A Prince of Norway: Nicolas & Sydney: Book 2 (The Hansen Series - Nicolas & Sydney)

by Kris Tualla

  “And has the work here suited you?”

  “Very much.”

  “And your wife?” Nicolas prodded.

  “She has been content as well.”

  Nicolas clapped his hands together. “Good! And have you made plans for your future?”

  “Um, no. Not yet.” His brows dipped.

  “Might you consider staying on here?”

  Jeremy shifted in his seat. “You heard about the troubles, sir. It was because of Anne. I expect you’ll need to consider that before you make me an offer of employment.”

  Nicolas pushed up from his chair and grabbed the brandy flask from the drawer. He poured himself a glass and held the flask out to Jeremy in silent question. Jeremy shook his head.

  “Was it just the one incident with the fire?” Nicolas stared at the pewter flask, his thumb rubbing the smooth metal.

  “There were words now and again.” Jeremy shrugged. “There always are.”

  Nicolas lifted his chin. “Do you and Anne wish to stay?”

  Jeremy blinked. “I, uh, well we,” he stammered. “That is… yes.”

  “Then consider it done.” Nicolas dropped the heavy pewter flask into the drawer with a resounding thunk.

  Jeremy stood to face Nicolas. “I don’t wish to put your family in danger.”

  Nicolas rested his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder and shook it gently. “Anyone who lives in my house, lives under my protection. I don’t wish your family to be in danger.”

  “Are you certain of this?”

  Nicolas allowed one corner of his mouth to lift. “I could have been the king of Norway, son! But I chose to return to this place. Rest assured I’ll guard it, and all of its inhabitants, with my very life.”

  “Thank you, Mister Hansen.”

  “There is another matter I wish to discuss.” Nicolas dropped back into his leather chair. He motioned for Jeremy to sit as well. “I have decided it’s time for John and Addie to retire.”

  Jeremy nodded. “All right, sir.”

  “Anne will take over Addie’s responsibilities and you will take over John’s. Your salary will be doubled.”

  “Yes—what?” Jeremy cocked his head, disbelieving. “Did you say ‘doubled’?”

  “I did. And Anne will be paid as well, of course.”

  Jeremy sat back, stunned. “Room, board and a salary for each of us?”

  Nicolas waved his hand. “It’s what I did for the Spencers. It is only fitting that I do the same for you, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, if you say so.” Jeremy reddened. “God bless you, Mister Hansen!”

  Nicolas lifted the brandy glass in toast. “He has, Mr. McCain. He most certainly has!”

  Chapter Thirty Six

  September 5, 1821

  Nicolas rode into the yard as the day’s last rays snuck through a bank of clouds, piercing the western sky. He slid out of the saddle and popped his head in the back door.

  “Anne? I am returned!”

  “Yes, Mister Hansen. Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”

  Addie shuffled to the door. “Will Rick be joining us tonight?” she called after Nicolas.

  He stopped and turned around, Fyrste’s reins in his hand. “Rick? Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”

  Addie waved her hand. “Oh, it’s not important.” She returned to her seat at the kitchen table. Nicolas shrugged and continued to the stable.

  “Did you leave your plans with the mason?” Sydney asked as Nicolas held her chair for dinner.

  Nicolas walked around and sat across from her. “I did. He expects to begin in three weeks. He’ll order the stone tomorrow.” Nicolas picked a piece of meat from the platter and dropped it in his mouth. “Mm-mm! That’s delicious!” He forked several slices onto his plate. “Did you meet the new teacher?”

  “We did. The boys and I walked to the school.”

  “And how is she?” Nicolas paused in the spooning of potatoes.

  “He. And he seems quite capable. His name is Michael O’Grady. He appears to be in his forties. His wife was there, helping to prepare the classroom. They have three grown daughters, none of whom are married, and all of whom are teachers in southern Illinois, which is where they hail from.” Sydney lifted her wineglass in a toast. “Mr. O’Grady’s wife, Winnie, is from St. Louis originally and that is what drew them back to this side of the Mississippi.”

  “You did not happen to discover his shoe size in the inquisition, did you?”

  Sydney laughed. “No, but I did warn him that he is the fourth Cheltenham teacher in as many years. So he may have a bit of catching-up to do!”

  Nicolas leaned back. “How did Leif take to him?”

  “He seemed somewhat overwhelmed, but Mr. O’Grady sat him down in a desk, and showed him where his books and slate go. I believe he’ll do fine.”

  “At the least, his English is much improved. And he seems to be gaining weight, finally.”

  Sydney forked her beans. “Is his work here satisfactory?”

  “Yes. I have no complaints.” Nicolas tore a chunk of bread to sop up his gravy.

  Sydney glanced over her shoulder. She leaned toward Nicolas and lowered her voice. “Did you get Stefan’s gift?”

  Nicolas nodded. “I hid it in the stable. I’ll bring it inside after he is in bed.”

  Sydney giggled.

  Nicolas slapped his forehead. “That’s it! I should have thought of it!”

  “What?”

  “Addie asked me if Rick was joining us tonight because tomorrow is Stefan’s birthday!” Nicolas grinned at her. “She’ll be mighty pleased with the end of that particular tradition, I’ll wager.”

  September 27, 1821

  A train of three wagons lumbered into the Hansen yard, laden with quarried limestone blocks. Nicolas had already dug out and leveled a trough for the foundation, so the mason and his two Negro slaves unloaded the stones and set them along the edge. It took them until dark to do so.

  The men set up camp next to the paddock where their six Clydesdales grazed. They cooked over a fire and slept in the wagons. St. Louis was too far away to travel back and forth, and money spent for lodging in Cheltenham was “as foolish as tossin’ it in a half-full privy!” the mason explained. “This’ll do.”

  Nicolas hadn’t paid much attention to the men that first day; he was busy finishing the cover over the safe-hole he built under the floor in the dining room. Covered by the polished floor planks and a wool Turkish carpet, no one would find it on their own. The gold from Norway was now tucked securely inside, though the dragon still stood guard over the front yard and took regular thrashings from Stefan and Leif’s swords.

  On the second morning, he met with the mason and offered him a cup of coffee. The man readily accepted. They sat on the back porch and confirmed the building plans while one of the slaves tied guide strings to posts at each end of the foundation. The other mixed the mortar.

  The slave mixing the mortar, Nicolas noticed, always seemed to be swinging his back in Nicolas’s direction. That was odd, but there wasn’t any reason he could think of that it mattered. The man meant nothing to him, and as long as he did his job there was no problem.

  The base of the wall and the first layer of stone were done by the end of the day. Nicolas inspected the job and complimented the mason.

  “Thank ye, sir.” He turned to the slaves. “Git that fire goin’ now! I’m hungry enough to eat that chicken raw!”

  “Have you enough food?” Nicolas waved toward the chicken coop.

  “Yeah, I can’t even eat the whole chicken myself!” the mason declared.

  “What about them?”

  “Who? Them darkies?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Aw, they get all the innards. Darkies love the innards!”

  Nicolas thought he saw one of the men straighten and start to turn around. But he stilled and pulled a deep breath that lifted his broad shoulders. It occurred to Nicolas that the man might be hungry. Splittin
g the guts of one chicken between two hardworking men would make a puny meal. But he sensed that if he interfered, the mason might take his irritation out on the men.

  And yet, Missouri was a still slave state. Nicolas had no right to meddle.

  The next day Nicolas began to knock out the granite blocks for the doorway to the new rooms. He put Leif and Stefan in charge of hauling them out of the way when they returned from school that afternoon. Jeremy helped him to finish the edges before dark.

  The sun lowered in the early autumn sky and the air chilled. Nicolas jumped down through the new doorway into the new room to take measurements for the floorboards they would cut the next day. Hurrying his task, he stepped backward and collided with one of the slaves.

  “Oh! Sorry!” Nicolas turned to face him. Their eyes met.

  A ripple of recognition passed through the other man’s eyes before his lids lowered and he turned away. He climbed out of the stone enclosure and trotted off toward the wagons.

  Nicolas watched him go, puzzled and unable to put his finger on why.

  The third day was unseasonably warm for the last day of September. The walls were getting taller more quickly, now that they reached the level where doors and windows left open spaces. Jeremy framed the windows, and Nicolas, the doorways. The five men worked in near silence, sweating through the hot afternoon. One slave climbed a ladder to replenish the bucket of mortar when his grip, wet with sweat, slipped. The bucket tipped and dumped mortar onto the other Negro.

  “Le condamner de dieu vous, vous le noir stupide!” he exploded. He pulled off his ruined shirt and threw it on the ground. Without looking back, he stomped to the pump and helped himself to water.

  Nicolas froze, his heart pounding.

  The man’s back was a web of scars. Could it be? Jack?

  Nicolas went back to his task, though he was too distracted to see what he was looking at. Jack and his wife—what was her name?

  Sarah.

  Runaway slaves. He caught them stealing a chicken from his coop just over a year ago as the couple made their way north. Sydney shamed him by giving them her iron skillet and a quilt before he gave them two chickens.

  So they had not made it to safety.

  “Skitt,” Nicolas muttered and pretended to re-measure the door frame.

  Sarah was pregnant. They had already walked an ungodly number of miles by the time they reached Cheltenham. What happened to her? And the child?

  Nicolas turned to look at the other side of the door frame and stared past it to the Negro rinsing himself under the pump. Nicolas was sure it was him, now. The man had been educated and carried himself well. Yes, that was him.

  Now what should he do?

  September 30, 1821

  Sydney lay across Nicolas, her back against his chest and his hands exploring her body. She got gooseflesh from his touch. He loved to do that to her.

  “Min presang, you take my breath away,” he sighed.

  She hummed a wordless response. One hand reached behind her and stroked his scalp, giving him gooseflesh in return. “Can you close the window some?” she purred. “The breeze is a little chilly.”

  “Whatever you wish, wife,” he whispered in her ear and proceeded to tickle it with the tip of his tongue.

  With a chuckle, Sydney rolled off him. “You wear me out, husband!”

  Nicolas sat on the edge of the mattress, his feet dropping firmly to the wood floor. From the bedroom window he could see the red glow of the campfire coals across the yard. He turned back to Sydney.

  “Do you remember those runaway slaves?”

  She lay on the bed, unmoving in the aftermath of her satisfaction. “The pregnant girl and the man with the whipped back? Of course. Why?”

  Nicolas gazed out the window again. “Jack is here.”

  She sat up. “Jack?” She scrambled off the bed crossed to the window, though there wasn’t anything discernable to see. “Is he with the mason?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  Nicolas shook his head and shrugged. “For what purpose?”

  “Don’t you wonder what happened to them? To Sarah? And the baby?”

  Nicolas’s jaw flexed. He didn’t respond.

  Sydney’s gaze shifted up to him. “Nicolas?”

  “Of course I wonder!” he snapped. “I have not thought of aught else all evening.”

  Sydney crossed her arms and raised one dark and delicate brow. “All evening, is it?”

  Nicolas had to laugh at that; his tension lightened some. “Well except for the one passionate interlude, that is.”

  Sydney walked back to the bed. “What will you do?”

  Nicolas followed and leaned on the footboard. “Nothing, I suppose.”

  “Nothing?” she prodded.

  He snorted. “Or try to talk to the man and see what information I may get.”

  “For what purpose?” Sydney whispered his words. “Merely to satisfy our curiosity?”

  Nicolas pulled a deep breath and hissed it out slowly between his teeth.

  “That I cannot say.”

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  October 1, 1821

  Nicolas brought the mason a plate of fresh apple muffins and a cup of coffee.

  “Mind if I offer these to your boys?” he asked. “Might encourage them to work harder.”

  “A whippin’ll do that!” the mason scoffed, then waved in their general direction. “I don’t care. Just don’t get ‘em used to it.”

  Nicolas sauntered over to where the Negroes sat. He held out the plate. The one man took two, but Jack only stared at the ground.

  “Here, take this to the house,” Nicolas ordered the first man. He grabbed the last two muffins and handed the man the empty plate. “Go on, now!” The man bobbed his head and hurried off.

  Nicolas stood in front of Jack and pretended to look at the sky. “Where is Sarah?” he murmured.

  Jack startled and looked up. Nicolas repeated the question still examining the few clouds on the horizon.

  “St. Charles,” he rasped.

  “Where were you caught?”

  “St. Louis.” Jack cleared his throat and stood. He spoke in a louder voice, “No, sir, I don’ think it’s gonna rain. No sir.”

  The other slave stopped next to them. Nicolas handed the muffins to Jack and strode back to the house.

  He wasn’t able to find another chance to speak privately to Jack until the late afternoon. By that time, it clearly was going to rain. Lightning hissed and thunder shouted. Drops the size of cherries bounced off the dry ground. Nicolas helped the three men move their camp supplies into the stable.

  “You might sleep up there tonight.” He pointed at the hayloft. “And if the weather doesn’t slow, please have dinner at the house.”

  “Thank ye, sir.” The mason nodded. “I believe I will.”

  ***

  Under cover of a trip to the privy, Nicolas ran to the stable. The mason hadn’t thought to allow the Negroes to eat, so he made sure Jeremy took them a basket of food. He stepped inside and shook water from his hair. The two slaves sat on hay bales in front of the stalls, the basket of food between them. They gazed at him by the light of a single lamp.

  “Are you finished?” He could not think of aught else to say.

  “No,” Jack answered. “No, we are not.”

  The other man turned to him. “Jack,” he warned.

  “Hush, Silas! I’ll give the man his basket when I am good and ready!” Jack snapped.

  Silas’s eyes rounded. He ducked his head.

  “What did you say to me?” Nicolas growled, taking the bait.

  “I spoke English. Did you not understand me?”

  “Insolent nigger! You!” He pointed at Silas. “You take that basket to the house. Don’t come back until I come get you!” Nicolas rolled up his sleeves and clenched his fists. Silas was out the door so fast, he left a wake.

  “I’ll teach you to talk to your betters that w
ay!” Nicolas shouted. He slammed his palm against the wall. Jack stood up and threw a bale of hay at the door. Then another.

  The men stopped and listened. They only heard the rain.

  “We haven’t much time,” Nicolas began. “Tell me what happened.”

  Jack paused, as if deciding how honest to be. “We got to St. Louis, but the man we were to meet never showed up. We were caught when we tried to buy food.”

  “You were sold?”

  “Yes, to the mason. Ignorant jackass.” Jack spat on the ground.

  “Sarah?”

  Jack turned away. “She was sold to a brothel.”

  “The child?”

  Jack shrugged.

  “Was it a live birth?”

  Jack shrugged again. “I have not seen or spoken to her since that day.”

  “Å min Gud.”

  “Mon Dieu.” Jack echoed.

  The only sound in the stable was the rain beating the new roof. Fyrste nickered to his master. Nicolas crossed over and stroked the stallion’s muzzle while he pondered what to do next.

  “You better hit me.” Jack pointed to his cheek. “It won’t hurt so bad here.”

  Nicolas nodded. He reluctantly grasped Jack’s chin with his left hand, and planted his right fist perfectly on the younger man’s cheekbone. He shook out his hand to relieve the sting. “Sorry.”

  The Negro nodded while his fingers explored the swelling. “That will do. I’ll pretend to have a cracked rib as well.”

  Nicolas offered his hand. Jack hesitated, then shook it with a warm, firm grip. Nicolas walked back to the house, glad the rain disguised the tears of anger and frustration he couldn’t hold back.

  October 3, 1821

  The walls were nearly completed. The men would be leaving soon.

  Nicolas stood in his bedroom and looked down at the addition beneath him. He toyed with the crown he had given Sydney on her birthday. Sunlight tipped into the window and played through the stones; captured lightning. The gold grew warm in his hand. He didn’t hear her come in.

  “What are you pondering so soberly, husband?” Sydney wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned against his back.