by Kris Tualla
He felt odd being back in Philadelphia. His first trip here was extended by unplanned devastation. His second visitation was for the trial and subsequent hanging of the sympathizer-turned-assassin. Neither visit was particularly pleasant.
Yet through those situations, he met Kirsten. Reid believed in God strongly enough to think that He might have orchestrated events to turn out as they had. And if Reid hadn’t been such a fool, his words would have won the girl, not repulsed her. Even so, he had faithfully returned to repair things between them.
Please, Father, grant me the right words.
Reid soaped his shortened hair feeling bits of sand rinse loose from his scalp. He had saved one clean shirt and one pair of trousers throughout his travels, knowing he couldn’t appear at the Sven mansion looking and smelling as he did today. In addition, he needed his coat brushed and spotted, and his boots polished before he could visit.
His belly rumbled. He looked at the clock. The hour of four past noon was rather early for supper, but Reid only had the last bit of venison and one biscuit for breakfast. There was no midday meal for him.
He stood in the tub, water splashing from his pinkened skin, and reached for the linen towels. He blotted himself dry, enjoying the cool evaporation on this warm August afternoon. He stepped from the tub and dried his lower legs and feet. Being clean and unclothed felt good on this hot day.
Reid caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He frowned and twisted to get a better look.
“I thought I was in fine shape when I was a soldier,” he muttered. “Apparently I was mistaken.”
The weeks of heavy labor spent building his cabin had sharpened his musculature. He was leaner than before, with both the construction work and the deprivation of traveling trimming fat from his body.
Not that I was ever soft, of course.
He rummaged in his pack for a comb and straightened his wet hair. The new length was good, he thought. Long enough to tie back, yet short enough to let the locks hang free without looking derelict.
Someone knocked at his door.
Reid wrapped a towel around his hips and cracked the door open.
“You have laundry, sir?” a plump and rosy-cheeked matron asked.
“Yes, here it is. Thank you.” Reid opened the door further, using it as a shield against his state of undress.
As the woman gathered up his clothes, he said, “I’ll need my boots later. Possibly my jacket as well.”
She made a tsking sound. “I can get them boots back to ye in a couple hours, but I’m afeared this coat’s goin’ to need a mite more work.”
Reid considered which might prove the better choice: to make his visit in his shirtsleeves today and blame it on the weather, or to wait until the morrow when he could appear in proper attire.
I’ll decide that on a full stomach.
“Very well. Please get the boots back to me as quickly as possible. I can wait until the morrow for the jacket.”
“Very good, sir.” She turned and left, holding the garments far away from her body.
Reid shut the door, combed his hair one more time, and dressed in his last clean ensemble. Without his boots, he would wear a pair of Indian slippers to supper, ones he traded for on his journey. They were exceedingly comfortable and he wore them indoors whenever he sought shelter in farmhouses or inns along his way. He just hadn’t worn them to dinner as yet.
“There’s always the first time for everything,” he murmured, slipping them over his bare feet.
He stood, checked inside his shirt for his money pouch, and made his way to the dining room.
*****
The meal was delicious. The wine was excellent. Reid felt so physically satisfied, he was in danger of falling asleep in his chair.
The clock chimed half past five. His boots were supposed to be back in his room by six or so. Reid decided that a short nap was in order. The Svens never dined before seven in the evening, sometimes as late as eight. He could nod off until his boots were returned, and then—should he awaken refreshed enough to visit tonight—he could walk to their estate as quickly as retrieving and saddling his horse.
“Let the poor fellow rest,” he said to himself as he climbed the stairs. The sun wouldn’t set until eight or so, anyway. He left his curtains open and stretched out on his bed fully-clothed.
Reid was startled awake by a pounding on his door. He looked at the clock as he stumbled to his feet, though its face was hard to read in the dimming light. He squinted. Half past seven? Had he slept for two hours?
A young boy with a grimy face held up Reid’s boots. “Here ye be, sir. I done ‘em meself.” He appeared quite pleased.
Reid accepted the boots and carried them into the room, the boy following close on his slippered heels. He turned up the lamp.
“You’ve done a good job, son,” he complimented. “Is that why it took so long?”
He nodded unabashedly. “Ma said I had to do it right or I weren’t getting the coins.”
Reid fished for his pouch. “Do you get to keep the money?”
“Half!” he exclaimed with a grin. He held out a hand, his fingers blackened by the polish.
Reid dropped the coppers into the boy’s palm.
His eyes rounded. “Thank ye, sir!” The little fellow spun and bolted from the room lest Reid ask for any of the riches back.
Reid chuckled as he closed the door. He crossed to the washstand and splashed cold water over his face, washing away his sleepiness. The bath, meal, and nap had done him wonders and he felt reborn.
He looked out the window at the lowering sun and tried to decide what to do. If he left now, he would reach the Sven’s house before the sun’s light disappeared.
Reid stepped in front of the mirror and regarded his reflection with a critical eye. His hair was neat and clean, as was his jaw. If he waited until tomorrow to make his visit, he would be sporting a fresh batch of stubble. Either that, or be forced to pay for another shave.
Going to their home tonight without his gentleman’s jacket, he would appear unsuitably casual. Yet when he was a guest in their home during his recuperation, he was dressed far worse than this. In addition, when he was in Philadelphia in February, he always dressed in a manner which was socially acceptable. His reputation should be secured in that arena.
“So, what am I waiting for?” he challenged himself. “Why pay for one more night in this hotel than I absolutely must?”
Reid sat on the bed and pulled off the slippers. His decision was made.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Kirsten pushed her beets around her plate trying to make it look as if she had eaten more than she had. Her appetite grew less every day as her future galloped toward her without restraint.
She told herself time and again that once the ceremony was over, and she let Emil bed her, the worst part would be past. She was certainly strong enough to survive repeated swivings for the next twelve months. After her agreement with Emil was finished, her life would be returned to her. She must remind herself again of the reasons she was doing this: to be free of parental pressures, and sexual pressures, and perhaps gain a child out of the bargain.
Kirsten heard her name. “Yes, Mamma?”
“You look tired. Are you feeling well?” her mother asked.
“I’m afraid I am tired. All the wedding preparations took a greater toll than I expected.” She sculpted her features into what she hoped was a convincing smile. “Other than that, I’m quite fine.”
“Perhaps you should go to bed early,” Emil suggested.
Kirsten nodded. “I believe I will. I have to rise early on the morrow to be ready in time.”
She leaned back as her plate was removed. As she watched the servants carry away the uneaten remainders of their meal, she wondered what it would be like to be truly hungry. Not the sort of hunger caused by a troublesome heart or ridiculous pettiness, but the sort that saw no ending. No relief.
She told herself that was why her father an
d mother warned her away from Reid—he had no prospects which assured that hunger would be forever banished from his doorstep. Even so, she couldn’t imagine him going hungry tonight, wherever he was. He was resourceful. Intelligent. A hunter. He would always have food.
“Coffee, Miss?” a servant asked, a gleaming silver pot held in white-glove-protected hands.
“Yes, thank you,” Kirsten murmured. “What’s for dessert?”
“Apple crumble, Miss,” he replied as he filled her cup. “With rhubarb.”
“That sounds delicious.” Kirsten reached for the little pitcher of cream.
Cream. Without a cow, there would be no cream. Without cream, she didn’t care for coffee. A life with no coffee was not anything to cry about. There was always tea.
Kirsten fingered the elaborate silver handle on the spoon with which she stirred her coffee and cream. Embellishments made the implement more pleasing, not more efficient. Either way, someone had to wash it—and the delicate porcelain cup with its matching saucer as well.
Sturdy crockery would be less bother.
Why was she even thinking this way? After the wedding she and Emil would still be living in this house, though he was changing to the newly refurbished room adjoining hers. The servants and china would still be in place tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.
Her parents would still sit across the table from her at meals. The carriage would still be at her disposal. Her gowns still made by the same tailor. Kirsten would enjoy every comfort which her parents’ wealth provided, and inherit that wealth when they passed.
There was no reason to consider what her life would be like under different circumstances, other than to be grateful that she was marrying such a perfect candidate. One whose disruption of her privileged existence would be minimal.
So why did she feel like her life was ending, not beginning?
Kirsten stood, drawing the others’ attention. “I am more tired than I realized. I’m going to retire to my room and read a little until I fall asleep.”
Henrik stood as well, and moved to give Kirsten a hug. He kissed her forehead. “Good evening, my darling datter. Sleep well. Tomorrow is a big day.”
Marit smiled up at her. “I shall see that you are not disturbed. Shall I send up chamomile tea? Or willowbark?”
Kirsten shook her head. “No thank you, Mamma.”
Emil rose and walked around the table. “I’ll escort you to your room.”
Kirsten wanted to scream at everyone to please just leave her alone, but she didn’t. She took Emil’s arm and walked by his side out into the hallway and to the bottom of the stairs.
“You don’t have to come up,” she said quietly.
He rounded to face her, his expression somber. “Are you certain you wish to do this?” he asked.
No.
“Yes. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked, though her chest ached. Inhaling was difficult.
“We do have an unusual agreement,” he pointed out without need. “I would understand if you had second thoughts.”
Her eyes widened. “Don’t you want to marry me?” she whispered, aware that her parents were in the next room, albeit several yards distant.
Emil smiled, almost shyly. “I do, yes. I believe we are perfect for each other, considering our personal inclinations. Not everyone is so honestly matched.”
Kirsten nodded. “That is true. Thank you, Emil.”
He kissed her forehead the same way her father always did. “Sleep well, my love. Tomorrow you are not only the princess, but you are the queen.”
*****
Reid walked the familiar mile-and-a-half path north and west to the Sven’s home. His mood was mixed, part excitement and part dread. He was excited to see Kirsten again, and hoped his surprise appearance on her doorstep might stun her enough that she could move beyond her objections to marrying him.
If she still loved him, of course. Which he believed she did.
The dread was that she would remain obstinate and refuse him yet again.
If she did, Reid decided he would give her three days. Just as Christ rose from the dead on the third day, Reid might be able to raise Kirsten from her emotional tomb. Love was a powerful force, especially when it was shared.
There were, of course, Henrik and Marit’s objections to be dealt with.
The last time they saw Reid he was no longer a colonel in the army, but a homeless man with no expectations. Henrik’s generosity saw him clothed. Their daughter’s charity work paid his salary.
Now he was a landowner. Five hundred acres, with a guaranteed income. True, his land was undeveloped and thus far wasn’t part of the United States of America. But the way this fledgling country was flexing its muscles, he imagined the Missouri territory would be absorbed at some point. The march west hadn’t yet found its boundary; from what he was told, St. Louis was less than halfway across the continent.
In light of this change of his circumstances, Kirsten’s parents would have far less to object to. And he was a full-blooded Norseman, for God’s sake. Not only were there darn few of them to be found in this country, but he haled from an old and established Norwegian dynasty. That was another strong point in his favor. He was of the correct heritage to marry their royal daughter.
If they still objected, but Kirsten was amenable to his proposal, Reid would simply tell Henrik what he told him before—he was a grown man, Kirsten was a grown woman, and they didn’t need Henrik and Marit’s permission to marry.
The sun had already tucked itself behind forested hills when he approached the Sven estate’s long driveway. In the dusky light ahead Reid saw large ghostly shapes he didn’t understand. When he got closer he realized they were awnings with tables and chairs under them. Off to the right was a tent with flaps hanging to the ground on three sides.
Kirsten must be having one of her charity events.
This one was going to be rather impressive, he thought. Though how she could raise any money with the expense of renting all those coverings, plus the settings for the guests, was a mystery to him. Reid had confidence that Kirsten would be one to succeed, if anyone could. She hadn’t failed at any of her endeavors thus far.
Reid’s pace slowed as he walked under the portico. He smoothed his hair behind his ears, straightened his shirt, and tucked it into his trousers. With a determined breath, he climbed the steps and knocked on the door, wondering if the pounding of his heart might have already alerted the household to his presence.
Horace opened the door. His expression was comically blank for a moment, until he recognized Reid.
“Colonel Hansen, welcome,” he said. His initial grin quickly disappeared. “What are you doing here?”
Every nerve in Reid’s body went on alert. He didn’t bother to correct the man’s greeting, nor ask why the butler didn’t answer the door. “I’ve come to speak with Miss Sven, Horace.”
The valet’s uncertainty at his expressed intent hit Reid like a cannonball. Something was definitely amiss.
“Who is it?” Henrik’s voice came from the other side of the door.
Horace’s voice lowered. “It’s Colonel Hansen, sir.”
Henrik stepped into the doorway. “Thank you, Horace. That will be all.”
The valet backed away and dissolved into the house.
Henrik’s expression was not friendly. “It’s nice to see you again, sir. How may I help you?”
Reid steeled his resolve. “I’ve come to speak with Kirsten.”
Henrik shook his head. “I’m afraid she’s not available.”
“Is she at home?” Reid clarified.
“She is,” Henrik said before he thought better of it. “However she has retired for the night.”
Reid believed he was being put off and that thought angered him, though he tried to remain civil. “In that case, I can return tomorrow. What time is best?”
“My daughter is busy tomorrow,” Henrik responded. “I’m afraid she won’t have time
to speak to you, I’m sorry. But I will let her know you came by.”
Henrik closed the door in his face.
Reid stood on the stoop, flushed and vibrating with fury. He had severely misjudged his rapport with Kirsten’s father, that much was clear. His fists clenched.
He had two options: come back tomorrow and politely try again, or open the door and walk into the house, skirting around all polite conventions.
Reid grabbed the door handle, squeezed the latch, and pushed the door.
Henrik and Marit stood in the entryway, obviously discussing the wrinkle which his sudden and unexpected appearance had created in their otherwise smooth lives. They turned toward him, dually horrified by his behavior if their matched expressions could be trusted.
Reid threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Forgive me Henrik, Marit, for bursting in like this, but I have come nine hundred miles to speak with Kirsten,” he said, his tone gathering volume and authority as he continued. “The very least I deserve is for you to give Kirsten the chance to ignore me herself!”
“Lower your voice, sir,” Henrik growled. Marit cast an anxious glance up the stairs. A man Reid didn’t recognize appeared in the dining room doorway.
Probably another forced suitor.
The Sven’s were proving as stubborn as, well, Norsemen.
“What do you mean you’ve come nine hundred miles?” Henrik demanded. “Boston is only three hundred miles from Philadelphia!”
“I didn’t come from Boston,” Reid declared. “I came from St. Louis!”
“Where on God’s earth is that?” Marit demanded.
Her curiosity bought him time, so Reid didn’t care how many questions they put to him. He kept his voice as strong as he dared in the hopes of rousing Kirsten himself.
“The Missouri territory,” he stated. “That is where I live.”