A Woman of Choice

by Kris Tualla

  “A trip to St. Louis sounds wonderful. I only have one request.”

  “And that is?”

  “Might we take the wagon instead of the landau? I don’t believe I could stand two hours in this heat in a closed conveyance.” It made her nauseated just to consider it.

  “That’s fine with me! It leaves more room for supplies. And I believe the weather should hold.”

  “Thank you.” Sydney lifted her wine glass. “What day shall we leave?”

  “There’s no time like the present, is there? Let’s go tomorrow.”

  Sydney’s eyes rounded and her glass hit the table. She didn’t notice the spillage.

  “Tomorrow!”

  Nicolas grinned wickedly. “Do you have so much to pack that you need more time?”

  “Aren’t you so very amusing!” she snipped.

  Then she consented to smile; his rare jest was funny. She hopped up and ran to the kitchen door, almost leveling Addie.

  “We’re going to St. Louis tomorrow! Can you please help me get ready?” she squeaked.

  “Tomorrow is it? Well, I suppose so.” Addie smiled at Nicolas. “That sounds like a wonderful plan!”

  Sydney was halfway down the hall to the stairs when she stopped and turned around. She hurried back to Nicolas, still sitting in the dining room. She threw her arms around his shoulders and planted a solid kiss on his cheek.

  June 15, 1819

  Stefan asked if he could go to St. Louis as well, but Nicolas told him no.

  “What would Wolf do without you here?” Sydney attempted to soften his disappointment. “You have to take care of him.”

  “He could come, too,” Stefan suggested.

  Sydney shook her head and volleyed a warning look at Nicolas, whose mouth sprung open to chastise his son. He snapped it shut.

  “Hotels don’t let lambs sleep in the rooms,” she explained. “And they don’t let little boys sleep in the stable.” Sydney had anticipated Stefan’s next point with accuracy. He snapped his mouth shut in uncanny imitation of his father.

  After breakfast, Nicolas hitched the wagon to the matched set of bays. In the back was Sydney’s borrowed satchel, along with several bags of wool and the wolf pelt. Sydney donned a wide-brimmed gypsy hat, courtesy of Addie, and tied the ribbon under her chin.

  Nicolas occupied well over half of the wagon seat with his wide stance. While the road to St. Louis was oft-traveled, that didn’t make it smooth. Sydney tried to stay on her side of the bench, but every time they hit a bump she slid into Nicolas.

  “You can fidget for the next two hours, or you can relax against me,” he said. “I don’t mind the relaxing, but I’m afraid the fidgeting will begin to wear on me!”

  Relieved, Sydney did relax against him. His solidity was such a comfort, even though his body was rock hard.

  It was time to stop that particular train before it went too far. She cast about for a topic they hadn't already discussed to death. “Tell me about your schooling, Nicolas. What was it like out here on the edge of civilization?”

  He pulled a face and glanced sideways at her. “What?”

  “You know what I mean," she scolded.

  He chuckled. “Do you mean how could us bumpkins learn our ciphers and letters without city folk to keep us straight? ”

  Sydney stuck her tongue out at him and he laughed.

  “My mother taught Gunnar and me until I was seventeen,” he began, still grinning. “That’s how I learned Norse. Then she sent me to Pennsylvania to her parents. I studied at a college in Philadelphia for two years, and then I went to Norway for a year.”

  “A year in Norway? How exciting!”

  Nicolas raised an eyebrow at her. “That’s one way to view it, I suppose.”

  “You had the opportunity to explore your heritage, a chance to know your history. To meet your distant family! That must have been wonderful, wasn’t it?”

  “In actuality, it was they who wanted to know me. It was a journey of obligation, you might say.”

  “Obligation?” Sydney was confused. “How were you obligated?”

  Nicolas waved his hand. “My mother’s relatives were concerned about her inheritance. I suppose they wanted to assure themselves that I wouldn’t mishandle it.”

  “And did you survive such scrutiny?”

  “Apparently so, in that I did inherit without a word of objection from them.”

  “Did Gunnar go to Norway as well?”

  “No. He joined the navy when he was nineteen. Been there ever since.”

  Sydney adjusted her straw hat as the wagon and the sun changed angles. “What did you study at the university?”

  “Latin, literature, world history. And I had classes in business, law and a bit of engineering. At any rate, I knew where I would live and what my life would be like, so I studied whatever suited me at the time.”

  Sydney thought about that. “I wonder if I went to school.”

  “Well, do you know about Plato? Or Socrates?” Nicolas quizzed.

  “Yes.”

  “How about Leonardo de Vinci? Michelangelo? Shakespeare?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you speak Latin?”

  “I understand the Mass.” That statement was made without pause. It was one more confirmation about her identity.

  “Greek? French?”

  Sydney laughed. “I doubt it…”

  “Do you know about the war against England in 1776?”

  “And crazy King George? Yes, I do.”

  “The Renaissance? The Middle Ages? The Dark Ages?”

  “Yes, yes and yes.”

  “Well, you’re not ignorant.” Nicolas scratched his head. “And you speak intelligently. It’s my opinion that you were schooled somewhere, and schooled well at that.”

  Sydney warmed inside; Nicolas’s honest evaluation of her as an intelligent and educated woman pleased her. She suddenly realized that she wanted a man to be attracted to her mind, not only her gender. Had she always felt that way? That was a revelation with ramifications she would ponder later. For now, she relaxed against him a little more.

  The ride was long, and quite warm, much of it drenched in dust and midday sun. Sydney felt light-headed, and she told Nicolas so. He pulled the wagon off to the side of the road and opened a flask of water for her, which she gulped down gratefully.

  “Can you rest on my leg?” He slid to one side of the bench seat.

  Sydney leaned over and rested her head in Nicolas’s lap. It wasn’t perfect, but it helped. She nodded to Nicolas and he slapped the reins, urging the horses to move forward again. Sydney closed her eyes. Nicolas’s hand rested comfortably on her hip. The creaking of the wagon and the rhythmic clomping of eight iron-clad hooves replaced their conversation.

  As the wagon crossed into St. Louis, Nicolas woke Sydney. There were houses and businesses and people and horses and wagons and noises everywhere. The air was dustier than in Cheltenham, and carried the busy scents of smoke, hot tar and hot humanity. She sat up and stretched, stiff from sleeping in the awkward position.

  Nicolas turned their wagon around the corner of a large warehouse and she saw the vast Mississippi River, its surface studded with a myriad of diamonds sparkling in the sun. She smelled water and fish and mud. The calls of the dock workers echoed off the warehouse walls.

  “I’ll settle the horses and wagon at a livery, and then we’ll go eat lunch,” Nicolas said. “I’ll have our things sent ahead to the hotel.”

  At that moment, Sydney realized she was starving.

  “I am glad to hear it. Do you like fish?”

   

  Nicolas, with Sydney on his arm, entered his favorite St. Louis establishment. It was a tavern that sold what he felt was the best fried catfish in the world.

  Sydney covered her nose the moment they entered the front door. She pulled back and shook her head. “I’m afraid some of the fish has gone bad. Something doesn’t smell right at all.”

  Nicolas sniffed
the air. It smelled fine to him; strongly fishy, to be certain, but that was expected. Disappointed, he offered, “My second favorite establishment sells barbeque.”

  “That sounds better.”

  Inside that tavern, Nicolas and Sydney sat at a table by a window. The place was crowded, much more so than the fish place. Sydney said that was an encouraging sign. Nicolas ordered beer for them both while they waited for their food. Sydney sipped hers and watched the rush of people outside. She looked happy and Nicolas was pleased to be there.

  His contentment was short-lived however, when a buxom woman of his age, whose mode of dress left no doubt of her assets, plopped down on the bench next to him.

  “Nicky!” she squealed with delight. “Where’ve you been? I’ve missed you mightily!” She snuggled closer. “You know you’re my favorite! God love a big man!” Her hand dropped to Nicolas’s lap and grabbed that big part of him.

  Sydney arrested the mug of beer halfway to her lips, and stared saucer-eyed and gape-mouthed at their overly familiar intruder.

  Surprise, followed by recognition, followed by realization, followed by dismay shot through Nicolas’s awareness in as many seconds, ending with the heat of embarrassment that shamed any sunburn he might ever have had. Nicolas looked frantically between the two women, desperate for something to say.

  Sydney slammed her mug on the table and extended her right hand. “I’m Sydney. I’m Nicolas’s houseguest.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Sydney.” The woman was forced to let go of Nicolas to shake Sydney’s hand, much to his relief. He crossed his legs and dropped a protective hand into his lap.

  “I’m Rosie, Nicolas’s—”

  “ROSIE!” Nicolas bellowed to stop her from finishing the incriminating sentence. “It’s—uh—very nice to see you, as well. How long’s it been?”

  He immediately regretted asking that question.

  “Months! Not since you last came to sell pelts! What was that, March?” Rosie counted on her fingers. “You were always so regular!” The implication was his condemnation.

  “That must be my fault, Rosie. I arrived at Nicolas’s home on the first of April.” Sydney smiled oh-so-sweetly at the squirming object of the unwelcome attention.

  “Yes, well, I haven’t had to get away, I mean, had a chance to get away, since then. This is my first trip to St. Louis since March.” Nicolas wondered why he felt the need to explain anything to either one of them.

  “Oh.” Rosie’s gaze trickled over Sydney, slowly and thoroughly.

  In Rosie’s profession, understanding men was a necessary skill. Nicolas reckoned she put it together that he was getting his urges satisfied elsewhere, and that ‘elsewhere’ was sitting across the table from her right now. Never known to burn bridges, especially ones that paid well, Rosie rose to her feet. She patted Nicolas on the shoulder.

  “I hope you enjoy this trip, Nicky. Come see me again when… things… are finished. It was a pleasure, Sydney.” With a wet, tongue-tipped kiss on his cheek, Rosie sailed out of the tavern in a colorful cloud, leaving a wake of lustful looks.

  “Not one word,” Nicolas warned.

  Sydney shook her head in acquiescence and lifted her mug to her grinning lips. Salvation arrived in the form of a large platter of tender barbequed meat, a loaf of warm, yeasty bread and another pitcher of cooled beer.

  Nicolas leaned back in his chair, quite satisfied with the meal, and scratched his belly. He pointed Sydney toward the privy and stood to stretch. Handbills posted by the front door showed a company of actors was performing Taming of the Shrew in a theater not far from their hotel. When Nicolas walked Sydney to their hotel, he asked her about going to the play.

  “I love that play!” Sydney slipped her arm through his. “That sounds wonderful!”

  Good. Forgiven for Rosie.

  Chapter Eighteen

  June 15, 1819

  St. Louis

  Sydney and Nicolas strolled along the river. In spite of the depressed economy, Nicolas received acceptable prices on both the wool and the pelt, so he was in a very good mood. They rounded a corner by a stable and discovered what appeared to be an auction. Curious, they ambled down the rows of livestock. They didn’t find aught that interested them until they reached the last row.

  “Oh, Nicolas, look at her!” Sydney breathed.

  Before he felt her let go of his arm, Sydney stood beside the tall filly. Nicolas reckoned her to be nearly sixteen hands.

  Sydney let the horse sniff her fists. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  A glossy dark brown, the filly had a blaze of white down her scooped nose. Her feathered fetlocks were white as well. The tips of her ears almost touched as she considered Nicolas with intelligent eyes.

  “She’s got Arabian blood,” he observed.

  “Yes,” Sydney agreed. “And my guess is Clydesdale by her size and coloring.”

  A nearly bald man limped up to the two of them. “Aye, you’re both right. She’s a beauty, no?”

  “What made you choose this mix of breeds?” Sydney asked.

  “I didn’t choose it, her Jezebel of a mother did! Some black-hearted stallion wooed her and she gave in. Never did know where he came from or where he got to after.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Three.”

  “Is she saddle-trained?”

  “Not yet. I hoped she’d grow big enough to work the traces with my Clydes, but…” he shrugged.

  Sydney ran her hands over the filly’s sturdy legs, chest and flanks. She smiled up at Nicolas, nearly blinding him. “Wouldn’t she make Fyrste a fine wife?”

  “How much are you asking for her?” Nicolas queried.

  “I can’t sell her outright. I’ve had a couple o’ others askin’ about her, so she’s to the block for certain.”

  Nicolas turned to Sydney. “Looks like we’re staying for the auction.”

  As though she already knew, the horse nuzzled Sydney and rested her head against Sydney’s shoulder. Sydney leaned her forehead against the filly’s in response. Nicolas vowed right then and there to outbid any other interested parties for this particular animal.

  And he did. Nicolas went to plank down the considerable payment. He returned and handed Sydney the ownership paper.

  The filly was in her name.

  Sydney looked up at Nicolas and frowned. “Why did you do that?”

  “She’s yours, look at her,” Nicolas answered with a satisfied shrug. The filly was resting against Sydney’s shoulder again.

  Sydney pushed the paper toward him. “I can’t accept a gift like this! It’s not appropriate.”

  Nicolas pushed her hand back. “Sydney, if you start a new life, you’ll need a horse.”

  “But…”

  Nicolas raised both hands indicating the matter was closed.

  Sydney's voice was oddly pinched. “Thank you, Nicolas.”

  She threw her arms around him and hugged him, her body pressed hard against his. Then she tilted her head back and looked at him with such tenderness that—for a moment—his heart softened and all the possibilities that she embodied surged in. Bright as a midsummer’s dawn, they dazzled him with hope. He had forgotten hope. But hope was a lie. So he hardened his heart once more.

  “We missed the play,” he deflected.

  “That’s fine,” Sydney assured him. “We can go tomorrow. I’m quite exhausted.”

  He took her hand and they walked back to the hotel. “What will you name her?”

  “Fyrste means prince. What is ‘princess’?”

  “Prinsesse.”

  “Then I’ll call her Sessa. She looks royal, doesn’t she?”

  Nicolas smiled at the note of pride in Sydney’s voice, delighted to be the man that put it there.

  “That she does.”

  June 16, 1819

  Nicolas awoke with the first light of day. He lay in bed and thought about Sydney. There were just two weeks until July first, her self-appointed ‘new beginning’ day. It dawn
ed on Nicolas at that moment that he, too, would need to make choices concerning her future.

  With that unconsidered realization, his heart somersaulted and he broke a sweat. He struggled to breathe, pulling deep gulps as unexpected panic hurtled through him. He had stopped making any sort of plans nearly six years ago. Moving habitually through his life, and enjoying the unusual diversion of her company, he had not given any consideration to what came next.

  What would he do?

  More to the point, what would she do? Would she leave Cheltenham? Would she leave him? He didn’t want her to go. But he couldn’t ask her to stay unless he offered her a reason. Unless he offered her hope. Unless he offered her love.

  How could he offer something he couldn’t risk having?

  Nicolas rolled out of bed and relieved himself copiously into the chamber pot. That mundane act helped to restore his equilibrium. He sat on the edge of the bed until he felt like himself again, unaware of how much time passed. Then he dressed.

  When he knocked, Sydney opened her door while brushing her dark, glorious hair. She wore a deep pink cotton summer dress. He liked that color on her very much. She smiled up at him.

  “Good morning. Did you sleep well?” she asked. She set the brush down and twisted her hair into a topknot.

  Denying the panic of his earlier revelation, Nicolas nodded. “I did indeed, madam. And yourself?”

  “I slept as though I were hibernating! But I’m starving now. Do you realize we never ate dinner last night?”

  “I suppose we forgot with the auction and all.”

  “You may make it up to me now.” Sydney grabbed the gypsy hat and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her. “Feed me, Nicolas! Please!”

  In the hotel’s dining room they feasted on freshly baked biscuits and gravy, eggs, ham, grits and coffee.

  Nicolas leaned back and grinned at Sydney.

  “I have always admired the way you can eat,” he commented, that being an honest accolade in his estimation. She raised one eyebrow at him.