by Kris Tualla
“Welcome back, min presang,” he said quietly.
“I’m sorry, Nicolas. Did I wake you?” she whispered.
“No. I—simply woke up.”
Sydney left her clothes on the floor and retrieved her nightgown from the foot of the bed. She climbed under the blankets and slid close to Nicolas. Her skin was cold from her winter’s night outing. He curled around her.
“Did it go well?” he asked, face pressed in her hair.
“Yes. A girl. Big and strong.” Sydney sighed. “Taycie is doing so well, I believe she might soon be able to handle a birth on her own.” She placed his hand against her breast, pushed her bottom against his groin. She yawned loudly. “If I wasn’t so tired, I’d take randy advantage of you, husband.”
Oddly, his body did not respond.
December 25, 1821
Not a bit of snow had fallen for weeks; the frozen earth was brown and brittle. Christmas morning’s sun nudged over the horizon, jailed by the forest’s bare trunks and black branches. Nicolas and Jeremy wrestled the frost-dampened Yule log through the front door and into the drawing room’s fireplace. Addie was already in the kitchen, teaching Anne how to make rice pudding, and the pinnekjøtt, the traditional Norwegian dish of salted lamb ribs which Nicolas had grown up with.
Stefan tumbled down the stairs, Leif in noisy tow.
“Did Julenisse come?” he shouted.
“Sh!” Nicolas frowned. “There are a few civilized inhabitants of this estate who choose to rise at a respectable hour! Namely your Mamma and Kirstie!”
“Sorry, Pappa,” Stefan whispered loudly. “But this time he didn’t come while we were at church!”
He couldn’t have. At last evening’s midnight church service, all eleven members of the Hansen estate were in attendance. Filling two pews, their multi-racial presence had offended some of the attendees. But Pastor Mueller, keenly attuned to his mostly Lutheran flock—and fully aware of Nicolas’s iron convictions—managed to work a few relevant scriptures into his sermon reminding the congregants that the Sweet Baby Jesus was born to save everyone.
“It was a very busy night for him, to be sure!” Nicolas struck his flint and sparked the tinder under the log. “But there are some odd items here that weren’t here before.”
He put out his hand and stopped his eager son’s advance. “We’ll open the gifts after breakfast.”
“Why, Pappa?” Stefan’s gaze all but cut through the wrappings.
“Because your Mamma will want to watch,” Nicolas explained.
“Please?”
“No.” Nicolas went back to lighting the log.
“But—”
“If you ask me again, I shall give all your gifts to Leif!” Nicolas threatened. He leaned over and blew on the fledgling flame he succeeded in starting.
“Come on,” Leif said, pulling Stefan’s shirt. “I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry!” Stefan countered, padding down the hall after the older boy.
“I’m growing!” Leif upped the ante.
“So am I!” Stefan called.
Nicolas looked to Jeremy. “Have you any brothers?”
“Three,” Jeremy answered, unsuccessful at hiding his grin.
Sydney came down with Kirstie, who held the stair railing with both hands and took the stairs sideways, one at a time. She was excited because everyone else was, but didn’t understand why. Three weeks from her second birthday, this was the first Christmas she would truly take part in.
Nicolas, Sydney, Stefan, Kirstie and Leif sat together at the dining room table and ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, ham, potatoes, biscuits, jam, honey, coffee, hot chocolate and tea. When they finished, Nicolas and Sydney herded the children into the drawing room to open their presents.
Leif was surprised that there were gifts for him. “I didn’t get anything for you,” he mumbled, embarrassed.
Nicolas clamped a meaty hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Leif, believe me when I say, that all Sydney and I desire is to watch you continue to grow, learn English, and get your education. We do not require trinkets from you.”
“That’s true, Leif,” Sydney confirmed.
His glance was unsure, but his embarrassed blush abated. “Someday, I’ll repay you, Sir,” he promised. “I’ll make you proud of me.”
Sydney sat on the settle. Nicolas joined her, and the boys handed out the wrapped treasures. Kirstie had to be taught what to do, but caught on quickly. She squeezed the doll that Sydney made for her close to her chest with one hand, and waved the wrapping’s ribbons with the other.
Sydney opened a small box from Nicolas. When she saw what was inside, she looked at him, puzzled. “What is this?”
“A handful of dirt from the yard.”
She frowned. “Why are you giving me dirt?”
“What I’m giving you is the right to pull me back to what matters, should I become so entangled in this election that I begin to lose myself,” he explained.
“And dirt will accomplish that?”
“It symbolizes this estate. This estate shelters you, my children, and my livelihood. Nothing is as important to me as those things.” Nicolas draped one arm around Sydney’s shoulders and smiled. “Show me the dirt. It will—ground me—if you will.”
Sydney laughed. “I’ll take you at your word, husband. Thank you.”
“Oh, and then there’s this.” Nicolas reached into his pocket and pulled out a small calling card tied to a soft leather bag. The card had black formal lettering on thick cream parchment.
Sydney gasped and her jaw dropped. “This card says: Lady Sydney Hansen, Midwife; Reidar’s Road; Cheltenham, Missouri!” She turned to Nicolas. “Did you have cards made for me?”
“I did. Do you like them?”
Sydney blinked, tears clumping her lashes. “Yes.”
“Good. Because there are one hundred of them!” Nicolas laughed. “Now open the bag.”
Sydney untied a cord and pulled an odd looking contraption from it. It consisted of a wooden tube about a foot long and a flattened wooden cone. She looked at Nicolas, bemused. “I give up. What is it?”
Nicolas grinned, obviously extremely pleased with himself. “I bought it in St. Louis, at a very forward-thinking apothecary. It’s a brand-new invention called a ‘stethoscope.’ You use it to listen inside a body.”
“How does it work?” Sydney handed it to Nicolas. He placed the end of the polished tube into the carved cone and rested the cone against his chest.
“Listen,” he instructed.
Sydney placed her ear to the tube. Her eyes widened. “Is that your heart I hear?” She grinned widely. “Can I listen to babies inside their mothers?”
“So he says.”
“Can I hear, Pappa?” Stefan abandoned his toys.
“Certainly!”
Stefan placed his ear against the end of the tube. He jerked away, stared at his father, then listened again. “That’s what a heart sounds like?”
Nicolas handed the device to Sydney, who listened in fascination to the inner rumblings of her own belly.
Leif sat quietly in a corner. He had a small leather box on his lap; he lifted items out, then set them reverently back in place.
“Leif?” Nicolas called to him.
His head jerked up. “Yes, Sir?”
“What have you there?”
Leif smiled shyly, his hand running over his chin. “A razor, Sir. And other things.”
“Time to learn to shave.”
“Yes, Sir.” He blushed.
“Learn well, son.” Nicolas rasped a palm over his morning’s stubble. “And I shall make you my valet on my campaign.”
Leif’s eyes rounded. “What?”
“What?” Stefan echoed, suddenly attentive. “Leif?”
“If he is amenable.” Nicolas spoke to his young cousin. “It means learning how to care for my clothing, making sure my personal needs are anticipated and met. Waiting up for me late at night, and waking early in the
morning. It is a true job, Leif. It carries substantial responsibility.”
“Y-yes, Sir.” Leif looked stunned.
“Do you wish to take this on?”
He nodded so hard, his cheeks wiggled. “Yes, Sir!”
“Why can’t I?” Stefan whined. “I want to go with you, Pappa!”
Nicolas held out his arms and Stefan walked into them. He pulled his son onto his lap. “You have school, Stefan. You cannot miss it.”
“Leif has school,” the pouting boy pointed out. “It’s not fair.”
“Leif is almost fourteen. He has mastered his arithmetic, and needs to work on his English.”
The boy crossed his arms and tucked his chin into his chest.
“Stefan. Look at me.”
Stefan’s bright blue eyes peeked out from under lowered brows and wavy auburn hair. For a moment, Nicolas could not speak; the boy favored his dead mother so strongly.
“I love you, Stefan, and would relish your company greatly. But you are my son, not my servant. Do you understand the difference?”
“No.”
Nicolas knew he did, and recognized the boy’s stubborn streak as his own. “Well, someday you will. Until then, you must trust me.”
Chapter Ten
January 1, 1822
St. Louis
Sydney showed Leif how to hang Nicolas’s clothes in the apartment so that they wouldn’t be wrinkled when he needed them. She helped him brush the waistcoats, skirted frock coats and greatcoat, removing any specs of lint, dried food or mud Nicolas might have inadvertently picked up.
“And most inns have someone who can press a shirt, or even launder it, should that be called for,” Sydney instructed. “Don’t wait, however, if you think it might need to be done. Time passes more quickly than you might realize!”
“And if you are in doubt, have it done!” Nicolas added from across the bedroom. “I’m already thought of as a country bumpkin. I needn’t give them more ammunition by dressing like one!”
“You are?” Sydney turned to him, surprised.
“I was called a ‘rural land-grant owner in a small township.’ They could not have been more clear,” Nicolas responded.
“Then we shall take them unawares, sir!” Vincent Barr, his secretary, stated with youthful optimism.
Nicolas examined the handbills and pamphlets that Vincent designed, extolling his political virtues. He handed them back to the secretary. “Very good work, Vincent.”
“Thank you, sir.” A flush of pink spread over the man’s delicate cheeks and high forehead. His light brown hair was already receding, though he was only in his mid-twenties. Vincent and Leif quit the bedroom so that Nicolas and Sydney could dress for the New Year’s Candidates’ Ball. Nicolas eyed his wife’s slowing movements and hunched stance.
“Min presang?”
“Yes?” She straightened and faced him. She was paler than at lunch.
“Are you well?”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. “I had some willowbark tea and will make more. It’s only my course.”
Nicolas pulled her to him. The surge of relief that he experienced each time she bled was still with him, though he believed she was right: after his groin injury, and in light of her highly irregular courses, they would most likely never have another child. Thank the Lord for Kirstie.
Nicolas massaged Sydney’s lower back with his fists while she rested against him. “Will you stay here, then?”
“No. I shall go.”
“Are you sure, min presang?”
“Yes.” Her voice was muffled against his chest. “I shall, at the least, begin the evening. If I can make it through the receiving line, that will be a help to you.”
“Perhaps you won’t feel as ill this time.”
“Perhaps,” she whispered.
The line of people eager to meet the two candidates stretched through the entry lobby of the salon and out the door. Winston Beckermann took the first position. He was a tall man, only a couple inches shorter than Nicolas, and very stout. Graying wisps stretched from his right ear over the top of his head to his left ear, held in place by wax. Sydney guessed him to be in his mid-fifties.
Mistress Beckermann was a faded redhead. She wore a faded gown and regarded Sydney with faded blue eyes. She stood dutifully next to her husband, completely hidden in his exuberant shadow.
Determined to show her up for Nicolas’s sake, Sydney smiled, laughed and tossed her head, until her headache threatened to throw her skull to the floor. She kept a tight grip on Nicolas’s left elbow and fought the nausea that always escorted the headache. Her lower back and abdomen twisted and cramped, until she wondered how she still stood after an hour of this torture.
A familiar voice lifted her spirits. Rickard.
Sydney leaned forward to see him in the diminishing line. Bronnie waved a gloved hand and Sydney waved back. Then Lily stepped from behind them.
“Skitt,” Sydney whispered.
Nicolas looked down at her. “Sydney?”
“Lily’s here.” Sydney pointed with her chin. “But so are Rickard and Bronnie.”
The two couples reached them—Sydney had not even noticed the diminishing Sir Ezra—and there was much hand shaking and backslapping.
When Bronnie reached Sydney, she gripped Sydney’s free arm and spoke to Nicolas. “Shall I escort her home?”
“Would you?” He sounded inordinately relieved. “Leif is outside with the carriage. He can accompany you.”
“Why are you talking about me as though I were not here?” Sydney demanded. At least, she believed she did. The wavering lights in the lobby distracted her.
Rickard stepped between her and Nicolas, moving her arm to his. “Come along, Sydney. There’s a good girl.”
Nicolas leaned down and kissed her. “Go home and go to bed. I shall be there as soon as I am able.”
Sydney wanted to object, but he disappeared from her fuzzy, tunnel-like view. Supported by their good friends she was driven home, undressed, fed tea and tucked into bed. Bronnie offered to stay with her, but Sydney convinced Bronnie that watching her sleep was a waste of her time. So Bronnie laid a cool cloth over Sydney’s eyes and left. Sydney didn’t hear the door close.
“Pity. Now you won’t have anyone to dance with,” Lily purred, watching her brother and sister-in-law practically carry Sydney from the salon.
“Perhaps you might assist him, darling?” Sir Ezra smiled softly. His gaze made Nicolas feel like a stallion being judged for his stud possibilities. Knowing what he did about Lily’s arrangement, he reckoned he was dead on.
“First, there is dinner. After you, Sir. Madam.” Nicolas stepped back and waved the couple ahead. He had a designated seat on the dais and he planned to use it. Alone.
“Hansen! Where’s your lovely wife?” Winston asked when Nicolas stepped to his chair.
“Indisposed, I am sorry to report.”
“Will she be returning?” Mistress Beckermann inquired, her desperation only slightly apparent.
“I am afraid not, Madam. It’s a woman’s issue. Not likely to resolve for a day or two.” Nicolas pulled out his chair and sat.
“Oh.” She slumped in her chair.
“Sorry to hear that, Hansen! But that does leave you free to campaign this evening, does it not?” Winston winked at him.
“In a manner of speaking,” Nicolas said politely.
Winston’s gaze swept the room. “Be careful, though, of that Percival bastard.”
“Herbert Q.?”
“That’s the one. Seems to dig up the most astounding items. Prints ‘em, too. True or not!” Winston’s regard returned to Nicolas. “You seem a decent fellow. Beautiful wife. Truly beautiful. Hate to see you tangled in that web.”
“Thank you, sir, for the warning. I shall do my best.”
Winston lifted his wine glass to Nicolas. “To a well-fought campaign.”
“Here, here.” Nicola
s touched his glass to the other man’s. “And may the right man win!”
“I wish I wasn’t so thin,” Rodger complained, gripping the post of the bed.
“Stop whining, Merry! You wouldn’t fit the dresses if you were a sow!” Lesley pulled the corset laces tight and tied them, giving Rodger a shapely waist and curved hip.
“But I’d have a semblance of a bosom! This is a hard role to play with all my ‘assets’ made of cornmeal.”
“Cornmeal has weight and it shifts,” Lesley repeated his mantra. “It feels real enough under all those layers. Now come on.”
Rodger stepped into a tiered petticoat and tied it at his waist. Then he swam under lavender silk ruching, careful not to smudge his make-up, and resurfaced through the high neckline of the gown. While Lesley secured a blonde wig, he tugged long kid gloves to his elbows.
Standing, he turned slowly while Lesley eyed him critically.
“I am sick with envy, Merry.”
“Why?” Rodger smiled.
“You will have every man there falling at your feet.” Lesley fanned himself with a flattened hand. “Oh, to be able to experience that for myself!”
“Why, darling,” Rodger spoke in a soft falsetto and fluttered his lashes. “Certainly every ‘woman’ here wishes she was with you tonight!”
“Don’t tease.”
Rodger took Lesley’s arm and squeezed it. “But you’re right. Flirting with all those men is wicked fun. Especially when I find one who enjoys an escort with—how shall I put it?—a more masculine bent?”
Lesley flashed a rueful smile. “Do you have your ring?”
“No… Oh there it is.” Rodger slid a jeweled compartment ring over the glove. He flipped it open to make sure the powder was there.
“Will you be late?”
“If I’m lucky!” Rodger chirped and pulled a fur cape from the wardrobe. “What name shall I use tonight?”