by Kris Tualla
“Don’t do it, Lily. It cannot end well,” Nicolas warned.
“For whom?” she taunted. “I believe I shall come out with everything I want!”
Nicolas swept her with a disdainful gaze. “You are appeared quite recovered, madam. I shall take my leave of you, then.” He spun on his heel and stomped through the damp drifts of dead leaves. Pulling himself seamlessly into Fyrste’s saddle, he kicked the startled stallion to a run.
***
Nicolas turned Fyrste over to Jeremy and headed toward his house. He needed to search out Sydney and tell her what transpired in the forest with Lily.
Oddly enough, it never occurred to him not to tell her, he realized with a start. Their year in Christiania had changed him. When they had only each other to rely on in the midst of the royal family’s political maneuverings. When they needed to trust that the other person stood true to their course. His first response now was to confide in her, knowing that together they would face whatever situation arose.
It did not make the telling any easier, however.
Sydney sat at her dressing table, her face carved in granite and just as mottled, and listened without interrupting. In fact when he finished, she still did not speak.
“Min presang?” He pushed her straight, dark hair back over her shoulder.
Her gray-green eyes slowly lifted to his.
“What are you pondering so solemnly?” he asked, his tone as tender as he knew how to make it.
She reached for his hand. “The very first time I laid eyes on you, I knew you were a beautiful, beautiful man. Even as you stood at the foot of the bed and glared at me, so cold and so stern, your anger could not diminish your beauty one whit.”
Nicolas blushed, one corner of his mouth lifting in self-effacing embarrassment. “Sydney…”
She pulled him close enough that he knelt beside her. She took his stubbled face in her smooth, cool hands. Her gaze was intense as it traveled over his features.
“I didn’t realize that, even though we were married, so many women would ask you to ignore your vows.” She blinked back the moisture that welled behind her lower eyelids. It caught in her lashes, sticking them together. “I now see that it will always be a cross I must bear.”
“No one but you, min presang. No one but you, now and forever!” Nicolas’s voice was low, making it even more powerful. “I swear before God that I will hold true.”
“You are a man of honor, Nicolas. I trust you. These women are my cross, not yours.”
Nicolas pulled Sydney close and held her against him. She fit him so well. Sturdy enough that he knew he could not crush her with his bulk, yet pliant enough to mold to his body and melt into him. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, so deep was his love for her.
“Will you tell Rickard?” she whispered.
“No. Unless there comes a reason.”
She nodded against his chest.
November 5, 1821
The Hansens climbed the steps of the Atherton porch once again. With a shared squaring of shoulders, Nicolas rapped the heavy knocker. Soon the door opened and they were ushered into another evening with Lord and Lady Ezra Warpold Kensington. After the usual pleasantries, and much fussing over the infant Glynnis, the gathering moved to the dining room.
A familiar newspaper was folded on Nicolas’s plate.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded of Sydney.
“Sydney had nothing to do with it!” Rickard stated. “Why would you think she had?”
Nicolas shook his head and moved the newspaper to the sideboard. “Never mind.”
Sydney picked it up. “Rickard, do you think this might apply to Nicolas?”
Rickard took the paper from Sydney and waved it under Nicolas’s nose. “It’s the logical answer to all his fretting!”
Sydney raised one brow at Nicolas. “I agree.”
Rickard turned to her, surprised. “You do?”
“I told him the same thing when I read it!”
“Read what?” Lily pulled the periodical from her brother’s hand. Her brow dipped as she scanned the article. Then she looked at Nicolas. “Are you considering running for office?”
“No. I am not.” He pulled out Sydney’s chair and waited for her to sit.
“Why not?” Lily pressed. “I think you would be magnificent!”
“Will you sit, darling?” Nicolas urged his wife. She shot him a look, then lowered slowly into the proffered seat. He sat in the chair beside her and folded his hands, waiting silently.
“Why are you such an ass?” Rickard laughed and held the chair for Bronnie.
“Are you considering politics in America at all?” Ezra asked, holding Lily’s chair.
Nicolas pulled his attention to the elderly man. “I had not.”
“And why not?” Bronnie asked. Seeing his glare she glanced over at Rickard, then back again. “I only wondered what your reasoning is, is all.”
Nicolas sat back in his chair. “I have enough to do at the estate.”
“No you don’t,” Sydney quipped.
Nicolas frowned at his outspoken wife. “Yes, I do.”
She leaned toward him. “No, you don’t. Jeremy and Jack are doing almost everything, and Leif works hard when he’s not in school. Even John pitches in.”
“Why are you pushing this so hard, wife?” he grumbled.
“Because you want to change the world,” she and Rickard stated in unplanned tandem. The room bubbled with laughter.
Nicolas blushed. “So maybe I said that once before.”
Rickard pointed at Nicolas. “Brother, you harbor the romantic notion that the world might be fixed.”
“And you have your experiences with the Storting in Norway to draw on!” Sydney added.
“And you are well-educated!” Bronnie the erstwhile school teacher added.
“And very, very presentable,” Lily purred.
“And popular, so it would seem!” Ezra posited.
Nicolas did not know what he felt. Part of him wished to remain secluded on his estate and deal only with his newly expanded family. But another part of him, the part that pushed him to buy Jack and Sarah even though he was vehemently opposed to slavery, the part that sent him to Norway to explore the possibility of the throne though he was a staunch American, the part of him that came alive again with Sydney, niggled at him to do it.
“It’s too much,” he demurred. “I don’t even know if anyone outside this room would ever consider me.”
Sydney rested her hand on his arm. “We’ll drop the idea for now.” Her gray-green eyes met everyone else’s, then moved to his. “But please do consider it, husband. Will you?”
Recognizing a compromise when it slapped him across the cheek—was that another qualification?—Nicolas dipped his chin to the dinner guests. “I will. I promise.”
“Good! Now might we eat?” Rickard rang for dinner.
November 10, 1821
Sydney sat on the bed, her fists kneading Ruthie’s lower back while she counted through the birth pains. She was called out in Cheltenham a couple times a month now and twice had been called to Millspring, just to the north. Her reputation as a capable midwife was growing.
“That was good, Ruthie. Very good. How are you feeling?” Sydney motioned for Taycie to bring another hot compress; Rickard’s mulatto slave was now her apprentice. The girl complied quickly.
“Alright, I guess,” the young woman answered. “It hurts a lot, but, well, I reckon I can stand it.”
Sydney lifted Ruthie’s knee, removed the cloth between her legs, and replaced it with the hot one. “After this, I’ll rub some more oil on you. Then I’ll check you again. I believe we are almost there.”
“Yes—” Her words were stopped by the onset of another pain.
Sydney turned to instruct Taycie, but she was already setting the oil on the bedside table within Sydney’s reach, along with dry cloths from Sydney’s bag. Sydney watched the slave girl retrieve the string for tyin
g the cord, and Sydney’s knife to cut it, from her leather satchel and set them on the table as well.
“Thank you, Taycie,” Sydney said softly. “You’re learning quickly.”
Taycie blinked her light amber eyes, self-conscious in the public praise. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Ruthie’s housekeeper slipped into the room. She tiptoed to where Ruthie’s mother dozed in a chair and tugged on her sleeve. The older woman snorted, opened startled eyes, and swiped her palm over her face before turning quizzically to the intruder.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” the housekeeper said in a tense undertone. “But the midwife is here.”
“Yes, of course she is!” The older woman pushed herself straighter in the chair and flipped a hand toward the bed.
“No, ma’am. I refer to the other midwife.” She glanced at Sydney.
Sydney’s heart skipped and sweat prickled her skin. She had never met Berta O’Shea. Their paths had not crossed at any social events, nor did the woman attend church with the Lutheran pastor. The disconnected thought, perchance she’s Catholic like me, flitted across Sydney’s mind.
When Sydney decided to become a midwife, she did so for herself. Her initial experience with guiding a babe from its mother’s body and holding it while it took its first breath and opened its eyes to the world for the first time, was so astonishing that she knew this was her calling. Besides, she wasn’t squeamish; pain and blood didn’t frighten her. She didn’t choose this path with the intention of supplanting Mistress O’Shea.
But that is not how Berta would see it.
Berta O’Shea had been in attendance at the birth that killed Nicolas’s wife Lara and Stefan’s twin. She would logically feel threatened by Sydney’s presence in Cheltenham. For that very reason, rightly or wrongly, Sydney had never sought her out. Without preamble, Berta pushed into the room, taking charge.
“Thank you, dearie. I shan’t need you now.” She dismissed Sydney with barely a look.
Ruthie grabbed Sydney’s hand, gripping it so tightly that Sydney’s garnet wedding ring bruised her knuckle. Sydney looked from Ruthie’s wide eyes to her mother’s silently flapping lips; it was not Sydney’s place to decide which midwife stayed.
Berta moved to the bed. “Thank you,” she repeated, tapping her toe.
“Count!” Ruthie grunted, and closed her eyes.
Ignoring Berta, Sydney turned to the natal woman, kneading her back and counting in her ear.
“What are you doing?” Berta demanded when the contraction ended.
“I don’t believe we have met.” Sydney slid off the bed and extended her hand. “I am Sydney Hansen. Nicolas’s wife, and”—might as well get this over with—“I’m a midwife.”
Berta fell back a step, visibly shocked at all the information Sydney lobbed at her. “What? Hansen? Nick Hansen?” Her eyes scoured the room, picking up the clues she had not taken time to notice. “You’re a midwife?”
“I am. I learned in Norway over the last year.”
Ruthie moaned. Taycie tapped Sydney on the shoulder and placed a fresh compress into her hand. “I believe you should check her now,” she whispered.
“Thank you, Taycie.” Sydney determined that Berta could do what she wished, but Ruthie deserved her focused attention for now. She spoke softly in Ruthie’s ear and lifted her knee to check her inside. As she did so, a gush of water splashed over her hand.
“How long have you been here?” Berta demanded.
Sydney looked at the clock. “It’s past nine in the morning and I was summoned at four. Five hours. Why?”
“This is her first child. How can you think she is so close? She’s not even screaming yet!”
Sydney bit back all the things she wished to say. Instead, she offered Berta a chance to examine Ruthie. “You have more experience than I do. Perhaps you would care to confirm my estimation?”
Berta stepped to the bed and lifted Ruthie’s knee. She inserted her fingers, causing Ruthie to gasp and tighten. Her countenance shifted.
“You are correct, Mistress Hansen,” she growled and pulled her hand away.
“Please, call me Sydney.” Taycie lifted Sydney’s hand and wrapped it around the bottle of oil. Sydney sat on the bed again. “Excuse me, Mistress—”
“O’Shea. Berta O’Shea.”
Sydney poured a little oil on her fingers and began to massage the opening to Ruthie’s womb. “This, along with the hot compresses, will help your skin stretch,” she explained.
“It feels nice,” Ruthie murmured. Another pain began. Sydney counted her through it. Ruthie’s eyes opened abruptly. “I need to shit!” she blurted.
“That’s the baby,” Sydney assured her. “Taycie?”
Taycie hurried to the other side of the bed and the two women propped Ruthie on pillows. She grabbed her knees the way they told her to. Berta watched, visibly fascinated, and obviously offended.
“Do you wish to help?” Sydney asked, hoping Berta would say no.
Before the woman could answer, Ruthie’s face turned into a tomato. She strained and groaned. The top of a head, lightly smeared with golden streaks, appeared. Berta stepped forward and pushed on Ruthie’s stomach until the pain passed.
Sydney wasn’t sure that was a good idea, but she daren’t say anything. Berta O’Shea had been Cheltenham’s only midwife for over a decade. Obviously, the majority of her women lived; she must know things that Sydney had yet to learn.
After four long pushes, the baby’s head emerged. Sydney wiped its mouth and nose and instructed Ruthie—and Berta—not to push any more. With the next pain, she maneuvered the shoulders out. A sturdy boy slipped onto the sheets.
“It’s a boy!” Taycie announced. She smiled sheepishly at Sydney; Taycie loved to be the one to make the proclamation.
While Ruthie and her mother fussed over the new heir, Berta puttered around the room, looking busy and important in her extraneous position. Taycie meticulously repacked Sydney’s satchel. After promising to return in a week to check on them, Sydney said a cordial farewell to Berta O’Shea.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, as well,” the woman responded, though her voice was much cooler than her words.
Once mounted on her mare, Sessa, and headed toward the Hansen estate, Sydney spoke over her shoulder to Taycie. “I noticed what you did back there. Don’t think I didn’t.”
She felt the slave girl stiffen. “Ma’am?”
“Keeping things moving! In the midst of Mistress O’Shea’s disruption, you made sure the compresses were changed, that Ruthie was examined, and that I had the oil.”
“Oh!” Her body slumped again. “Yes, ma’am.”
“That was perfect, Taycie. You kept focused on Ruthie and what she needed. Not on some flustered intruder.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Sydney could hear the smile in her voice.
“You’ll be a fine midwife, Taycie. And soon.”
Sydney guided Sessa to the stable and called for Leif.
“Ma’am?” His head appeared, upside-down, hanging from the loft.
“Take Taycie back to Atherton’s, will you?”
“Yes, ma’am!” He disappeared, and then scrambled down the ladder. Leif reveled in his responsibility as midwife-assistant-retriever, and never grumbled when he was tapped for that duty, even in the wee hours of the night. Sydney suspected he imagined himself as some sort of dashing rogue, riding the gelding Rusten pell-mell through the forest to the next estate and back again, a rescued maiden clinging to him for her very life.
Jeremy stepped from a stall and helped the young woman from the saddle. Sydney dismounted after her. Jeremy shook his head.
Sydney laughed. “You’ve been with us long enough now, Jeremy. You should be accustomed to my riding astride!”
“Should be,” he agreed, with a grin. He took Sessa’s reins and led her to her stall. His good-natured, “But I ain’t!” floated back to her.
Chapter Seven
November 15, 1821
Nicolas saw the four men dismount from the carriage and approach his front door. For a moment, before he noticed Rickard Atherton, the sight of Sheriff Busby turned his innards to water. Unwelcome memories of his arrest and beating, buried for nearly two years, surged into his consciousness before he could quench them. In spite of the frigid day, spitting sleet and gusting wind, sweat filmed his skin. Nicolas shook out his hands, blew a long breath, and walked toward the house.
“Gentlemen!” His deep voice echoed back from the stone façade. “To what do I owe this honor?”
Rickard met him first. “You’re not to be arrested this time!” he joked, and grasped Nicolas’s outstretched hand. “Though when you hear why we’ve come, you may prefer it!”
“Come now, Atherton!” Ashton Caldecott chided with smooth, middle-aged panache. “It’s not like that at all!” He shook Nicolas’s hand and smiled, laugh lines etched deeply around vigorous brown eyes. “Might we have a word?”
Nicolas nodded the remainder of his greetings. “John. Sheriff. Come in out of the weather, will you?” Nicolas led the men into the house. “Anne!” he bellowed.
Her dark head protruded through the kitchen door. “Yes, sir?”
“Coffee to warm these gentlemen. And a bottle of brandy?”
“Yes, sir.”
Nicolas guided the assemblage into the drawing room. The brandy and five glasses appeared. Nicolas poured.
“Thank you, Hansen!” Nathan Busby made himself comfortable on the settle. “You know how to make a man welcome on a ghastly day like today!”
“Which begs the question, Sheriff.” Nicolas sat in a chair facing him. “Why exactly have you all come out on a ghastly day like today?”
The men had scattered on the available seats and now exchanged barely restrained glances, their anticipation blatant.
“Nick,” Rickard began, “these men—and I—believe that you should run for the Missouri State Legislature.”
“Gud forbanner det, Rick!” Nicolas swore and slammed his glass on the low table. “We’ve already had this discussion!”