by Kris Tualla
“But Missouri is a slave state!” another man shouted over the din that statement provoked.
“Yes it is,” Nicolas conceded. “And I will uphold her laws. But—” He waited until the room quieted to continue. “I am not required to like it.”
Chapter Fifteen
January 25, 1822
Cheltenham
Anne opened the front door and eyed the stranger warily.
“Yes, sir?”
“Is the master of the estate to home?” he asked in a clipped English accent.
“Not at the moment. May I help you with something?” She gripped the handle, pulling the edge of the door close to her side.
“Quite! I am, you see, doing research in this particular area of Missouri, concerning the presence of ancient Viking artifacts.” He flashed a toothy grin.
Anne frowned. “Why would there be Viking artifacts in Missouri?”
“Yes! Exactly the question! What a bright young woman you are! So few understand…” He shook his head.
“And how may I help you?” she asked again.
“I understand there are some Viking artifacts on this estate. Have I been misinformed?” his brow wrinkled in consternation.
Anne thought a moment before answering. He appeared harmless enough; thin, dark hair and eyes, soberly dressed, with a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his nose. She determined to call Jeremy as soon as she could break away from—“And who might you be?”
“Sir Thomas Worthington, of Oxford.” He extended a slender hand. “Scholar of the ancient societies of Scandinavia.”
Anne shook his hand briefly. “The only artifact on the estate is around in back. It is a carving from a Viking longship.”
“Oh! Might I see it?” Sir Thomas quivered with excitement.
“I suppose so. Will you excuse me for a moment, first?”
“Of course, my lady! Take all the time you require!” Sir Thomas waved at the chairs on the porch. “I shall make myself comfortable in the meantime. It is a beautiful, brisk January day!”
Anne shut the door and ran through the house to the kitchen. Sarah was hanging laundry near the fire with Kirstie playing on the floor.
“Sarah? Can you fetch Jeremy for me?” Anne lifted Kirstie. “There is a man at the door who wants to see the dragon. I have an odd feeling about him, and would feel so much better if Jeremy escorted him.”
“Yes, of course!” Sarah threw a shirt over the line. She grabbed her cloak from a peg by the back door and swung it around her shoulders. She opened the door and headed toward the stable. Anne sat the two-year-old at the kitchen table and handed her a biscuit.
“Stay here, little girl. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.” Kirstie gripped the biscuit in both hands and nodded at Anne. She took a bite of the pastry.
“Tay here,” she mumbled, mouth full. “Hab milk?”
Anne poured her a half-mug of milk. “Stay right here until I come back,” she said again. Jeremy bounced in the back door, swathed in the winter’s cold. He stomped snow from his boots.
“What is going on?” he demanded. Sarah followed him in.
“A man at the door wants to see the dragon. He’s English by his voice. Says he’s from Oxford,” Anne explained.
“Hm.” Jeremy passed through the kitchen and down the hall. Anne heard the front door open and close. Sarah hung her cloak on its peg.
Soon there were voices in the back yard. Anne put on Sarah’s cloak and stood in the back doorway listening while Sir Thomas asked, and Jeremy answered, questions about the statue. Sarah went back to hanging the laundry. Kirstie hummed happily while she ate her biscuit.
Jaqriel appeared around the corner of the house and handed Anne three chickens for supper. Sir Thomas’s eyebrows rose.
“Does this estate make use of slave labor?” he asked Jeremy.
Jeremy’s glance jumped to Jack. “No.”
The brows crashed over the bridge of his nose. “No? But the Negroes here, are they free?”
“Well, no. Not yet,” Jeremy conceded.
“Yet?” One eyebrow lifted.
“Mister Hansen intends to free them when it is safe to do so.”
“I see.” Sir Thomas turned to Anne, still in the doorway. “And the young woman. She appears to have some blood other than white?”
Jeremy clenched his fists, Anne saw. These questions always upset him. She wished, as always, that he might simply let it go by.
“My wife’s mother was Sauk. Her father was French.” He glared at the visitor.
Sir Thomas stepped back. “I beg your pardon. It was not my intention to disturb you by my humble inquiries. Please accept my deepest apologies.”
Jeremy nodded, his expression grim. “Is there aught else you wish to know?”
“No, sir. My curiosity has been quite satisfied.” Sir Thomas patted the dragon statue. “Magnificent specimen, is it not? Simply magnificent!”
The house was dark when Sydney let herself in the front door. Vincent had been dropped at Mrs. Ansel’s Boarding House and Nicolas was helping Leif with the horses and the carriage.
Sydney made her way to the kitchen by the orange glow of a banked fire. She lit a lantern and put a pot of water on to heat. Tonight’s journey home from Carondelet had chilled them to the marrow.
Poking around, Sydney found the remnants of supper’s stew and set that to heat as well. When the men stomped into the back door, tea was steeping and stew was waiting. She helped them out of their coats and hung them on pegs. Leif yawned widely and slumped on a chair.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he mumbled, shoveling stew into his perpetually growing body.
Nicolas showed a little more reserve, adding milk to his tea before downing the meal.
“This was a very long day. But I believe it to be successful,” he opined.
“I am agreed on both counts.” Sydney dropped into a chair. Having no appetite, she sipped only tea. “I was concerned about my past making things difficult, but it seems we smoothed the way adequately.”
“That we did.” Nicolas nodded toward Leif. The teen was asleep; one hand gripped his spoon in the stew, and his cheek rested in the other. “I don’t recollect I’ve ever seen him choose sleep over food before!”
“Perhaps he’s finally full,” Sydney quipped.
Nicolas snorted, then laughed. Leif’s eyes opened unevenly and he blinked. Straightening, he lifted the bowl to his lips, gulped the remaining stew, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, stood and stumbled from the kitchen without a word.
Nicolas turned to watch him leave. “I know that there are those who walk in their sleep. But I’ve yet to hear of those who eat in their sleep!”
“Until this very moment!” Sydney chuckled.
She rose from the table and set her teacup on the counter. “I am done in, husband. Are you ready for bed?”
Nicolas stood and stretched, his fingertips brushing the ceiling.
“Bed?” he teased. “Or sleep?”
Sydney threw him a look of exaggerated patience.
“Sleep, then,” he said, reaching to massage her shoulders as she walked down the hall in front of him. “This time.”
She flicked her hand back and smacked him in the belly.
January 29, 1822
Vincent arranged for Nicolas to speak in Oakville, where a ball was being thrown in his honor. He had been home only three days and it was time to leave again..
“Have you encountered Winston Beckermann at all?” Sydney asked while she helped Nicolas pack for the overnight expedition. She had begged off accompanying him, claiming too much to do at the estate.
The truth was, she was tired; and keeping her unpredictable nausea hidden from him was too difficult when they traveled.
“No, I have not.” Nicolas rested hands on his hips. “I don’t believe he is candidating in the outlying areas.”
“Why not?” Sydney turned to consider him. “Has Vincent
any ideas?”
“As best we can reckon, Beckermann must believe he doesn’t need the votes of the landowners, so long as he has the city’s population behind him.”
“Is he right?”
Nicolas shrugged. “Rickard saw the census and it seems that more men own land outside the city than inside. But whether or not they’ll make the time to vote remains to be seen, I suppose.”
Sydney sat on the edge of their bed. “How well are you doing in the city? Does anyone know?”
“That depends on who you’re speaking with. But Vincent is planning more time for St. Louis events after I have visited the outlying towns.”
“What’s after Oakville?”
“Wellspring and Elleardsville. I’ll go there after we celebrate my birthday in St. Louis.” Nicolas winced. “Thirty-five! I am growing old.”
Sydney stood and walked to him. She wound her arms around his waist and lifted her lips to his. He accepted her invitation tenderly, thoroughly.
“I like you ‘old’ just fine,” she whispered. “If ‘old’ means you know how to do what you did last night!”
Nicolas grinned at her mention of their lovemaking. He had taken Sydney by surprise, laying a blanket before their fire and pouring two glasses of sherry. He stripped her slowly, daubing her revealed skin with honey, and licking it off. She returned the favor.
It had been such a powerful coupling, that she awoke later wanting more. She roused Nicolas from sleep by stroking him. She ground against him, needing everything he could give. She tried not to cry out at her shattering release, but could not hold it all in.
Collapsing against Nicolas’s broad chest, Sydney fell back to sleep with him still inside her.
“Would you care to give a testimony to the constituents concerning my particular skills?” Nicolas suggested, navy eyes twinkling.
“Women can’t vote,” Sydney reminded him, barely suppressing a smile. “And there is nothing to be gained by making every other man in the county appear lacking by comparison!”
“I suppose not,” Nicolas sighed loudly. “Once again, your wisdom carries the argument.”
January 30, 1822
St. Louis
Hansen a Hypocrite?
Nicolas Hansen has repeatedly named himself an anti-slavery Legislative candidate. Even when confronted with the fact that the great Territory of Missouri entered the Union as a state in which slavery is an established institution, Hansen has spoken out against the practice.
A practice on which many of our finest citizens have built their livelihoods. Livelihoods which generate taxes, jobs, products and opportunities for countless other citizens of our state.
The fact that the Congress of the United States of America has seen fit to support Missouri’s economy in this way does not appear to sway Mr. Hansen’s position.
Why, then, does he, himself, own slaves?
Yes, respected reader, you have read that correctly. Nicolas Hansen owns three slaves: a Negro man, a Negro woman, and a half-Sauk woman, who has married his foreman, a white man.
Odd behavior, is it not, for a man who claims that slavery is unconscionable? Mr. Hansen, does the left side of your mouth know what the right side of your mouth is saying?
February 1, 1822
St. Charles
Rodger sat in the kitchen of a brothel, enjoying the whore’s stories, along with a very fine red wine and a plate of cheeses and smoked meats. He was a little light-headed, suffused with warmth and a tingling deep in his belly.
“Are you sure he’s coming tonight?” he asked one of the women, a buxom brunette with a tiny waist.
“Oh, he’s coming, alright!” she teased. “Probably coming quite often!”
Rodger blushed and gulped the wine.
“Carrie, you are too much!” another girl laughed. “Don’t tease the poor boy. You know how sensitive his kind are!”
“Oh, he’s only one of the girls!” Carrie retorted, smiling.
The door to the dining room swung open and a gangly Negro girl carried a precarious stack of plates toward the wash basin. One dish began to slip, and in her attempt to stop it, she overcorrected. For a moment, all the plates seemed suspended by sheer will. Then they started to fall, flung from her scrambling arms in all directions.
The sound was deafening.
“You stupid child!” Carrie shouted, leaping out of harm’s way. “Look what you’ve done!”
The madam burst through the door, took one look at the pieces of china strewn around the tiled floor, and screamed. She grabbed the trembling, wild-eyed girl by one bony elbow and threw her out the back door. She followed, slamming the door hard enough to shake the window panes.
The inhabitants of the kitchen stared at each other in shocked silence.
“Since she sold Sarah, she hasn’t found good help,” an older redhead offered by way of a quiet explanation.
“Sarah was sold?” Rodger asked. “When?”
“October, it was,” Carrie handed a broom to a younger woman. “Clean that up, will you?” The woman, a curly blond, frowned but did as she was bid.
“Who bought her?” Rodger lifted his feet out of the broom’s way.
“I don’t know his name, but he was quite attractive, as I recall.”
“He wore a hat at night, but I saw him the next morning. Straight blond hair, blue eyes…” the redhead added.
“And big! He was huge!” The brunette pressed her hand between her thighs. “Too bad I couldn’t have him. He asked for dark, but I wasn’t dark enough, if you understand my meaning.”
Rodger’s gut clenched. “Big? Blond? Blue-eyed? And he wanted a Negro girl?”
Carrie nodded. “Sarah had never been made available before, but he was quite insistent. It was her that he wanted. Wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer!”
“Spent the night with her. The whole night.”
“Bought her the next morning.”
The blond sweeping the floor spoke up. “Rode off with her and another slave. A man.”
Rodger’s head spun. Hansen had a female slave named Sarah. And he fit the description of the mysterious customer perfectly. Was it possible? His hand shook as he poured more wine.
“Look at you!” Carrie patted Rodger’s thigh. “Nervous as a schoolgirl.”
“Are you sure he’s coming?” Rodger asked again to divert her attention.
The kitchen door opened. A trim, tightly-muscled gentleman entered. His black hair was short, curling around his ears and over his forehead. Green eyes met Rodger’s brown ones, and the man smiled. Rodger smiled back, his heart pounding.
Hansen was forgotten. For now.
February 2, 1822
St. Louis
Nicolas’s thirty-fifth birthday celebration was in full swing. The ballroom at the Regent’s Inn was filled to bursting with everyone who was of any importance in the county of St. Louis. Rickard and Bronnie were not able to come; little Glynnis was sick and Bronnie would not leave her.
“But Sir Ezra and I are here.” Lily smiled at Nicolas and squeezed his arm. “I do hope you’ll save some dances for me?”
“Um. Yes.” Nicolas turned to greet a prominent grocer and his wife. “Rodney Swithers! Thank you for joining us this evening. And is this beautiful woman your wife? You are a lucky man!”
Sydney watched the skinny, flat-chested woman blush with pleasure at Nicolas’s words. He leaned over and kissed her hand. Nicolas was proving quite adept at politicking, able to connect with both men and women even though, as Sydney regularly mentioned, the women could not vote.
‘But they do influence their men’ was his confident rejoinder.
Out of the corner of her eye, Sydney saw Lily drift away. Always glad to see her leave, Sydney was very sensible that if she went away angry, she would only conjure up more ways to cause trouble. At the moment, she appeared calm.
Vincent was adept at his task, bringing aristocrat after businessman after government appointee to meet Nicolas. Nicolas in turn
made each person feel noticed, appreciated. He thanked everyone for coming, asked something personal about each of them, then encouraged them to enjoy the evening as he handed them off and turned to the next guest.
“Are you a fan of the theater?” a slight man was asking Nicolas. His short-cropped blond hair lay flat against his skull making him appear bald. A striking woman, much younger, held his arm.
“I have not had much opportunity of late, as you might well imagine,” Nicolas demurred. “Have you a recommendation?”
“Well, the Argent is usually reliable. They bring in companies from cities in the east, you see.”
“Why, yes! My wife and I had the opportunity to see The Taming of the Shrew there before we were married.”
The woman stiffened. Something in her demeanor drew Sydney’s attention. Slightly taller than her escort, her blonde hair was pinned back where it bloomed into a froth of curls. But her brows and eyes were dark.
When Nicolas turned to introduce her, she saw in his eyes that he noticed as well.
Sydney extended her hand. “It is my pleasure. Please enjoy your evening.”
Nicolas backed into Leif. “Vokt disse to. Henne spesielt!” Watch these two. Her especially.
Leif bowed and retreated. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Must you stand so close all the time? Jeg tror hun er forkledd.” I believe she is disguised.
“Yes, Sir. You’re correct, sir. I’m sorry.” Leif moved away from the line waiting to speak with Nicolas.
Nicolas returned his attention to his guests. “Forgive the interruption. He’s a cousin, an orphan from Norway. He has so much yet to learn.”
Chapter Sixteen
February 3, 1822
St. Louis
Nicolas Hansen: More Brothel Connections?
