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

by Kris Tualla

  Bronnie handed her a damp towel and she wiped perspiration from her face and neck. “What will we do now?” Bronnie whispered.

  “Gather the men,” Sydney said. She slumped into a chair, defeated.

  “I thought as much,” Berta mumbled. Though she was not of any use, she refused to leave. Sydney supposed the woman was collecting more evidence against her, but at the moment she was beyond caring.

  Sydney spoke to Taycie, “If she begins to wake, give her a teaspoon more of the laudanum.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  In the hall outside Lily’s room, the mood of the impromptu conference was somber. Sydney explained that the baby’s heart was still beating well, but she was afraid to tear Lily’s womb and cause her to bleed to death.

  “May I ask you some rather harsh questions?” Sir Ezra addressed Sydney.

  “Of course, Sir.”

  “Is there any way to save Lily, if the child dies?”

  Sydney shook her head. “No, Sir, there is not.”

  He nodded, paused, and then asked, “Is there a way to save the child, if Lily dies?”

  Sydney’s gaze flicked to Nicolas, Rickard and back to Sir Ezra. “It would seem there might be…”

  “The foal.” All eyes turned to Nicolas. “Last fall you cut open a mare and delivered a healthy foal,” he reminded them.

  “But that was an animal!” Sydney objected. “This is a human being!”

  “This is two human beings,” Nicolas corrected.

  “And one dies, or they both die,” Sir Ezra observed. “Is that not what you just explained?”

  Black dots surrounded Sydney’s vision again and she knew she might faint. She swayed. Bronnie and Nicolas grabbed her elbows and lowered her to the floor. She leaned against her husband’s sturdy frame.

  “You are asking me to kill Lily,” she rasped, horrified.

  Nicolas lifted her chin. “Look at me, min presang.”

  Sydney gazed into Nicolas’s deep blue eyes. He held her there. She rested in them, drew strength from them.

  “No one will ask you to do anything that you cannot live with for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?” he murmured.

  Sydney nodded, not breaking their visual bond.

  “What are the choices?” he prompted. “What will happen if you do nothing?”

  “They will both die,” she whispered.

  “And are you able to get the babe out of the womb safely? Without harming Lily?”

  Sydney’s face twisted and she began to cry. “No-o-o-o,” she wailed.

  Nicolas pulled her into his arms and held her while she sobbed without control. She could smell the coffee and brandy on his breath, and wood smoke in his clothes. She wished to stop time and remain inside the fortress of his arms forever. She did not want to face what was coming.

  “Sydney?” She felt Nicolas’s bass voice vibrate in his chest.

  When he drew a breath to address her again, she answered, “What?”

  “The question appears to be: might you save the child?” he asked tenderly.

  “The only chance is if Lily dies.”

  “Isn’t she already dying?” Rickard asked softly. His quiet voice startled Sydney; she forgot he was there.

  She looked to Sir Ezra. “What would you have me do, Sir?”

  He spoke without hesitation. “Save the child. Lily is dead either way.”

  Chapter Thirty Two

  April 29, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Sydney stood beside Lily’s bed. She had Nicolas’s dirk hidden in her midwife’s apron pocket. Bronnie held her hand.

  “I wish Father Mueller was here,” Sydney said.

  “Lily has made her peace with God,” Bronnie replied. “Or she never knew Him to begin with. There’s nothing more to be done for that now.”

  Lily’s lips were blue, and her perfect skin sagged, greenish and slack, from her cheekbones. Her chest rose and fell, with longer spaces between. Then her chest didn’t rise.

  “Lily!” Bronnie shouted. She grabbed the younger woman’s shoulders and shook her. “Lily!”

  Sydney could not delay. She threw the sheets back and lifted the knife.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” Berta O’Shea screamed.

  Sydney bit her lips together and felt for Lily’s womb. She pushed the blade into Lily’s belly. Lily gasped loudly, and did not move again. The breath hissed out between her teeth.

  “You have killed her!” Berta accused, backing away. “Murderess! Witch!”

  Sydney drew the blade across Lily’s abdomen and pushed her hand into the gash. She felt a leg. Gripping it as hard as she could, she pulled. She dropped the knife to the floor and reached in with her other hand. Straining against the opening she wiggled the tiny vernix- and blood-smeared body out.

  He was blue and not breathing.

  Sydney squeezed his chest. Liquid gushed out his mouth and nose. Taycie appeared by her side with clean cloths and she began to wipe the boy’s face. Sydney let go and the ribs rebounded, drawing in air.

  Nothing.

  She did it again. “God in Heaven, make him breath!” she prayed aloud. Not yet. Berta O’Shea slid across the room, past the bed, and huddled by the door.

  One more time.

  This time a wail of indignation squeaked from the small body. Taycie rubbed him hard with the cloths and his skin grew slowly pink. She dried his thick, black hair. His cries gained strength. Sydney tied off the cord and cut it with her small midwife’s knife. He opened one muddy blue eye, then the other.

  Sydney fell against Bronnie and the women embraced.

  “Thank You, Father! Thank You!” Sydney cried over and over.

  Unable to wait, Rickard threw the door open and Berta O’Shea slipped out. One look at the still, mutilated body of his sister answered his first question.

  Bronnie’s cry of, “It’s a boy!” answered his second.

  “A boy?” Sir Ezra pushed past Rickard. “I have a son?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Sydney lifted the baby from the bed and handed him, naked, to the man who would raise him. “He’s small because he’s early. But he seems strong enough.” She pulled the sheets up to veil Lily’s indecency.

  Sir Ezra Warpold Kensington stared at the tiny wrinkled creature in his hands. “What do I do with him?” he asked, mystified.

  “Hire a wet nurse, first off.” Sydney advised. “Did Lily lay in a supply of diaper clouts? Or baby clothes?”

  Ezra’s blank, slack-jawed response seemed to indicate that she had not.

  “I can help you with that,” Bronnie offered. “For tonight, I will loan you some of Glynnis’ newborn things.”

  “Th-thank you,” he stuttered. Then he looked at his wife, and shook his head. “She was never satisfied…” he murmured. Taycie retrieved the baby and swaddled him.

  “Do you have a name for him?” Bronnie asked.

  “No.” Ezra shook his head. “I thought I did, but I might think differently.”

  ***

  Nicolas did not enter the room until everyone else had left. He stood beside the bed, staring down at the young woman who looked exactly like her older sister had at that age. Her older sister, his beloved first wife, who died birthing his son.

  Now the younger was gone as well. Though under different circumstances, killed by the same life event.

  She was pale, cold. Her eyes slitted slightly, though no moisture reflected light. Her skin was gray, her parted lips colorless. The sheet over the gash Sydney made to save the baby was stained with brown-edged patches of watery red.

  He felt Sydney’s hand slip into his. He squeezed it gently, but did not look away.

  “I cannot breathe to think of you like this,” he whispered.

  “I’ll not die this way, Nick!” she retorted. “I know that well, and you would too, if you considered it. Mistakes were made. I’ll not make them.”

  Nicolas glanced at her and nodded. “She was a sad young woman, Sydney. She ha
d everything given to her, but it was never enough.”

  “It is the happier man who is hungry and appreciates bread, than the one who is satiated and wants dessert,” Sydney replied.

  Nicolas nodded. “Very wise. Who said that?”

  “My father.”

  Nicolas smiled. “I like your father.”

  “Me, too.”

  Nicolas faced her then. “You had no other choice, you know.”

  Sydney nodded. “She stopped breathing before I cut her.”

  He looked back at Lily. “I suppose that makes it easier, in some ways.”

  “In all ways,” Sydney responded. She turned to Nicolas, her gray-green eyes underlined in purple half-circles.

  “Might we please go home now?”

  May 1, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Lily’s funeral was held on the Atherton estate at eleven o’clock in the morning and she was buried alongside her father. Pastor Fritz Mueller presided. He gave a moving message about contentment. Rickard gave the eulogy. The sky was a mild blue, the color of Lily’s eyes, and a cool breeze kept those in attendance from overheating in the midday sun.

  The crowd was larger than Rickard and Bronnie expected; Lily certainly did not have that many friends in Cheltenham. Nor did Sir Ezra, her enigmatic North Carolina husband. Perhaps they were drawn by rumors of murder or witchcraft. In that event, Nicolas and Sydney maintained their dignity throughout. Gracious and respectfully somber, they repeated their sorrow over the loss of such a fine young woman, standing shoulder to shoulder with Rickard or Sir Ezra.

  “At least the child survived,” was the constant reminder. “He is small, but healthy.”

  Betsy, Rickard’s kitchen slave, oversaw a feast worthy of a queen and everyone departed with full bellies and kind words. When the last guest left, Rickard pulled Nicolas and Sir Ezra into his study. He handed out brandies and cigars, lighting them with a piece of tinder from the fire.

  “Sir Ezra has expressed his desire to return to North Carolina immediately,” Rickard explained to Nick. “So we do have some business to settle.”

  “That’s true, Rickard. Lily and I abused your hospitality for far too long as it was.” Sir Ezra lifted his cigar to his lips and puffed contentedly. “Now I shall take my son, Ezra Warpold Kensington II, to my home and settle into the roles of bereaved widower and doting father.”

  “God speed, Sir,” Nicolas offered, wondering why Rick summoned him. He puffed his own cigar for lack of anything better to do with his hands.

  “Before you go, Sir, we must settle the estate,” Rickard ventured.

  Sir Ezra frowned. “Estate? My estate?”

  “No, Sir…” Rickard demurred, bemused.

  “What then?”

  “Lily’s claim on half of this property.” Rickard looked more than a little irritated. “Sir.”

  “Oh, that! Of course,” Sir Ezra waved cigar smoke away from his face.

  “I have figured out what half this estate is worth and—”

  “What are you going on about?” Sir Ezra interrupted.

  Rickard stopped, his mouth open. “Sir?”

  “Lily’s claim was simply that.” He shrugged. “Her claim.”

  Nicolas glanced from one man to the other. Rickard paled.

  Sir Ezra puffed his cigar again, obviously enjoying the moment. “The way I see it, Rick, Lily wanted to own half of this estate solely for the purpose of revenge.”

  “Yes,” Rickard said cautiously.

  “And now, to be frank, she’s not going anywhere else, is she?”

  “No.” Rickard’s expression lightened.

  “So go on and give her half the damn thing!” Ezra laughed at his own joke. “As her only heir, you get it right back!”

  “What about her son?” Nicolas broached the possibility. “Might he lay claim?”

  Ezra lifted one brow and pointed his cigar at the ceiling. “If I died today, that baby up there would inherit enough from me to buy twenty estates this size. I doubt he’d be interested.”

  “Would you mind writing something out, just in case, relinquishing Lily’s son’s rights?” Nicolas pressed.

  “I’ve no problem with that!”

  Rickard fumbled for paper and a quill, and watched Sir Ezra eliminate any possibility that another claim could be launched.

  “There you go. It’s the least I could do.” Ezra dropped the quill in the inkwell.

  “If it’s not too unseemly of me to ask,” Rickard began. “If you have that much wealth, why was Lily doing what she was?”

  Ezra puckered his lips, and slid his gaze from Rickard to Nicolas and back again. “I have my theory.”

  “And that is?” Nicolas asked.

  Ezra leaned back in his chair. “She said she wanted you to father the child, Nicolas. It’s why we came. The other was leverage, I guess. Thinking you’d do it to protect Rick.”

  “But she was already ‘caught’! The live baby upstairs proves that!” Nicolas protested. “Didn’t she know?”

  Ezra shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. In any case, I’ll be off early tomorrow morning.” He stood and shook Nicolas’s hand, then Rickard’s. “It has been a pleasure meeting you gentlemen. I hope you both have successful futures. Please give my best to your wives.”

  Sir Ezra downed his brandy, tossed the stub of his cigar into the fire, and exited the study.

  “Well that about beats anything I’ve ever heard!” Nicolas stated.

  “And it almost worked,” Rickard muttered. He looked at Nicolas, relief flushing his features. “It almost worked.”

  May 4, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Sheriff Nathan Busby stood in front of the Hansen’s front door, hat in hand, and looking very uncomfortable.

  “What can I do for you, Nate?” Nicolas asked.

  “Nick, you and I have known each other a long time, haven’t we?”

  “Most of our lives, I reckon. Why?”

  The sheriff shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Sometimes, things happen, and laws have to be followed.”

  Nicolas’s gut turned to water. “What happened?”

  “Charges have been filed.”

  “Against me? For what?” Nicolas steeled himself for another onslaught to his character.

  “Not against you, Nick.” Sheriff Busby winced.

  “Who?”

  “Sydney.”

  Nicolas was flooded with rage. His heart pounded and his grip on the door turned his knuckles white. “What the hell? Hva i helvete?” he roared. “Gud forbanner det all til helvete!”

  “Nicolas?” Sydney appeared at the top of the stairs. “What’s amiss?”

  “Stay there!” he pointed and bellowed.

  “Nick, that’s not going to help,” Sheriff Busby soothed.

  Nicolas rounded on him. “You! Shut your mouth!”

  Sydney descended the stairs, slowly. “Sheriff? Is my husband to be arrested again?”

  Nathan Busby slid his hands along the rim of his hat. “No, Ma’am…”

  “Well that’s a relief!” She smiled and continued down the steps.

  “It’s you he wants this time,” Nicolas growled through clenched teeth.

  Sydney froze. “Me? I’m to be arrested?”

  “Beg your pardon, Ma’am. But I have to follow the strict guidelines of the law.” Sheriff Busby continued to fidget with his hat.

  “What’s the charge, Sheriff?” she asked in tone more level than Nicolas could imagine achieving.

  “Um, murder.” He bobbed his head. “Ma’am.”

  Nicolas heard Sydney heave a heavy sigh behind him. “What must you do?”

  “I need to take you into town and, well, lock you in the jail.”

  Nicolas swung around to look at his wife. Her chin was up, her back was straight. Her gaze, gone stormy gray, met his. Her jaw was set.

  “May I change clothes first?” she asked.

  “Go ahead, Ma’am. I’ll wait.” Sheriff Busby was visibly r
elieved.

  Sydney turned and climbed the staircase like a queen. Nicolas left the sheriff standing in his doorway and followed her, taking the stairs two at a time.

  He yanked the bedroom door closed. “This is oksedritt! You did not kill Lily! Gud forbanner det all til fucking helvete!”

  Sydney grabbed him by his shirt. He focused on her, with some effort. “No. I did not kill Lily. Go get Nelson Ivarsen.”

  “You are damned right I’ll get Nelson!” Nicolas broke from her grasp and paced the room. Memories of his own arrest and incarceration flooded him. “I shall leave off the reel!”

  Sydney selected a simple wool dress from her wardrobe, and the half-corset Nicolas had made for her; they were more comfortable than the more formal clothing she had been wearing. She also selected a cotton shift instead of linen. And she grabbed her fur-lined cloak.

  “To sleep on,” she explained at Nicolas’s puzzled look.

  “At the least, you have a chance to prepare,” he said. “And no one is beating you brutally in the process.”

  Sydney laid a hand on his cheek. He looked down into her eyes, now more green than gray, and her parted coral-colored lips. Her cheeks were splotched with red, the only betrayal of her distress. “Just bring Nelson. I have witnesses. The charges will be dismissed.”

  He bent to her lips and kissed her very well. “I love you, min presang. I’ll rescue you.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  As soon as she was gone, he changed his clothes, ran to the stable, and saddled Fyrste for the ride to St. Louis.

  ***

  Sydney sat on the bench in the tiny Cheltenham jail cell and mentally counted off her blessings.

  It’s a warm May 4th, not a frigid January 4th.

  I was not beaten.

  I was allowed to change clothes and speak to my children.

  Nicolas is on his way to St. Louis and Nelson Ivarsen.

  Mrs. Ansel provides meals for the prisoners.

  I have witnesses.

  And I’m not precisely guilty…