by Kris Tualla
They collapsed together, panting; sweating in the chilled morning and sighing moans of fulfillment.
Nicolas stared at her, jaw slack. “Å min Gud! Where did this vixen appear from? Are you a witch after all?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.” She raised her head and swept her dark hair back with her forearm. “If I am, do you wish me to leave?” she teased.
“Never!” Nicolas shook his head against his pillow. “Never. Å min Gud…”
Someone knocked on their chamber door. They made wide eyes at each other and grinned with their shared secret.
Nicolas cleared his throat. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but do we have plans for breakfast?” Vincent’s voice passed, muted, through the panel.
“Waffles. We shall go out for waffles,” Nicolas called out. Sydney heard Leif’s whoop of glee. “Give us a quarter of an hour.”
“Yes, sir!”
Twenty minutes later all were suitably dressed, and they donned their coats and cloaks. Leif opened the apartment door, his eagerness betrayed by a gurgling stomach.
“Are we ready?” Nicolas asked.
As if in answer, the door across the hall opened and a young man stepped out. Without a word, he tripped down the stairs and burst through the leaded glass front door.
Leif stepped away from the apartment door and pushed it quietly shut. “That was him!” he whispered.
“Who?” Nicolas paused, brow creased in consideration. “The man Stafford met with?”
“Yes!” Leif glanced from Sydney to Vincent and back to Nicolas. “You do remember what I told you about that night?”
“I do.” Nicolas rested his hand on Sydney’s back. “Let’s go on to breakfast. I need to ponder on this some.”
Leif opened their door at the same time Sam Stafford opened the other. Sam startled, his eyes rounded. “Hansen?”
“Good morning, Mister Stafford.”
“Wh—what are you doing here?” His eyes followed the departed man’s path.
“We have taken these rooms to use while our presence in St. Louis is required,” Nicolas answered.
“Oh?” Sam was not recovering from the surprise very well.
“Our previous residence burned.”
Sam startled again. “Did it?”
“Yes. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.” Nicolas narrowed his eyes. “Particularly surprised.”
Sam seemed to suddenly grasp Nicolas’s meaning. He straightened and puffed his chest out. “What are you suggesting, sir?”
“Nothing that concerns you, I see.”
“I should think not!” he blustered.
“We were just on our way, so I’ll bid you good day.” Nicolas herded his group down the stairs.
“Good day to you, sir.”
At the door, Nicolas turned back to address Sam. “Oh, and tell that young man—I apologize, I don’t recall his name—that we hope to see you both this evening at the Tulip Ball.”
Sam paled. He nodded.
Nicolas smiled and let the glass door slam shut behind him.
Dressed in an ice blue gown and wearing her garnet pendant, Sydney stood with Nicolas that evening, in her usual spot to his left. Leif stood just behind him on his right. As guest after guest came to greet the candidate, he introduced her and handed them to her to be charmed while he moved on to the next supplicant.
At least, that is how they appeared to her. Humbly and earnestly, they asked Nicolas how he felt about their special causes, then suggested what he might do to help, were he elected. Fawning at times, they obviously saw Nicolas as a man of power; one who might fulfill their dreams. Well, that was his goal, was it not?
Rickard and Bronnie would be here tonight. Rickard had come to St. Louis to talk, once again, to the lawyer, Nelson Ivarsen. Nicolas told Sydney that he also visited a few bankers. He was looking for any way out of the corner Lily had him painted into.
Tonight should be a respite for them, Sydney thought as she grasped yet another hand and smiled warmly at the newest pair of strangers. Soon she heard Rickard’s voice.
He laughed and clasped Nicolas’s shoulder. “You are certainly popular this evening, brother! Look at the line I was forced to wait in!”
“And to think, by this time tomorrow we shall reek of sheep’s musk!” Nicolas shook his friend’s hand. “I am glad you could come this evening.”
“As am I. Bronnie deserves to see me smile, for a change.” Rickard slipped his hand around his wife’s waist. “You look beautiful this evening, Sydney.”
“I love that dress,” Bronnie added. “It does wonderful things to the color of your eyes.”
“Thank you, both. I am mostly pleased to see a familiar face!” Sydney said. “Please sit at our table later!”
“Of course,” Bronnie agreed. “There is nowhere I’d rather be!”
When supper was served, the four friends discussed everything except Rickard’s success with Nelson Ivarsen. There was no point in asking, Sydney realized. If Rickard had good news, he would have mentioned it. And if he did not mention it, then they should but enjoy the evening and approach the matter another day.
Sydney needed to use the privy. The rich food tonight seemed to move through her quickly, and she was experiencing rather sharp gas pains. Embarrassed, she waited through the cramps for an unobtrusive moment to whisper her intent to Nicolas. He nodded and informed her it was out the left-hand door and to the left. When she stood, Bronnie gasped.
“Sydney!” she cried, pointing at her chair. Sydney’s chair was soaked in blood.
Sydney twisted to see the back of her dress; the ice blue satin was streaked in bright red. She looked at Nicolas in shock. Blood ran down her legs and formed a growing pool at her feet.
“Get a doctor!” Nicolas shouted to Vincent. “Quickly!”
“No!” Sydney grabbed for his arm. “Get Annabelle Graham.”
Nicolas looked confused. “Who?”
“Rosie’s midwife.” Sydney paused, frightened by the dangerous shift those words effected in her husband’s countenance. “She delivered Kirstie, remember?”
Nicolas deflated as though he had suffered a cannonball to his belly. Pale, and moving stiffly as an automaton, he instructed Vincent to find Rosie and Annabelle, and Leif to bring the carriage.
Rickard stepped forward and lifted Sydney in his arms. Without waiting for instructions, he carried her through the nearest door and away from the curiously horrified stares in the crowded ballroom. Bronnie followed close behind. Nicolas stumbled after them.
“Which way?” Rickard asked.
Nicolas pushed past him and led the group to a side door. Leif was pulling the carriage up to the steps. Nicolas opened the door, and Rickard lifted Sydney inside. She lay down on the seat, and Nicolas climbed in after her.
Bronnie stuck her head in. “Shall we come to the apartment?”
Sydney glanced at Nicolas, white and still. “Yes, Bronnie. Please come. Rickard, too.”
“We will see you there.” Bronnie disappeared.
The carriage rocked forward, over the cobbled streets of downtown St. Louis.
“You are with child?” Nicolas croaked.
Sydney winced, her eyes stinging with tears she did not wish to spill. “I don’t know. That’s why I need Annabelle.”
“You don’t know?” Nicolas growled. “How can that be?”
“Please, Nicolas. Please don’t ask me anything more,” Sydney begged. “I don’t—I can’t—”
There was nothing more to say.
At the apartment, Nicolas carried Sydney upstairs. He helped her disrobe, brought her water and towels to wash with, and waited with her until Annabelle arrived. But he didn’t look in her eyes. When the midwife arrived, he left.
Sydney sat on a wooden chair by the fire, a towel between her legs. The bleeding had slowed, but she was still cramping. Bronnie knocked softly, and slipped into the room.
“How a
re you, Sydney?” she asked, her quiet strength a comfort.
“We shall see,” Sydney answered. She slid forward in the chair and spread her knees.
Annabelle’s smooth, slender hands were cool from washing. “Relax, Sydney,” she whispered as she performed the internal exam. Her businesslike expression betrayed no emotion. Sydney found herself noting that, and wanting to remember if she were ever called to the same duty.
“Can you bear down?” Annabelle asked. “Not too hard.”
Sydney knew what that meant. She pushed; a difficult task to perform without a baby’s head prompting her body.
“Again.”
Sydney pushed again. She felt Bronnie’s hands brush through her hair, and rest around her shoulders. Thank you.
Annabelle reached inside again, her sure touch was gentle. “One more, I believe.”
Sydney closed her eyes and concentrated her entire being on her womb. She squeezed every muscle that seemed the right one. She felt a gush of warmth. Annabelle pulled something from her.
Sydney opened her eyes, but whatever it was, was already wrapped in a bloody towel. “Can I see?” she asked.
Annabelle paused. “Rosie tells me you are a midwife now.”
Sydney nodded, her heart thumping in her ears. “I am.”
“Because you are a midwife, and for that reason alone, I will show you. There may come a time when you will preside over a miscarriage, and you need to be prepared.”
“Sydney has miscarried before,” Bronnie interjected.
“But they were fully formed. Only too early. Five months or more,” Sydney added. “This is different, is it not?”
“It is. Did you know?” Annabelle asked.
“I could not be sure. I had some symptoms, but it wasn’t ever right,” Sydney tried to explain. “Then this morning I suddenly felt well once again.”
Annabelle nodded. “That is often the way. When the body gives up trying to grow something that will not grow, it lets go. The woman feels the difference.”
“Are you sure you want to look, Sydney?” Bronnie’s sweet face wrinkled in concern.
“Did you see it?” Sydney asked.
Bronnie shook her head, no. “I have no need, nor desire.”
Sydney pulled a deep breath and faced Annabelle. “Show me.”
Annabelle folded back the blood-soaked cloth. In her palm lay a tiny creature, not at all human in form. More like a tadpole. But the relatively large head was concave in back. And there was no hint of limbs on the crooked body.
“Do you see the head?” Annabelle pointed. “It had no brain. No arms or legs. And here.” She turned the thing over. “Its spine is open. That is probably why it’s so crooked.”
Sydney stared at the lump. “It was never a baby.”
“No, Sydney, it was not. It had no brain, no heart, no soul. It is only malformed tissue.”
Sydney lifted her eyes to Annabelle. “What do we do with it?”
“I would dispose of it the same as we do the afterbirth.”
Sydney frowned. “Even so.”
“You will bleed for a few days, the same as for your regular course.” Annabelle was already wrapping the bloody rag in a clean one.
“Thank you, Annabelle.”
Annabelle collected her things. With a sincere, “God bless,” she was out the door.
Bronnie helped Sydney clean herself and tie on fresh rags. “Are you comfortable?” she asked as she plumped Sydney’s pillows.
Sydney sank back into the pristine comfort of the bed. “Yes, thank you.”
“Shall I send Nicolas in?”
Sydney nodded, her heart ratcheting up its cadence. She had to face him sometime.
Chapter Twenty Four
March 26, 1822
St. Louis
Nicolas stood outside the bedroom door, one hand on the knob, and took three deep breaths to calm himself. Rickard’s brandies warmed his empty belly and helped steady him as well. But he had no control over the emotions swamping him now and didn’t know what he would say or do once in the room. Finally, he opened the door.
Sydney looked well; that was a relief. She sat up in their bed leaning against a stack of pillows. Her face was pale but for one red splotch on each cheek, like badly applied rouge. He approached the bed, wondering where to begin.
“How are you, min presang?”
She relaxed at that; the splotches began to fade. “I am fine, Nicolas. Absolutely fine.”
“May I?” He pointed at the bed.
“Please.” She patted the mattress.
He sank onto the edge, afraid to jostle her. “Sydney, what happened?”
She looked at her hands, her fingers impossibly entwined on the blanket front of her. Her knuckles pressed white against her skin.
“I miscarried.”
“You were with child?” His heart lurched. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wasn’t certain. It wasn’t right.” Sydney lifted tentative gray-green eyes to his. “I had some symptoms, but not others.”
“Oh.” Nicolas tried, without success, to imagine what that might feel like. “But it was a baby?”
“No.” Sydney shuddered.
“What do you mean, no?” Nicolas was trying to remain calm. “Can you not simply tell me what happened?”
“I am trying to!” she snapped.
Nicolas clenched his jaw, then his fists. “If it wasn’t a baby, what was it?”
Sydney looked away. “It was malformed tissue. No brain, no heart, no soul.”
Nicolas narrowed his eyes. “You saw it?”
Sydney nodded.
Nicolas was horrified. “Was it human?”
“Well it would have been! If it had grown correctly! But it did not!” she practically shouted.
“And why didn’t it?” he practically shouted back.
“Only God knows that answer, Nicolas!” She glared at him, chin trembling. “These things happen!”
Nicolas was torn, his very center rent in half. He wanted to pull her close and comfort her. But he was so angry. So scared. And there was a question to be addressed. “How long?”
“What?”
“Do not disrespect me, Sydney. How long did you carry?”
Sydney shrugged. “I don’t exactly know. My last course was unusual, so I don’t know if it began before or after that.”
“Your last course? Why that was—that was the night you became ill at the Candidate’s Ball! That was nearly three months ago!” Nicolas was stunned. “I thought it was your normal irregularity!”
“So did I. But for the bouts of nausea…” Sydney confessed.
Realization pounded into Nicolas’s consciousness. He broke into a sweat and had to get off the bed. He paced around the room, then stopped and faced Sydney.
“I’m not sterile.”
She shook her head, ever so slightly.
“Å min Gud! I’m not sterile. Lily…”
“To hell with Lily, Nick. This has nothing to do with her!” Sydney cried.
“No. Maybe not.” He ran his hands through his hair. “But this could happen again.”
“What?” Sydney’s eyes widened.
“This! You! We made a baby!” Nicolas’s fears, founded in his first wife’s childbed death, rushed upon him; a wave of buried terror revived. He couldn’t breathe.
“And?”
“And?” He gasped, then bellowed, “And now we have this to deal with! Every time we—argh!” He was berserk, beyond words. “I’ll never touch you again without dreading the outcome!”
Sydney was out of the bed so fast he had no time to do anything but step back. It was not enough to keep her palm from landing against his cheek with enough force to toss his head aside. The ring of the slap hung in his ear, even after his face began to burn.
He was surprised, shocked, angry. His arm swung back out of pure reflex, but she did not flinch. He came sensible of his actions just in time and stopped before he walloped her in retaliation.
“Look at me, Nicolas Reidar Hansen! Look at me!” she screamed.
Her face suffused red, her pupils so dilated her eyes were but black holes. “I am strong! I am healthy! I have birthed three babies and I am still here!”
She stepped forward and he stepped back. She pushed her finger in his face.
“Damn your fears, Nicolas! Open your eyes! I AM NOT LARA!”
They stood, so close that if he took a deep breath, his chest would bump her chin. He was shaking uncontrollably. Thoughts tumbled, confused, in his mind and he could not sort them out. What did he know? What did he know?
“I know you’re not Lara.” His breath caught; his throat thickened. “You’re not Lara.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and sobs shook his shoulders. He folded to the floor, fists on his knees.
Sydney knelt in front of him. She touched his wet cheek where the outline of her hand raised red, the white scar forming a stigmata piercing it.
“I’m so sorry, Nicolas. I’m so very sorry.”
He did not respond at first. He cried, his face pinched and trembling. Then he shook his head and sniffed. “No, Sydney. I was completely out of line.”
“I had no right to strike you.”
He gripped her hand and moved it to his lips. He kissed it. “You should be in bed.”
She pushed to her feet and he followed, tucking her into the blankets. He sat on the edge of the mattress, wiping his eyes.
“We have more to discuss, wife. But it can wait until you are well.”
She nodded, not sure what he meant. Now was not the time to ask. “I am well, Nicolas. I’ll bleed like a regular course.” She smiled faintly. “Only less painfully.”
He considered her, disbelief shaping his face. “Truly?”
“Yes. Truly.”
“Well, is there anything you need?”
“I’m very hungry.”
A look of revelation passed over his face. “You never finished supper.” He stood. “I shall fetch food. What do you want?”
“Something hearty. I’m starving.”
Nicolas leaned over the edge of the bed and kissed her, soundly, on the lips. “I will go off the reel, min presang. And we shall sleep well this night. Tomorrow, we will address the rest.”