A Woman of Choice

by Kris Tualla

  Sydney nodded, her countenance clamped in concentration. That seemed about right to her. Distracted, she sipped her wine.

  Nicolas continued, “We’re in the township of Cheltenham in the Missouri Territory. The closest city would be St. Louis. It’s about ten miles northeast of here.”

  “I recognize all those names, and Cheltenham seems important to me for some reason. But I’m fairly certain it’s not my home.”

  Nicolas nodded and speared his green beans. “I’ve never seen you before, so it’s likely you’re right.”

  Sydney swirled her wine glass, watching the pale, honey-colored liquid coat its sides. “What other towns are nearby?”

  Nicolas rested his elbows on the rounded arms of his chair and steepled his fingers. He looked toward the ceiling. “Let’s see. There are Wellspring and Elleardsville to the north.” His gaze dropped to her in silent question. She shook her head.

  “To the west are, Fairview? And Rock Hill?”

  Sydney shook her head again, and sipped her wine; its flowery bouquet floated pleasurably past her palate. It was a pleasant counterpoint to her growing frustration; maybe she should refill her glass with the chardonnay and drown in it.

  “…and Webster Grove?”

  “Webster Grove!” Sydney perked up. “There’s something in my life concerning Webster Grove!”

  “Do you live there?”

  “I don’t know, but there must be some connection. What other places are near?”

  “To the south of us are the townships of Carondelet and Oakville.”

  “Yes! Yes!” Sydney grew excited. “I know both of those names!”

  Nicolas smiled.

  When he did so, his blue eyes twinkled above an expanse of straight white teeth. The sight of it made Sydney’s heart dance. She decided he really was beautiful, after all.

  “That gives us a place to start, at any rate! I’ll send word to the squires of those towns to see if anyone’s missing a—” Nicolas stopped.

  “Wife?” Sydney completed his thought, suddenly less optimistic. She set her glass down with enough force to throw wine over the rim. “Or sister? Certainly not ‘mother’ I wouldn’t imagine; I don’t believe I could forget that.” She blotted the spill with her napkin.

  “No, I don’t believe you would,” Nicolas agreed. He wiped his plate with the last roll. “I’ll write out the notices tonight. John can take them into town tomorrow, before I go to Rickard’s place.”

  “Rickard’s place?”

  “We finished shearing my sheep today and Rick went home directly afterwards. That’s why we’ve been spared his company at the table.”

  Sydney caught the jibe and gave him a half-grin. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Five or six days. He has more sheep than I do.” Nicolas popped the roll into his mouth and wiped his hands on his napkin.

  What are we to do with her?

  Echoes of the overheard conversation pushed into Sydney’s awareness. She gripped her wine glass so hard she was in danger of shattering it.

  “I hope you’re not overly concerned with my presence here while you’re gone. After all, you don’t know aught about me.” She granted the goblet a reprieve and shoved her fists into her lap.

  Nicolas waved his hand dismissively and shook his head. He reached for his own wineglass and drained it.

  “It’s no problem. You’re not a bother to me, at all. And Addie is beside herself to have someone to care for.” He rubbed his jaw; smooth, tanned and clean of whiskers. “Perchance you’ll remember something while I’m gone, eh?”

  Chapter Five

  April 5, 1819

  Washed and wrung out from a long day of wrestling irritated sheep and their squirming offspring, Nicolas trudged behind Rickard into his parlor. Lily waited there, her nose hovering over a book.

  A book? Nicolas chuckled softly and bit back any comments.

  Lily Jane Atherton was beautiful, headstrong and, in her own words, deservedly spoiled. At the spinsterhood-threatening age of twenty-three, she seemed to have tired of playing with the boys in the Territory and had set her sights on him. Her dead sister’s husband.

  He wasn’t certain how he felt about that.

  Lily was dressed for dinner in a cornflower blue gown that enhanced her aquamarine eyes and rich auburn hair. She ran her finger along the neckline that plunged between her breasts, drawing his eyes to that well-rounded valley. After allowing him time for a sufficient view, Lily turned as though surprised by his very welcome presence.

  “Nicolas, darling!” she cooed, dropping the book to her lap. “How wonderful to see you again! My brother should have told me you were joining us for dinner so that I might have dressed properly.”

  “There’s no need to put yourself out for my sake, Lily.” Nicolas swept her with a knowing glance. “What you have on is perfectly adequate.”

  Lily’s pleasant expression didn’t alter but he saw her jaw ripple briefly. “I’m afraid I lost track of the time. I’ve been sitting here reading for quite a while.”

  She batted her lashes as she glanced down, smoothed her skirt, and then blinked her gaze back to his.

  “Is that so, Lily?” Rickard grabbed the book from his baby sister’s lap. “And at what point did you become interested in Castration Techniques for Horses?”

  Nicolas snorted and turned aside to hide his grin. Lily’s wrath might be merely the tempest of a woman, but there was no need to provoke it any further. Lily stood erect, ignored her elder brother’s jibe, and floated to the parlor’s arched doorway.

  “I’ll check on our dinner’s progress,” she said, her tone calm and controlled. “Rickard, would you please pour us all some wine?”

  Lily sat across from Nicolas at dinner. He owned an unobstructed view of her abundant attributes, and was the recipient of her unslippered toes tickling behind his knees. Neither the view nor the tickling was in any way unpleasant.

  “So, Nick. How do you suppose our mystery woman is progressing?” Rickard prodded.

  Nicolas frowned at his friend; what was his game? They already talked about Sydney today and what might be done for her. In the process, it became quite clear that Rickard was rather taken with his sudden houseguest.

  “Mystery woman?” Lily pounced like a barn cat on field mice. “We have a mystery woman?”

  “Nick does,” Rickard said; his voice exuded mischief. “Found her in his creek.”

  Lily rested her heavily demanding gaze on Nicolas, who shrugged it off. He was puckered by Rickard’s teasing and decided to ignore the gambit. He stuffed a roll into his mouth and chewed slowly. Very slowly.

  Lily withdrew her toes.

  “Took her to his house. Half-naked, as a matter of fact,” Rickard cut a bite of roasted beef. “Well to be fair, she was, at one time, fully clothed. Until Nick cut her skirt off.” He forked the morsel into his mouth.

  Lily’s eyes rounded and her mouth slammed open.

  Unaccountably angry, Nicolas shook his head and concentrated on his meal. But Rickard’s life was looking to be shorter with every word that fool uttered.

  “Who is this woman?” Lily demanded of Nicolas, flinty eyes shooting blue sparks.

  Nicolas slid his chilly gaze from sister to brother. He swallowed his roast and sipped his wine in silence. Rickard dropped the last card.

  “Sleeps just down the hall from him.”

  “Nicolas Reidar Hansen! What precisely is going on?” Lily screeched, her cheeks flushing crimson. “And why haven’t you told me?”

  Nicolas shot Rickard a look that only a lifelong friend could ever be forgiven for. He leaned back in his chair, picked up his wine goblet and swirled it in the light. He sniffed the bouquet, took a sip, held the cabernet in his mouth, and then swallowed. Only then did he deign to tell Lily the story.

  “She claims she can’t remember anything?” Lily scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Ha! That’s a new trick!”

  Ignoring her outburst, Nicolas continued. “I se
nt letters to nearby squires informing them that we rescued a woman, and asked if anyone has gone missing from their townships.”

  “Oh, Nicolas,” Lily scolded as if he were an errant child. “You don’t truly believe anyone has, do you? This woman is quite obviously up to something.”

  He struggled to remain calm in the face of her condescension. “And what might that be, Lily? To beat herself severely and leave herself for dead in the hope that someone would find her? That’s all to pieces a considerable risk!”

  “She’s hiding something, I tell you,” Lily stated with certainty. “She’s most likely some spinster who’s trying to coerce a charitable soul into supporting her in her old age!”

  A significant look passed between Nicolas and Rickard. Lily caught it.

  “What is it? Tell me!” she squealed.

  Rickard shrugged. “I have to admit that I believe any number of men would be willing to support this particular soul until she reaches old age.”

  Lily paled and her shoulders wilted. “Why?”

  The old friends locked eyes and dared the other to speak first.

  Lily slapped the tabletop with an open palm. “Why? Nicolas! Is she comely?”

  Nicolas heard panic in her tone. Lily was certainly overreacting; he hadn’t encouraged her flirtation, so why would she think he was interested in any woman?

  Then the two men answered in unplanned unison.

  “She’s beautiful.”

   

  Nicolas shut the door of his room at Atherton’s and leaned his forehead against it. He remained motionless for several minutes, unhappily aware of the spinning sensation that made it clear he had too much to drink at dinner. Sunrise sheep-shearing was not going to be pleasant.

  Skitt.

  He straightened and walked purposefully to the bed as he pulled off his clothes and dropped them on the floor. How much wine did Lily pour for him? And the brandies after dinner; was it three or four? Five?

  Nicolas fell naked onto the mattress.

  Lily was not subtle in her quest for his attention, and Nicolas was no fool. At first, he dismissed her overtures, assuming them to be a passing fancy; but Lily was not easily dissuaded. She wanted him and he knew it well.

  Nicolas brushed the back of his hand across his lips, still able to feel her mouth against his. Her lips were soft, her tongue hard. She guided his hands to her breasts, encouraging intimacy. Her fingers stroked his thigh and he roused, unable to avoid it. That traitorous and self-serving part of him was quite willing. But he couldn’t reconcile the fact that Lily was Lara’s sister.

  Oddly, though, that was a factor in her favor.

  While he ached without respite for his dead wife, Nicolas saw much of her in Lily. The physical resemblance was strong and there were moments when Nicolas could convince himself that it was Lara, not Lily, he was looking at.

  “But Lily is not Lara,” Nicolas mumbled to the dark ceiling and sighed his weariness. Did that truly matter?

   

  Nicolas was gone, so Sydney explored his land without fearing his disapproval. The Hansen estate proved modest, the slate-roofed stone manor its anchor. Behind it at a short distance was the stable, its bottom level also of stone. Sydney found two large storerooms inside, a double row of four stalls each, and hayloft above.

  Outside were a corral and paddock for the horses. In the woods behind the stable was the keep for the small flock of sheep. The brood sow and her current crop of piglets were penned between the garden and the root cellar.

  The chicken coop was downwind of the house; so was the privy.

  As she wandered the grounds, Sydney searched for anything that might prompt a memory: a smell, a color, a sound, a texture. The new leaves on the maple tree? The tang of pine sap or the call of a hawk? The chuckle of the creek? But nothing provided the key that would unlock the mystery of who she was, nor shed any light on what calamity befell her.

  Frustrated, she rested on a log, and threw whatever handy forest object she could reach as hard—and as far—as her bruised muscles would allow. Tears muddied the dust on her cheeks. She walked purposefully down the road away from the estate, but stopped because she didn’t recognize anything.

  And until she did, she had nowhere else to go.

  Defeated, Sydney plodded back to the house, kicking every loose pebble unfortunate enough to lie in her path. Her situation pressed against her. She was furious and frightened, confounded and contradictory. And just flat out mad.

  Addie’s husband, John Spencer—a quiet, weathered man in his late fifties—was working in the yard behind the manor. Sydney stopped to watch him. She had nothing else that needed doing, after all.

  John had assembled a tall wooden tripod in the grassy lawn. From it, he hung a huge copper pot. Stefan helped him fill the pot with water from the pump, warmed by the fire they built under it. A smaller iron pot sat nearby on the ground.

  “What are you doing?" she finally asked.

  “The wool Nick ’n Rick sheared needs cleaning,” John said.

  “Oh.” Sydney waited, and wondered if the process would look familiar or spark a memory.

  While the water heated, Addie and Maribeth began to spread sheared wool on a platform of narrow slats. They pulled the fleece apart, releasing the twigs, pebbles and other detritus the sheep picked up in the woods. The women lifted the loosened wool into the copper pot, where its oil kept it afloat.

  Sydney hated feeling so purposeless. So, ignoring her wobbly condition, she began to help with the smelly, greasy, gritty job.

  Addie objected to her exerting herself, but not too long nor with too much vigor. Maribeth smiled her silent thanks. Stefan hunkered in the garden with a pail.

  As the water boiled, the wool sank and its oil rose to the top. It smelled tangy and not unlike a wet dog. Addie ladled the fat into the iron pot on the ground.

  “I’ll render the wool fat one more time before I use it,” she explained. “It’s good for salves and soap. But I’m sure you already know that.”

  Lips pressed to retain an unkind retort, Sydney wondered if she did.

  The three women worked through the morning, dripping with effort in spite of the cool spring day. Addie served a cold lunch in the kitchen before she and Maribeth spread the boiled wool in the afternoon sun to dry. At Addie’s powerful insistence, Sydney went upstairs to rest.

  She felt stronger at that moment than she had since Nicolas found her. She climbed into the bed, relishing the feel of the smooth cotton sheets against her skin and the down pillow that cradled her head. The satisfying ache of effort drained her limbs, and pressed against her eyes and lower back. The darkened room lulled her into a dreamless sleep.

  But that evening, when Sydney went down for supper, she felt ghastly. Every one of her thirty years weighed down her limbs. Her aching back wouldn’t support her, her head pounded, and her gut was trying to turn inside out. The pain made her skin overly sensitive; even the touch of her clothes caused gooseflesh.

  She eased herself into a chair at the kitchen table. A shiver of nausea wiggled through her.

  “Addie, might you have some willow bark for tea?”

  “Did you over-do yourself today?” Addie turned an evaluative eye on Sydney’s clammy skin and hunched stance before rummaging for the medicinal bark. She set the teapot on the cast-iron Franklin stove.

  “No, it’s not that.” Sydney pressed on her abdomen. “My flow has started.”

  “Ah, the cramps then.”

  “And I’m afraid I don’t have any rags. I didn’t pack adequately before falling in the creek, it seems.”

  Addie smiled at the feeble joke. “Maribeth has a supply in her room. I’ll go and get them.”

  Sydney rested her overly-large head on folded arms until she heard Addie return. Addie handed her the clean stack of rags.

  “Thank you,” Sydney murmured. She couldn’t muster the strength for full voice. Picking two of the rags, she shuffled out the back door to the p
rivy. When she returned, the water for her tea was ready.

  “Is it always this bad for you, dear?”

  Sydney shrugged. “Most likely. I don’t remember.”

  Addie smacked her forehead with her palm. “What am I asking? I swear this old mind isn’t as sharp as it once was!”

  Sydney accepted a mug of hot water and put the bark to steep. She stirred milk and honey into the bitter brew and drank it in the comforting kitchen, relaxing while Addie made dinner. Still nauseated, she declined food. After two more cups of tea, she crawled back into bed.

   

  While her mornings were spent cleaning fleece, Sydney found herself drawn to the stables in the afternoons. She spent several calming hours there, talking with John.

  “How did you and Addie meet?” Sydney asked, picking up a curry brush.

  He spoke from the other side of a bay gelding. “She was housekeeper here when I was hired on.”

  Sydney moved the brush in a circular motion over the coat of the matching mare. “And you fell in love?”

  John leaned around the gelding’s rump. His warm brown eyes sparkled amongst his copious wrinkles. “I did. Took her a while, though. Ten years.”

  Sydney laughed. “Ten years! When were you married?”

  “In ninety-two. Nick was five and Gunnar was ‘bout three.” He disappeared behind the rump again. “Never had children of our own, so she’s fierce over them two.”

  Only a couple more afternoons passed before Sydney took over the grooming altogether. She found the repetitive action of currying the horses soothing, as was the tolerant company of the large animals. They didn’t care what her name was or where she came from. And when she was with them, she forgot to worry about not knowing.

  Cajoling Addie with common sense, Sydney talked the housekeeper into procuring her a shirt and pair of breeches to work in.

  “I only have a couple of borrowed dresses to wear,” she reminded Addie, “and I don’t want to ruin them.”