effused, pacing around the apartment later, unable to hold still. “Å min Gud! What a glorious day!”
Nicolas was feeling the euphoria of the beer, the triumph over Beckermann, the support of the crowd, and the most beautiful and desirable woman a man could ever hope to call his wife.
“That was magnificent!” Vincent pumped his hand in the air.
“I thought Beckermann was going to explode!” Leif laughed, and pantomimed his head bursting, complete with canon sounds.
Nicolas bowed at the waist. “Thank you! Thank you, one and all! I could not have come this far without every one of you!”
Vincent, Sydney and Leif clapped for him.
“And now,” Nicolas straightened. “If you gentlemen will excuse me?” He stepped to Sydney and lifted her off her feet, cradling her in his arms and causing her to yelp in surprise and throw her arms around his neck. “I shall take my wife to bed!”
“Nicolas!” Sydney scolded, laughing.
“As if they don’t understand such things, min presang!” he replied. He silenced any more protestations with a deep kiss, and pushed their bedroom door decidedly shut with his hip.
April 28, 1822
St. Louis
Nicolas wondered who fed him sawdust during the night; and why someone was now attempting to burn his eyelids. He rolled onto his side and felt his stomach trailing behind. His eyes popped open and he slid from the bed. He reached the chamber pot just in time.
Remnants of greasy fried fish were washed from his body on waves of yeasty fluid. The spasms continued long after his stomach was empty, sending surges of blood to his already aching head.
“Å min Gud…” he moaned, rolling to his side on the rug.
“Good morning,” Sydney whispered. She laid a cool, damp cloth over his eyes.
“What did I do to deserve this?” he mumbled.
“You showed all of St. Louis what a down-to-earth man you are. You impressed them with your charms, and you made yourself one of them,” Sydney answered softly. “Only better.”
Nicolas felt the fabric of her shift and then the heat of her breasts against his back. Her lips brushed his cheek, in spite of his rough morning stubble.
“And then you took your wife to bed, and loved her better than any mortal man has the right to,” she continued.
He smiled wanly. “I do remember that, madam. And quite well, make no mistake!” His hand groped for hers and he pulled her arm around him. “Lay here with me a bit?”
“On the floor?” she teased, and bit his shoulder.
“You had no qualms about the floor night before last, as I recall.”
“Hmm.” Sydney hummed and curled around him. Her softness and warmth soothed his roiling insides and he dozed.
He felt much improved later, after both a light lunch of bread and a little cheese, and riding in the fresh air atop their carriage. The ride home to Cheltenham always lifted his spirits. And it had been a very successful trip, after all.
Vincent held the reins. Nicolas wanted him to learn to drive the team, and Vincent agreed. Mostly, Nicolas suspected, so he would not have to go on another horseback tour.
“I still cannot say enough about yesterday,” Vincent effused. “The way you handled the crowd was brilliant! Simply brilliant!”
“T
hank you.”
“Did you see the look on Beckermann’s face when you stepped up?”
“I did.”
“I tell you what, you won votes! Yes, sir, you did!” Vincent bounced on the seat. “You might have sealed the election with that one appearance!”
Nicolas raised one brow. “So I might live the next month in peace at home?”
Vincent laughed. “Well, I would not go quite that far! People have short memories and they might think you’ve died!”
“I felt like it this morn, I can tell you,” Nicolas said. He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his belly.
“Perhaps… less beer next time?” Vincent suggested, grinning at his employer.
“Less catfish.” Nicolas winked at him. “The beer was fine!”
April 29, 1822
Cheltenham
Nicolas opened the front door. Rickard stood on his front porch in the fading light; he looked horrible. “Rick? Come in man, what’s amiss?”
Sydney descended the stairs. “Rickard?”
His dull hazel eyes lifted to hers. “I need you, Sydney.”
“What is happening?” Sydney hurried down the last few steps and took his elbow. “Come in and tell us.”
Nicolas pressed a glass of brandy into his friend’s hand as he sank onto the settle. Rickard gulped it, and let his hand fall to his lap. Sydney took the empty glass before he dropped it. She was alarmed by his coloring; he was nearly gray.
“Rick?”
“She’s losing it.”
“Who?” Sydney pressed.
“Lily.” He seemed incapable of compiling sentences. Even one word required effort.
“Lily is losing the baby?” Sydney guessed.
He nodded.
“How long has she been having pains?”
“Yesterday.”
Sydney glanced in alarm at Nicolas. His eyes widened. “What time yesterday?” she asked evenly.
“Midday. Late morning, I believe.”
Sydney glanced at the tall clock. It was nearing seven; over thirty hours. “Is anyone with her?”
