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

by Kris Tualla

  “Thank you, Counselor.” Judge Benson leaned back and waved Nelson away. He stared hard at Nicolas. Nicolas stared back.

  “You are running for legislator, are you not?” he queried.

  “I am.”

  “And you gave a speech today, did you not?”

  Nicolas glanced at Nelson. Why was he being questioned? The charges were against Sydney, not him. “Um, yes, Your Honor. I did.”

  Judge Benson leaned forward once again. “What exactly did you say?”

  “I beg your pardon, Judge,” Nelson interjected. “Should Mr. Hansen move to the witness stand?”

  “What? No! It’s just us, Counselor. And I’m in a hurry!” Judge Benson snapped. His consideration moved back to Nicolas. “What did you say? About your wife and the charge of murder?”

  Nicolas pulled the folded parchment from his pocket. He opened it and read to the judge, “I found new love with my current wife, and she brought me back to the world of the living. Without her, I would not be standing here today. And yet, she languishes in a St. Louis jail cell, when all she is guilty of is saving a life. I am married to an accused murderer. Will you elect such a man?”

  “Ha!” the judge laughed. “Well you’ve got some bollocks, Hansen. I’ll give you that!”

  Nelson cleared his throat. “Your Honor? I am confused by your line of questioning.”

  Judge Benson shook his head. “I have spent the last hour being accosted by every prominent citizen of this city demanding to know what the hell Hansen was talking about! In jail for murder for saving a life?”

  “Your Honor, it was not my intention to—” Nicolas began.

  “No, of course not!” Benson waved his hand. “It never is, is it?”

  The room fell silent. Nicolas looked from Nelson to Judge Benson, and then to Sydney. Chin high, her eyes never shifted from the judge.

  “Mrs. Hansen, have you anything to say on your own behalf?” he asked.

  Sydney’s voice wavered slightly, but her gaze did not falter. “Your Honor, I am a midwife. It is my duty to help women bring living children safely into the world. The mother’s health is first, the babe’s second. Lily Kensington breathed her last before I took the child from her body. If I had not acted as I did, the child would now be buried in her arms.”

  Judge Benson chewed on his spectacles. “Why did Berta O’Shea say otherwise?”

  “May I address that question, Your Honor?” Nicolas asked.

  “Go on.”

  “Berta O’Shea was the only midwife in Cheltenham. My first wife, who was Lily Kensington’s older sister, died under her care.”

  Judge Benson twitched. “I see.”

  “Sydney is simply more competent, and therefore a threat to Mistress O’Shea’s business,” Nicolas continued. “My wife is the victim of her attempts to discredit.”

  “Your Honor,” Nelson spoke up. “You can see in the written testimony that Lady Kensington refused to allow her brother to call on Mistress Hansen, and instead insisted that Mistress O’Shea attend her confinement.”

  “Yes, I see…” Judge Benson shuffled through the papers.

  “It was when Lady Kensington’s life was fading that Mister Atherton summoned Mistress Hansen.” Nelson edged forward and pointed to the papers. “Much to Mistress O’Shea’s expressed disgruntlement.”

  “Mm-hmm.” The judge raised his eyes. “Everyone who has given testimony seems to agree that Mistress Hansen discovered the age of the babe and the condition of Lady Kensington’s womb. Did Mistress O’Shea not know these things?”

  “No, sir. She did not.” Sydney’s words rang clear. They resonated into an ensuing silence.

  “Mistress Hansen, you have not been sworn in. Raise your right hand. Mister Hansen, you do the same.”

  Sydney and Nicolas did so.

  “Do you swear that the testimony you have given and are about to give is the truth, the entire truth, and only the truth?” he asked.

  “I do,” they answered in unison.

  Judge Benson peered at Sydney. “Was there any way that Lady Kensington might have survived this birth?”

  “No, Your Honor. Because of her scarring, the babe could not move out of her womb.”

  “This is the complete truth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Judge Benson leaned back and pursed his lips. His gaze slid from Sydney to Nicolas. He sighed.

  “It seems you will have to amend your speech, Mister Hansen.”

  “Your Honor?” Nicolas frowned, confused as to how his speech played into anything.

  “You are not married to an accused murderer. The charge of murder is dismissed.” He lifted his gavel and dropped it on the bench. The ring of hardwood against hardwood echoed through the room.

  ***

  Sydney sank up to her chin in the steaming bath water. It was scented with rose oil and almost made her forget the disgusting smell of the jail cell. Almost. “Burn that gown,” she instructed the hotel’s maid. “I shall never wear it again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The girl rolled the dress into a rough bundle and tucked it under her arm. “Will there be anything else?”

  Sydney twisted her head to see the clock on the mantel. “Dinner in an hour. Ask my husband what he wishes to order, and send it up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And make sure there is a bottle of your best red wine accompanying the food.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” The girl slipped out the door.

  Because their apartment in St. Louis did not have bathing facilities, Nicolas arranged for a suite of rooms at the Regent’s Inn for that night. Sydney dipped under the luxuriously hot water. She held her breath and massaged her scalp for as long as she was able. When she surfaced and wiped the water from her eyes, Nicolas was sitting on the end of the copper tub.

  “Oh my Lord, Nicolas!” she scolded. “You gave me a fright!” She flicked water at him. He flicked it back.

  “You have been out of my sight and out of my bed for twelve nights, wife. Surely you did not expect me to stay away from you?” Nicolas loosened his stock and untied his shirt. He tugged it over his head and dropped it on the floor.

  “Why do you believe I asked for dinner to be served in an hour, and not immediately?” Sydney countered. She ran a washcloth over her arms. Her skin pinkened in the heat.

  Nicolas stood and unfastened his flies, smiling. “Perhaps one appetite has trumped another?”

  “Perhaps.” Sydney teased. She used the cloth to wash between her thighs, making certain Nicolas could see her. Then she trailed the cloth across her bosom. Her skin puckered in response.

  Nicolas stepped out of his trousers. The flag of his desire waved urgently against his belly. “Get out of the water.”

  “Hand me a towel.”

  He did. Sydney stood in the bathtub. Rose-scented steam wafted from her ruddy skin. She squeezed out her long, thick hair and twisted it into a bun. She wrapped the towel around her and stepped out of the tall curled-copper basin.

  Nicolas winked at her and stepped into the tub. He dunked himself under and washed quickly, but thoroughly. Sydney laughed and handed him a towel.

  “I imagine the maid who brings dinner might find your scent rather interesting,” she said, leaning close and inhaling the distinctly feminine aroma.

  Nicolas scrubbed himself dry with the towel, his shortened hair sticking out from his scalp in all directions. The gold curls that covered his body stood on the points of gooseflesh. He threw the damp cloth aside and reached for Sydney’s. With a flip of his wrist, he pulled it from her. She stood naked, damp, and ready.

  “My God, but you are beautiful,” he breathed. He held out his arms and she slid between them.

  “So are you, husband.”

  He lifted her and carried her to the bed. There was no attempt at play; this joining was burning business, long delayed. Their exuberant efforts left them panting, sweating, and satiated for the moment.

  After fortifying with a
hearty dinner and two bottles of wine, there was more business to be conducted; slightly less urgent, but not one whit less satisfying.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  May 17, 1822

  St. Louis

  Initially suspicious, Nicolas could not imagine how Rodger might twist the request to print his speech. He debated it with Sydney and Vincent, and ultimately decided to grant Merrick’s request.

  “I assume our understanding is still in force?” Nicolas asked quietly. He passed the handwritten script to Rodger at his desk. The St. Louis Enquirer’s office was nearly empty.

  “It is.” at first, Rodger would not meet his eyes; Nicolas did not let go of the parchment until he did.

  “You have more to lose than I, Mister Merrick. You are sensible of that, are you not?” Nicolas warned.

  Rodger’s thickly lashed brown eyes blinked up at Nicolas. “I am.”

  Nicolas nodded briskly, then turned to go.

  “Hansen?”

  Nicolas glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  Rodger’s gaze washed over him; he suppressed a shudder.

  “Thank you.”

  Nicolas dipped his chin slightly. “You’re welcome.”

  “For all of it,” Rodger added.

  Nicolas straightened and fully faced the young man. He stared down his nose at his nemesis. Then he extended his hand.

  Rodger’s earnest grasp softened Nicolas’s attitude. He smiled a little.

  “Best of luck in the election, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Nicolas paused. “Rodger.”

  ***

  Nicolas was not prepared for the effect his speech had on the general populace. While several hundred heard his speech, several thousand heard about it. He was a bit of a celebrity now, accosted at every corner. He ducked into a quiet little tavern for a pint of beer and some relief.

  The room was dark and dusky, redolent of cigar smoke, a cool escape from the glaring spring afternoon. Nicolas sat on a tall stool at the bar and downed the pale amber liquid. He ordered a second; his throat was sore from hours of unexpected conversation.

  “That’s him,” a voice from the corner rasped.

  “Where?” A chair scraped, wood on wood.

  “Right there! The big blond fellow.”

  “That can’t be him. Thomas said he was seven feet tall and over three hundred pounds,” the second voice disputed.

  “Six foot four inches in actuality,” Nicolas interjected. He turned to face the startled speculators. “And a trim two-fifty, if you must know. Who do you believe me to be?”

  “Nicolas Hansen. You are him, are you not?”

  Nicolas recognized him as the first man who spoke. He answered, “I am.”

  “The one who gave that speech in the square yesterday?” the second man queried.

  “The same.”

  “Butchy! Give the man another, on me!” The first man called to the proprietor. He grasped his own glass and approached Nicolas.

  “And put the one he’s drinking on my tab!” the second man instructed, tagging along after his friend.

  Butchy nodded and flipped Nicolas’s coin back at him. It rattled in a circle and came to rest next to his beer. Another glass of the cooled ale followed.

  “Thank you, gentlemen.” Nicolas touched his temple in a two-finger salute. “I appreciate it.”

  “Wait until I tell the missus I met you! Name’s Davy McCoy, by the way.” He offered his hand. Nicolas shook it.

  “Nehemiah Osterbach,” the second man stuck out his hand as well. “So all those things you said? They’re true?”

  Nicolas chuckled. “While I cannot vouch for what you might have heard, I can assure you that everything I actually said was God’s truth.”

  “Your wife and your whore are best friends?” Nehemiah’s jaw dropped. “You must be legendary beneath the sheets, man!” He pumped his fist in front of his chest.

  “She’s my ex-whore. Since I met my wife three years ago, I have not visited her in that capacity,” Nicolas clarified.

  “Even so!” Davy lifted his glass in a toast. “To the candidate with the biggest balls!”

  Nehemiah chimed in, “And the strongest—”

  “Thank you!” Nicolas interrupted. “Just remember me when you go to vote, eh?”

  ***

  “There you are!” Sydney exclaimed when Nicolas opened the apartment door. The low golden-orange sunlight slanting through the window signified the approaching sunset. “You cannot imagine what it has been like here!”

  “I might have an inkling,” he began.

  “I’ve been guarding the door,” Leif interrupted. “So many people want to talk to you!”

  Nicolas glanced around the room. “Where is Vincent?”

  “I sent him to bring dinner.” Sydney crossed the drawing room and pushed the curtain aside. She looked outside. “I was not sure we should go out tonight.”

  Nicolas shook his head. “No, that is exactly what we should do, Sydney.”

  She spun to face him, eyes widened. “What?”

  Nicolas strode toward her and grasped her hands. “Do you know that it took me nearly three hours to walk here from the newspaper? Men, and women, kept stopping me to tell me how much they liked what I said!”

  “Truly?” A smile spread over her countenance. “They liked it?”

  “More than I could have ever imagined, min presang! I have never felt this way!” Nicolas had the need to move. The apartment was far too constricting, and his body far too large. “Come with me, wife!”

  Sydney grinned at his boyish demeanor and sat to put on her shoes. “Where are we going?”

  “To talk to my people!” Nicolas bellowed, laughing with arms thrown wide.

  Her gray-green eyes twinkled. “They are your people now, are they?”

  “Might I come, too?” Leif asked.

  “Where are we going?” Vincent stood in the doorway holding a covered tray and a basket.

  Nicolas inhaled the yeasty smell of fresh bread. He grabbed the basket by its handle, set it on the table and dug for the loaf. He pulled it out and broke it in half.

  “Does anyone else want some?” he asked before taking an enormous bite out of one piece. Leif reached for the other. Nicolas pawed through the victuals until he found a chunk of cheese. He unwrapped it and bit into it.

  “Ready?” he said through the food.

  Sydney jumped to her feet and grabbed Nicolas’s wrists. She pulled the hand holding the cheese down to her mouth and took a large bite. She did the same with the bread.

  “Ready!” she answered. Her cheeks puffed out like a successful squirrel.

  Nicolas began to laugh so hard, he had to sit down. The floor was the most efficient place to land. He rested there, red-faced and shaking, whooping and wiping tears on his sleeves. Leif rescued the bread and cheese before Nicolas dropped them. Vincent set the tray on the table. He surveyed Nicolas and Sydney’s hilarity and scratched his head.

  “What on earth transpired while I was gone?”

  ***

  Nicolas walked through the gradually darkening streets of St. Louis, a modern-day Pied Piper. But instead of leading thirteenth-century rats, he led an ever-changing pack of nineteenth-century Missourians. They were attracted by his appearance and his words. After a long hour, an exhausted Sydney sat to wait on a bench. Vincent stayed with her, but Leif continued with Nicolas.

  Over and over again the people asked about bits of his speech. Did he really do this? Was he really like that? For those who were not present in the square and only heard about it later, he repeated portions and explained his meaning.

  Not everyone was impressed, however. Mutterings erupted around the edges of the crowd. Occasionally the gauntlet of an inquiry was thrown.

  “How’d yer wife kill that lady?”

  “The woman was already dead. My wife cut her open to save the child.”

  “She cast a spell? I heard she’s a witch!”

  “She is not
a witch. She doesn’t know any spells.”

  One man pushed his face in front of Nicolas’s. “So this is what a prince looks like, huh?”

  “No. This is what I look like,” Nicolas retorted.

  “I fought agin Fat George!” one elderly man shouted. “We don’t take kindly to royalists out here!”

  “My father fought against him as well!” Nicolas countered.

  “Aw, what does that prove?”

  A refined voice called out, “Missouri is a slave state, sir. You are sensible of that, are you not?”

  Nicolas turned in the voice’s direction. “I am keenly aware.”

  “Then why do I get the notion you’ll be wanting to change that if you are elected?” A well-dressed dandy cut through the crowd like the bow of one of Beckermann’s ships.

  Nicolas recognized him. He worked for Beckermann. “The terms of statehood cannot be undone,” Nicolas said. “But there are decisions to make which might ease the plight of our dark brothers.”

  The unexpected impact against the back of his scalp snapped his head forward. Something fell to his shoulder, and then the ground. Wetness dripped into his collar. Stunned, Nicolas reached for the spot and pulled damp fingers away. Brown pulp. He smelled the too-sweet rot of the overripe apple.

  “Careful who you claim as brother!” a voice snarled. “I am no black savage and neither are my kin!”

  “Nor I!” a woman yelled. “Stinking animals can’t even talk!”

  Leif grabbed Nicolas’s elbow. “I think we should go.”

  Nicolas edged sideways. He did not attempt to draw anyone else into conversation. Honesty, it appeared, was not always well received. The sun had fallen below the buildings a half hour earlier and the sky was fading. Lamp-lighters worked their way down the street adding yellow balls of luminescence to the colorless gray scene. One hand gripped him and spun him around.

  “Are you running away, Hansen?” the accoster sneered.

  “No. My beautiful wife awaits and we have supper plans.” Nicolas smiled and tipped his hat. “Good candlelighting, sir.”

  Leif and Nicolas walked away from the crowd with long, even strides. One rotten apple smashed on the street beside him, but the second caught his shoulder. He did not look back.