by Kris Tualla
“Which are not so common on this road.”
“That’s true,” Sydney conceded. “Do you believe we were set upon intentionally?”
“It’s the only explanation that is sensible.”
He heard Sydney draw a deep breath. “Beckermann?”
“Perhaps…” Nicolas didn’t wish to concern Sydney more than was necessary. “If he felt that the fire was not effective in dissuading me. Assuming, of course, that was his doing as well.”
“The debate yesterday night! You were very strong, Nicolas. Your points were clear and well received.”
“I suppose…”
“But if it was Beckermann, he certainly sent them far afield to accomplish the task. We are nearly to Cheltenham!”
“But our departure was delayed,” Nicolas pointed out. “If they went looking for us, they might have traveled all the way to Cheltenham and then turned back.” He quieted, pondering the ramifications of the attack and wondering—again—if this whole endeavor was worth the risk.
“Yes,” Sydney said.
Nicolas frowned. “Did I speak aloud?”
“No. But I am sensible of the way your mind works.” She reached for his hand, fumbling in the dark carriage. When she found it, she raised it to her lips. They were warm and soft, and left a moist, cooling spot on his knuckles after she kissed them. He thought of the previous night and how her skin looked in the lamplight; smooth and rosy, inviting his touch.
“You may not quit.”
Her words dragged him back into the cold, jostling carriage.
“No, min presang,” he concurred. “I shall not.”
Chapter Twenty One
February 24, 1822
Cheltenham
Sydney felt a tingling up the nape of her neck. Head bowed in prayer, she glanced left, then right. In the opposite pew, Berta O’Shea stared at her, lips pressed to a line. Berta lifted the large pewter crucifix that hung around her neck and kissed it, then touched it to her head, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder. Her lips formed the word ‘witch.’
Sydney looked down at the floor, shaking with indignation. Berta was a Papist as was Sydney; but unlike Sydney she never attended the Lutheran service. It was obvious that the only reason she was here today was to taunt Sydney.
“I’ll not dignify her with a word,” Sydney whispered.
“What?” Nicolas leaned close, lowering his head.
If she looked at him, Berta would see her face. She dare not risk letting Berta see how much that accusation upset her. “After church,” she answered. She spun her garnet wedding ring around and around her finger.
Stefan squinted up at her with one open eye. “Are you talking while you pray?”
“Praying is talking, Stefan. It’s talking to God.” Sydney closed her eyes. When the service ended, Sydney sought refuge in Pastor Fritz Mueller’s warm greeting.
“Sydney! It’s so good to see you this day.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Father.”
By now, Pastor Mueller was accustomed to the misnomer. Since she suddenly appeared in Cheltenham almost three years earlier, Sydney worshipped here. It made sense; this was the church Nicolas attended. Catholic by faith, she had asked the Lutheran minister to hear her confessions and pray for her forgiveness. Together they reached a spiritual understanding that satisfied them both. And Fritz Mueller had helped her through impossible situations before.
“Are you well, Sydney?”
Sydney startled. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but you look a bit pale.”
Sydney forced herself to stay calm. “Things have been—difficult—with the campaign.”
“Oh?”
She shook her head. “I was not prepared for the enemies. Or the threats.”
Pastor Mueller took her elbow. “Shall we have one of our lunches, Sydney?”
Sydney looked over her shoulder at Nicolas. He spoke earnestly with Rickard, probably about the highwaymen. She faced the cleric. “Might we, Father? I have much to ask your advice on, and much I need your prayers for.”
“Of course, my dear.” Fritz nodded his grayed head. He brushed back the few strands that remained faithful to his scalp.
Berta O’Shea stood in the back of the schoolroom which, every other Sunday, was converted to a church. Sydney ignored her, refusing to look in her direction, though she could see her from the corner of her eye. She slipped her hand into Nicolas’s.
He smiled down at her. “Don’t tell me. You wish to lunch with the pastor.”
“Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” Nicolas squeezed her hand. “I never do.”
“Jeg elsker De,” she whispered. I love you.
“Jeg elsker De også,” he replied.
Sydney needed to walk past Berta to leave the building. She lifted her chin and walked with determined steps toward the door.
Berta blocked her way.
“May I help you, Mistress O’Shea?” Sydney asked as politely as she could manage.
Several women Sydney did not recognize crowded around the older midwife. “I’m surprised to see you here, Mistress Hansen,” she replied.
“Is that so? Why, might I ask?”
“I was told you were a Papist.” Berta clasped her crucifix. “Or have you left the true church?”
Conversations nearby quieted and eyes darted in their direction.
“My faith remains unchanged.” Sydney would not give the woman more than that.
Berta looked to Pastor Mueller. “He’s not a priest.”
Sydney stared silently at the woman. She sensed Nicolas moving to her side.
“A priest of the true church would know what you are!” Berta accused.
“What am I, Berta?” Sydney challenged.
Berta’s eyes narrowed. “You know, and well, what you are! You are a practicer of witchcraft.” A murmur passed through the remaining parishioners then dissipated.
Sydney shook her head. “That is absurd. What proof have you?”
“Your own words, madam! You told Sally Renfrew that you were a faerie! Her own father told me all about it!” Berta looked around for support. Those near her nodded.
“Is that all?” Sydney flipped her hand. “And if I say I am a rabbit, will I suddenly grow fur?”
Someone snickered.
Berta’s face suffused red. “And you caused Karlie Renfrew to birth in silence! No woman births in silence!” Another murmur rippled through the room. No one moved to leave.
Sydney folded her arms. “I took communion today. Did you see me?”
Berta’s women glanced at each other, uncertain. Berta jutted her chin, lips pressed to a colorless line.
“I was not burned by the Host,” Sydney continued. “Nor was I choked by the Blood. Would you not expect those things to happen to a witch?”
“This is not a Catholic communion! It’s a heretical communion!” Berta shouted.
Several throats were cleared and another—less curious and more angry—murmur snaked through the small crowd. Nicolas stepped behind Sydney.
“I seriously doubt, Madam O’Shea,” he began, “that the good people who worship God in this church would consider their sacrament of communion as heretical.”
“It’s not Catholic!” Berta insisted.
“No,” Nicolas conceded. “It’s not Catholic. But it is, without any doubt, Christian.”
Pastor Mueller had held back, listening. Now he stepped forward. “Mistress O’Shea, let me assure you that you and your family are welcome to attend our services at any time. I would hope that you might find the sort of spiritual guidance here that you require.”
Berta O’Shea looked down her nose at the cleric, but did not speak.
“And in that light,” he continued, “I respectfully ask that you cease condemning Mistress Hansen for crimes that this dear woman is incapable of committing.”
Berta snorted her disdain. “And how might you be so sure of that?”
&nbs
p; The pastor’s voice took on a hard edge. “I have been her confessor these three years. I believe I understand her spiritual state better than any man alive.”
Berta’s surprise at his words washed all the blood from her face. “Her confessor?”
With an offer that could only come from the Holy Spirit Himself, Pastor Mueller smiled at Berta O’Shea. “And I would be glad to serve as yours as well, madam, in the absence of a priest’s presence in this vicinity.”
Berta stepped back as if struck. She gazed at the faces surrounding her. None of them showed her any sympathy. Many were outright hostile. Without another comment, she turned around and marched out the door. Her gaggle of supporters followed.
Sydney faced Fritz Mueller. “Thank you, Father.”
“It was truly my pleasure, Sydney.”
Nicolas squeezed her elbow. “I’ll drive the boys home and return for you, as usual.”
A quarter of an hour later, Sydney crossed the street to Mrs. Ansel’s, gripping Fritz Mueller’s arm, and telling him everything that had transpired: the fire, the highwaymen, and the rumors of witchcraft of which he was now quite aware. Fritz had read many of the accusatory articles about Nicolas, and they discussed those as well.
“As I see it, Sydney, you have three very distinct adversaries: the newspaperman, this Herbert Q. Percival fellow; Nicolas’s opponent, Winston Beckermann; and Berta O’Shea. Does that sum it up?”
“Yes, Father. That is what we believe.”
“Very well. I shall ask God’s protection on you. Now, what else is there that eats at you?” Fritz was very kind, but very direct.
Sydney felt her face grow warm. “Father?”
“Sydney, after all this time, I find it hard to believe you would hold aught back.”
With a deep sigh of resolve, Sydney nodded. “I believe I might be with child again.”
“Oh! How wonder—Oh, dear.”
Sydney had to laugh at the older man’s response. He knew all about the discord her first pregnancy with Nicolas had caused.
“I must assume you have not mentioned it to Mr. Hansen?” Fritz’s eyebrows raised so high, they would have disappeared if he had a hairline.
“Not yet. You see, I am not completely certain.”
“Well…”
“And with the campaign, and all else that has transpired, I thought it best not to distract him,” Sydney rationalized. “At least until I know without a doubt.”
Fritz sighed and shook his head. “Sydney, you are not an easy woman to advise.”
“I know.”
“Your life continues to bring the most unusual challenges.” One corner of Fritz’s mouth lifted. “God must have a great amount of faith in you.”
Sydney smiled wanly. “Father, might you please ask Him to have just a little less?”
February 28, 1822
St. Louis
Candidate Hansen Accosted on Road to Cheltenham
Legislative Candidate Nicolas Hansen, along with his wife, secretary and valet, were accosted by two apparent thieves on Friday last as they traveled from St. Louis to Hansen’s estate in Cheltenham. The attack took place at dusk, approximately two miles north of that town. Though the assumed motive was robbery, before any goods were purloined Hansen was able to prevail, killing one man with a hunting knife to the chest. The second villain was shot in the abdomen, though who pulled that trigger is unclear.
Sheriff Nathan Busby of Cheltenham assures this reporter that such attacks are seldom heard of, and citizens need not be fearful of passing along that road in the future.
March 4, 1822
St. Louis
Who Pulled That Trigger?
Herbert Q. Percival
By now, if you are following the Legislative race for St. Louis County, you have heard quite a bit of controversy regarding Nicolas Hansen of Cheltenham. The latest escapade in Mr. Hansen’s diverse adventures involves an attack by highwaymen outside his hometown of Cheltenham. In this alleged attack, two men were killed in cold blood. Hansen claims to have acted in defense of himself, and in protection of his traveling companions. He admits to stabbing one man in the chest, but the report claims that who shot the second man is unclear.
Who is Hansen protecting?
And why?
Let us investigate the options. The first consideration is his secretary, a slight, soft man, unmarried and unattached. The idea that he might shoot any gun is a stretch of the most vivid imagination.
Second is his valet, a boy of thirteen who has been the subject of a previous article and much speculation. A highly unlikely suspect at best.
That leaves Hansen’s wife, Siobhan Sydney Hansen. Might she have done the deed? Those who have met her find her to be strong and willful. She is unconventional, choosing to ride astride rather than adopt the more acceptable and lady-like sidesaddle. She has taken up midwifery and practices it in quite an unusual manner. She has been called, by some, a witch.
She cast her spell over Mr. Hansen, did she not?
But if it was not her (and it may well have been) why would Mr. Hansen not care to admit that it was he?
Could it be that his accumulation of dead opponents is growing rather alarmingly? By his own mouth, he admits that he killed a man whom he claims attempted extortion concerning a nonexistent broken engagement to Mrs. Hansen. The man had no chance to mitigate the possibly misunderstood situation before his life was cruelly ended in Hansen’s own dining room.
And now, two more men have died on a highway eight miles from St. Louis, with no witnesses, save his own contingent.
Mr. Hansen, what else are you hiding?
It appears you have fresh blood all over your very large hands.
March 6, 1822
Cheltenham
Sydney sat on a log and watched Kirstie pick up half-rotted pinecones. The two-year-old examined each one, searching for exactly what was unclear, then threw them in random directions. She smacked her hands together to knock off clinging bits of the forest’s detritus and continued her quest, taking big steps and lifting the hem of her blue chambray dress out of her way. Lozenges of sunlight fell through budding tree branches and glinted golden on her shoulders and light brown curls.
Today was the first day this year to signify that winter was not a permanent condition. The sky was a flawless blue, and the sun coaxed the ground to soften. Sydney breathed in the mingled tang of decaying wood, pine sap and new growth.
Nicolas would have easy travel today. He had gone south to Luxemburg and Jefferson Barracks, two small towns south of Carondelet. It was a full day’s hard ride in each direction, so Sydney had stayed home. He expected to be gone four days.
His absence only exacerbated her sleeplessness.
When she climbed into bed and closed her eyes, images replayed in her mind. Ever since they were attacked on the road and Sydney shot the man dead, she experienced it over and over: the flash of gunpowder, the malice in his expression, the stench of death. And her terror that Nicolas had been hit.
“Kirstie, come into the sun,” Sydney called. Nicolas was not hit. She did the right thing.
“Why?” the girl asked, considering her mother with wide blue-gray eyes.
“It’s warmer.”
She shook her head, her ringlets dancing. “No.”
Sydney smiled at the stubborn child, so much her father. “Shall we go see if any baby lambs are born?”
That suggestion apparently held some weight. Kirstie skipped toward her mother. “Yes go see baby lambs!”
Sydney took her hand and they walked purposely across the spacious yard toward the keep. Sydney realized that sheep shearing would start again in a few weeks. Nicolas was shearing sheep on the day they first spoke.
On the one hand, it was hard to believe that almost three years had gone by since she first came to this estate and met Nicolas Reidar Hansen. But on the other, it seemed much longer. Certainly all that happened between her and him must have required more than a mere—what?—thirty-
five months?
“Time is an odd master, Kirstie,” Sydney mused aloud. “I wonder what the next year will bring?”
“Baby lambs!” Kirstie answered, not understanding the question, but confident she was correct, nonetheless.
“Baby. Lambs,” Sydney repeated. She pressed her palm against her still flat belly.
Chapter Twenty Two
March 15, 1822
St. Louis
There were two small cakes on the table, one for Sydney and one for Leif. Today was Sydney’s thirty-third birthday. The exact date of Leif’s birthday was not known, only that it was in March, so tonight they celebrated together. He was officially fourteen.
“Can I have some of each?” Stefan asked. He had been allowed to come to St. Louis this time because of Leif’s birthday. That, and Nicolas wanted his son to see some of the campaign.
“If he has some of each, I believe I shall as well!” Rosie laughed.
The proprietor of the tavern across from their new apartment collected dirty supper dishes while his wife set out smaller cake plates.
“I hope you like them,” she fretted. “I hope there is enough!”
“They look delicious, Martha!” Sydney assured her. “And if two cakes don’t feed this hoard, the fault certainly does not lie with the cakes!”
Nicolas laughed, his deep chuckles filling the room. “What are you trying ever so delicately to say, wife?”
Sydney patted his growing belly. “Why, nothing, husband.”
Nicolas laughed again, red-faced this time.
“Can I give Leif my present now?” Stefan wiggled in his seat.
“You got me a present?” Leif considered the younger boy. “How?”
“Well, he did have help,” Nicolas confessed. “Vincent?”
Vincent nodded and stepped from the tavern. He returned a few minutes later with a rectangular box, which he set in front of the puzzled teen.
