by Kris Tualla
“I’m so sorry we missed it,” Bronnie said calmly. “Would anyone care for more snap peas?”
Lily’s voice took on an edge. “Well, we missed your wedding as well, didn’t we?”
Nicolas reached for the bowl of peas. “And we missed them both. Thank you, Bronnie.”
Lily shot him a look. “You missed Rick’s wedding? What on God’s earth kept you away?”
“We were in Norway.”
Lily frowned. “Who was in Norway?”
Nicolas answered coolly, “Me, Sydney, the children. We were gone over a year.” He poured himself more wine. “We only returned in mid-August.”
Lily slumped in her chair. “I had no idea.”
“Was it a pleasant experience?” Ezra asked.
Sydney and Nicolas exchanged significant looks.
“Not entirely,” he answered. One corner of his mouth curled.
“Oh?” Ezra sat up straighter. “Was there a purpose for this journey, then?”
“Yes.” Nicolas rested elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. He stared at the man over their point. “I was one of three candidates for king.”
Lily coughed violently, her face exploding in scarlet. Rickard pounded her back until she swatted his hand away.
“What—king?” she croaked.
“Yes, Lily. Nicolas is the great-grandson of King Christian the Sixth.” Sydney flashed her a puzzled look. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”
Though Lily’s face was still red, and her eyes still watering, she didn’t let the goading comment pass.
“I knew that!” she coughed. “But how did this come about?”
Nicolas patiently explained the summons and the situation they found there, including his and Sydney’s duplicity. But he excluded the gold he returned home with.
Lily stared at him, her expression unreadable. “And you returned in August?”
“We did.”
“Would anyone care for more bread?” Bronnie interrupted and passed the basket to Ezra, who accepted it and set it down.
“Well!” Lily harrumphed. “Perhaps someday I’ll cease being surprised at the odd things you choose to do, Nick.”
“Potatoes, anyone?” Bronnie held the platter in invitation.
Her attempts at keeping the evening civil were not lost on Sydney. “I’ll have another helping. A small one.”
Sydney accepted the plate, though she had lost any semblance of her appetite. But the grateful look Bronnie gave her made the effort worthwhile.
Rickard’s stable master, a slave named Josiah, appeared in the dining room doorway. Rickard waved the man to his side.
“Yes?” He leaned his head to Josiah, who whispered in his ear. “How long?” He frowned and nodded. “Yes, I’ll come straight away.”
“Something amiss, Rick?” Nicolas probed.
Rickard stood. “A mare is having difficulty foaling.”
“Do you need help?”
Rickard glanced around the room, distractedly patting his pockets. “I may…”
“I’ll come, too.” Sydney pushed away from the table. Bronnie glared at her, desperate. “Birth is birth,” Sydney said, apologetically. “I’ll return if there’s nothing I can do.”
“Please do.” Bronnie’s plea was punctuated by a wavering smile.
“Yes. By all means.” Lily’s smile was too bright and did not reach her eyes. “Do hurry back.”
Rickard crossed to Bronnie and kissed her hair. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded; her adoration for her husband was as obvious as ever. He quit the room, followed by Nicolas and Sydney.
“Coffee, Ezra?” Bronnie’s voice trailed behind them.
The slow, labored breathing was loud in the chilly stable, audible over the hoof shifting and contented chewing of the other animals. Besides the common smells of manure and fresh hay, another odor wafted amidst the hay dust. Something unhealthy.
When they reached her stall, Sydney gasped. The mare laid on her side and her eyes showed white. One hoofed leg protruded from her bottom; it was a hind leg.
“You’ve tried to turn the foal?” Rickard stood at the horse’s back.
“Yessir.” Josiah wiped sweat from his brow. “I been at it for an hour.”
Sydney knelt at the mare’s belly and rested her hands on the taught hide. “She’s contracting.”
“Can you do aught?” Nicolas asked her.
Sydney’s eyes met Josiah’s. “I doubt I could do more than he already has.”
Josiah waved both hands in front of his chest. “You go on an’ try, Miz Sydney.”
Sydney stood. “I’ll need an apron. A sturdy one.”
One of the grooms hurried off in search. Sydney twisted her heavy, straight hair into a bun and pushed back her sleeves. When the apron arrived, she tied it over her dress and went to work.
First she pushed the foal’s leg back inside the mare. It didn’t resist. “That’s not good, Rickard,” she warned. “It’s getting tired.”
Then she put her arm inside the mare to see exactly how the foal was situated. She was in slime beyond her elbow; the smell gagged her and she thought she might lose her meal. Eyes closed, she rested her forehead on the mare’s rump, breathing through her mouth, and concentrated on what her fingers found. The foal was breech and tangled in the umbilical cord. That wasn’t good news, either. When she pulled her arm out, it was smeared in bright red blood.
“Oh, God,” Rickard groaned.
“Is he to lose them both?” Nicolas asked her.
Sydney sat on her heels, bloody arm resting in her lap. “There is one thing to try. But the mare will die.”
Rickard and Nicolas exchanged glances. Nicolas nodded.
Richard pulled a deep sigh. “It seems I will lose her either way. Might you save the foal?”
Sydney considered him. “I’ve never done it myself, but I’ve seen it done.”
“What?”
“Cut her open and pull the babe from her belly.”
Rickard winced, jaw clenched, silent. Nicolas ran his hands through his hair and stared at the straining animal.
“Rickard?”
Rickard jerked his attention to Sydney. “Yes?”
“They haven’t much time.”
He nodded. “Even so. Go on, then.”
Nicolas pulled his dirk from his waistband, and handed it to Sydney. “Do you need help?”
“I don’t know.” But on the first attempt at cutting, she failed. The hide was tougher than she imagined, and she was afraid to go too deep. The mare didn’t respond to the incision and her shallow breaths came further and further apart.
Nicolas knelt beside her and took the knife. “Show me where to cut,” he said.
“Here to here,” Sydney ran her hand along the mare’s underside.
Nicolas cut through the skin, then through the abdominal muscles. The iron tang of blood and the putrid stench of waste filled the stable. The straining womb was next.
“Not too deep,” Sydney warned.
“I’m aware,” Nicolas responded. He paused, probing with his fingers. Then he sliced into the mare’s uterus and through the birth sac. Cloudy water poured into the straw.
Sydney plunged her arms through the slit and grabbed the foal. Pulling back with all her strength, she dragged the baby from its mother’s now lifeless body. She leaned on its ribs to simulate the squeeze of the birth canal then sat back and waited.
The colt moved a little, blinking. He drew a breath.
“Towels!” Sydney shouted. “The mare should be licking him!”
Another slave appeared with burlap bags and they all set about scrubbing the baby dry, stimulating his circulation and encouraging him to breath. After several minutes, he tried to stand.
“Do you have a brood mare?” Sydney asked.
“Yes’m. Two stalls down,” Josiah answered.
Sydney turned to Nicolas. “Can you?”
Nicolas hefted the col
t. His face reddened and taught muscles strained against the fabric of his shirt. He followed Josiah, setting the colt on its feet beside the mare. Twiggy legs bowed and flexed like spring saplings in a twister. The substitute mother swung her head around and sniffed the newcomer with interest.
Sydney grabbed the mare’s teat and worked it until milk spurted. She pulled the colt’s jaw and squirted the warm, sweet liquid into its mouth. After the third try, he latched on to the adoptive mare and nursed.
Sydney sat back on her bottom and tried to find a clean corner of the heavy apron with which to wipe her face. Unsuccessful, she grabbed a fistful of hay. Nicolas laughed at her.
“I believe Rickard does have soap, warm water and towels in the house!” He offered her his hand. Sydney took it and he pulled her to stand. “Let’s both make use of them, eh?”
“Thank you, Sydney. Nick.” Rickard looked haggard.
“I’m glad we could help.” Sydney reached out to pat his shoulder but stopped before she spread her filth on his fancy linen and lace shirt.
The contented snuffling of the suckling foal faded as the three friends left the stable. Josiah was set about the task of butchering the mare.
October 28, 1821
Cheltenham
Sydney reached for Nicolas and he wasn’t there. Again. With a sigh, she sat up in bed and saw their bedroom door was opened just a bit. She shrugged out of her warm blanket cocoon and slid her feet into the slippers she discarded hours ago. Tugging a quilt from the foot of the bed, she wrapped it around her and, after listening for Kirstie’s soft, regular breaths beyond the nursery door, headed down the stairs.
“There you are.” Sydney pulled the heavy front door closed behind her and crossed the front porch to her husband. He was lounging on a bench, holding a crystal glass of amber liquid.
“When did you bring the flask out?” she asked, lifting the heavy pewter flagon to judge its remains.
“The third time I went to refill my glass.” His voice was husky from cold and drink.
Sydney took the glass from his hand and gulped the brandy. She coughed, eyes watering, and shuddered. Nicolas laughed.
“I still don’t understand the appeal!” she managed, past a seared throat.
“Then don’t waste my brandy.”
Nicolas moved his legs from the wicker ottoman and Sydney sat in front of him. She set the empty glass by her feet, then pulled the quilt close around her.
“Why are you out here, Nicolas?”
“Thinking is all.”
“What weighs so heavy on your mind that you must leave our bed on four of these last five nights?”
Nicolas ran his hands through his hair and rubbed them over his face, rasping two days’ growth of blond whiskers.
“Ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” Sydney could not stop herself from glancing behind her. “Whose?”
“Norwegians.”
Sydney leaned back. “Husband, are you drunk?”
Nicolas’s mouth curved. “Only a little.”
Sydney smiled at his boyish expression. “Then will you explain to me how Norwegian ghosts are waking you in Missouri?”
Nicolas gazed at her and drew a deep breath. He let it out very slowly. His blue eyes were black in the faint quarter-moon light. He laced his fingers and rested them across his nightshirt.
“Do you know why I didn’t wish to claim the throne in Christiania?” he began.
Sydney shook her head.
“Because of the ghosts.”
She waited, lost in the somber expression sculpting his beautiful face.
“Every man deserves to see his dreams fulfilled. To have his passions met. It’s what makes life worth the living. As king, that burden would have crushed me.”
Sydney tilted her head. “Because?”
“Because I could not be anything but a good king; and a good king cares for his subjects. Every man. Every last man, Sydney.” Nicolas sighed again and leaned forward. “I could feel them all—lining up behind me, pushing against me—with all of their unfulfilled dreams and unmet passions resting on the hope of the new throne. A Norse throne. And a Norse king.”
“Oh…” she breathed.
Nicolas waved his hands in the air. “No one could see them, of course. But I felt them just the same!”
Sydney hugged the quilt and clenched her teeth against the urge to clatter.
Nicolas didn’t seem to notice. “I couldn’t do it. Though they looked to me, I could not be responsible for everyone’s happiness.”
“A king is more than—”
“I’m talking about me, Sydney!” Nicolas barked, smacking his chest with a thump. “What I, and my own conscience, expected. I’m a man of honor and I could not do less were I in that position!”
Sydney flinched. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
Nicolas relaxed a bit then.
“I couldn’t breathe at times, to consider taking such a role.” Nicolas shook his head and leaned back in the bench. “It’s just as well that Sweden still holds Norway. There was none other I saw that could be such a king.”
Sydney poked one hand from her wrapping to grasp her husband’s. Silent, she stroked it with her thumb.
“No one else understood. Neither Anders nor Erling; not Karl. Certainly not Espen!” Nicolas cleared his throat. “Only I could see it. But the burden was too great.”
Sydney nodded slowly. “I understand, Nick… And I commend you for your choice.”
Nicolas faced Sydney at that. “Do you?”
She shrugged. “Not many men have the insight to know what being a good leader means.”
“I don’t feel like a good leader.”
“But you are.”
“Then why couldn’t I shoulder the burden?”
“You were quite capable of doing so…” Sydney assured him. She pulled Nicolas’s hand to her lips and kissed his work-roughened knuckles. “Except that you already had a life. Your commitments here in Missouri came first. And you had the courage not to fling them off when power and position were dangled in front of you.”
“You make me sound almost worthy.” Nicolas’s lips twitched.
“You are worthy, husband. That’s why I love you.”
Nicolas leaned forward and kissed her. She tasted the brandy, warmed on his tongue. His breath tickled her cheek.
“Min presang, you always save me,” he whispered.
“Are the ghosts laid to rest, then?”
“Perhaps the Norwegian ones are.”
Sydney leaned away and stared at Nicolas. “Are there others?”
He nodded, looking a bit sheepish.
“Is it Lara?”
“No, she rests easy,” Nicolas said of his first wife. “It’s my own ‘kingdom’ here.”
“This estate?” Sydney shuddered with the cold.
This time, Nicolas noticed. “Let’s go inside before you catch your death!”
He stood and pulled her to her feet. Retrieving the empty glass and pewter flask, Nicolas guided her to the front door. “We’ll sit in my study.”
Chapter Five
Sydney pulled a chair close to the hearth while Nicolas woke the sleeping flames. Then he sank into his stuffed leather throne and stared at the fire.
“Go on, then,” Sydney encouraged.
Nicolas stretched slowly, his long limbs reaching far into the room. “It goes back to my father, I expect. He and my mother shared great passion. When she died, I wasn’t surprised that he went soon after.” Nicolas turned to Sydney. “Did I tell you that he died in his sleep? When we found him the next morning, he was smiling.”
“No, you didn’t tell me that.”
Nicolas’s gaze slid back to the flickering light. “Passion,” he whispered.
“Husband?”
“Hmm?”
“What ghosts haunt you now?”
Nicolas looked uncomfortable. “Don’t mistake what I’m about to say.”
Sydney shook her head and gripped the e
dge of the quilt.
“Because I would not have done one thing differently.”
“I understand.”
“Promise me, you’ll remember that?”
Sydney laughed. “Nicolas!” she chided. “Simply tell me!”
Nicolas straightened in his chair. “When I found you, only five people lived here.”
“You, Stefan, John and Addie, and Maribeth.”
“Yes. You became the sixth.”
“And then Kirstie was born, making seven.”
“Right.” Nicolas shifted in his chair again. “Then we hired Jeremy and Anne when we went to Norway. And they’re still here.”
“We left Maribeth in Norway, but brought Leif in her stead. And you bought Jaqriel.” Sydney held up ten fingers.
“And then I bought Sarah.” Nicolas held up one finger. “There are now eleven people on the estate.”
Sydney nodded. “That’s quite a change over two years.”
“It is.”
“And now all the specters of unfulfilled dreams and unmet passions—” Sydney posited.
“Have come to rest under my own roof,” Nicolas completed the thought.
Sydney pinned him with a serious gaze. “Are those the only ghosts?”
“They are.”
She sighed and slapped the arm of her chair. “Good.”
Nicolas relaxed a little. “You don’t find that task daunting, then?”
“No. And neither will you, I wager, when we look at this with logic.” Sydney stood. “I’ll make us some tea.”
“Now?” Nicolas strained to make out the hands on the clock. “It’s after two o’clock in the morning!”
Sydney turned in the doorway and smiled. “And have you other plans?”
“Well, not precisely.”
“And is your mind sufficiently soothed with brandy to allow you to sleep?”
Nicolas smiled through pressed lips. “No.”
“As I thought. We’ll require paper and pencil or a pen.” Sydney returned with the teapot and two cups on a tray. Once they were served, she pulled a chair close to the oak desk.
Nicolas held the pen poised over a sheet of paper. “And what am I to put down?”