A Matter of Principle

by Kris Tualla

  Rodger pushed the office door open and stepped into the cold January air. He gulped deep breaths, his spectral exhalations blown behind him by his rapid pace. When he passed a sidewalk vendor, he pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket and dropped it on the man’s fire. Meaningless ink scratches bubbled. The paper shriveled to ash.

  “Merry?” Lesley stepped from the kitchen. With one look at Rodger, he hurried across the drawing room to take his coat. “What happened?”

  “Hansen.”

  “Again?” Lesley hung the greatcoat on a hook. “What now?”

  Rodger sat, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling. “He came to the office. He was furious.”

  Lesley sank into a chair. “So he saw you?”

  Rodger nodded. “He saw me. He was surprised, and shocked perhaps, that it was me.”

  “Did he threaten you?” Lesley leaned forward. “Was it about that brothel column?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “About which? The threat or the column?”

  “The threat was clear. I assume it was the column.”

  “What will you do?”

  Rodger shook his head slowly. “I cannot risk writing things like that about him again.”

  Lesley frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because he knows.”

  “Knows?”

  Rodger fixed his gaze on Lesley. “He knows what I am.”

  Lesley leaned back in his chair, his hand protectively over his heart. “Might he tell?”

  “Oh, yes he might. There’s no doubt.” Rodger’s tone made his point. “I’ve no desire to spend the rest of my life in prison.”

  “And Herbert?” Lesley ventured.

  “Herbert is safe. He can write any dang thing he wants to. And I expect he shall!”

  Lesley sighed. “Well, then, there’s that, in any case.”

  Rodger covered his face with his palms. He sat, unmoving.

  “Merry?”

  Rodger peeked at Lesley from between his fingers.

  “What haven’t you told me?”

  “You’ll believe me mad,” Rodger whispered.

  “Never.”

  Rodger scoffed. “Don’t make promises you cannot keep!”

  “Tell me.”

  Rodger hesitated. “The man is magnificent.”

  “What? How?” Lesley scooted his chair closer. “And I expect specific details!”

  “If you repeat this to anyone, Lesley, I shall fire you on the spot! And I’ll make it known in all our circles that you cannot be trusted! Do you understand me?” Rodger avowed.

  Lesley tilted his head. “I do, Merry. This must be good.”

  “Good? It was positively shattering.” Rodger shifted his position and spoke with his hands. “I didn’t recognize the stallion tied out front. Huge beast, seventeen hands at least. Mottled gray, black edges. And the most beautiful saddle I have ever laid eyes on.

  “I smelled him when I opened the door; cold air, sweat and leather. He was blown wild by the wind, his blond hair was everywhere. His coat was spattered with mud and damp with melted snow. He was untamed, rough-looking, and burning with the kind of anger that calmly removes your head from your neck.”

  Lesley’s jaw hung slack. He nodded.

  “The power of the man filled the office. I couldn’t move, it was so thick. Doren finally ordered me to my desk, and I managed to walk there. But I couldn’t take my eyes from him.”

  “Yes…”

  Rodger sighed heavily. “I hate him, Lesley, for what he’s done to me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  January 6, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Nicolas walked Fyrste along the mile from Cheltenham to his home, in spite of his impatience. The stallion had worked hard that day making the ten-mile journey to St. Louis and then back. Nicolas ached for Sydney’s company, and her calm way of looking at things. The discovery of Rodger Merrick at the newspaper had him completely undone.

  Jeremy took the stallion from him. He trudged across the snowy yard and into the back door of the manor. The winter sun hung low in a yellowish sky.

  “Oh! Good afternoon, sir!” Anne was baking bread and a pie. Their mingled aromas made his mouth water. Sarah sat at the table with Kirstie on her lap. When Kirstie saw Nicolas, she reached for her pappa.

  Nicolas smiled for the first time in hours and gathered the little girl in his arms. She grinned at him, her gray-blue eyes sparkling. Her curly light brown hair smelled of almond-oil soap.

  “She’s just had a bath,” Sarah said in her Cajun lilt. “She’s a sweet package, isn’t she?”

  “My second favorite female on the earth!” Nicolas took her whole cheek in his mouth for a loud kiss. Kirstie laughed and squirmed. “Is Sydney out?”

  “No, sir. She’s in the drawing room with Mister Rickard.”

  Nicolas handed his daughter back to the maid, and headed in that direction.

  “Nicolas!” Sydney jumped to her feet and hurried to him. “I’m so glad you’re back! Did you kill anyone?”

  He looked at her, then looked at her again. “What?”

  “The way you tore out of here, I wasn’t sure how many bodies might fall.” She fluttered her lashes at him.

  Nicolas laughed at that. “No murders today, min presang. But I thought about it.” He offered Rickard his hand. “And are you here in case I was to be arrested?”

  Rickard shook his head. “No, but if you are thinking of murders, might I suggest the Lady Kensington to begin with?”

  “Lily’s pressing her claim, is she?” Nicolas dropped onto the settle. Anne appeared with a tray of coffee, mugs and three slices of hot apple pie. “Anne, you are a marvel!” he complimented.

  “Thank you, sir.” She slipped out of the room.

  “She is pressing exactly that.” Rickard took a bite of pie.

  “Has she produced the documents?”

  “She has. But they are suspect. I’ve written to Nelson.”

  Nicolas sipped his coffee and considered his friend; Rickard had circles under his eyes and he wasn’t smiling. “What are your options, brother?”

  Rickard met his gaze. “If the estate is divided, I could buy Lily’s half from her.”

  “Can you pay her an annuity?” Sydney asked. “Or would she expect it all at one time?”

  Rickard shook his head. “She has already made it clear she has no interest in receiving a yearly income. That means mortgaging the property. But at least the estate would remain intact; and with luck the mortgage could be satisfied before Glynnis inherits.”

  “And if you divided the estate? Would she want the land?” she pressed.

  Nicolas shot her a look. He knew that answer.

  “No. I’d have to sell it and give her the money. While I wouldn’t have a debt, I would be forced to sell half of my slaves as well. I wouldn’t have enough work for them, nor an income to pay their keep.”

  Sydney’s gaze fell to the floor. Nicolas knew her well; she understood what all of those changes would mean to the Atherton estate—and Rickard’s future. She stood and poured the coffee without looking either man in the eye. “Besides the Lady Kensington, whom else might you wish to murder, husband?”

  Rickard smiled a little then. Bless Sydney for changing the subject.

  “Rodger Merrick,” he answered.

  Sydney set the coffee pot down, hard. She paled. “Dark Skinny?”

  “Seems he now works for the St. Louis Enquirer. And I will give you one chance to guess who wrote the brothel speculation column.”

  “Oh, dear.” Sydney lowered herself onto the settle next to Nicolas. “Did you see him?”

  “I did.”

  “And you are truly certain that you didn’t kill him?”

  “I am. But I warned him that speculation can work in both directions. I trust he got my point.” Nicolas sipped his coffee.

  “What about that other character?” Rickard asked. “That Herbert Percival?”

  “He was not
to be found. According to the editor, he files his columns and receives his pay via messenger. The old man claims he doesn’t know anything more than that.”

  “Well, one snake has been exposed,” Rickard stated, looking determined. “We’ll flush the other.”

  January 7, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Sydney accompanied Nicolas on his initial round of speeches, the first of which was in Webster Grove. She felt she owed him a favor after he chose to spend an additional day in St. Louis on her account. For some unknown reason, though, her course only lasted the one painful day and there was almost no blood.

  Count your blessings.

  Besides, Sarah was more than capable of taking care of Kirstie, and the little girl adored her new nanny. John still enjoyed driving Stefan to school, and often stayed in town to share a cup of coffee or glass of beer over checkers with other Cheltenham men. Leif, of course, would be with Nicolas.

  They decided to take the carriage, with Nicolas driving. Vincent, apologizing repeatedly for his inability to handle a team, climbed inside with Sydney. Leif sat on the driver’s seat with Nicolas, who let him take the reins.

  During the ride, Vincent worked on the speech that Nicolas would give in each of the three towns. At Sydney’s insistence, he read passages to her.

  “Don’t you believe it’s important to mention his relationship with the Sauk Indians?” she asked.

  Vincent narrowed his hazel eyes. “What, specifically?”

  “Well, he visited them twice a year when he hunted, to start with. They got on quite well.”

  “I didn’t know that!” Vincent shuffled his papers and grabbed the pencil from its perch on his ear. “That is a salient point…”

  Nicolas pulled the carriage to a stop, and Leif scrambled down. A moment later, the boy yanked the door open and jumped inside. He was soaked.

  “Is it snowing?” Sydney asked, leaning forward to look out the window.

  “Not quite,” Leif said as a shiver coursed visibly through his slim frame. “It’s like wet ice.”

  “Is Nicolas all right?”

  Leif nodded. “He is wrapped in fur. He says we are almost there.”

  Sydney felt the carriage pick up some speed. Leif’s words proved true as, quarter of an hour later, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of a tavern. Nicolas leapt down and went inside. A moment later, he returned and escorted his little flock into the warm taproom.

  “There are rooms upstairs. We have them all,” Nicolas explained as he counted out payment to the nearly-toothless proprietor. Leif and Vincent carried the satchels upstairs.

  Nicolas’s cheeks were red from the wet, freezing cold. Once settled at a table, Sydney kissed his blue lips. Twice. He laughed.

  “If only I could feel your sweet mouth on mine!” He grasped her warm hands in his chilly ones and she rubbed them briskly.

  The small group huddled over a tasty stew and fresh bread, along with pitchers of dark ale. Outside, the freezing rain occasionally turned to snow, then back to sleet.

  “That will make traveling treacherous,” Nicolas opined. “It’s good that we remain here for the night.”

  The assembly was held at candlelighting in the schoolroom, only three blocks from the tavern. The dark walk was slippery; Nicolas held Sydney’s arm while Vincent and Leif carried lanterns borrowed from the tavern owner.

  When it became apparent that the small gathering included everyone willing to brave the elements, the squire of Webster Grove introduced Nicolas.

  Nicolas’s speech was clear and strong, and he only stumbled over a sentence here and there. Vincent brought him back to his points with whispered prompts from the front row. When he finished—and the floor opened for questions—Sydney noticed that Nicolas relaxed and seemed more himself.

  The St. Louis Enquirer did not regularly make it as far as Webster Grove, so no one asked him about the awkward timing of his marriage and fatherhood, nor about the rumors that he was backing either Sydney or Rosie’s purchase of the brothel.

  Most of the questions centered, predictably, on his feelings about slavery.

  “I understand the economic implications, I truly do,” Nicolas declared. “But I believe the new state of Missouri needs to move away from a dependence on depriving men of their human-ness.”

  Several dissenting snorts were challenged by a smattering of applause.

  “So you plan to free all the Negroes?” a voice rushed him from the back of the room.

  Nicolas looked in that general direction. “No, not all at once. But I do think that if an owner frees a slave, that slave should be exempt from being enslaved again.”

  Concentric mumbles circled the room, opposed and agreed.

  “Do you believe a statement like that will ensure you are elected?” another voice challenged.

  “No.” One corner of Nicolas’s mouth lifted. “But I believe that my honesty will.”

  Several of the men laughed at that, and Sydney released the breath she had been holding, unaware. Vincent turned to smile at her. He nodded and winked.

  January 9, 1822

  Webster Grove

  Morning dawned sunless under a low sky of dirty wool. The clouds still spit stinging pebbles of ice, carried on sporadic winds. Rock Hill, the next stop, was only three or four miles away, so Nicolas determined that they should remain in Webster Grove for another night. He hoped the next day’s conditions would prove more conducive for travel.

  With nothing to do, Sydney read a book in her room, alone, while the men spent the day in the tavern. When Nicolas returned, he latched their door and came to stand beside her.

  “Have you been lonely today, min presang?” He nuzzled her hair.

  Sydney pressed back her smile. “No.”

  “No?” He straightened, surprised.

  “No. I have my companionship right here.” She lifted her book, open to the page she was reading.

  Nicolas grabbed it and read aloud. “He kissed her long neck, her soft bosom, the white skin of her taught belly… What on earth are you reading?” He flipped it over to see the title.

  Sydney retrieved it from his loose grip. “It’s a romance.”

  Nicolas narrowed his eyes at his wife. “A romance?”

  “And it’s quite dramatic. I’m rather stirred.”

  “Does it give you ideas?” His deep voice was smoky; his blue eyes smokier.

  “Ideas?” Sydney stood and sashayed across the room. She looked back at Nicolas over one shoulder, lashes fluttering. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

  She set the book on the table by the bed, and turned to face him. She slipped one hand inside the neckline of her dress. She watched his eyes drop to her hand. She rubbed her chest lightly, in and out of the dress.

  “Ideas about us…” Nicolas licked his lips and rubbed his chin. Golden stubble rasped in the otherwise silent room. There was no need to shave today.

  Sydney’s other hand slid slowly down the soft fabric of her gown, skimming her stomach and clenching her skirt in a very strategic spot. Nicolas’s eyes followed.

  “Should it, do you believe?” she whispered.

  He was across the room in two strides. He circled Sydney’s wrists with his hands and lifted them over her head. He pressed her against the wall and took her mouth with his, his tongue foreshadowing what he planned to do to her next.

  When he let her go, their clothing landed on the floor, strewn by a gale of its own. Quilts and bed pillows surged on waves of the squall, spilling to the floor. The bed frame shuddered from the unrelenting impact of the tempest.

  Nicolas and Sydney tangled, grasping and pushing; twisting into each other deeper and harder. Nicolas buried his face in the bedclothes and roared his release. Sydney bit his shoulder, muffled her cries in his neck and scratched her cheek on his two day’s beard.

  When the storm passed, Nicolas and Sydney lay askew, panting and sweating in spite of the chill in the room.

  “Å min Gud!” Nicolas moaned, over a
nd over.

  Sydney curled next to him and pulled a corner of the quilt over her. She ran her fingers through the curly blond hairs on his chest.

  “I suppose, perhaps, there was the one… idea,” she sighed.

  Nicolas moaned again and turned to her.

  “Keep reading.”

  

  Nicolas’s recitation went much more smoothly in the hamlet of Rock Hill, and the questions were similar to the ones asked in Webster Grove. That was not the case in Fairview.

  Nicolas had no more than said ‘thank you’ before the challenges began. Questions flew at him from all corners of the over-heated and crowded tap room.

  “You own a whore house, Hansen?”

  Nicolas blinked. “No, sir. I do not.”

  “Ever loan money to a whore?”

  “No.”

  “Not to help her buy her own place?”

  “No!”

  “Next he’ll be sayin’ he never even been to a house!”

  “You sayin’ that, Hansen?”

  “You ever partake?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Nicolas stalled.

  “Whores, Hansen! You ever used ‘em?”

  “Or are you queer? You ain’t queer, are you?”

  “No!” Nicolas thundered.

  “No to whores?”

  “Or no to queer?”

  Nicolas shook his head. “I am most assuredly not queer!”

  “So what about the whores?”

  Nicolas shot Sydney a look. “There was a time after my first wife died that I sought comfort…”

  “I knew it! I knew you wasn’t queer!”

  “Do you still take comfort there?”

  “Hey, his wife’s here! He ain’t gonna answer that!”

  “My wife knows about my past,” Nicolas offered, but few listened.

  “Is that why she didn’t marry you until she was about to drop your brat?”

  “What?” Nicolas was stunned.

  “You anticipated the marriage, somewhat, didn’t you?” a refined voice asked.

  “My wife and I were married before our daughter was born,” he countered.