A Woman of Choice

by Kris Tualla

  “Limes it is, Margaret!” Addie smiled at Sydney. “Shall we try it this afternoon?”

  “We also have pecans,” Margaret tempted.

  Addie raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re a sly saleswoman, Margaret! You know well my John’s weakness for pecans!”

  Margaret put the limes in one bag, the pecans in another. Then Addie led Jess outside to show him where John left the wagon, while Sydney explored the rest of the store.

  The front door opened and Miss Lily Atherton sashayed into the building. Sydney sighed and donned invisible armor. Her expression grew deliberately bland.

  “Well, look who’s here!” Lily cooed. “My darling Sydney, did Nicolas trust you to leave his property?”

  Sydney tightened her armor. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you certain you remember how to get back to his estate?” Lily looked at Margaret with wide, innocent eyes. Margaret’s mouth dropped open, then bounced closed. She glanced uncomfortably between the two women.

  Lily sniggered, her grin triumphant.

  Sydney’s fists clenched while she fought the urge to take Lily down a peg. Or perhaps ten. She smiled tight-lipped and said nothing. She gave Lily her back and feigned intense interest in a bolt of fabric until Addie re-entered the store.

  “Addie, I’m going to walk back.”

  The housekeeper looked surprised. “Oh? Is everything well?”

  “Can you find the way?” Lily taunted.

  Addie shot her with a look. Sydney ignored her.

  “It’s a beautiful day, and I feel like a walk.” She grabbed the sacks of limes and pecans. “Thank you, Margaret. I’ll tell you if the pie turns out. Please give my best to Jess.”

  Head high, she stalked past Lily and out the door.

  Once on the road, Sydney walked at a pace that suited her. She tilted her face upward and let the warmth of the sun erase her irritation with Lily. The aromatic spring growth in the forest renewed her. Birds gossiped in the branches while squirrels scattered in their relentless search for food.

  It only took a quarter hour at her brisk pace to walk the mile to the Hansen manor. Sydney tucked the pecans safely on a shelf in the root cellar. After she closed the cellar door and opened the kitchen door she heard… music?

  Inside the manor, the strains of a violin were unmistakable. Sydney set the limes on the table, slipped off her shoes and tiptoed down the hall toward the sound. What she saw confounded everything she thought she knew about Nicolas Hansen.

  Nicolas was in his study, his back to the open door, playing the violin with his whole body.

  Sydney held still as a statue, sculpted by astonishment. With a clarity whose origin she could not fathom, she suddenly understood her host. He was the locked room upstairs. Profound pain preserved behind an impenetrable barricade. Don’t let anyone in. Don’t let the memories out.

  Sydney felt his soul escape its prison through the plaintive tune, enticing hers to join in. She leaned against the doorjamb and closed her eyes. The legato tones of the song swirled over her, around her and through her.

  And came to an abrupt halt.

  Sydney’s eyes opened and met Nicolas’s intense blue stare. He stood entrenched. His right hand held the bow poised over the silenced strings, the violin tucked under his strong jaw. Then everything about him tumbled.

  “I wasn’t aware anyone was here.”

  Sydney glanced at the violin case on the oak desk. “I’m sorry, Nicolas. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was attracted by the music.”

  Nicolas shook his head and moved to encase the instrument. “I’m out of practice.”

  Sydney put out her hand. “Please don’t stop.”

  Nicolas eyed her with one brow arched, the other dipped.

  “What were you playing? It was lovely.”

  He hesitated. Then, “An old Nordic lullaby. My mother sang it to us.”

  “Will you play it for me?”

  Nicolas considered her, confusion coloring his countenance. “Why?”

  Sydney crossed the study and rested her hands on the top of his leather chair, forcing him to turn his back on the violin case. “Because it stirred my soul to hear it.”

  “Madam, your soul apparently requires very little to excite it.”

  “Please?”

  Nicolas sighed loudly enough to express extreme irritation. Even so, he nested the violin under his chin. He flexed his wrist and fingered the bow until it settled in his hand. Then he put it to the strings. Eyes closed, he played. His body swayed with the swells of the melody and his elbows danced with the rhythm. Sydney watched, entranced, as his long, strong fingers flew over the neck of the fiddle.

  When the last note died, neither of them moved.

  “Thank you,” Sydney whispered.

  Nicolas lowered the instrument. “Did you enjoy it, truly?”

  “Oh, yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Nicolas shrugged. “That hasn’t been the universal response.”

  “Be assured, you may play for me anytime.”

  Nicolas placed the violin in its case. Until then, Sydney hadn’t seen its elaborately painted design, inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  “It’s very beautiful.” She moved closer to touch it. “Is it Norse?”

  Nicolas nodded. “It’s called a Hardanger fiddle.”

  “I have no way of knowing if I’ve ever heard of that!” Sydney laughed.

  Nicolas raked one hand through his mane. “It’s the most common musical instrument in Norway. And it’s only to be found there.”

  “Is that so?” She wanted to keep him talking, infinitely more fascinated by her new vision of the man, than by the instrument he held in his hands with such uncommon reverence.

  Nicolas warmed to her interest. “The Hardanger fiddle is different from the ordinary fiddle because it has sympathetic strings, and a less curved bridge and fingerboard. See?” Nicolas held the fiddle up for Sydney and pointed out what he described.

  “Yes, I see.”

  “It’s played on two strings, instead of one, most of the time. That’s what gives it such a mournful sound, rather like a bagpipe.”

  Sydney nodded her understanding.

  Nicolas grinned, enjoying a private joke.

  “What?” Sydney asked.

  “If I were asked, I’d say it was an involuntary choice of style.” Nicolas held up his left hand, fingers splayed. His palm measured at least four inches across and five inches in length, and the thickness of his long fingers was in proportion.

  “When a race has hands of this size, playing on one string alone does present a bit of a challenge!”

   

  The invitation to John and Beth McGovern’s annual May Day Ball arrived a little over a week after Lily’s formal dinner party and was considerately addressed to both Nicolas and Sydney. Addie commented on how nice that was and weren’t the McGoverns such nice people to think of Sydney specially and perchance there was time to make her a new dress this time and what color did Sydney believe she should wear to go best with her fair skin, green eyes and dark hair and did Nicolas have an opinion?

  Nicolas gave a non-committal grunt; a generous response considering Addie was instructing Sydney on the removal of his stitches during the discussion.

  “I don’t much care,” he growled. “As long as your stitching involves something other than my head!”

  As Sydney dressed for the Ball in the re-created gown she and Addie worked on together, she pondered what it meant that not one single whisper of a response was generated by Nicolas’s inquiries on her behalf. It was a full month now, and she fought a burgeoning depression.

  Certainly someone should be missing her! She belonged somewhere, and to someone, she was certain of that. The strain of trying to live each day as though she had purpose, while all the while wondering if she was at odds with whatever purpose she previously lived for, drained her.

  What also drained her was her growing attraction to Nicolas.

  Her int
ent to resist his pull had evaporated.

  Every night after dinner it became their habit to enjoy long conversations in his study over glasses of port wine and brandy. By default, most of the topics concerned Nicolas and his life, but Sydney did have opinions and observations of her own. One observation she didn’t share was how cathartic these discussions seemed to be for Nicolas. Every night, he grew a little more relaxed, a little more likely to laugh, a little less guarded. The door to his silent room was inching open.

  Now and again Sydney convinced him to play the fiddle. That was not an easy battle, for Nicolas resisted mightily.

  “I’m not talented, I don’t read music well, and I’m out of practice. Which fact will you accept?”

  “Not a one.”

  Nicolas lifted his hands in the air as if to say the matter was out of his control.

  Sydney leaned toward him and waited until his gaze shifted to hers. “I’ve heard you play, Nicolas. And I liked it fine. If it was torture, I most certainly wouldn’t be begging for more.”

  Nicolas considered her; squinting, deciding. “I play by ear, mostly. I only have music for a few pieces. The rest I’ve worked out on my own. Or create as I go along. So none of it’s…” He left the sentence hanging.

  Sydney leaned back in her chair and was silent for several minutes, staring into the fire. Then she turned to him again.

  “Nicolas, would you please do me the honor of playing your Norwegian Hardanger fiddle for me?”

  Nicolas smiled in spite of his declination.

  “The most popular instrument in Norway?” she pressed, the corners of her mouth lifting. “The one on which you play two sympathetic strings at one time?”

  “You’re one persistent body,” he complained. But he rose from his chair and retrieved the fiddle case.

  He opened it, caressing the ornate instrument as he lifted it from its velvet cradle. He tuned the fiddle, though it didn’t need it, and tucked it under his chin with exaggerated shrugs and head wags. Then he placed his fingertips on the neck. The bow hovered over the strings, vibrating with anticipation.

  Nicolas laid the bow on the strings and drew it across.

  The lone note hovered in the air, clear and strong. Soon joined by others, they danced together in a reel that tugged at Sydney’s heart. Nicolas’s body swayed with the rise and fall of the melody. The longer he played, the more he relaxed. Sydney closed her eyes and allowed the music to tell her all about the man.

  When the song ended, Sydney opened her eyes. Nicolas’s gaze was fixed beyond the study. He began another tune, and this time, she watched him play. As his body moved in time with the music, and the music moved in time with her heartbeat, Sydney found the experience so deeply intimate that she had to look away. She warmed in ways that were not familiar, and she didn’t know what to think about it.

  Only that a Hardanger fiddle was a mighty powerful instrument of seduction.

  “Dash it,” Sydney muttered as she continued to get ready for the evening event. Without knowing who she was, she wasn’t free to fall for anyone. But she was made of flesh, not stone. And Nicolas was so handsome, so smart, so right in front of her every minute, and so very, very lonely.

   

  Nicolas Hansen was a man tightly wound and he knew it. It was intentional.

  He hadn’t always been this way. In fact, before Lara died he was more like Rickard: loose, outgoing and spontaneous. But the night his wife died, he locked himself in the room with her body, numbed by disbelief. He asked her why—why she had to leave him. Didn’t she know how much he needed her? How much he had always needed her?

  He told her of his long-held dreams that were now undreamable. He cursed his inability to raise a child without its mother. He breathed the terror of living the rest of his life in solitude, without her predictable presence. He stayed beside her, moaning his sorrow until he was limp, completely spent. Until there were no tears left unshed, no words left unsaid.

  When morning appeared, a tragically redefined Nicolas Reidar Hansen stood beside the cold bodies of his life-long beloved and his stillborn son, and locked in his feelings. Then he unlocked the door, and walked out to begin existing in a life he never planned to live.

  Nicolas always believed if that lock was breached, the resulting explosion of emotion would destroy him and anyone near to him. What worried him at present was how close Sydney was coming to doing precisely that.

  She had quite literally dropped into his life, unbidden and through no fault of her own. As her injuries healed, her physical beauty was undeniable. But it was her inner beauty that pulled him. And her strength. Not just with Fyrste, but with her circumstances. How many women had he met in his thirty-two years who could face a situation as daunting as hers and function as well as she was? Nicolas admired her intelligence, her unique sense of humor, her willingness to help on the estate, her sincere interest in Stefan. And as they spent time together, a true friendship grew between them.

  Dressing for the Ball, Nicolas saw the potential for so much more hovering on the horizon.

  He wanted more.

  And that scared the piss out of him.

  Chapter Eleven

  May 1, 1819

  Nicolas decided that he and Sydney would pick up Rickard and Lily in the Hansen landau, driven by John Spencer, and they would ride to the McGovern’s May Day Ball together. That way, he could keep an eye on Rick.

  Nicolas was under no misdirection as to why he and Sydney were invited so often to dine with Rickard and Lily: Lily wanted him and Rickard wanted Sydney. The problem was Nicolas didn’t want Rickard to have Sydney. Truthfully, until her situation was revealed, no one should have Sydney. And that resolve was how Nicolas got through each blessed day in her company.

  What surprised—no, irritated—him was how willing Sydney was to go. Lily’s disdain was not even thinly veiled. Her jibes and cuts were rude at best, and often cruel. Of course, all of her words floated on honeyed tones and were punctuated by overly innocent smiles and batting lashes. Nicolas could only wonder how Sydney managed not to scratch the girl’s eyes out.

  When they reached the McGovern estate, Rickard stepped out first and handed Sydney down. Nicolas watched Rickard’s eyes sweep over her perfectly fitted, seductively red dress with its low bust line and corseted waist. Sydney slipped her arm through Rickard’s.

  “We’ll meet you inside,” Rickard said, his attention never leaving Sydney. Tucked close beside his shoulder, he led her up the path to the brightly lit manor, alive with festively dressed Missourians.

  Nicolas stepped out of the landau and offered his hand to Lily while his cool gaze trailed after the other couple. When she didn’t take his hand, he looked back to see what was amiss.

  Lily narrowed her turquoise eyes as she poised in the doorway of the landau. Laying her small hand in Nicolas’s much larger one, she didn’t let go once she reached the ground. Instead, she looked up at him and squeezed her elbows inward, causing her dress to gape, and her already displayed cleavage to deepen. She lifted her hand for Nicolas to kiss.

  “Shall we go in?” she purred as she snuggled under his arm.

  Silent and unsmiling, Nicolas escorted Lily into the Ball.

   

  In the brightly lit ballroom, Sydney saw the men of Cheltenham huddled in one corner loudly discussing the economic climate of the country to the obvious dismay of the women they brought. Nicolas and Lily stepped close to where she stood with Rickard. His expression was lethal and she wondered why.

  Ashton Caldecott was once again the source of current news. “It’s now officially called The Panic of 1819. Land values are dropping everywhere. In Pennsylvania, they’ve gone from one hundred and fifty dollars an acre to just thirty-five now!”

  “Have you still got land there, Hansen?” Lee Matthews asked.

  “I do. But I’ve no plans to sell it.” Nicolas raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps I should buy more, eh?” A few of the men chuckled.

  Ash
ton shook his head. “In Lexington, factories worth upwards of half a million dollars are standing idle.” Several men began to mutter at that.

  Hearing the name ‘Lexington’ thrummed a chord in Sydney. She closed her eyes and tried to pin down the elusive wisp of knowledge, but it evaporated before she could grasp it.

  “Sydney?” Rickard whispered. “Are you ill?”

  She opened her eyes and forced a smile while her gaze shifted to Nicolas and back. “I’m fine. The news is distressing, however.”

  Rickard pulled her away from the group. “Let’s get some punch, shall we?”

  Once Rickard and Sydney broke away, other women retrieved their men and put a stop to the dismal conversation. The general mood lifted over punch and food. A string quartet tuned up to play.

  The May Day Ball evolved into a sensory kaleidoscope of color, music, food and drink. By now, most of the landowners from Cheltenham’s surrounding estates had heard about Sydney’s unfortunate situation. Guests greeted her, introduced themselves, and expressed sympathy along with hopes for the recovery of her memory.

  Sydney was surprised to find she was a celebrity of sorts. The toasts to her health alone were taking their toll on her sobriety and she wondered if she would make it through dinner.

  Rickard never left her side, always touching, reassuring or steadying her. Feeling giddy, she grinned into his amazing eyes and leaned up for a spontaneous kiss from his perfect lips.

  “Madam, you’re drunk,” he murmured in her ear. The heat of his breath shivered down her neck and warmed her chest. “Let’s step outside for some fresh air, shall we?”

  Sensible that a break from the toasting was needful, she stumbled when she stepped from the paved walkway onto the manicured lawn. Rickard caught her. She sank gratefully onto an ornate iron bench and took deep breaths of the outdoor air. Rickard sat close beside her.

  “Lord, you’re beautiful.” He nuzzled her hair.

  “So are you,” Sydney responded, lifting her face to his.