A Woman of Choice

by Kris Tualla

  He untied the twine and lifted the cover to reveal soft buckskin. Sydney ran her hand over the leather and lifted the item from the box. It was breeches. In her size.

  Sydney’s face transformed into pure joy. “Where ever did you find these?”

  “I had them made. If you’re going to keep training horses, you should have your own clothes to do it in. There’s more!” He wagged his finger at the box. Beneath the buckskin breeches was a coffee-colored canvas pair.

  “Those are for summer. I picked the color to match your hair.” Nicolas grinned like a euphoric hyena.

  “I cannot believe you did this!”

  “Keep going.”

  Sydney lifted a piece of paper and discovered two shirts of light-blue cotton chambray, tailored to her size and embellished with feminine tucks and pleats.

  “Oh, Nicolas, this is the nicest gift I’ve ever received. Truly, it is.” She pointed her forefinger at him. “And I have my memory back now, so I know what I’m talking about!”

  Nicolas laughed. “There’s one more article in there. Well, two.”

  Sydney lifted another sheet of paper and looked at him in disbelief. “How did you… where did you…”

  “I drew the seamstress a picture and told her what they were for. She charged me triple because she thought I was joking with her.”

  Sydney lifted two short, boneless corsets from the bottom of the box. Each had rounded cut-outs that fit under her breasts and fabric that would cup and support them. They laced in the back like regular corsets.

  “I honestly don’t know what to say. I’m overwhelmed.”

  Nicolas out-beamed the morning sun. “I’m glad you like them.”

  The bedroom door swung open and Addie backed in with a heavy tray. Nicolas stepped to her aid and carried the food to the bedside table. Sydney held up her new treasures.

  “Look what Nicolas gave me!”

  “Huh.” Addie examined the clothing, her expression a mixture of disbelief and approval. “Good stitching. These must’ve cost a pretty penny! They’re odd, but they’re practical, and I can’t argue with that.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  July 6, 1819

  Rickard returned with the signed divorce decree, along with a second document and a letter from Nelson Ivarsen.

  “I would have gotten back yesterday if it wasn’t for the other document there,” Rickard pointed to the official paper.

  “What's that for?” Nicolas squinted at the swirly script. “A name change?”

  “Exactly so. That old fox persuaded the judge to sign it with the new name left blank. I reckon his argument—that it doesn’t matter what name Sydney chooses—convinced him to go ahead and sign.”

  “It says here that Siobhan keeps both of these documents as proof.” Nicolas looked at Rickard with one eyebrow raised. “It also says how much he’s withdrawing from my account to pay for these bits of legal gold.”

  Rickard helped himself to a glass of brandy. “Good help doesn’t come cheaply.”

  Nicolas considered the papers he held. “I reckon not. At the least, it’s done.”

  Rickard downed the brandy and winked at Nicolas. “Speaking of good help, Rosie sends her regards.”

  Nicolas’s mouth curled in a knowing smile. “Did she help you out, then?”

  “That she did, brother.” Rickard lifted his glass in a toast. “That she did.”

  Nicolas took the documents to Sydney later that afternoon. She

  wore a different nightgown and sat in the slat-backed rocker, her back to the room. He leaned in the doorway and watched Maribeth’s nimble fingers work the snarls from Sydney’s washed hair, restoring its glossy glory. She plaited it tightly to keep it neat. Only then did Nicolas make his presence known.

  “How long were you standing there?” Sydney eased herself back into bed.

  “Only a few minutes or so,” he lied. “You have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen.”

  She pulled a face. “It’s too heavy and straight.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t accept compliments well at times.”

  Sydney shrugged with her left shoulder. “I’m not used to them, I reckon. Devin didn’t compliment me often.”

  Nicolas abruptly realized that Devin Kilbourne, as part of her past, would be part of his future. He wasn’t at all pleased with that revelation. With a soft snort, he handed her the first document.

  “Speaking of which, this is your divorce decree.”

  Her demeanor shrank. “So it’s really over.”

  “It is.” Nicolas waited while she read through it.

  “What’s the other?”

  “A legal name change. I reckon Nelson got his answer about creating a new identity at the same time you found your original one.” He handed it to her. Her brows drew together.

  “If you want to change your name, you fill in your new name here,” Nicolas pointed to the spot, “and it will be legal.”

  Sydney stared at the documents for several, silent minutes. “It’s a strange thing to change one’s name.”

  Though Nicolas couldn’t imagine ever changing his—the Hansens of Arendal, Norway could be traced back for centuries, after all—he pointed out that, “Women do it all the time when they marry.”

  “But first names stay the same.” She looked at him and he was captured by her gray-green gaze. “So which do I change?”

  “To be honest, I’ll call you ‘Sydney’ no matter what you decide,” Nicolas confessed. “It’s who you are to me.”

  “It’s definitely who I’ve become, though I doubt my parents would agree should I be fortunate enough to see them or my brother again.” She considered Nicolas. Her lips pressed and puckered. “I’ll return to my maiden name. But I’ll be Siobhan Sydney Bell.”

  She carefully filled in the paperwork and added both her previous and her brand new signatures. Somberly she handed the documents back to him. Her eyes lifted to his. “It’s done.”

  July 17, 1819

  The nightmarish confrontation that had uprooted, shattered and redefined her life was very nearly three weeks past. Sydney was contemplating her shapeless future in the drawing room when Rickard unexpectedly joined her for afternoon tea. He eased his long frame into the chair closest to her and grinned. He was as achingly beautiful as always.

  “You look well, Sydney. How are you feeling?”

  His dark chocolate voice thrilled her. She passed him the plate of biscuits and poured him some tea. “I’m getting stronger.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  She relaxed in the warmth of his smile. “Nicolas told me about your trips to St. Louis on my behalf. I owe you quite a debt.”

  “I was honored to be of service.” Rickard tipped forward in salute. He inspected his half-eaten biscuit. “What will you do now?”

  There it was, the unresolved question of her life dangled in front of her. A rather large issue was at stake, one that Rickard knew nothing about. And she certainly couldn’t tell him. She sagged a little.

  “I don’t know.”

  “The papers are filed. You’re no longer married.” Rickard set his refreshments down and lifted her hand.

  Sydney startled. He looked nervous; was his palm sweating? That wasn’t like him; he was always so easy-going and confident. He smiled again and his chameleon eyes glowed golden in the afternoon light.

  “May I court you?”

  Sydney’s brow plummeted and she examined Rickard’s handsome face from beneath it. “What!”

  Rickard shifted in the formal chair. “May I please court you?”

  “Why?”

  Rickard shook his head, obviously not anticipating that query. His gaze pinned her. “Because you’re interesting and intelligent. And beautiful.” The next phrase came out one slow word at a time: “And I am very attracted to you.”

  Sydney sat back in her chair and scrambled for a response. There were so many reason
s for her to say no. His friendship with Nicolas, her passion for Nicolas, the child she carried. Only the one irrefutable reason, the one she required from Nicolas, was missing.

  “I’m very flattered, Rickard. I really am.”

  He deflated. “But?”

  Sydney shook her head. How might she say it? “I must be honest with you. I’m not completely unattached.”

  Rickard frowned. “You’re confusing me, Sydney.”

  Sydney picked up her tea, but her hand shook so badly she nearly spilled it. She set the cup down again and shoved her hands under her thighs.

  “I mean, that I’m in love.”

  “Oh! You mean with your husband!” Rickard looked inordinately relieved. “Of course you are, sweetheart. Even after all he did, you can’t be expected to stop loving him overnight. I understand completely.”

  Sydney nodded awkwardly. That was one pathway out of the conversation.

  Rickard ran his knuckle up her arm. “Thank you for your honesty, Sydney. I do appreciate it. So yes, I may court you.”

  “Now you’re confusing me, Rickard.”

  “I’m asking for the chance to—redirect—your affection.” Rickard’s eyes crinkled irresistibly.

  “Oh.”

  “I won’t pressure you, Sydney. We shall proceed at whatever pace you’re comfortable with, and with no assumed outcome.”

  Was the room getting smaller? It was definitely getting warmer. She gulped the last of her lukewarm tea, then feigned wiping a tear.

  “May I have a moment?”

  “Of course!” Rickard graciously carried the jam jar and empty biscuit plate out of the room.

  Sydney pressed her fingertips against her closed eyes. Since she told Nicolas about the baby, he hadn’t said aught about their future together. In fact, he avoided the subject.

  What if he didn’t intend to marry her? Would he allow his child to be born a bastard? Sydney’s acquaintance with Nicolas was less than four months old; and while she believed she understood his character, she could very easily be mistaken. In the meantime, might it be wise for her to explore other opportunities? And might Rickard’s courting force Nicolas’s hand?

  One way or the other, I must provide for myself and the child. I’ve no other choice.

  When Rickard returned to the drawing room, Sydney gave her answer, with the one enormous caveat.

  “Yes, Rickard, you may court me. As long as you truly understand that my heart is presently occupied elsewhere.”

  “Thank you, my darling.” Rickard lifted Sydney’s hand and kissed it tenderly. His tongue brushed her skin sending shivers across her shoulders. “I don’t wish to tire you so I’ll call again in three day’s time. Until then, I pray for your continued recovery.”

  Rickard leaned over and kissed Sydney goodbye. His lips parted, his tongue teased hers, and she was pulled into him. She had forgotten what an excellent kisser—experienced kisser he was. He stood, smiled his beautifully charming smile, and showed himself to the door, leaving her pleasantly dazed on the settee.

   

  That night at supper, Sydney was quiet and uneasy. Nicolas asked if something bothered her, but she insisted it was nothing. He didn’t believe her. Later, when they sat in his study, he asked again, determined to get an answer.

  “Rickard came to visit me today.”

  “Did he? What did he want?”

  Sydney eyed her wineglass. “He wants to court me.”

  Disbelief skewered Nicolas. “Court you? What does that mean?”

  Sydney rolled her eyes and tossed him a look. “It means what you think it means.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I wasn’t completely unattached.”

  Nicolas waited, unsuccessfully submerging his discomfort. There must be more. Of course there was more.

  “He got the idea that I’m still in love with Devin.”

  That unsettling thought was new to Nicolas and detoured his original concern. “Are you?”

  “No.” Sydney shook her head. “Not at all.”

  Prematurely relieved, Nicolas sipped his brandy. “So that was the end of the discussion.”

  “Well, no. It wasn’t.”

  “He still wants to court you?” he asked, incredulous.

  “He does.”

  Nicolas felt unexplained pressure in his chest. He drew a deep breath and rubbed his aching breastbone. “You didn’t give him permission?”

  “I have no reason to deny him.” She stared at him then, and her eyes threw gray-green javelins aimed at his heart. “Do I?”

  “No reason?” Nicolas was astonished. And angry. Very angry. “No reason! What am I to you, then?”

  “You’re the man I love. But—”

  “But what?” Nicolas thundered as he leapt to his feet. He began pacing the room with quick, jerky strides. He needed to hit something. Hard. He punched his stuffed leather chair. “Skitt!”

  Sydney stood and reached for his arms. When she grabbed him he rounded on her, the anger surging through him crackling dangerously in the charged atmosphere. Why wasn’t she afraid of him?

  “You and I haven’t decided what to do,” she declaimed.

  Nicolas’s frantic glance blew around the room, and then landed back on her.

  She struck him with, “You’ve not made me an offer for the future. Perhaps you’ve no intention to do so.”

  Her eyes were intense, dark-fringed squalls and Nicolas was lost in them. He imagined he couldn’t breathe.

  “Until you make your decision, Nicolas, I cannot afford to ignore other possibilities.” Sydney’s voice lowered. “After all, there’s the child to consider.”

  His plans rent by that bolt of lightening, Nicolas saw the gaping hole. When he decided to marry Sydney after the baby, he didn’t consider that she might not wait for him. He was blown under again.

  “Does Rickard know about the child?” he managed.

  “No.” An emphatic shake of Sydney’s head punctuated the denial. “That’s between you and me, and shall stay that way as long as necessary. Or possible. As we agreed.”

  Nicolas gently pulled his arms from Sydney’s grip and he sagged into his chair.

  His choices were clear, then. Either offer to marry Sydney, or bide his time and let Rickard press his case. Judging by his past, Rickard wouldn’t be in any rush to settle down. And when he does find out about the child, that will certainly cool his ardor.

  At the least, it would buy Nicolas time.

  Resigned to how he thought things must be for now, he pulled Sydney to him. He held her on his lap and dragged himself from the emotional whirlpool, breathing easier again. He wished he could feel differently, but he couldn’t deny his loathing for the menace growing in her womb.

  “I understand,” he relented. “I don’t care for it one whit, but I understand.”

  “Jeg elsker deg,” Sydney whispered thickly.

  “Jeg elsker deg også,” Nicolas replied.

  He hated that she meant it with the entire fabric of her being.

  July 20, 1819

  “I need to go home.”

  Nicolas gaped across the table at Sydney. “Go home? What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

  “Carondelet. Where my house is. And all my belongings,” she explained. Did he believe she was leaving him?

  “Do you intend to live there?”

  “Not unless you’re throwing me out.” Sydney hoped she was joking. “But I do need to go back and get my own clothes and things.”

  He relaxed then. “I hadn’t considered that, but it’s certainly a reasonable idea. We can make it there and back in one day if we get an early start.”

  “Do you mind?”

  Nicolas covered her hand with his. His palm was a little damp. “Of course not. When do you wish to go?”

  “Can we go tomorrow?”

  “Are you certain you are recovered enough?” he asked, surprised.

  “I believe so. It's three weeks,
now. And every day I linger only postpones the time when I can say this nightmare is finally behind me…” Sydney blinked back the sting in her eyes. “Can you understand that?”

  Nicolas nodded. “Absolutely. We’ll leave at sunrise.”

  As it turned out, the sun didn’t rise. The morning dawned overcast and still, covered with clouds that held no rain, only humidity. Sydney sat next to Nicolas on the small bench of the wagon, and leaned against him.

  “Now that you have your memory, I get to ask you questions.” Nicolas slipped his arm around Sydney’s waist and drove the pair of bays with one hand. “Tell me about your marriage.”

  She nodded, but didn’t speak for several minutes.

  “Devin was my teacher in Shelbyville, Kentucky. When I was seventeen, he asked my father if he might court me. He asked me to marry him when I was nineteen. We left Kentucky right after the wedding so Devin could take the teaching position in Carondelet.”

  “When your parents were none too pleased about you coming to Missouri,” he interjected, remembering one of their early conversations. He saw her turn toward him from the corner of his eye.

  “Yes. Yes, that’s right. Then two and a half years ago, Devin agreed to hold classes in Webster Grove part of the time because they had lost their teacher.”

  Sydney reached behind the wagon seat for the water jug. She took a long swallow and hesitated again. She seemed to be pondering her story as she told it, reconsidering portions in light of recent events.

  “Rodger grew up in Webster Grove and went back to teach there after finishing normal school. But Devin still made regular trips; he said it was to help Rodger get established.” Sydney’s voice caught. Nicolas knew she was thinking—the same as he—about Devin’s recently revealed and much less altruistic motive.

  “You were married eleven years but had no children?” he asked.

  Sydney stared at the road ahead. “There were two babies. Both boys. Both born too early. They never breathed.”