by Kris Tualla
But the idea titillated.
And the whispers grew louder.
Chapter Seventeen
February 8, 1822
St. Louis
Nicolas stepped back, right into Leif.
“You foolish boy!” he barked. “Vokt mannen i det røde stroke!” Watch the man in the red coat.
“Sorry, sir. Med de stygge skoene?” With the ugly shoes?
Nicolas could not stop himself from glancing down. Beckermann’s shoes were, indeed, ugly. “Yes. Apology accepted. Now get away from me; go wait in a corner or some such place!”
Beckermann watched the teen slump away. “Why do you tolerate such behavior, Hansen?”
Nicolas heaved a long-suffering sigh, his gaze fixed on Leif’s path and apparent destination. “He’s a cousin. Orphaned in Christiania. It’s my Christian duty, is it not?” He turned to Beckermann expecting his gentleman’s understanding.
Beckermann nodded and slapped Nicolas’s shoulder. “Don’t allow the boy to become an anchor, Hansen. When he’s old enough, cut him loose.”
Nicolas bowed slightly. “I shall keep your advice, sir. After all, you do know ships.”
“Speaking of ships, I see a pretty vessel right over there,” he continued.
“Where?” Nicolas turned to the crowd.
“The dark beauty in the green dress.”
A slender woman with coiled tresses was accepting a glass of wine from a well-dressed suitor. Her high-necked gown accented a long neck and trim waist. At first glance, Nicolas thought it might be Sydney. Then he remembered that she wore red tonight. A deep, seductive red that warmed his blood as she dressed. He searched the room and found her nearby. When her eyes met his, she smiled, obliterating every other woman in the room.
“I believe I shall see about hoisting my mast,” Beckermann joked, nudging Nicolas. “If you get my meaning?”
“And your wife, sir?” Nicolas prodded. “Is she here this evening?”
Beckermann snorted. “Home with a headache. As usual.”
“I see.”
“Nothing wrong with a mild flirtation, Hansen. It’s not as though I am paying for it!” Beckermann began to walk away, then turned back. “By the by, you must give me the address of your establishment, Hansen, should I decide to pay for it someday.”
Before Nicolas could respond, Beckermann blended into the crowd.
“Pompous jackass,” Nicolas muttered.
“Who?” Sydney was at his elbow. She gestured with her chin. “Beckermann?”
Nicolas looked down into gray-green eyes with the ability to draw him in and calm his soul. “His comments are not worth the breath it would take to repeat them.”
“Good. Dance with me, husband?”
Nicolas gladly took her into his arms, his hands sliding over the smooth red of her dress. She always wore high-necked dresses, or dresses with cleverly shaped décolletages, which hid her scar. And she was always beautiful. He told her so.
Sydney laughed. “You already have my vote, husband. Or you would, if women could cast ballots.”
“God help us, madam!” Nicolas rolled his eyes. He spun her around, her long skirt flowing behind her; a fountain of deep red wine from the spout of her narrow waist. Her black hair, braided with red ribbons, looped over her shoulders. Garnet earrings, with stones matching her wedding ring, dangled from her ears. Her pale skin was flawless.
Nicolas pressed his nose to her hair and breathed in the scent of roses. Since their time in Norway, she always rinsed her hair with rosewater. “Min presang, I look forward to retiring to our apartments,” he whispered.
Sydney tilted her hips so they pressed against him. “As do I, Mister Hansen.”
“Might you be acquainted with that woman in green?” Nicolas reluctantly directed her attention to the woman now locked onto Winston Beckermann’s arm.
“No. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her before,” Sydney answered, frowning. “Why?”
Nicolas turned his back on that side of the room. “I have no reason, other than she is most definitely not his wife, and he appears quite besotted.”
“With drink? Or with her?” Sydney quipped.
“Both.”
“Shall I make enquiries?”
“Please.”
***
Leif hunkered down near the door to the staircase, where he might see both exits from the ballroom. If his quarry slipped out to go upstairs, Leif would see and follow. He sipped a glass of wine and munched on a meat pastry, both of which he nabbed during his egress from the ballroom.
He had been waiting over an hour, inspecting each dandy leaving the Ball, observing furtive kisses and touches, couples running up the stairs on tiptoe while they shushed each other and giggled. He sighed. His interest in girls was growing; he just wasn’t sure what he’d do with one if he caught her.
Leif found himself wondering if Nicolas had been off the mark this evening, and might he be able to slip back into the ballroom for another pastry, when Winston Beckermann stepped into the hall. Leif pressed back and waited.
Two sets of footfalls crossed the hall and began their assent on the staircase. Leif’s eyes were at the level of the ninth step, and he looked up. A green dress lifted to reveal rather large feet in black silk slippers. Leif frowned, then shrugged. The man’s taste was not his concern; only where he accomplished his dalliance. With whom he accomplished it was of less a concern, though Leif knew he would be expected to give a description. If he overheard a name, that much the better.
Leif counted to ten, then followed the couple with a stealth that did not betray his presence. Beckermann was well into his cups, and leaning heavily on the woman’s arm. He stopped in the hall, pushing the woman against the wall and groping her bosom with both hands. She pulled his hands away, but did not otherwise object. Instead, she gripped his groin with enough force to cause him to grunt aloud.
Not with pain, I’ll wager. Leif waited in the shadows left by guttering wall-ensconced candles.
Beckermann leaned in for a wet kiss, which was returned with enthusiasm. Then he fumbled in his vest pocket for a key. The woman plucked it from his hand. She turned and unlocked the nearest door, then disappeared through it. Beckermann staggered after her.
The door closed and the lock clicked.
Leif tiptoed carefully to the opposite end of the hall, and made himself as comfortable as he might, on the floor behind a potted fern.
***
“Her name is Cecelia Brown. She is from Baden, north of here.” Sydney tapped Nicolas’s arm and pointed to the servant bearing a tray of wineglasses.
Nicolas stopped the man and retrieved two goblets.
“Thank you, husband. I am afraid that all this conversation has left me quite parched!” Sydney drank deeply.
“Does anyone know her?” Nicolas asked before downing a significant portion of his own glass.
Sydney shook her head. “Not that I was able to discover.”
“Well, it was not for want of trying. Thank you, min presang.”
Sydney considered him with half-closed eyes. “How much longer do you anticipate remaining?”
“I shall soon make my speech, answer any challenges for half-an-hour, and then we are gone. Is that satisfactory?”
Sydney drew a slow, deep breath. “Very.”
***
Before Leif believed it expected, the door opened again, and the woman in green entered the hall. She pulled the heavy door shut, then walked purposefully toward him. He held still, not daring to breath, as she swept past him. She opened another door and disappeared through it.
Leif jumped to that door and listened. Footsteps echoed on wooden stairs. She was making her exit via the servants’ staircase. That was odd. Something about her was familiar, though. He closed his eyes and imagined her with blonde hair.
Was it the same woman?
Beckermann was still behind the other door. Leif stood before it and waited. Snoring, loud and ragged, bespoke of a
man not going anywhere in the immediate future. Leif nodded and went off to find Nicolas.
***
Sydney opened her eyes. She was naked alongside Nicolas, curled against his back. Still damp from their enthusiastic lovemaking, the warmth of her satisfaction rested low in her belly like a hot meal. She rolled over and stretched under the comfort of the coverings, then resettled with her back against his.
She smelled smoke and wondered if someone forgot to bank the fire. Should she get up and check? She did not have the strength, much less the desire, to climb from her balmy nest and face the winter chill of the apartment.
She sighed and determined to ignore it.
Nicolas stirred, roused by her movements, and turned to face her. He moaned a soft sigh, and buried his face in her hair. For a moment, all was still. Then he lifted his head.
“Do you smell smoke?” he whispered.
“Vincent probably forgot to bank the fire,” Sydney mumbled, eyes resolutely closed.
“I’ll see to it.”
He slid away from her and rolled over. He tugged on his breeches. Rising from the bed, he crossed the bedroom and opened the door. Smoke poured into the room.
Nicolas disappeared.
Startled awake, Sydney threw the covers aside. She pushed her feet into her sabots and dug for her night wrap. She thrust her arms into the sleeves, tying it as she ran to the door.
The drawing room in the middle of the apartment was in flames. Blinding tendrils danced across the floor, consuming the Turkish rug. Their heat pushed against Sydney’s cheeks and caused her to step back, her hands shielding as best they could.
Nicolas was pushing open Vincent and Leif’s door, shouting for them to get up. Smoke stung Sydney’s eyes; tears gushed in response.
“Nick!” she cried.
“Wait there!” he shouted.
He hopped through the conflagration and kicked down the nearly consumed front door. A moment later he appeared in front of her. She was lifted without a word, and carried through the inferno. In the hallway, he set her at the top of the stairs.
“Go! Outside! Quickly!” Then he turned back.
“Nicolas?”
“GO!” he roared over the flames’ angry discourse.
Sydney stumbled down the stairs. In the lobby, she paused, realizing she wore only the silk wrap; she had no cloak. She looked up the stairwell; undulating orange light filled the space. Unbelievably, her cloak flew over the railing and fell at her feet. Three more cloaks followed the same path.
The landlord’s door burst open.
“What the hell? Are we on fire?” he yelled.
“We are, indeed!” Sydney grabbed her cloak and swung it around her shoulders. “Send for the fire brigade!”
The man stared at her for a pace, eyes wide with shock. Then he whirled and hollered through his door, “Billy! The fire wagon! NOW!”
Sydney pulled her cloak close around her and left the building. She crossed the deserted mid-winter-night’s street and huddled in a doorway opposite the apartment. Through the large twelve-pane windows she could see the flames engulfing the second floor.
Blackened by soot and smoke, Nicolas tumbled out the front door of the building, followed by Leif and Vincent.
Sydney cried out in relief, “Over here!” and waved her hands.
“Here!” she called again when they appeared lost. Nicolas pointed in her direction, and the trio crossed to her.
“Are you alright?” she asked, eyes searching them in the dark.
“We are not burnt, I don’t believe,” Nicolas answered. Then he coughed and spat.
“Thank God!” Sydney hugged Nicolas first, and Leif second. “What prompted the flames, do you believe?”
Nicolas’s answer was simple. “Arson.”
Sydney’s mouth dropped open. Her heart stuttered. “How do you know?”
He glanced around. “Ask me later.”
Flames were beginning to show on the third floor by the time the hand-drawn fire wagon arrived. Volunteer firemen pumped water through a hose and sprayed into windows which had shattered with the fire’s heat.
A crowd gathered along the sidewalks, drawn by the unusual midnight disturbance and drama.
Nicolas, Sydney, Leif and Vincent huddled together in the February night, chilled to the bone with only their nightclothes under their cloaks. The white of their breath contrasted with the gray of the smoke that still escaped the apartment’s structure.
“Will we have lost everything, do you believe?” Sydney asked.
“I don’t know.” Nicolas’s face was barely visible between shifting shadows. “I hope that the bedchamber doors held.”
“It looks like they may have,” Vincent offered, pointing to dark windows on either side of the flames.
“I never saw a fire like this before,” Leif said, eyes riveted on the building.
A familiar voice added, “And I hope you never do again, young man!”
Sydney turned to the sound. “Rosie!”
She hugged her friend; the urge to cry overwhelmed Sydney with the woman’s comforting embrace.
“Are you all safe?” Rosie asked, stepping back to examine them each from head to toe as best she could in the dim light.
“We are, thank the Lord!” Nicolas answered. “How did you hear?”
“I was… out. Around. Keeping an eye on my business, ya know? I heard the fire wagon.”
Sydney suppressed a smile. Even in the dark she could see Vincent’s disapproving countenance. He had repeatedly told Nicolas that their association with ‘Rosie-The-Prostitute,’ as he insisted on calling her, was bad for the campaign in general and his image in particular.
Sydney shivered and sneezed. “Vincent believes we may not have lost everything, but I doubt we’ll know until daylight.”
“Speaking of that, where’ll you sleep tonight?” Rosie asked.
She was answered with blank stares.
“I suppose we might try the inn down that block.” Nicolas pointed east.
“Nonsense! I’ve a place and you’ll all fit just fine!” Rosie bounced her head in punctuation.
“Madam,” Vincent paused for emphasis, “we cannot rest in a house of ill repute.”
“Pah! You think I got this far by bein’ a fool, boy?” Rosie challenged.
“Well, I—”
“Hell, no! I’ve bought a building back yonder, to let rooms by the week, and there’s a few empty tonight.”
Vincent straightened, obviously surprised by Rosie’s business acumen.
“Oh.”
“Come on then, afore you catch your death!”
“A moment, Rosie? I need to speak with the landlord.” Nicolas was already several steps in that direction.
“Sure, Nick.”
“Thank you, Rosie.” Sydney looped her arm through Rosie’s. “Once again, you have come to our rescue!”
“Aw, it ain’t nothin’ special.”
Sydney was sure Rosie was blushing. She squeezed her arm.
“Well I thank you, just the same.”
After an earnest exchange with the man, Nicolas crossed back to them. The fire was slowing, succumbing to the sporadic onslaught from the volunteers. There was nothing any of them could do to help.
“Let’s go.” Nicolas sniffed and spat again. “Rosie, my darling? Lead on!”
Vincent grunted. Leif chuckled.
Rosie addressed the teen, “How old are you now?”
“I’ll be fourteen next month.” Leif stood taller. Sydney noted he was now the same height as she.
Rosie nodded. “Almost time.”
“Rosie!” Nicolas barked. “He’s a child, yet.”
“I’m not a child!” Leif objected, his voice cracking.
Rosie poked Nick’s belly through his cloak. “Just ‘cause you had to wait for that woman in Norway’s no reason to keep this young man in a state of distress!”
Nicolas spoke slowly and clearly. “He is not in distress, Rosie.”
/>
“Yes I am! I’m distressed!” Leif squeaked.
“Rosie, I believe we should let Leif’s life follow its natural course,” Sydney opined.
Rosie considered her friend. “Are you sure?”
“No!” Leif jumped up and down. “No one’s sure!”
“I am,” Nicolas answered for them all.
“It wouldn’t cost anything,” Rosie added. “I’d see to him out of friendship.”
“Did you hear that, Sir?” Leif’s voice took on a pleading quality. “Out of friendship!”
“No, thank you.”
“But I’m distressed!”
Nicolas stopped the group under a gas lamp. “What, exactly, distresses you, son?”
Leif’s mouth flapped as he glanced from Nicolas to Sydney, Rosie and back. Vincent folded his arms across his chest and tapped his foot imperiously.
“You know.” Leif’s voice lowered. “Don’t make me say it in front of her.” He tilted his head toward Sydney.
“Leif, if you cannot express it, you are certainly not ready to experience it!” Nicolas chided.
“But—I—”
Nicolas leaned down to his young cousin’s eye level. “No.”
Leif’s countenance implored Rosie. “Ma’am?”
“You heard the boss. See me when you can manage it on your own.” Rosie laughed and started walking, Sydney still on her arm. “The offer stands until then.”
Sydney looked over her shoulder at Nicolas. She wasn’t sure if he was fighting anger or laughter, but when the corner of her mouth lifted, his lips twitched and pressed, barely holding back his mirth.
Chapter Eighteen
February 9, 1822
St. Louis
The rooms in Rosie’s building were clean, though sparsely furnished. Nicolas and Sydney took the smaller room because it had one wide bed. The larger room next door had two narrow beds for Leif and Vincent. There was nothing to unpack, so after thanking Rosie again, using the privy and washing up, the displaced party retired.