Finding Sovereignty: Book 2: Reidar & Kirsten (The Hansen Series - Martin & Dagny and Reidar & Kirsten)

by Kris Tualla

  “But I sincerely appreciate your enquiry, my lady. Thank you,” he finished in English.

  Silence resounded from the second skirt. He relinquished her hand.

  “You should lie back down,” Kirsten chided. “Have you had your supper?”

  “I was given coffee and biscuits just after the clock chimed five,” he said. “Was that my supper?”

  As if to object, his belly rumbled in a most conspicuous manner. The aromas from the family’s coming meal had set his mouth to watering an hour ago, and he prayed there was more substantial sustenance heading in his direction.

  “Of course not!” Kirsten declared. He imagined a glare from daughter to mother. “I’ll have one of the valets assist you.”

  “Thank you, again, for your kindness,” he offered. “Might I ask another indulgence?”

  “What is that?” the mother—whose name was not yet mentioned—asked crisply.

  Reid gave an apologetic shrug. “I am not in any condition for polite company. Would it be possible to bathe and procure clean clothes from my pack?”

  “We don’t have your pack,” Kirsten said softly. “It must have been lost in the fire.”

  There was a fire?

  “You may borrow one of my husband’s shirts while yours is laundered,” the older voice conceded.

  “And trousers? Mine have been destroyed, I’m afraid.” He had to ask, fairly certain that prancing about in only a shirt with his privates banging about would not go over well.

  “Yes. I’ll have the valet see to all of your requests.” The fabric swished away. “Come along, Kirsten. Our guests should arrive at any moment.”

  An ungloved hand squeezed his before all footsteps left the room. The warm scent of cloves, however, remained behind.

  *****

  Kirsten counted to ten—twice—before she addressed her mother. “Why were you so short with him?” she whispered loudly as they entered the formal drawing room.

  Marit Christiansen sank into a chair and considered her daughter somberly. “I can see your interest in him, Kirsten. This is not an appropriate connection, as you are well aware.”

  Kirsten groaned and took a seat facing her mother. “You sent me to Norway when the Declaration was signed, where I spent three years in the questionable safety of your family without making an appropriate connection. It’s time to give up the idea, Mamma.”

  “I cannot. You have a responsibility as my daughter,” her mother reminded her.

  Kirsten shook her head. “You ask too much.”

  Marit waved her hand around the luxuriously appointed room. “And you have gained far too much to be so cavalier about your heritage.”

  Kirsten bit her lips together, quelling the rebellion which bubbled too close to the surface. She accepted a glass of wine from one of their liveried servants and took a calming sip before attempting to speak again. The cannonball she was about to launch was a big one.

  “I’m already twenty-six, Mamma. And I have decided not to marry. Ever.”

  Marit stared at her daughter. “Don’t tease. It’s in bad form.”

  Kirsten shook her head. She could barely summon the courage to look her mother in the eye. “I’m not teasing. The remaining prospects are boys barely shaving, or men too decrepit to fight.”

  Her mother’s smile resembled a cat leaping after a cockatoo. “Then I expect tonight’s events will give you renewed hope.”

  Kirsten glared at her mother, incredulous at the woman’s persistence. “Is this another suitor you have dug up? Is that who our guest is?”

  “And his father. He is a very successful lawyer—and of Danish descent,” her mother chirped.

  “He? Or his father?” Kirsten grumbled. “Or are both men available? Perhaps we could share.”

  A jolt of remembered pain shook her core; her jest was extremely ill-considered. She gulped the remainder of her wine.

  “Watch yourself datter,” her mother warned.

  Kirsten stood and crossed to her mother’s chair. She fell to her knees and clasped her mother’s hand. “Please, Mamma. Don’t do this to me. I don’t wish to marry anyone.”

  Marit’s expression was kind but firm. “You are the only living child your father and I were blessed with. If you don’t marry and have children of your own, then all that I have will be lost to us.”

  Kirsten wanted to say she didn’t care, yet she knew how deeply that statement would hurt her mother. She held her words in check, though their silence made them no less true.

  “Try to enjoy our dinner. You may be pleasantly surprised,” Marit urged.

  Kirsten gave her a weak smile, abandoning the battle for tonight. “Yes, Mamma.”

  Henrik Sven strode into the room. His graying hair was powdered and tied back, and he was neatly dressed in dark green silk. He shot a surprised look at Kirsten on the floor.

  “Get up, girl! I saw the carriage coming up the drive!” he enthused. He clapped his hands together. “I’m glad they are on time. I’m starving!”

  *****

  “Good evening, sir. My name is Horace and I’ll be assisting you with your toilette,” a middle-aged voice finally said, following a prolonged rustle of unrecognizable activity.

  “Thank you, Horace,” Reid said in its direction. “I am at quite a disadvantage as you can see. Because, of course, I can’t.”

  “Yes, sir.” Reid detected the smile in the valet’s tone. “I have placed a screen for your privacy between your bed and the door. There is a small stool for you to rest on as you wash, and oiled cloth beneath it to protect the carpet from water. Shall I help you off the cot?”

  “Yes, please.” Reid swung his feet to the ground, wincing when his right leg bent. “I can’t stand on this leg as yet,” he said indicating the bandage.

  “If you can stand on the one good leg, I have brought a footman, George, to assist you. Lean on him, he’s quite sturdy,” Horace instructed.

  After some highly unaccustomed awkwardness on his part, Reid managed to gain his feet. Or rather, his foot. Horace began to undress him while George faithfully kept him upright and balanced. Once he was stripped to his bare skin, Reid lowered himself to the stool with George’s guidance. Another set of footsteps carried away his clothes. How many men were required to make him presentable, he wondered.

  “Would you like a shave?” Horace asked.

  That sounded like heaven. “I would very much like a shave,” Reid answered.

  He tilted his chin upward and submitted to the soothing routine. Hot towel. Lathered soap. A razor sliding over his skin. The scratchy sound of bristles being harvested. Horace lifted the bottom edge of Reid’s bandage and scraped away the beard trapped beneath. Another hot towel appeared when he finished.

  Reid wiped his cheeks and jaw clean and handed the cooled towel to a grasping hand. He ran his fingers over his smooth skin. He was starting to feel human again. Horace splashed water nearby and placed a dripping cloth in Reid’s hand.

  “Wash yourself freely, sir, and remember the carpet is protected,” he said. “The water is by your right hand and George, behind you, has the soap.”

  Reid felt for the bucket. He used the cloth to wet his skin and then held out his palm for the soap. Bit by bit he washed himself, top to bottom and parts tucked between. Though he tried to keep his movements corralled, the disorientation of his blinded state grew stronger the more he moved. He began to feel a little nauseous. Perhaps his dinner would cure him.

  “Towel?” he asked.

  Dry linens were draped over his shoulder. Reid scrubbed his skin dry, eager to regain his cot. The swish of fabric and the patting of his mattress told him that George was remaking his pallet. Clean sheets were a lot to hope for, but Reid thought himself an optimist. Usually.

  “I have a shirt for you,” Horace said. “Allow me?”

  Reid held up his arms and Horace dropped the garment over his head.

  “Small clothes.” The valet pressed the undergarment into Reid’s hand.r />
  Reid managed to get it on, though his right thigh burned its protest when his leg was forced to bend again.

  “And breeches. I thought they would be more comfortable than trousers. Let me assist you.” Horace slid the legs of the shorter pants over Reid’s feet.

  He and George helped Reid to stand, Reid pulled the breeches to his hips, and Horace fastened the flies. Reid grew lightheaded; the effort of standing after sitting unsupported for an extended amount of activity had drained him.

  “Easy, sir,” Horace warned. “Let’s get you back to bed, shall we?”

  Relief flushed Reid’s frame once he stretched out on the cot. The sheets were clean and smelled like an outdoor breeze. The pillows were nicely fluffed. His main concern, however, was food.

  “I’m hungry,” he croaked.

  “Yes, sir,” Horace replied. “George is going to clean up your bath and I’ll send in your tray immediately after.”

  Reid sighed his contentment. Being clean and wearing clean clothes were luxuries he so seldom enjoyed as a soldier. “Thank you, Horace. And thank you, George.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” they answered in tandem.

  *****

  Kirsten smiled politely at Halvor Nilsen across the dinner table. She had to admit that this son of a lawyer—for it was indeed the father who was successful—had no visible faults at first meeting. He was easy to look at, trim and well groomed, and about six feet tall to Captain Hansen’s six-and-a-half or thereabouts.

  Stop it.

  “I’m sorry, Mister Nilsen, what did you ask me?” she asked when she realized he was staring at her expectantly.

  “Please, call me Halvor,” he said with a smile. “I asked what sort of activities occupy your time.”

  “My daughter is active in service to the community,” Marit answered before Kirsten could speak. “She has a tender heart when it comes to the less fortunate among us.”

  “A Christian attitude is very important in those of higher rank,” Pappa Nilsen approved.

  Halvor returned his regard to Kirsten. “What sort of service, Miss Sven?”

  “In actuality, Haldor—”

  “Halvor,” he corrected.

  Kirsten gave him a small nod. “I am currently acting as nurse for an injured soldier.”

  Halvor’s brows lifted in surprise. “How, uh… noble. Where is this soldier being cared for?”

  “In the parlor.” Kirsten sliced her roasted beef.

  “Here in the house?” Mister Nilsen blurted.

  “We began the practice back in seventy-seven, when Philadelphia was attacked,” Henrik explained. “We gave over the parlor for the treatment and recuperation of wounded American officers.”

  “The numbers have dwindled as the fighting has moved to other areas,” Marit added. “And Kirsten was in Denmark and Norway for most of that time.”

  Halvor appeared relieved. “How long were you in Denmark?”

  Kirsten held up one finger in a silent request for a moment’s grace as she chewed her meat. Halvor waited, unmoving. She swallowed and took a sip of wine before she spoke.

  “I was sent there in 1776 after the Declaration was signed.”

  Halvor relaxed as the conversation seemed less precarious. “And how did you find it there?”

  Kirsten rested her hands in her lap. “To be honest, Hallvard—”

  “Halvor,” he corrected again. The color in his cheeks heightened.

  “I was very homesick for Pennsylvania.” She gave a little shrug. “I am an American in my heart, it would seem.”

  “She did return earlier than we had hoped,” Henrik said. He laid a hand over Kirsten’s. “Though I confess, in spite of the dangerous climate here I was quite happy to see my daughter’s face across my breakfast table once more.”

  Kirsten leaned toward Halvor. “I had been gone three years. That was quite enough for me.”

  “And yet you are currently housing an injured officer?” Nilsen pressed.

  Kirsten saw her mother’s irritation at the man’s persistence displayed in the set of her mouth.

  “There was an unfortunate explosion. The man was carried to our home out of habit.” Marit indicated the decanter with a flourish. “Would you care for more wine?”

  Nilsen nodded. “Yes, thank you. It’s a lovely vintage.”

  A servant stepped forward to pour.

  “Would you care for more wine as well, Hallfred?” Kirsten offered.

  “Hal-vor,” he growled.

  “The captain is on the path to recovery,” Henrik informed their guests. “Soon he’ll be back to fighting those damned British, I assure you.”

  “And I intend to do all that I can to ease the poor man’s suffering and speed his recovery, I promise you that.” Kirsten lifted her wine glass. “I give you American soldiers and their officers.”

  A frown flickered over her mother’s brow. The unacceptability of Kirsten offering the salute deepened a crease in Marit’s forehead, one Kirsten recognized as of her making. Glasses clinked, and wine was sipped even so.

  “I assume you are adequately chaperoned in your service to the man,” Nilsen posited. “A family of such high standing as yours would certainly hold to propriety.”

  “The door to the parlor remains open, if that’s what you are asking,” Kirsten stated. She gave him an innocent look and forked a bite of beans.

  Halvor frowned. “You are alone with the man?”

  Kirsten covered her mouth with her hand and laughed. “He’s quite harmless in his current situation, I assure you. I’ve spent hours by his side, so I know.”

  “I’m not certain that I approve,” Halvor declared, looking like he was about to detonate.

  Marit’s mouth opened and closed. She glared at Kirsten and huffed air out her nose like an angry horse. She looked to her husband but Henrik was no help; he only stared at Kirsten as if she had grown a second nose.

  Kirsten gave everyone at the table the sweetest, most naïve smile she could conjure. Her gaze landed on Halvor and rested there. He smiled cautiously in return.

  “Do you like cloves, Halvdan?”

  The man’s fist hit the table hard, rattling silverware on the china and splashing wine in the goblets.

  “HAL-VOR!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Reid was laughing so hard he was in danger of wetting himself. He curled on his side while carefully keeping his right leg straight, and struggled to not make any sounds. The dining room was close enough to the parlor that Reid could hear the dinner conversation, and he found Kirsten’s sabotage of her mother’s obvious matchmaking unspeakably comical.

  “Hal-VOR!” he wheezed quietly. “Å min Gud!”

  His eyes watered with his hilarity, but the bandages kept him from being able to wipe them. If he was honest, though the tears stung a bit, they felt good.

  After George had cleaned up the mess of his bath, a maid named Elsa helped Reid eat his supper—a situation which was more than a mite humiliating. Reid was far too hungry, however, to risk losing any of his food or soil his clean shirt through blind pride, so he allowed the girl to feed him the very palatable stew. At least he was able to hold his own mug of ale.

  Even sightless he could get that particular liquid to his mouth.

  The earlier knock on the front door drew his attention away from his meal. Reid heard several polite and unmistakably male voices. The voices moved away, and remained unintelligible through the rest of Reid’s meal. But while Elsa was clearing away his dishes, the dinner group moved to the dining room.

  Reid settled back onto his cot, then, for an evening of shameless eavesdropping under the assumption that he would be at the table if he was of sufficient health. Everyone speaking was polite and none of the discussion concerned subjects with any weight. Reid found himself dozing off, lulled by the monotonous conversation, his soothing bath, and a full belly.

  But when Kirsten called Halvor by the wrong name—repeatedly—he began to snicker. Obviously she
was doing it intentionally; the lady was clearly intelligent enough to remember a name. The more variations she found, the more Reid chuckled. And when the man lost his composure, Reid lost his as well, though in an entirely different way.

  “George!” he called out.

  Reid needed a chamber pot and he needed it now. He still laughed and he heard the mirth in his own tone. “George? Can you give me a hand?”

  “Reid?” Kirsten inquired from inside the parlor. “Is something amiss?”

  “You can’t help me with this one, Nurse,” Reid warned, though he still laughed. “Will you summon George?”

  “Of course,” she replied. Reid heard the pique in her tone.

  “Yes, sir?” George asked. Reid heard his footsteps approach.

  “Chamber pot?” Reid croaked.

  “Yes sir.” The sound of the screen being dragged on the carpet preceded George’s grip on Reid arm.

  Reid sat up, turned, and set his feet on the ground. He unfastened his flies. George guided his hands to the edges of the crockery receptacle. Reid relieved himself into the pot.

  “Ah, thank you, George,” Reid said.

  “I’ll empty the pot and place it under your cot, sir,” he replied, handing Reid a wet cloth.

  He wiped his hands and held out the cloth. “Thank you again.”

  Reid fastened his breeches and laid back down. Soon the scramble of footsteps on a hard surface—stone? marble?—proclaimed the end of the social portion of the evening. Mumbled appreciation for the invitation and the hosts’ hospitality echoed in the entry. If Reid was a betting man, he would wager on fireworks exploding any moment, and wondered if he would be lucky enough to hear the blast. Anything to break the monotony of his weakened condition.

  “I beg you, don’t say anything,” Kirsten beseeched. Her voice faded as she continued. “I know that was mean of me, but I want you to please stop trying to marry me off.”

  “If you continue to behave in such a contrary manner, I don’t believe that will be a problem,” her mother snapped. “Do you understand how humiliating that was for your father and I?”