A Matter of Principle

by Kris Tualla

  “Doren…”

  “It’s been nearly a year, Merrick!” He folded the paper and pushed it into his pocket. “You, yourself, have been here over a year and a half! Don’t you trust me to know?”

  “We’ve had this discussion before. Nothing has changed.”

  “But you do know where he lives?” VanDoren pressed.

  Rodger sat on the tall stool at his desk. “I don’t actually. His column always arrives by messenger.”

  Ralston VanDoren slapped the desktop in frustration. “Damn it, Merrick! If you weren’t so…”

  “Stop twisting yourself, Ralston. It’s of no consequence. Tell me what’s new and of interest today, won’t you?”

  VanDoren considered Rodger with narrowed eyes. Apparently deciding that no ground was to be gained, he switched tack. “The list of candidates for representative from St. Louis County has been released in St. Charles.”

  “How many are running?” Rodger searched through papers on his desk, distracted.

  “Only two.” VanDoren read from a paper, “A Winston Beckermann—”

  “The warehouse gentleman?” Rodger interrupted.

  “That’s him! Owns half the docks as well.”

  “He’s ripe for scandal, I would imagine. Who knows what sort of trade he’s involved in!”

  VanDoren’s eyes lit up. “That’s true!”

  “And the other?” Rodger asked.

  “The other is a nobody. A landowner from—” VanDoren squinted at the page. “Cheltenham.”

  There was no absolute reason for Rodger to stop breathing, but he did.

  “Name?” he croaked, and cleared his throat. “What’s the name?” he tried again.

  “Nicolas Hansen.”

  Rodger’s world tipped. He grasped the edges of his desk as rage reddened his vision.

  VanDoren continued to comment, unnoticing. “Seems to be a rather ordinary fellow. Probably some bumpkin who has no inkling what he’s in for.”

  Rodger forced himself to respond, his voice tight. “I wouldn’t discount him as yet.” He shot a meaningful look at the editor, jaw clenched. “Sometimes the quiet ones have the most to hide.”

  “Maybe.” VanDoren shrugged and dropped the paper on Rodger’s desk. “Can you have a column on each of them by tomorrow?”

  “How accurate?”

  “It’s of no consequence, my boy.” VanDoren grinned, parroting Rodger’s words. “That’s what back page retractions are for!”

  Rodger stood and buttoned his greatcoat, hoping his trembling fingers were not obvious. “I’ll see what I might dig up concerning Beckermann. But the country fellow may take more time.”

  “Well, see what you can find. I know you’ll come through. You always do.” VanDoren turned and, walking away, began to re-read Percival’s column. “Damn, this is good!”

  

  Rodger slammed the door of his apartment with a loud, “Shit!”

  Lesley Walterson turned away from the dressing table mirror, slender fingers imbedded in the wig he was styling. “Merry? What’s happened? Why are you home?”

  Rodger swept out of his greatcoat and swirled it to the floor, a bullfighter taunting his prey. “Hansen,” he hissed. The look he sent his valet would have killed a lesser man.

  “Oh, my.” Lesley lifted the wig from his scalp and set it on a stand. His short-cropped blond hair lay flat against his skull; though he tried to fluff it, he still looked bald.

  “And take off that ridiculous make-up!” Rodger shouted.

  Lesley moistened a cloth and obediently wiped his face. “I’m only experimenting for you and you know it,” he pouted.

  Rodger sighed and slumped into the nearest chair. “Today’s news has me undone.”

  Lesley stood and walked to the kitchen. “Tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee. And whiskey.”

  Lesley popped his head back through the doorway. “Shall we skip the coffee altogether?”

  “Maybe,” Rodger muttered. He slapped both hands over his face. “That man will be the death of me if I don’t get to him first, I swear it!”

  Lesley brought the bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured without speaking and waited for Rodger to down the first drink. Then he refilled Rodger’s glass. “Tell me,” he said gently, and sat on the floor at Rodger’s feet.

  Rodger stared at him, jaw flexing, tears stinging his eyes. “Seems he’s running for office.”

  “What office?”

  “State representative from St. Louis County.”

  Lesley poured himself a second drink. “Have you considered how handy that might be?”

  Rodger didn’t move. “No. I only… Hearing his name brought back so many mem—I only thought of coming home!” he stuttered.

  He pounded a delicately boned fist on the arm of the chair. He didn’t want to cry; he didn’t want to give Hansen that power. But it was of no use.

  Lesley rubbed his calf, consoling. “Let it out, Merry. It will do you good.”

  Rodger continued to pound the innocent wooden arm. “I’ve cried enough, damn it! It won’t bring Edward back! Frigging murderer!”

  “I know,” Lesley whispered.

  “And Devin? My God, Devin. My first…” He swiped his cheeks. “I truly believed that after his wife Siobhan found us out we would escape together. But Devin wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Had to go right under Hansen’s nose.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “And now Devin is banished to who knows where?” Rodger wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. “To know he’s alive, but I can never… Lord, I miss him!”

  Lesley rose to his knees and took Rodger’s hands in his. “Someone will come along for you, Merry. You are young, yet.”

  Rodger could not breathe right, his chest twitched spastically. “That’s why I moved to St. Louis,” he murmured between gasps.

  “I know, love.”

  They rested, wordless.

  “And you, Les?” Rodger looked into his valet’s soft gray eyes.

  “I am young. At heart.” Lesley shrugged. “I’m not yet forty.”

  Rodger ventured a rueful smile, tears dripping into his mouth. He licked them away. “We are a sorrowful pair, Les.”

  “Speak for yourself, Merry!” Lesley slapped Rodger’s thigh, stinging it playfully. “I have a prospect.”

  Rodger’s jaw dropped. “Lesley! Who?”

  “An actor.” Lesley threw up his palm. “I know! Don’t say a word!”

  Rodger laughed a little; Lesley always seemed to raise his spirits. “I shan’t say a thing, though after losing Edward there will be no more actors in my bed. But steal more tricks, will you?” he prompted.

  “Of course! Where do you think I procured the new wig?” Lesley waved at the table. He stood and collected the empty glasses. “Are you ready to scheme?”

  “Scheme? About Hansen, you mean?” Rodger’s gaze skimmed Lesley’s backside as the valet carried the crystal to the kitchen. The man still had a nice firm shape.

  Lesley returned to the drawing room. “Of course. This is your chance to get back at him, is it not?”

  “I suppose it is,” Rodger answered. VanDoren’s it’s of no consequence whispered through his consciousness. “Ralston cares far more about selling papers than accuracy.”

  “Then it seems to me that you only need to reveal, and embellish, what you already know. He is an adulterer, kidnapper, murderer; and that’s only a beginning.” Lesley sat in front of the mirror. “Surely you might discover more?”

  Rodger nodded slowly, possibilities blooming. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Lesley turned to the mirror, his gray eyes fixed on Rodger’s reflection. “How many opponents does he have?”

  “Only one. Winston Beckermann.”

  Lesley spun to face him. “Beckermann? The exporter and docks owner? He’s in deep, I’ll wager.”

  “Only one way to find out!” Rodger pushed himself from the chair. He retrieved his coat from the fl
oor and crossed to the mirror. He examined his image by the light of reflected sunlight spilt on the carpet. His face was paler than usual and his eyes red-rimmed from crying, but that would pass.

  “There’s an event at the Fairmont this evening. Beckermann should be in attendance. I shall need a close shave tonight, Lesley. Very close.”

  December 12, 1821

  St. Louis

  “Happy second anniversary, min presang.” Nicolas lifted a cut-crystal flute of champagne to his wife. They were dining in the finest establishment in St. Louis, the Regent’s Inn, and Nicolas reserved a suite of their best rooms in honor of the occasion.

  “And to you, husband,” Sydney responded. She touched her glass to Nicolas’s; the refracting crystal sang a clear note in the crowded dining room. The champagne was delicious and the bubbles tickled her palate in a most pleasant way. She took another sip.

  “I am quite satisfied with the day,” he continued. “Renting an apartment in St. Louis was a brilliant suggestion.”

  “I know that I’ll worry about you less,” Sydney said. “The six hour ride from Cheltenham to St. Charles shan’t haunt me now!” Sydney drained her glass.

  Nicolas poured more from the bottle. “Well, that’s only if I am elected. In the time between, I shall be available for the myriad balls, plays and testimonial dinners Vincent has lined up for me here in St. Louis.”

  Sydney smiled at the mention of the earnest young secretary Rickard found for Nicolas. In his late twenties and well-educated, Vincent Barr had recently left his politically connected family in Chicago in order to make his own way. His experience would—they hoped—be invaluable.

  “He’s efficient, this is most assuredly true. He has already given me a copy of your plans so that I may know when to be at your side, smiling and supportive!”

  Nicolas leaned toward her. “No one but you, min presang.” He kissed her with his eyes only half open.

  “Husband, I fear this afternoon was not enough for you!” Sydney giggled and swallowed another mouthful of the sparkling wine.

  “Never!” he growled, grinning.

  “Might I take sustenance first, you insatiable lout?” she teased.

  “Careful!” he teased back, his navy eyes landing on the inhabitants of nearby tables. “Now that I am about to be a public figure, vying for the trust and confidence of the good people of Missouri, a misspoken word might spell my political doom!”

  Small plates were set in front of Sydney, then Nicolas. Tiny boiled crustacean tails, stripped of their shells, swam in garlic and melted butter.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “It’s the newest thing, called an ‘appetizer.’ It is intended to stimulate one’s desire to eat,” Nicolas explained. “Vincent told me about it.”

  Sydney sniffed appreciatively before spearing one tail with a small fork and lifting it, dripping, to her mouth.

  “Mmm, this is wonderful!” She speared another tail.

  Nicolas popped two into his mouth. “Very good, indeed.”

  “Was your quest at the Enquirer successful?”

  “Yes, but for a pretty price.” Nicolas used his napkin to wipe butter from his chin. “If I desire the newspaper in Cheltenham everyday, I shall need to pay a messenger to make the trip each morning. Otherwise, they can be sent by post, but will arrive a day or so later.”

  Sydney tilted her head in consideration. “I would think it might be worth the money to have them brought.”

  “I agree. And so will my committee, I’ll wager. Ashton, especially. That vulture is ravenous for news!”

  “And eager to share it when it’s bad!” Sydney remembered the near-brawls Ashton Caldecott’s outspoken views had sparked at various Cheltenham events.

  Nicolas chewed his last fresh-water shrimp, talking with his mouth full. “The editor told me they had begun covering the candidates and asked me if I had been contacted.”

  “Have you been?”

  He swallowed. “No. But there was an article about me, nonetheless. He was kind enough to cobble together a stack of recent issues for me to bring home. We can see what’s been said thus far.”

  “This might prove to be quite entertaining!” Sydney grinned over the rim of her glass.

  “And your morning with Rosie?” Nicolas was slowly coming to grips with his wife’s friendship with his former whore.

  Sydney finished her champagne, again, and Nicolas refilled it.

  “She’s buying the brothel.”

  “What?” Nicolas stopped in mid-pour, the lip of the bottle hovering over her glass. “How?”

  “It seems she is good with money.” Sydney smiled wickedly, one eyebrow arched. “Also.” She tipped the neck of the bottle down with one finger.

  “Well, I’ll be.” Nicolas shook his head and set the champagne back in its bucket. “Good for her.”

  “When will you tell Leif he’s to be your valet during this adventure?” Sydney asked. She swirled the wine and watched the bubbles rise in a drunken circle.

  “When he opens his Christmas gift, I reckon.” Nicolas purchased a razor, strop, cup and brush for the teenager. His appetizer gone, Nicolas bit into a crusty roll.

  “And you will give him shaving lessons before you let him loose, won’t you?” Sydney prodded.

  Nicolas grinned. “For the sake of my own throat, I certainly shall!”

  “When is your first soiree, husband?” Sydney held out her glass for another refill.

  Nicolas obliged. “New Year’s Day, here in St. Louis.”

  Sydney tilted her crystal glass toward him, almost spilling. “To you, husband. May all of Missouri see how wonderfully marvelous you are!”

  “I’ll settle for the majority of St. Louis County!” Nicolas grabbed her hand and sipped from her glass. “Do you like the champagne?”

  “I like you.” Sydney smiled, enjoying the warmth that suffused her. She felt relaxed, happy, and without a care in the world.

  The small appetizer plates were cleared away. Thick steaks arrived, seared on the outside and deep pink on the inside, escorted by slender stalks of asparagus and rotund baked potatoes. Sydney made a valiant attempt, but there was too much food for her. Nicolas’s plate was stripped bare.

  When cups of strong coffee and berry tarts with custard took their turn on the white linen stage, Sydney leaned back and eyed Nicolas suspiciously. He spooned a large mouthful.

  “Are you trying to fatten me up?”

  “If you don’t want to eat it, you needn’t do so.” He took a second bite.

  Sydney lifted one corner of her mouth. “You want my dessert, don’t you?”

  “No!” he protested. “Unless… You’re sure you’re not going to eat it?”

  “Ha!” Sydney drained her champagne, setting the empty glass firmly on the table. “So you admit it!”

  “I admit to nothing!” Nicolas switched their plates, laughing. “I am honorable, honest and…” He paused. “What was the other word Rickard told me to use?”

  Sydney leaned close and gripped his manhood under the tablecloth. “Horny?”

  Nicolas spit tart crumbs across the table.

  Chapter Nine

  December 4, 1821

  St. Louis

  Nicolas Hansen is a rural land-grant owner in the small township of Cheltenham, ten miles southwest of St. Louis. Of Norwegian descent, Mr. Hansen was born in Cheltenham in 1787. He was educated in the eastern states and, unlike his opponent, the Honorable Winston Beckermann, has no previous experience in the political realm.

  Mr. Hansen’s first wife died as a result of childbirth, giving him a son, now eight years of age. He remarried, to a divorcée, in December, 1819. A second child, a daughter, was born to him in January of 1820.

  Skitt. Nicolas folded the December 4th newspaper and laid it on the nightstand. He gripped a tumbler of brandy and downed it, setting the empty glass on the periodical where it left a damp ring.

  And so it began.

  He swung from th
e bed and relieved himself in the chamber pot. Turning down the lamp, he slid back between the hotel’s meticulously starched sheets. Sydney stirred and turned away from him with a soft, humming sigh. He curled around her, his face pressed against her dark, rose-scented hair.

  Nothing that was printed was untrue. And it was all public record, what with the marriage, death, divorce and birth certificates being filed with the county recorder. And there was no way for the columnist to know about his political experiences in Christiania, unless he was directly asked.

  Which he wasn’t.

  That was a problem.

  Did this bode ill for the future of his campaign? Was the Enquirer’s editor—what was his name? VanDoren?—likely to print whatever was given him? Nicolas’s gut clenched; he knew the answer. Whatever sold papers.

  His path became clear to him.

  “If I am to do this thing, I must do it honestly,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath moist in Sydney’s tresses. “God in Heaven, give me strength to face what comes.”

  December 19, 1821

  Cheltenham

  Nicolas threw the covers from him and sat up with a start, heart pounding and filmed with sweat. Sydney was not next to him. He remembered that she was called out to a birth.

  He’d had the strangest dream.

  He was in the yard outside with the mermaid statue he left with Gunnar. The mermaid was lying in the grass and he straddled it. His hands caressed her wooden breasts. Somehow she opened, and he pushed inside of her, thrusting until he climaxed. It was so real.

  ‘Wood’ into wood, he thought. How ironic. He had not had dreams like this since he was a teen. He felt the sheets, palms skimming the smooth cotton in search of his emission. Nothing. They were dry. That was unexpected; his prick tingled like he had peaked.

  The bedroom door opened. In the pale quarter-moon light, Nicolas saw Sydney’s trim figure step into the room. She set her bag on the floor and started to undress.