A Matter of Principle

by Kris Tualla

Sydney descended the stairs, slowly. “Sheriff? Is my husband to be arrested again?”

  Nathan Busby slid his hands along the rim of his hat. “No, Ma’am…”

  “Well that’s a relief!” She smiled and continued down the steps.

  “It’s you he wants this time,” Nicolas growled through clenched teeth.

  Sydney froze. “Me? I’m to be arrested?”

  “Beg your pardon, Ma’am. But I have to follow the strict guidelines of the law.” Sheriff Busby continued to fidget with his hat.

  “What’s the charge, Sheriff?” she asked in tone more level than Nicolas could imagine achieving.

  “Um, murder.” He bobbed his head. “Ma’am.”

  Nicolas heard Sydney heave a heavy sigh behind him. “What must you do?”

  “I need to take you into town and, well, lock you in the jail.”

  Nicolas swung around to look at his wife. Her chin was up, her back was straight. Her gaze, gone stormy gray, met his. Her jaw was set.

  “May I change clothes first?” she asked.

  “Go ahead, Ma’am. I’ll wait.” Sheriff Busby was visibly relieved.

  Sydney turned and climbed the staircase like a queen. Nicolas left the sheriff standing in his doorway and followed her, taking the stairs two at a time.

  He yanked the bedroom door closed. “This is oksedritt! You did not kill Lily! Gud forbanner det all til fucking helvete!”

  Sydney grabbed him by his shirt. He focused on her, with some effort. “No. I did not kill Lily. Go get Nelson Ivarsen.”

  “You are damned right I’ll get Nelson!” Nicolas broke from her grasp and paced the room. Memories of his own arrest and incarceration flooded him. “I shall leave off the reel!”

  Sydney selected a simple wool dress from her wardrobe, and the half-corset Nicolas had made for her; they were more comfortable than the more formal clothing she had been wearing. She also selected a cotton shift instead of linen. And she grabbed her fur-lined cloak.

  “To sleep on,” she explained at Nicolas’s puzzled look.

  “At the least, you have a chance to prepare,” he said. “And no one is beating you brutally in the process.”

  Sydney laid a hand on his cheek. He looked down into her eyes, now more green than gray, and her parted coral-colored lips. Her cheeks were splotched with red, the only betrayal of her distress. “Just bring Nelson. I have witnesses. The charges will be dismissed.”

  He bent to her lips and kissed her very well. “I love you, min presang. I’ll rescue you.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  As soon as she was gone, he changed his clothes, ran to the stable, and saddled Fyrste for the ride to St. Louis.

  

  Sydney sat on the bench in the tiny Cheltenham jail cell and mentally counted off her blessings.

  It’s a warm May 4th, not a frigid January 4th.

  I was not beaten.

  I was allowed to change clothes and speak to my children.

  Nicolas is on his way to St. Louis and Nelson Ivarsen.

  Mrs. Ansel provides meals for the prisoners.

  I have witnesses.

  And I’m not precisely guilty…

  When Lily stopped breathing, Sydney cut her. She was shocked when Lily gasped, but it was too late by that point. The knife did not kill her; such an injury would not be immediately fatal. And Lily did not bleed much. If she was vital, the wound would have bled a lot.

  It didn’t.

  I did not kill her.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  May 4, 1822

  St. Louis

  Nicolas tethered Fyrste in front of Nelson’s law office. He pulled the door open and strode inside. Nelson looked up from his desk.

  “Nicolas!” he cried. “What brings you here?” He rounded his desk, smiling broadly.

  Nicolas stopped and considered the elder barrister with narrowed eyes. “What’s changed about you, Nelson?”

  He reddened a little. “I’ve married.”

  Nicolas stepped back in surprise. “You? When? To whom?”

  “Last month. To the woman you sent me.”

  “The one with the three young boys and a nasty drunk for a husband?” Nicolas remembered her; she had come to him, looking for work before he left for Norway. “I assume you took care of the husband, then.”

  “In short order.” Nelson shook his head. “He was a bad piece of work, I assure you.”

  “And the boys?” Nicolas tried to imagine Nelson as a father.

  “Oh, they’re coming around. Good hearted, really. Just needed some solid guidance.” Nelson paused. “And love.”

  Nicolas smiled at his old friend, in spite of his own situation. “And you have the love?”

  “My world has opened up, Nick. Who might have expected that at my age?” Nelson shook his head, bemused.

  “As I recall, she was quite young. Still in her twenties?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And is it, uh, what would be considered, um, a complete marriage?” Nicolas stammered.

  Nelson laughed at that. He gripped Nicolas’s shoulder and laughed at the taller, younger man’s awkwardness. “It is consummated. Several times over, I assure you.”

  “Then congratulations truly are to be extended, sir!” Nicolas offered his hand.

  Nelson grasped it tightly and winked at Nicolas. “In fact, I believe I have found a wonderful new hobby to occupy my evenings!”

  “Ah!” Nicolas sobered. “I’m afraid I am denied that particular ‘hobby’ at present. Sydney has been accused of murder. She is right now in the Cheltenham jail.”

  “Sydney?” Nelson squinted his disbelief at Nicolas. “Your wife, Sydney?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Whom did she kill?”

  “She did not kill anyone!” Nicolas blustered.

  Nelson nodded, waving his hand dismissively. “No, of course not. Whom is she accused of killing?”

  “Rickard Atherton’s youngest sister, Lily Atherton Kensington.”

  “Under what circumstances?” Nelson walked back to his desk.

  “She was summoned to a birth,” Nicolas began. He told Nelson the entire story.

  “I did speak with Rickard concerning Lily’s claim to half his estate.” Nelson mused. “Are there any witnesses?”

  “Bronwyn Atherton was there the entire time. Rickard and I both heard Ezra Kensington’s directive to save the child. And, of course, there is the slave girl, Taycie, who has been apprenticing with Sydney.”

  “Anyone else?” Nelson peered at Nicolas over a pair of reading spectacles.

  “Only the other midwife, Berta O’Shea. I suspect that she is the one who brought the charges,” Nicolas speculated. “She and Sydney do not see eye-to-eye on midwifery, so Sydney tells me.”

  “I will speak to all of these people immediately,” Nelson wrote furiously. “There is no court in Cheltenham so Sydney will be brought to St. Louis for trial. I shall see if I cannot have the charges dropped before that happens.”

  “Thank you, Nelson. You saved my hide two years ago and I have faith that you will do the same for my wife.”

  “I will do my best, Nick. You have my word.”

  

  Obituary

  Lady Lily Jane Atherton Kensington

  Mar 20, 1796 – April 29, 1822

  Lady Kensington, late of Raleigh, North Carolina and native of Cheltenham, died Monday, April 29, at 26 years of age. She passed away during an extended visit in her brother’s home as a result of complications of a premature birth. She was laid to rest on her brother’s estate on Wednesday, May 1, following a service presided over by Pastor Fritz Mueller of the Lutheran Church. She was interred alongside her father, James Atherton.

  

  For several hours after his meeting with Nelson, Nicolas walked the dark streets of St. Louis without any specific destination. A warm breeze carried the wet scent of the Mississippi River through the moonless night. Hands jam
med in his pockets, head down, he crisscrossed the heart of the city. He had not eaten since arriving early that afternoon; he had no appetite.

  Lily’s death brought back so much of the terror he experienced when Lara died. He buried that pain for six years, until Sydney fell into his life. Now he was learning that the pain would always be with him. He would always be a widower.

  “Thank you, God, for bringing me Sydney,” he said aloud.

  She had been his salvation, turning him into a loving father, a passionate husband and a leader of men. Her resilience taught him how to begin again. Her wit made him laugh. Her sensual warmth took him to heights he had never imagined.

  And tonight she was in jail.

  When Nicolas had been arrested, the eight-and-a-half-month pregnant Sydney followed him to St. Louis. She refused to obey him and return home to Cheltenham. Instead, she fought to free him.

  Now it was his turn and he could not fail her.

  “Nicky!” Rosie exclaimed.

  His head jerked up just before he collided with her. He looked around and discovered he was in the whoring district. “Rosie!”

  “What are you doing here?” She leaned around him. “Are you alone?”

  “I am,” he answered, frowning.

  Rosie stepped closer. “Are you alright?”

  “No, not really.”

  Rosie linked her arm in his and started walking. “Is Sydney in town?”

  He shook his head, lips pressed tight.

  “Is she well?”

  “She’s in jail.”

  Rosie stopped still. “What for?”

  Nicolas blinked slowly and looked down at her. “Murder.”

  Rosie started walking again, faster this time. “Have you had supper?”

  “No. I’m not hungry.”

  “That’ll be the day!” she scoffed. “I’m gonna feed you and buy you a beer, and you’re gonna tell me everything from the beginning!”

  Nicolas allowed himself to be dragged through the streets of St. Louis by a gaudy woman of an obvious occupation. He did not care who saw them, he was just glad not to be alone at that moment.

  Rosie pulled him into a tavern, and he realized he was across the street from his apartment. He had not been aware that they had walked that far.

  Ensconced in a booth, Rosie ordered them dinner and a pitcher of beer. She poured, he gulped, and she poured again.

  “Who died, Nick?” she began.

  “Lily.”

  “Remind me who she is.”

  Nicolas pulled a deep breath. “Rickard and Lara’s younger sister.”

  Rosie knew Rickard quite well, and had heard Nicolas speak of his dead wife often, back when he used to visit her every month. Before Sydney.

  She brightened. “Oh! Is that the Lady Kensington in the newspaper?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Birthing.” Nicolas did not feel up to long answers.

  “Sydney was the midwife?”

  He nodded.

  Their food arrived. The aroma of the meat pies made his mouth water and his stomach growled unexpectedly. He broke a chunk from a loaf of bread and dipped it in the dark brown gravy that the pie swam in. The rich flavor was satisfying and quite comforting. He began to spoon mouthfuls of the flaky crust, meat, potatoes and carrots.

  He moaned his pleasure in the simple but fortifying meal.

  Rosie ate slowly, watching him and waiting. She refilled his beer mug.

  “Can you tell me now?” she finally asked.

  Nicolas nodded and pushed his empty platter to the middle of the table. “Thank you, Rosie.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nothin’.”

  Nicolas leaned back in his seat. “Lily said she was only five or six months gone, so everyone thought it was a miscarriage. She would not hear of Sydney attending her, so she called the other one. But after a day and a half of pains and no baby, Rickard called Sydney.”

  “That was good of Rick,” Rosie approved.

  “Well, Sydney figured out in pretty short order that the babe was much bigger than what Lily claimed.” Nicolas looked intently at Rosie. “She also discovered that Lily was scarred by several abortions.”

  “Oh, no!” Rosie's face fell. “I know a few girls that have found themselves in the same position.”

  “What happened to them?” Nicolas asked, curious if the outcome was always the same.

  “It depended on how bad the scars were and how far gone they were,” Rosie explained. “But if the babe could not come out…” She shrugged.

  “Lily’s womb wouldn’t open,” Nicolas stated simply.

  “So she died.”

  “She did.” Nicolas drained his beer mug.

  Rosie nodded her understanding of that situation. “But how was Sydney accused?”

  “She cut Lily open to get the baby out.”

  “And that worked?” Rosie’s eyes rounded.

  “He was at least eight months. Sydney got him to breathe.” Nicolas refilled his mug. “But the other midwife, we believe, told the sheriff Sydney cut her before she died.”

  “Oh.”

  The friends sat in silence for a pace.

  “Have you seen Nelson?” Rosie asked.

  Nicolas nodded. He waved to the proprietor of the tavern.

  “Did your wife make any pies today?” he asked, hopeful.

  “Apple raisin with rum.”

  “That sounds wonderful. Two pieces, please!”

  “I’m not hungry, Nicky!” Rosie objected.

  Nicolas looked at her, surprised. “I didn’t order you any.”

  Rosie stared at him, her jaw slack, and then shook her head. “Tell me about Nelson.”

  “He’s going to take testimony from the witnesses and try to get the charges dropped before it goes to trial.”

  “Who are the witnesses?”

  “Bronnie, Rickard, myself.” He looked appreciatively at the aromatic slices of pie set before him.

  “Thank you!” He gripped his fork like a jousting pole and attacked the pastry.

  Rosie tapped her cheek and watched him eat. Her lips twisted in consideration.

  Nicolas pointed his momentarily denuded fork at her. “What are you thinking?”

  “I have read about you in the Enquirer.”

  Nicolas shrugged and scooped another forkful of pie. “And?”

  Rosie leaned forward. “And! All of your witnesses seemed to have something to gain by Lily’s death.”

  Nicolas froze, the cinnamon-scented mound of apple slices, raisins plump with rum, and flaky crust hovering in front of his parted lips. His eyes rounded. He felt the blood leave his cheeks. His hand lowered slowly until it rested on the table top, pie forgotten.

  “Å min Gud…”

  

  Nicolas kicked the covers off his naked body and lay, spread-eagle, on the sweat-dampened cotton sheets. The clock in the next room chimed four times, its soft music screaming in Nicolas’s ear. He had not slept at all. Rosie’s words haunted him, and he was terrified that a judge might think the same way.

  “Skitt!”

  He rolled over onto his stomach. His feet curved over the foot of the bed and his toes tucked between the mattress and the footboard. If he flexed his feet, he could rock the bed. But that only made him remember last time this bed rocked.

  His gut clenched at the thought of Sydney. She was in the Cheltenham jail, ten miles from him, and he could not get her out.

  “Skitt!”

  Nicolas curled on his side and punched the pillow several times. He thrust it under his head and considered the witnesses.

  When Lily died, the threat of ruination was lifted from Rickard’s shoulders. But, even so, he did offer to settle with Sir Ezra, and had the signed document quitting any claim by his brother-in-law or newborn nephew.

  Was that a help? Or did it cast more suspicion?

  Bronnie was in the birthing room and said she tried to rouse Lily when she stoppe
d breathing. But Bronnie’s fortunes were irrevocably tied to Rick’s.

  But not Sydney’s. Or mine.

  Surely that would help?

  Sydney would testify that she knew the babe was more developed than Lily said. So she knew Nicolas could not be the father, even if she had doubts earlier. Which she did not. Did she?

  “Skitt!” He flipped to his other side and punched the pillow numerous more times.

  There was no help for it. As soon as the moonless sky began to lighten, Nicolas got up and dressed. Fyrste would get him home by the time Sydney was having breakfast.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  May 4, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Sydney fidgeted, unable to find a comfortable position on the rope cot. Nicolas provided her with a feather bed, pillow and wool-batted quilt so would she rest as easily as possible.

  The cell was featureless, but a window over the front door transom provided minimum ventilation. There was no moon tonight; hence, no light. Sheriff Busby's footfalls on the floor above her had long since ceased.

  Still, her eyes were open. When she closed them visions of Lily’s gaping abdomen appeared; skin colorless, oozing fat, womb sagging inward, devoid of the support of her infant son.

  If she succeeded in pushing aside that image, the robbery intruded. A startled ghost, illuminated by the lightening flash of gunpowder. How had these things happened?

  How had she killed two people?

  Sydney fingered her rosary and prayed through it. The smooth beads were cool in her fingers, their solid weight reassuring. Father Mueller tried to convince her that neither case could be considered murder. He had prayed for forgiveness with her and assured her of God’s grace.

  If that was true, why was she in jail?

  Because Berta O’Shea was afraid of her.

  Sydney turned to face the wall. The Cheltenham jail was seldom used, so she didn’t have other people’s dirt to contend with.

  Blessings, she sighed. Count them.