by Kris Tualla
But Hansen never said it. He merely offered the information, and left. At the end of the day, Rodger wondered, what sort of man was he?
Sleep eluded Rodger that night. Frustrated, he dressed and headed for the Enquirer. He let himself in and stood in the darkened office, inhaling the soothing scents of paper, ink, and tobacco.
By the yellow gaslight seeping through grimy windows, Rodger made his way to a wood bench against the back wall, behind the neat rows of desks. He stretched out on it, clasped his hands across his chest, and began to craft his thoughts into coherent sentences.
The thunk of the front door jolted him awake. Instinct warned him not to move. He breathed deeply through his mouth and tried to slow his racing heart. Boot heels scraped across the planked floor.
“Lift it higher, will you?”
That’s Van Doren’s voice.
Lamplight danced against the wall above Rodger. He heard the soft whir and click of the safe’s lock. A screech of metal signaled its opening.
“Here’s your hundred. Count it if you want.” Van Doren.
“I’m going to need more than that.” I don't recognize that voice.
“We had a deal.”
“Setting the fire was one thing. But he killed two of my men.”
“Your men were fools. I can’t help that.”
There was a pause.
“Either you pay me, or I talk. You thought those other things sold papers? Nothing like letting on that the Enquirer editor wanted a candidate frightened out of the race!”
Another pause.
“Here’s a hundred for the men, and a hundred more to ensure that I never hear from you—nor lay eyes on you—again!”
A dry chuckle.
The safe door squealed and clanked closed.
Rodger held still while the men left the building. He counted to two hundred before he dared to sit up. His thoughts twisted like laundry in high wind with the second astounding shock of the night.
What do I do now?
April 10, 1822
Cheltenham
Lily slumped on the settle in the Atherton drawing room and stretched her legs in front of her. The child strained constantly, pinned between her corset and her bladder. She was so tired of going to the privy.
Bronnie entered the room, Glynnis on her hip. “Oh! Good morning, Lily. I didn’t realize you were up.”
“How can I sleep? Between the chamber pot and the child’s acrobatics?” she groused.
Bronnie smiled politely and spread a blanket on the floor. Glynnis was six months old and about to crawl. Bronnie placed her on the blanket and pulled a rattle from a nearby basket. With a drooly grin, Glynnis reached for it and promptly began to bang it on the floor.
“There’s my darling,” Bronnie cooed. She sat on the floor by her daughter and collected her crocheting from another basket.
Lily watched the interaction with detached interest. This thing growing inside her was more important for the role it played in her life than it could be for its own sake. All she needed to do was produce an heir for Sir Ezra. Then she would be free to enjoy her life.
“So the babe moves often?” Bronnie asked, eyes on her yarn and hook.
“It gives me no peace,” Lily complained.
“That’s good news. It means the child is strong,” Bronnie commended. “Have you chosen names, yet?”
“Names?” The thought startled Lily. She had not thought of names because she had not thought beyond the birth.
“Yes, of course!” Bronnie laughed. “I spent hours trying out different combinations, if it was a boy or if it was a girl.”
“How sweet.”
“I imagine you would consider the father’s name, if only for a second name.”
Lily resisted a sneer. She had no idea who fathered this creature. Of course, if asked she would insist it was Nicolas. But truly, she had enjoyed many men. And planned to again, the minute her body returned to normal.
“Ezra would make a better second name than it does a first,” she replied. “But Nicolas is a fine first name.”
Bronnie’s lips pressed to a line and she kept her eyes on her crocheting. Glynnis waved the rattle and made nonsense sounds. A thought occurred to Lily that she had not previously considered.
“What does birthing feel like?” she blurted.
Bronnie’s brows lifted and her eyes rolled. “It’s hard work. And it hurts.”
“It hurts a lot?”
“Yes.”
“Is there nothing for the pain?” Lily demanded.
Bronnie shrugged. “What could there be, but laudanum?”
“And why not?”
“Because a woman must have her senses about her!” Bronnie said it as though Lily was an idiot.
Lily resented that. “Don’t speak to me so!” she snipped.
Bronnie drew a deep breath. “Forgive me, Lily. I forget this is new to you. But a woman must be aware. She needs to be able to control her breathing and relax.”
“Relax? During birth?” Lily was incredulous. “That is ridiculous.”
“No, Lily, it isn’t. Sydney showed me.”
“Do not mention that name around me!” Lily cried. “She bewitched Nicolas, lied to him about her child, and stole him from me!”
Bronnie sat back. She stared at Lily, eyes wide under a lowered brow.
“What?” Lily demanded.
Bronnie’s hands dropped to her lap. Her eyes were kinder than Lily knew they deserved to be. “When your time comes, if you are still here, then I urge you to listen to what Sydney tells you. She knows birthing well.”
Lily shook her head. “If I am still here, I shall use the other midwife.”
“Berta O’Shea?”
“What’s wrong with that?” Lily challenged.
“Your own sister died at her hand!” Bronnie exclaimed.
Lily lifted her chin. “I’ll not have that other near me! I swear it! That witch must not be summoned, do you hear me?”
“I hear you, Lily. But I doubt Rickard will comply,” Bronnie warned.
Lily glared at her sister-in-law. “He has no say. This is my decision.”
“If you say so,” Bronnie whispered. She turned to her daughter, now on all fours and rocking back and forth.
Glynnis waved one hand in front of her and fell forward onto it. One knee followed reflexively. Expression intent, the little girl moved hand, knee, hand, knee, and crossed the blanket. Bronnie swept her up into a joyful embrace.
“That’s my good girl! You crawled!” Bronnie set her down again and encouraged her to crawl across the blanket again. “Come to Mommy, Glynnis!” She wiggled her fingers enticingly.
Lily watched the scene repeat again and again, bored silly.
“I shall have a mammy in North Carolina,” she stated. “I shan’t have to care for the child.”
A crooked smile shaped Bronnie’s countenance. “That’s a shame.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Bronnie lifted Glynnis and gazed at her. Lily felt like a scolded child but could not, for the life of her, figure out why. “Maybe it’s not such a shame,” Bronnie said after a pace. She climbed to her feet. “I’m going to change her diaper.”
Bronnie left the drawing room, nuzzling her daughter and causing her to giggle.
Lily slid her thumb under her corset and shoved a foot out of the way. “Leave me be, you annoying varmint!”
Then she pushed to her feet and headed out to the privy.
Chapter Twenty Nine
April 19, 1822
Kirkwood, Missouri
Nicolas swung into Fyrste’s saddle and breathed deeply. The morning air held the suggestion of rain, and heavy-bottomed clouds played tag in the pale blue sky. He didn’t care; today, they were going home. The stallion pranced, sensing his eagerness.
“Men? Are you ready?” he called, trying to hide his impatience with a grin.
Leif pulled himself onto Rusten’s back, a
nd nodded. He turned to check his satchel behind the saddle.
Vincent climbed unenthusiastically onto the bay gelding. “Remind me to never suggest this mode of transportation again!” he groused. “If I never mount another steed in the next decade, I shall live a happy man.”
Nicolas laughed. “Well, it shortened the journey not to have a carriage to deal with!” he reminded the secretary. “The roads out here are uncertain on the best days.”
“True enough.” Vincent settled in front of his satchel. “All right. Let’s to home!”
The trio set out, heading east into the rising sun, following a road that would be merely a muddy creek if they tried it in rain. Nicolas saw Leif smiling.
“Are you glad to be on our way home?” he asked the lad.
Leif blushed crimson. “Yes, Sir.”
“But I’ll wager that is not the reason for your good mood, is it?” Nicolas had seen him conversing with the innkeeper’s daughter the evening before, and again at breakfast.
Leif shook his head and grew, amazingly, redder.
“What did she give you?”
Leif’s eyes shifted to Vincent, and back to Nicolas. “Lessons,” he said.
Nicolas leaned back in his saddle, curious. “And how far advanced were these ‘lessons’?”
“Far enough.” Leif looked extremely pleased.
“Have you ‘graduated’ son?”
“No, Sir.” Leif’s face split with an impish grin. “She offered, but I’m saving that for Rosie’s girl!”
Nicolas’s booming laugh startled the horses. He kicked Fyrste, then, and led them on an exuberant chase over the next few miles. Dirt clods spattered and dust clouds choked as Leif pushed Rusten to the lead. Nicolas let him, knowing both of his horses well enough to let Rusten set a pace that Fyrste could match without effort, even on the uneven path.
Low hanging branches, pushed aside by Rusten, smacked back at Nicolas, but he laid his cheek against Fyrste’s neck, half standing in his saddle to ease the stallion’s load. When he sensed the leader slowing, he gave Fyrste his head.
The stallion leapt forward, passing the sorrel gelding and his dismayed young rider. Strong, black-socked legs stretched and massive iron-shod hooves pounded with the joy of the run. Nicolas felt the wind in his hair and the horse’s sweat against his cheek. He let the animal run as long as he wanted. It was thrilling, freeing, renewing.
When Fyrste slowed to a walk, Nicolas turned him back. He walked about a half mile before he spied Rusten. He turned around again, and walked Fyrste until Leif caught up with him.
“Have you seen Vincent?” Nicolas asked.
“He’s coming.”
Nicolas turned in his saddle. He glimpsed the bay gelding through the trees, a couple hundred yards back and approaching at a sporadic trot.
“Poor Vincent,” Nicolas sympathized. “He’s not much for horses, after all.”
The two walked in silence for a pace.
“Leif?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I have never talked to you much about girls.”
“No, Sir.”
Nicolas considered the teen. “You must never take a girl’s virginity until you’ve exchanged vows with her in a church.”
Leif blushed again. “I know. My mother told me that before she died.”
Nicolas was surprised, not only by the information, but because the orphan never mentioned his mother. “Did she?”
He nodded. “I did not know what she meant—I was only eight at the time—but she said it with such force! She gripped my shirt and pulled my face close to hers. She was weak, so it required a lot for her to do so.”
“My royal cousin must have been her first. Her only, I would guess.” Nicolas wondered what sort of woman she had been.
“So she said.”
Nicolas reached across and shook Leif’s shoulder. “It’s good advice, Leif. See that you keep to it, eh?”
“I will, Sir.” He wiped his eyes, smearing the road dirt on his face into muddy streaks. “I never wish to do to a woman what my father did to her.” He swallowed thickly. “And me.”
Vincent trotted up to them, then.
“How far have we come?” he gasped.
“I believe we are only a mile or two from Webster Grove,” Nicolas answered.
“Oh, thank heavens!” Vincent stood in his saddle and rubbed his posterior. “Might we stop there for refreshment?”
As they sat in the cool darkness of the Webster Grove tavern sipping beer, Vincent asked the proprietor if he had any copies of the St. Louis Enquirer. The man went into the back room for a while, finally emerging with a crumpled newspaper that was obviously intended for some mundane task that did not involve reading.
Vincent spread the newspaper on the table, smoothing it with his hands, and getting wet spots on it from the ale cups. “Hmm. Nothing in here about you,” he commented. “But it is only a couple days old, and you have been away from the city.”
“Anything from our dearest Herbert Q. Percival?” Nicolas asked sarcastically.
Vincent pulled a few pages over as he searched. “Yes, here.” He began to read aloud.
Beckermann’s Assignations
By Herbert Q. Percival
I would not have believed it if I had not seen it with my own two perfectly focused eyes: Winston Beckermann, well-known St. Louis businessman and Legislative candidate for St. Louis County, has a little apartment tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. No, dear reader, this is not his home. How shall I describe it? It is where his ‘nieces’ stay.
And he has an abundant supply of ‘nieces.’
Blonde, brunette, chestnut and strawberry. Amazingly enough, all in their late teens or early twenties by the looks of them. He must have very prolific siblings to have presented him with such an array of pleasant and accommodating young relatives.
The only question that remains is: why does Mrs. Beckermann not open her home to her husband’s delightful kin?
Might it be that they aren’t nieces at all; merely very close ‘relations’?
Vincent looked at Nicolas, amazed. “How did he find out?”
Nicolas finished his beer and signaled for another. “I told him.”
“You told him? Do you know who he is?”
Nicolas had never seen anyone’s eyes actually pop out of their head, but Vincent’s appeared to be attempting exactly that. “I do.”
“Who is it?” Leif asked.
“I cannot say.”
“What!” Vincent and Leif turned to each other, surprised, and then back to Nicolas.
“Why not?” Vincent queried, obviously stunned by the revelation.
Nicolas shrugged. He waited for the tavern owner to set down his beer and move away from the table before he spoke. “As long as I know, and he knows I know, I am safe from his particular attention. But if I reveal who he is, then I am more than fair game once more. And not only in print.”
“Did he have anything to do with the fire?” Vincent’s eyes rounded.
“Or the highwaymen?” Leif added.
“I doubt it,” Nicolas said slowly. “But he is a danger, nonetheless. Of this I am quite certain.”
Vincent and Leif gazed at each other, faces twisted in confusion.
Nicolas drained the second mug of ale and plunked it on the wood tabletop. “Shall we go? I, for one, am anxious to sleep in my own bed this night!”
While Nicolas was gone, Sydney helped Anne and Sarah with the wool, as she had helped Addie and Maribeth the first spring she spent on the estate. Addie and John watched over Kirstie, keeping the active two-year-old out of trouble, while her mother and nanny were occupied.
The process was no less back-breaking than Sydney had remembered. And every bit as dirty. Pulling the matted wool apart, to loosen the detritus of the sheep’s forested existence, then boiling it and spreading it to dry on the lawn made her arms burn and her back ache.
But it served to keep her occupied
while Nicolas was gone; and too tired and sore to miss him in her bed at night. Almost.
The women did not talk much while they worked, so Anne’s words were rather startling.
“Jeremy has selected the land for our cabin.”
Sydney and Sarah faced her. “He has?” Sydney smiled. “Has he told Nicolas?”
“Not yet. He’ll tell him when they return.”
“That is good news, Anne,” Sarah said.
“Good for you and Jack,” Anne replied, grinning. “Then you can move from the stable into the house!”
Sarah shrugged, glancing shyly at Sydney. “We have not been at all uncomfortable.”
“Even so,” Sydney stated. “It will be an improvement for all involved, will it not?” Then she nodded at Sarah. “I’ll see that Nicolas does all he can, to get you moved in time for the birth.”
Sarah froze. “How did you know?”
Sydney laid her hand on Sarah’s arm. “I have been through it myself, have I not?”
Sarah nodded, her gaze jumping to Anne and back.
“Have no fear, Sarah. This child will grow old in your presence,” Sydney assured the worried slave.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Tension left Sarah’s body in a rush and she gripped the framework holding the last of the matted wool.
“See that you eat enough to grow a strong, healthy child!” Sydney admonished. “Even if you have been nauseated.”
“You have seen?”
Sydney nodded. “Only once. And I wondered then.”
“Does Jack know?” Anne asked.
A soft smile spread over Sarah’s smooth, brown face. “He does.”
Sydney noticed a shadow pass over Anne’s expression. She wondered, then, if Anne wanted a child. She and Jeremy had been married almost as long as Sydney and Nicolas, but as far as she knew they had never conceived.
Nicolas rode into the yard that evening, just at dusk. Half-an-hour later and they would have been picking their way through a moonless forest.
