by Kris Tualla
By Kris Tualla:
A Woman of Choice
A Prince of Norway
A Matter of Principle
and
A Primer for
Beginning Authors
A Matter
of Principle
Kris Tualla
Goodnight Publishing
http://www.GoodnightPublishing.com
A Matter of Principle is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places
and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.
Cover photo: Jimmy Thomas from www.romancenovelcovers.com
Published in the United States of America through:
Goodnight Publishing
www.GoodnightPublishing.com
[email protected]
© 2010 by Kris Tualla
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.
Goodnight Publishing and its Logo are Registered Trademarks.
ISBN-10: 1451503334
EAN-13: 9781451503333
For Paul,
who encourages me everyday
to strive toward my goal,
cheers every baby step,
and brags about me.
And to my dear friends
who read endless manuscripts
and proofs ~
I truly could not do this
without you.
And to my readers:
thank you for bringing Nicolas and Sydney to life.
The Hansen Estate Residents:
Nicolas Reidar Hansen, estate owner
Siobhan Sydney Bell Hansen, wife
Stefan Atherton Hansen, son
Kirsten Ciara Hansen, daughter
Leif Sebastian Hansen, cousin
John Spencer, foreman, retired
Adelaide Spencer, housekeeper, retired
Jeremy McCain, estate foreman
Anehka McCain, housekeeper
Jaqriel, farming foreman
Sarah, nanny
Chapter One
October 21, 1821
St. Charles, Missouri
“It doesn’t look too bad, as whore-houses go.”
Nicolas Hansen had a wide-brimmed leather hat jammed on his head to hide his blond hair. Nothing could be done about his size. At six-foot four, and over two hundred and fifty pounds, he was noticeable. “I’ll go in, then. You know what to do.”
Jaqriel nodded. In spite of the chill in the autumn air, nervous perspiration gave his dark skin the patina of polished walnut. He took Rusten’s reins—Nicolas’s conspicuous stallion Fyrste was stabled elsewhere for the duration—and sat on the edge of the wooden sidewalk. Jaqriel leaned against a lamp post and snuggled inside his jacket; it would be a long chilly night.
Nicolas climbed the steps and knocked on the door. A woman dressed in violet satin, nearly obscured by an eye-stinging cloud of perfume, ushered him in.
“What might a fine, strapping specimen such as yourself be wanting this fine evening?” she cooed.
“I should like to enjoy a brandy by the fire, Madam. Perhaps you might put some of my choices on display?” He fingered the coins in his pocket so that they clinked together.
“Why, of course, sir! Do you have any particular tastes that I might satisfy?”
“Dark.” He looked meaningfully at his hostess. “I prefer dark.”
She smiled and pressed him into a chair. “I’ll see whom I can find.” Turning to a sideboard, she selected a cut-crystal goblet and poured a generous serving of brandy.
He accepted the drink and asked about food. “A slice of beef? A wedge of cheese? Something to sustain me throughout the evening?”
“Absolutely!” She disappeared through a swinging door.
Nicolas considered his surroundings. A brocade factory must have exploded in the room, covering every surface. But, at the least the room was clean.
The swinging door pushed open and a slender Negress, skin the color of caramel, carried a tray of food into the room. Nicolas pulled the brim of his hat down to the bridge of his nose and grunted his thanks. She set the tray on the low table in front of his chair. She didn’t look at him.
The hostess breezed into the room. “Ah, good! You are sustained!” she trilled. “The girls will be down presently. Is there any other wish I may fulfill?” Her hand brushed across the back of Nicolas’s neck. He held out his empty brandy glass. It was promptly refilled.
As he ate from the tray, Nicolas endured the parade of willing prostitutes. Tall, short, thin, plump, some more bold than others. He played along for a bit, as much as he could tolerate, then motioned the madam to his side.
“Yes, darling?” she breathed in his ear.
“The girl who brought the food.”
“Her?” Penciled brows pulled together above purpled lids. “But she’s a Negro.”
“I believe I told you that I prefer dark, did I not?”
“Yes, but she’s a serving girl. A scullery maid!” The woman’s voice took on an important tone. “She’s never been used in that way. She will most likely not be as—pliant—as my other girls.”
She waved her hand toward the women draped in various stages of undress over the colorful furniture. “Surely one of these girls will suit you?”
Nicolas pulled a gold coin from his pocket. “Shall I take my business elsewhere?”
“I, uh…”
He shrugged and moved to stand. She quickly linked her arm through his as he rose. “Might I show you to our best room? She will be up presently, I assure you!”
Nicolas dropped the coin into the woman’s décolletage. “I shall stay the night. Send a bottle of brandy up with her.”
Nicolas pulled the sheets back; they were clean and exuded lavender. Rosie was right, this was a decent sort of brothel. He marveled again at the society of whores, which allowed her to find this establishment on his behalf.
Nicolas moved to the window. Off to the right he could see Jaqriel under the lamp, sitting at Rusten’s feet.
Good.
A quick knock on the door preceded the shoving of the Negress into his presence. The door shut behind her before she could escape. Her quickly downcast eyes were red-rimmed and her breath came in gasps. The brandy bottle slid from her hand and hit the carpet with a muted thud.
“Don’t cry, Sarah. Things are not as they seem,” Nicolas assured her. A flicker of confusion rippled her brow. He pulled off the wide leather hat and combed his fingers through his long, thick hair. “Do you know me?”
Eyes the color of rust met his in a sullen, iron gaze.
“It was a year and a half ago, now. I found Jack in my hen house. My wife gave you a skillet and a quilt.” The Negress’ eyes widened.
“And a shirt.” Sarah’s soft voice was spiced with Cajun flavor.
Nicolas nodded. “I forgot about the shirt.”
Sarah’s eyes swept the room, then passed over Nicolas. She paid particular attention to the state of his breeches, making him feel distinctly disrobed.
“Wh-why are you here?” she asked, fear tripping her words. “Will you use me, then?”
“No!” Nicolas pulled back. “No, nothing like that. I brought Jack. We’ve come for you.”
Sarah straightened and took a step forward, frowning. “Jack is here?”
“He’s outside with my horse.” Nicolas waved toward the window.
Sarah walked unevenly across t
he room and looked outside. When she saw Jaqriel, she backed away from the window.
“No-o-o!” she wailed and collapsed to the floor. She wrapped her arms around her waist as loud sobs ricocheted through her. “No, no, no, no. I can’t see him. He won’t want to see me!”
Nicolas’s jaw dropped. Now what?
“Sarah, please don’t cry.” He waved his hands in awkward circles, not knowing how to comfort her.
“He will hate me!” Sarah’s words were muffled against the elaborate carpet. “I can’t see him!”
A sharp rap at the door startled them both. Nicolas stepped back and pulled the door open. It was Madam Purple.
“Is aught amiss, sir?” She leaned to the side to see around his bulk. “I heard distressing sounds.”
Nicolas glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see Sarah sitting on her knees, under tenuous control for the moment.
“Nothing’s amiss, Madam, I assure you. I fear our game was louder than we intended.” He flashed his most congenial smile.
“Game?” Madam Purple leaned farther and Nicolas obliged by opening the door wider. Sarah smiled tremulously.
“Yes, um, plantation overseer and the, uh, reluctant—dairy maid.” Nicolas made it up as he spoke. “I’m sure you understand these sort of peculiarities?”
“Yes, well, in my business? Of course!” Her eyes undressed Nicolas, for the second time in five minutes, pausing long on his groin. He resisted the urge to cup himself protectively.
Nicolas smiled again and bowed. “I promise to be quieter.”
Madam Purple backed out of the room and pulled the door closed. Nicolas heaved a sigh of relief. Sarah melted back onto the carpet and cried into the crook of her arm.
Nicolas squatted near her. “Sarah?”
One wet eye appeared over her elbow.
“What’s amiss?”
Sarah shook her head slowly from side to side. Nicolas stood and retrieved the brandy bottle from the corner where it rolled. He opened it and poured two glasses. He downed one, refilled it, and carried the liquor to the puddle of Negress.
“Here, drink this.” He pushed the glass into a hand that reflexively closed around it. He downed his second brandy and waited.
Sarah lifted her face enough to look at the crystal container. She pulled herself upright and gulped the liquid. She coughed explosively and dropped the empty glass on the rug.
“Lord have mercy!” she squeaked.
Nicolas picked it up and set both glasses on the nightstand. “Might you speak to me now?”
“Yes,” Sarah rasped. “Only do not make me take more of that!”
“That’s fair.” Nicolas sat on the edge of the bed.
Sarah ran the back of her hand under her nose and wiped both of her eyes. She sniffed twice before she spoke. “We were caught in St. Louis. The man we were to meet never came. Or if he did, he never found us.”
“How long were you there?”
“We waited for a week. Maybe ten days. Then Jaqriel went to buy food. That’s when he was discovered.”
Nicolas ran his hand through his hair. “And you were with child. He couldn’t abandon you.”
“No.” Sarah wiped her cheeks, wet again. “I hoped he would, but he did not.”
Nicolas’s gut clenched at her desperate words. He cleared his throat. “You both were sold?”
Sarah nodded. “Jack was sold to a stone mason in St. Louis. I was sold to the madam here.”
“That mason built an addition on my home,” Nicolas explained. “That’s how I found Jack.”
“Oh?” Sarah’s eyes met his. “How is he here?”
“I, um, well I bought him. From the mason.” Nicolas felt his face grow warm.
Sarah frowned at him, her confusion clear. “You bought him?”
“What happened next?” he prodded.
“I came here, to St. Charles.”
“The madam told me you have not been, uh,” Nicolas faltered. “What I mean to say is, you don’t…” He spread his hands helplessly.
“No, I have never been asked to service any customers. Until tonight, of course.” Sarah glanced around the room. Nicolas saw her fingers tighten around each other.
“I have no intentions of using you in any way, Sarah. Rest easy,” Nicolas assured her. “I’m quite satisfied with my wife and don’t frequent brothels.” Anymore.
“Yes, sir.” Her fingers relaxed.
“You were with child.” Nicolas brought her back to her account.
“I birthed a son.”
“Is he here?”
Sarah’s lower lip tensed and disappeared under her front teeth. She faced the floor. A quick shake of her head was followed by loud, wet sniffs and frantic cheek-wiping.
“They let me keep him until he walked. Then Madam said he was too much trouble and a whore house was no place for children. I begged her not to take him so young, but she would not hear me.” Sarah’s voice caught in gasps.
“They sold him?” Nicolas breathed deeply, fighting a sudden thickness in his throat. Though he largely ignored his own son in the first years after his wife died, he now loved Stefan fiercely and could not imagine life without the boy.
“No! They gave him away!” she keened.
“Do you know to whom?”
“No!” Sarah crumpled to the carpet once again. “My son is lost to me!” That was likely true. To recognize him as he grew would be impossible.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” Nicolas whispered.
“I cannot face Jaqriel. He will never forgive me!”
“No, Sarah, that’s not so.”
“It is! It is, it is…” she moaned.
Nicolas was at a loss. He dare not touch the girl; too many taboos there. He rose from the edge of the bed and poured himself another brandy. He sat on a chair and pushed each boot off with the other foot. He loosened his shirt. “Sarah?”
No response.
“Sarah? Can you hear me?”
Her head wobbled.
“Sarah, I plan to get a good night’s sleep this night. We ride back to Cheltenham in the morning. That’s four or five hours on the road.”
She raised her head and met his gaze.
“And because I plan to buy you in the morning, and take you with us, I would like to make certain that you’re comfortable as well.”
“I’m not for sale,” she stated.
“Sarah, anything, or anyone, is for sale when the right payment is offered.” Nicolas stood and rested his fists on his hips. “And I have the right payment.”
Sarah pushed herself upright, her cheeks glossed with tears and still on her knees. “How can you be certain?”
One side of Nicolas’s mouth curved as he pulled gold coins from his pocket. “Let us simply say, I am.”
Sarah’s eyes widened again. “Oh my Lord.”
“So,” Nicolas dropped the coins back into his pocket, “might you make yourself comfortable for the night?”
“I—I suppose I might, sir.”
“Have you any belongings to gather?”
She looked stunned. “Only some dresses. I can get them in the morning.”
“Even so.” Nicolas climbed wearily into the bed, still dressed. “Please make use of anything in the room, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” Sarah whispered.
Nicolas’ head sank into the scented pillow. He heard himself snore. Once.
October 20, 1821
Cheltenham, Missouri
“Bronnie? Look at me.” Sydney leaned over the foot of the bed; her hands gripped Bronwyn Atherton’s ankles. She wiped the sweat off one cheek with her shoulder. “Look at me!”
Bronwyn’s brown eyes focused on Sydney. She still whimpered.
“You need to stop fighting your body! You are making your pains worse and you aren’t helping the baby come out.”
“But it hurts so much, Sydney! I feel as though my back is breaking!” she wailed.
“Some women feel it more in front, and some mor
e in back. Taycie is bringing a bladder of hot water for you.” She straightened and toggled her head to release tension in her neck. “For now, I think you should get on your hands and knees. It might help relieve some of that pressure.”
Bronnie rolled on her side and Sydney helped her get into position. Rickard Atherton’s young mulatto slave, Taycie, slipped in the door and handed Sydney the pig bladder of hot water. Sydney set it in the scoop of Bronnie’s back.
“That feels good,” Bronnie moaned.
The willowy Negress moved to the fire and poked it, adding a log. Sydney looked at the clock. It was nine-thirty in the morning and she was summoned to the Atherton manor, a mile and a half from the Hansen property, at three. Over six hours already, with a long way yet to go.
Taycie brought a tray of food for Sydney and cooled tea for Bronnie. The clock struck one. Sydney ate her sandwich sitting on the bed, her hand on Bronnie’s belly. For some reason, the younger woman found it easier to breathe through her contractions if Sydney pushed against her.
“It shouldn’t be too much longer,” Sydney assured Bronnie as another pain started. “I’ll check you after this one.”
Bronnie squealed at a sudden gush of water. “Did I wet myself?” she cried.
“No! That’s the bag of waters. Things should move very quickly now.”
It took Bronnie only three good pushes before a black-swirled head emerged. Sydney wiped it clean and maneuvered the shoulders through. A long vernix- and blood-smeared body somersaulted into Sydney’s lap.