A Matter of Principle

by Kris Tualla

  And in bed, she maintained her enthusiasm. That was a much easier task.

  “I’ve been unwell on and off for a month, now,” she muttered.

  Yet she had no other symptoms. If she was indeed with child, it would not quicken for two more months at the soonest. Perhaps there was some other explanation? She examined her breasts, looking for telltale—and nonexistent—darkening around her nipples.

  “Perhaps it’s only the stress of the campaign. The constant change of location. The quality of food in so many establishments,” she rationalized. “That, and keeping odd hours, and sleeping in lumpy beds. Or perhaps it’s the endless travel over unpaved country roads in closed carriages?”

  She sighed.

  Or perhaps Nicolas is not so damaged after all.

  He would be dining with Lily tonight.

  Sydney held her breath and disappeared under the water.

  Chapter Nineteen

  February 16, 1822

  St. Louis

  When is a Valet So Much More?

  Herbert Q. Percival

  Valet.

  The very word, as it rolls softly off the tongue, conjures the exact response the word insinuates. Comfort. Service. Needs anticipated, and then met. An experienced touch. A steady hand. Baths drawn, clean clothes at the ready, hair combed, plaited, powdered or wigged.

  Valet.

  Most men hire their valets already trained. Usually raised in houses of elegance, these servants grow up under the tutelage of a father or uncle until sufficiently skilled. Then they are employed by gentlemen who appreciate their multiple talents.

  Or, you might bring a bastard cousin ~ a child really ~ from a distant country and ensconce him in your private apartment.

  Why would a gentleman of means make such a choice?

  How sensible is it to try to train such a boy? Risk your coats not adequately cleaned, emitting a vaguely offensive odor as you greet men of power? Risk your boots looking poor, shabby for want of a decent shine, when you attempt to convince others of your fiscal responsibility? Decry the institution of slavery, and yet risk your very life’s blood with an unsure shave?

  Yes, readers, we are speaking of that Nordic god, Mr. Nicolas Hansen.

  Apparently, Mr. Hansen continues to operate above the level of mere human. His ‘valet’ is a thirteen-year-old from Norway, a cousin Hansen claims, and he risks all of the above, and probably much more, to keep the young man by his side.

  Close by his side.

  In fact, the youth now attends affairs with Hansen, hovering at his elbow, until even Hansen’s tolerance reaches its limit and he orders the boy away. But he always returns before the evening is over, and they leave together.

  Always, together.

  February 16, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Nicolas stood in his study and pulled his bow across the strings of his Hardanger fiddle, loosing a roomful of quick, strident tones. Music burst from the instrument and bounced off the walls in energetic, staccato notes.

  He played the fiddle hard and sought to release his anger through the sound. When he read the article suggesting that he—well, it made him want to vomit.

  “Gud forbanner det all til helvete!” he had shouted, and threw the newspaper toward the hearth. It unfolded and fluttered all over the floor of his study, a flock of printed sheets. “Skitt!”

  That was when he got out the Hardanger.

  So many times over the years he sought solace in its soothing vibrations. The music he made seemed to express his feelings more easily than any words he could string together.

  But this was beyond his tolerance. The insinuations about him and Leif needed to be addressed. Unrelieved, he encased the abused fiddle.

  “But how to do so, without making it seem as though I ‘protest too much’?” Nicolas muttered, and kicked the newspaper pages. They rode his boot into the air, then drifted down, unconcerned.

  He marched into the hallway. “Sydney?” he called.

  A moment later, her head appeared at the top of the stairs, through their bedroom door. “Yes?”

  “Have you time to discuss something with me?”

  She nodded. “I shall be right there.”

  Vincent opened the front door and spied Nicolas. “Oh, good! I need to speak with you!”

  “About Percival’s latest filth, I’ll wager?”

  Vincent slumped. “Now what?”

  Nicolas dug through the loose sheets on the rug until he found the article. Vincent’s countenance displayed an impressive array of crimsons and scarlets as he read Percival’s words.

  “Good God!” he blustered.

  “Trust me, Vincent. Our ‘good God’ has no part of this!” Nicolas retorted.

  The front door opened again. This time, it was Leif. He stopped when faced with the two angry men. “Have I done something wrong?”

  Nicolas waved the teen in. “Not you, Leif. But you may as well join us. It does involve you.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Leif shut the door carefully, so as not to prompt additional undefined displeasure.

  “What involves him?” Sydney descended the stairs.

  Vincent handed Sydney the paper.

  “Oh dear,” she groaned when she read it.

  “Can I read it?” Leif asked.

  “You mean to say ‘may” I read it,” Sydney corrected. She looked to Nicolas, who nodded his assent. She pointed out the article to the boy.

  As he read, Leif frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “According to the ideas put forth by this Percival character, I make use of you for more than valeting,” Nicolas explained.

  “Use of me?” Leif looked to Vincent and back. “How do you make use of me?”

  “The point is I do not make use of you, Leif, as anything more than my valet,” Nicolas began. “And this man is suggesting that, uh, I use you in such a way… Well, like a man uses a woman.”

  Shock followed by incredulity followed by amusement passed over Leif’s face.

  “How a man uses a woman?” He bit his lip and affected a confused expression. “Perhaps if I had been allowed to go with Miz Rosie, I might understand this ‘use’ you speak of.”

  A laugh burst from Nicolas that threatened every eardrum within reach. He sat on the stairs, roaring and slapping his knees

  “Leif!” Sydney giggled uncontrollably. “Really!”

  “He’s got you there, Nicolas!” Vincent began to laugh.

  Leif grinned. “I expressed it! Now might I experience it?”

  “No!” the three adults answered in hilarious unison.

  

  When the levity passed and normalcy was restored, the consensus among the group was that nothing Nicolas said about the accusation would accomplish anything except to worsen the situation. Vincent reminded Nicolas of the reason for his visit: to prepare for a debate, set to take place in St. Louis, five days hence.

  “I suppose we should get to work, then,” Nicolas agreed.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Leif?”

  “I had an idea. About Mister Percival.”

  “Go on.”

  “I believe he gets some of his information from a woman.”

  Nicolas sat back in his chair. “What makes you think so?”

  “The men you bid me watch? They go off with women, as you know.”

  “Different women? Or the same woman?” Nicolas asked.

  Leif thought a minute, tapping his chin like Nicolas often did. “They look different. Hair is different, dresses are different. But always the same size women. And with big feet.”

  “What?” Nicolas chuckled.

  “I stand by the stairs, you see? I notice their shoes. Big feet.”

  Nicolas grew serious. “Do you think it could always be the same woman?”

  Leif narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps. They always do the same thing.”

  “What thing is that, Leif?” Vincent asked.

  “Leave. Perhaps a quarter hour after they go
to the room, the woman leaves.”

  “A quarter hour?” Nicolas cleared his throat. “That’s hardly long enough for—yes.”

  “I would not know of that.” Leif raised one brow in imitation of Nicolas. “Sir.”

  Nicolas smiled and shook his head. “Thank you Leif. I believe that to be very important information. I commend your attention to details.”

  “Thank you, sir. And if I might—”

  “No.”

  Leif twisted his face in disgust, whirled, and left the study. The front door crashed closed in cheeky adolescent punctuation.

  February 21, 1822

  St. Louis

  “What does Sam Stafford look like?” Leif asked as he brushed Nicolas’s skirted dinner coat.

  “Black hair, long. Darker skin, but not too dark. Average height. I’ll point him out.” Nicolas wiped the last of bits of shaving soap from his cheeks.

  “Yes, Sir. Same as always?”

  “If your toes can still withstand my boot.” Nicolas winked at Leif.

  The boy smiled. “Yes, Sir.”

  Nicolas closed the bedroom door. He lowered his voice. “And I want you to watch Vincent.”

  Leif’s eyes jumped to the solid door that now hid the secretary from sight. “Vincent? Why?”

  “In case someone is trying to get to me through him.” Nicolas straightened his arms.

  “Oh?” Leif held the coat for him. “Oh!”

  “Yes. There may be a lovely young woman—or an older one for that matter—who asks questions which seem unimportant at the time, but the answers reveal more than is intended.” Nicolas shrugged the coat onto his shoulders.

  “And you want me to write down who that is?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Leif retrieved his own coat from a nearby chair. He checked the pocket for paper and pencil.

  Nicolas opened the bedroom door. “Are you ready, Vincent?”

  Vincent looked up from the paper Sydney was writing. “In a minute.”

  “What have you there?” Nicolas crossed the room.

  Sydney did not look up from her task. “Ideas that Vincent and I were discussing. For the debate.”

  “What sort of ideas?”

  Sydney did look up then. “Ideas concerning western expansion. And William Becknell’s Santa Fe Trail.”

  “Interesting.” Nicolas tapped his chin. “Very interesting. And Beckermann’s never mentioned it.”

  Sydney smiled softly and turned back to her desk.

  Nicolas rested his hands on Sydney’s shoulders. “Do you still plan to attend tonight, min presang?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?” She looked up at him.

  “You did not finish your midday meal, and you looked a bit pale.” Nicolas stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “You might stay behind, if you wish.”

  Sydney shook her head. “It’s only that I’ve grown weary of eating at inns and taverns. And staying in a hotel tires me. I do hope we find another apartment soon.”

  “I have been examining several properties,” Vincent interjected. “I expect to let one by the end of the week.”

  “And we’ll return to Cheltenham tomorrow,” Nicolas added.

  “I do look forward to going home.” Sydney pushed her chair back from the desk. “Shall we?”

  

  When the debate ended and Sam Stafford put on his greatcoat Leif paused, unsure whether he should follow. There was still Vincent to keep an eye on, and that woman he was talking with. Time to make his decision was passing; he needed to leave now, or stay.

  Leif buttoned his dark overcoat and hurried out the rear door. He circled around the building and glimpsed Stafford’s back as he moved down the walk. Leif followed, remaining a block behind his prey. He was afraid he lost him when Stafford ducked down an alley, but the man reappeared three buildings farther down the street. Stafford crossed the street and came back in Leif’s direction.

  He’s afraid he’s being followed, Leif realized, freezing like a startled deer. He held his breath so the steam of it would not betray him.

  Stafford ran up the steps of a residence and went inside. Leif let out his breath, crossed the road, and climbed those same steps. Through the leaded window in the massive door, he saw a hall and a staircase. At the top of the stairs, Stafford was unlocking a door which he pushed open and disappeared through.

  Leif tried the outer door; it opened easily. He slipped inside. He looked around the stairs for a place to hide, but found none.

  I don’t dare go upstairs, he thought. Perhaps I might hide in plain sight. With that consideration, he removed his overcoat and curled in a corner of the hallway. He tugged his hat low and used his coat as a blanket, feigning a street urchin seeking a warm place to bed down for the night. He heaved a deep sigh, and waited.

  He wasn’t required to wait long. Even before his legs cramped, a well-dressed young man shoved through the front door. With a brief glance of disdain toward the heap on the floor, the man took the stairs two at a time. One knock on Stafford’s door prompted that man to open and usher in the dandy. The lock clicked after him.

  Leif counted to one hundred five times. Then he stretched and stood. Donning his coat, he crept up the stairs. He lay on the floor and pressed his ear to the crack at the bottom of Stafford’s door.

  His breath caught, heart pounding. Leif wanted to—needed to—run from what he believed he heard.

  No. Be certain. He held his breath again, not to escape detection but to allow determination. There was no mistaking it now. Bile rose in his gullet as Leif pushed away from the door. Gripping the rail so tightly his knuckles blanched, he stumbled silently down the steps and into the cold night.

  Leif gulped deep lungfuls of icy air, but to no avail. He vomited behind a bush.

  

  After the debate Nicolas was jubilant, bouncing around the suddenly-too-small hotel suite. He would not stand still, downing mugs of cool ale and stuffing venison pastries into his mouth between expostulations. The windows were uncovered, framing a half-moon pushing past silvery tendrils in the black sky.

  “Did you see the way I answered that question about schools? When I said I was a founding member of the school board in Cheltenham? I thought Winston’s eyes would fall out of his face!” Nicolas’s own sapphire eyes sparkled and his arms swung in wide arcs.

  Sydney slid the pitcher of ale out of harm’s way. “Yes, I did.”

  “And when he tried to justify limiting hunters’ rights? Suggesting that pelt-producing animals should be raised by farmers? Farmers! Å min Gud!”

  “He wasn’t ready for your response,” Sydney agreed.

  “He sure as helvete wasn’t!” Nicolas gestured with a pastry, dropping flakes of crust on the rug. “How in God’s name is one to raise a family of beavers? Or foxes?”

  “Or wolves?” Vincent added.

  “Precisely my point!” Nicolas drained his mug and plunked in on the sideboard. “Can you imagine explaining to the owner of the sheep farm next to yours that you plan to raise wolves? Not to mention how our farming and hunting affect relations with our Indian neighbors!”

  “And when you talked about your semiannual hunting trips, and how their chief welcomed you—well, I’ve never seen such a stroke of brilliance!” Vincent effused. “Absolutely magnificent!”

  Nicolas stood momentarily still. “That was rather good, wasn’t it?”

  “For a pace I was afraid Mister Beckermann might turn apoplectic!” Sydney laughed.

  Nicolas poured a fresh tankard of ale for Vincent, then himself. “I must say, however, that the most magnificent stroke of brilliance this evening came from Sydney.”

  “Me?” Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “Indeed! Had you not thought to bring up the Santa Fe Trail, the night may have been a loss, what with Beckermann drowning me with the river trade.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Sydney demurred.

  “I don’t,” Vincent said. “Beckermann has rich and po
werful friends here in St. Louis. He obviously planned to win the night by displaying that!”

  “That he does, and that he did!” Nicolas thrust his mug toward Vincent. “And it nearly worked!”

  “I’ve said this before, Nicolas. Beckermann doesn’t see beyond the city’s boundaries!” Vincent’s face was flushed with ale and victory. “But there are plenty of landowners—voters— in the outlying towns!”

  Leif slipped in the door and dropped his coat over a chair. He grabbed the last three venison pastries while Sydney poured him a mug of ale.

  “The United States of America is an unformed country, as yet,” Nicolas stated, suddenly subdued. “She will continue to grow toward the west and south. As Missourians, we need to take hold of our special part in that expansion. We should be proud of our contribution.”

  Vincent lifted his ale in toast. “To the Santa Fe Trail!”

  “To showing Beckerman what a ‘country bumpkin’ is truly made of!” Sydney added.

  “To winning the election!” Leif squeaked.

  Nicolas turned in surprise to face the boy. “You’re back!” He grinned at the earnest youth and looked over the sideboard. “Where did all the venison pies get off to?”

  

  Nicolas helped Sydney undress, his hands never leaving her. “Min presang, I am embarrassed to confess it, but I’m so aroused by this night.”

  “There is no mistaking that, husband.” Sydney turned around; his fingertips on her skin raised gooseflesh. “You’re hard as bone.”

  “What an experience!” Nicolas brushed her forehead with his lips. “It’s intoxicating.”

  “Might it be the ale?” Sydney teased. She gripped his hips, anticipation building.

  Nicolas tangled his hand in her hair, pulling it loose, pins raining to the floor. “I’m not so very drunk, wife.”