A Matter of Principle

by Kris Tualla

  “Yes. I love you.”

  “And I love you. I think more than you can comprehend.”

  When he quit the room, Sydney rolled into a ball, and cried into her pillow for the child that never was.

  

  Nicolas shut the bedroom door and faced a roomful of wide, silent stares. “You heard, I imagine.”

  A cacophony of disclaimers rolled around the room, pushed by dismissive waves and shrugged shoulders.

  “Hmm. Well, I am assured that Sydney is going to be fine, but she is very hungry. Shall we get some food?”

  “I’ll stay here with her,” Bronnie offered. “I can make coffee while you’re gone.”

  “I’ll stay with Bronnie,” Rickard winked. “I’ll help her make coffee.”

  Nicolas chuckled. “Leif? Vincent?”

  “I believe I should return to the Ball and assure them that your wife is well,” Vincent said. “I will dine there, if you have no objection.”

  “None at all. And that is a good consideration.”

  Vincent paused. “What specifically should I tell them?”

  Nicolas thought a moment. “Tell them that she miscarried very early in her term, but is in no danger. She is feeling well and taking nourishment.”

  Vincent bowed. “Yes, sir. And… I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Thank you, Vincent.”

  Leif stood. “I’ll go with you, Sir! Are we going across the street?”

  “I see no reason to go further when the victuals there are so exemplary!”

  “Right.” Leif screwed up his face. “Does that mean the food is good?”

  March 27, 1822

  St Louis

  Vincent exited the sleeping room he shared with Leif and closed that door while Nicolas poured a fragrant mug of coffee. The morning newspaper was on the table.

  “Good morning, princess!” Nicolas teased. “How was the Ball?”

  “Be glad you left when you did.” Vincent poured himself a cup.

  “Oh? Did I miss something good?”

  “On the contrary, you missed absolutely nothing.”

  Nicolas offered Vincent a cup of the rich brew. “Are you saying the Ball was not one of the more enjoyable events we have experienced?”

  Vincent stirred cream and sugar into his cup. “That, sir, would be putting it mildly.”

  “Tell me.”

  Vincent wrinkled his nose. “There was a particular viola player who could not keep a steady beat even if someone was hitting him over the head with it.”

  Nicolas laughed. “That must have presented a challenge while dancing!”

  “It did, indeed. So no one danced!”

  “Ah. Hence the boredom, eh?” Nicolas pointed at the as-yet-unread newspaper. “Was any mention made concerning my wife?”

  “Absolutely. I was accosted by a reporter immediately upon my return!”

  “And you said?”

  Vincent fixed Nicolas with a steady gaze. “Precisely what you instructed me to say. That Mistress Hansen suffered an unfortunate miscarriage very early in her term, but was in no danger. She was feeling well and taking nourishment.”

  Nicolas sipped his coffee and gazed out the window. “I suppose trying to keep a hemorrhage at a prominent social function a secret is somewhat like trying to hide an elephant in a privy on the town square.”

  “Uh, yes, sir.”

  Nicolas sat at the dining table and opened the Enquirer; the article was on the fifth page of the first section:

  Candidate Hansen’s Wife Falls Ill at Tulip Ball

  Legislative candidate from St. Louis County Nicolas Hansen’s wife fell suddenly ill last evening at the Tulip Ball. She experienced a hemorrhage and was whisked from the premises. Hansen’s personal secretary, Vincent Barr, reported that Mrs. Hansen experienced an unfortunate loss, but is well and expected to make a full recovery.

  “Well, that’s the long and the short of it,” Nicolas said.

  “Yes, sir. It certainly is.”

  “Shall I make breakfast?” Nicolas asked, cocking one brow toward the kitchen.

  “Would you prefer me to bring something in?” Vincent offered.

  “Yes.”

  Vincent smiled and stood. “You are my employer. You may simply ask.”

  “It’s more fun this way.”

  Vincent shook his head, grinning. “Breakfast for four. I’ll return shortly.” He grabbed his coat from the hook by the door. Shrugging it onto his shoulders, he pulled the apartment door open.

  There stood Winston Beckerman. And a very attractive young lady; most importantly, not his wife. His startled expression shifted to surprise as he looked past Vincent into the apartment.

  “Hansen? Is that you?”

  Nicolas set the paper down and rose to his feet. “Good morning, Beckermann. And?”

  “Oh! Yes! May I present my niece? Miss Helena Beckermann?” Winston turned seamlessly to the young woman.

  “My pleasure, Miss Beckermann.” Nicolas bowed.

  “Mine as well… Mister Hansen, is it?” Helena’s light brown eyes, framed by black lashes, glowed in a face of white porcelain. She smiled seductively at Nicolas while her gaze moved down his body and back up again.

  “How is your wife recovering, Hansen?” Winston emphasized the word ‘wife.’ Helena cooled as quickly as she had warmed.

  “Thank you for your concern. She is resting comfortably.”

  “That’s splendid. Well, we must be going.” Winston pushed Helena ahead of him toward the stairs.

  “Beckermann?”

  “Uh, yes?”

  “I was under the impression that the apartment belonged to your secretary, Sam Stafford.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite.”

  Nicolas raised his brow in silent question.

  Winston cleared his throat. “I sent him to St. Charles for a few days. When Helena surprised me with a visit, I housed her here. So as not to inconvenience my wife. I’m sure you understand?”

  “Perfectly.” Nicolas bowed again. “Your servant, sir.”

  As they walked away, Helena’s voice drifted back. “Why, Uncle! What a big—”

  “Hush!” Beckermann barked.

  Vincent clapped his hand over his mouth, eyes dancing above, and waited for the couple to exit the building.

  “I suddenly feel like a ‘tart’ for breakfast!” he blurted.

  “Hard sausage in a fresh bun?” Nicolas countered.

  “A pair of boiled eggs. And a muffin.”

  Nicolas’s glee bounced around the room. “A hard ‘roll’?”

  “With ‘meat’?” Vincent doubled over.

  “Jam in a biscuit?” Nicolas guffawed.

  “What are you two going on about?” Sydney stood at her bedroom door.

  “Breakfast!” they answered in unison, laughing without control.

  Nicolas crossed the room, wiping his eyes. “Are you hungry, min presang?”

  “Yes,” she answered cautiously.

  “What do you desire?” He took her hand in his. “Only name it and Vincent will procure it!”

  Sydney glanced at the flushed secretary. “I know it sounds odd, but I did wake with a craving for a spicy ham roll.”

  Nicolas snorted. Vincent sat right down on the floor, holding his belly, laughing so hard he was way beyond sound.

  “Is there aught else?” Nicolas squeaked, then cleared his throat. He knew he was grinning like a hyena, but could not stop.

  “Cherries. But I am aware they are not in season.”

  “No-o-o!” Vincent gasped. “Stop!”

  “Is he well?” Sydney asked Nicolas, alarmed.

  “He is perfectly fine!” Nicolas rubbed his face, hard, with both hands. “You said cherries?”

  Sydney shrugged. “Perhaps a cherry tart? With cream?”

  Nicolas and Vincent howled.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  March 28, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Someone was pounding on the front door. Nicolas ca
me down the stairs, crossed the entryway and jerked the door open. Lily thrust the newspaper in his face.

  “What loss?” she shouted.

  Nicolas knocked the paper aside, scowling. “What is the matter with you, Lily?”

  She stepped toward him, newspaper crumpled in one raised fist and eyes narrowed. “What particularly did Sydney lose?”

  “What might you expect it to be?” Nicolas did not care to be manhandled in such a way, and especially not by Lily. He tried to think of a reason not to tell her, but drew a blank. The article in the Enquirer was fairly blatant.

  “It had better not be what I believe it to be,” she answered and pushed her way into the manor.

  “Would you care to come in, Lady Kensington?” he asked sarcastically.

  She whirled on him, her enlarged waistline clearly evident. “Was it a child?” she demanded.

  “Why is it any concern of yours?” Nicolas knew what was coming but was not about to make it easy on her.

  “You claimed to be sterile! Was it a child?”

  “Lower your voice, Lily. This is a respectable household.” Nicolas snapped. He turned and headed to the drawing room.

  Lily grabbed his arm and pulled hard. “Tell me, you pompous jackass!”

  Nicolas stopped and stared down his nose at the rude, infuriating woman. Red tinged the outer edges of his vision and his fists tightened of their own accord.

  “It was a miscarriage.” Sydney’s voice broke through his rage.

  Nicolas’s attention shifted to his wife. Gripping the railing, ramrod straight, she descended the stairs. Her dressing gown was tied at her waist and her straight dark hair, pulled back at the sides, hung to her waist.

  “You should not be up,” he scolded.

  “I heard the discord. I came to address it.” She stopped on the bottom stair so that Lily was forced to look up at her. “It was a miscarriage,” she repeated.

  “So you lied! Both of you! You lied to me, to Rickard, to everyone!” Lily sneered. “Nicolas is perfectly capable of fathering children!”

  “We believed otherwise,” was all Sydney offered.

  “Ha! And do you sincerely believe that I am foolish enough to accept that explanation?” Lily cried.

  Sydney raised one brow. “I don’t care what you accept, Lily. God knows the truth.”

  “Oh, and now you bring God into this discussion? You have some nerve! You, who have been called a ‘witch’ and worse!” Lily hissed.

  Nicolas pushed Lily’s hand away from his arm. “May I see you to the door?”

  “Are you tossing me out? Like so much chaff?” Her indignation blazed.

  “I see no reason to continue your visit. Unless you wish to extend condolences to my wife and myself, then I expect you have the information you came for.” Nicolas reached for the front door.

  Lily stood her ground. “I may have discovered the truth. But you need to know this: tomorrow I will drive to St. Louis and follow through on my promise. I shall name you, Nicolas Hansen, as the father of this child!” She pointed at her belly.

  “You promised Rickard ten days!” Sydney objected.

  Lily folded her arms and glared at Sydney. “And you claimed to tell the truth. Not a one of us can be trusted, as it appears.”

  “What makes you so certain, Lily, that this plan of yours will make any difference?” Nicolas demanded.

  Lily flipped her hand at him. “I know that I will be believed!”

  “And what makes you so certain?”

  “We have been seen together often enough. And, I have a plausible description of our assignations.” Lily stalked past Nicolas toward the door. “And as it stands now, you cannot use any ridiculous excuse about an injury making you impotent. Proof of your virility was spilled for all to see!”

  Every muscle in Nicolas’s arms ached with enforced restraint. He would have liked nothing more but to let them loose. To plant his fist between Lily’s pretty turquoise eyes and feel the bones of her nose shatter, grinding into pieces. He compelled his gaze to move to his wife. Her intent gray-green stare pinned him in place and anchored him in reality.

  “Leave.” It was all he could manage. “Now.”

  “Gladly.” Lily sashayed out the door. Nicolas shoved it closed behind her.

  

  Nicolas opened Rickard’s front door without the courtesy of a knock. He strode directly to Rickard’s study, drawn by the trill of Lily’s angry voice and its staccato baritone counterpoint. Rickard sat behind his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he ran one finger back and forth under his nose, and considered his sister from under storm-cloud brows. Lily’s corseted back was to the study’s portal.

  Rickard’s stare shifted past his ranting sister to Nicolas.

  “Have the decency to look at me when I address you, Rickard!” Lily demanded.

  “Hello, Nick,” he responded.

  Lily spun to face him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Nicolas shook his head in disgust and spoke past her. “A word, Rick, when you can spare it?”

  “Now is as good a time as any I expect to find. Would you excuse us, Lily?” Rickard’s tone teetered on the cusp of courteous.

  “I am not finished speaking!” she exclaimed.

  “No? Pity. Because I am finished listening.” Rickard stood and rounded his desk. He took her elbow and nudged her toward the door.

  “Let go of me!” Lily jerked her arm away, glaring. She raised her chin. “I shall gladly take my leave of the both of you now.” Without a glance, she brushed past Nicolas and yanked the door shut behind her; window panes rattled in their casings and one picture slipped sideways on its hook.

  “What did I do, Nick, to be cursed with such as her?” Rickard’s shoulders fell. “We always treated her so well as a child. She was our darling, Lara’s and mine. You remember that, don’t you?”

  “I do.” Nicolas pushed his friend into a stuffed chair. “I’ll get the brandy.”

  “It’s on my desk.” Rickard waved his hand vaguely. “I have taken a few draughts already.”

  Nicolas took a closer look. Rickard’s reddened eyes lacked focus and were held up by blue smudges. He poured two brandies, small ones.

  “What did she tell you?” Nicolas asked, handing one glass to Rickard.

  Rickard considered the niggardly portion of amber liquid and cocked one brow at Nick. “I’m not drunk.”

  “And I mean to ensure you don’t get to be. At least until we have this out.”

  “Have what out?”

  “What did she tell you?” Nicolas asked again.

  Rickard snorted. “That you bedded her.”

  Nicolas lowered himself into a second stuffed chair. “So she’s not going to be truthful, even with you.”

  Rickard leaned toward him. “Don’t hit me.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t hit me.”

  “Why would I hit you?”

  Rickard’s eyes squinted conspiratorially. “You had the opportunity. Did you take it?”

  Nicolas sat back, gathering his words and his composure. “I should hit you for that, you lousy scut.”

  “Tell me, Nick. Man to man.”

  Nicolas sat forward, his flushing face inches from Rickard’s. “I also had opportunity three years ago when she threw herself at me and begged me for it. She’s had her hand on me and all but put me between her thighs herself!”

  Rickard’s eyes widened. He pulled back as Nicolas continued.

  “And had Sydney ended up your wife instead of mine, you would not stray for one such as Lily. Or any other, if truth were out.” Nicolas narrowed his eyes. “Would you?”

  Rickard shook his head. “There’s no chance in heaven. Or hell.”

  Nicolas relaxed, then. “And neither did I.”

  The men sat in silence for a pace, drawing comfort from each other’s steady presence. Nearly thirty years of companionship had woven their lives in such a way that adversity could not fray. The gro
wing to manhood, the passing of their parents, the death of a sister and wife; all these storms were weathered with an underlying love that few men are blessed to share, even if they are born as brothers.

  “How much, Rick?” Nicolas finally asked. “How much is half the estate worth?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  One corner of Nicolas’s mouth curved up. “Stubborn ass.”

  “Pigheaded Norwegian.”

  “Snot-nosed English prig.”

  Rickard snickered. “Carcass of a fatherless mutt.”

  “Swarm of maggots on a hyena-in-heat’s buttocks.”

  “Infected boil on a jaundiced elephant’s poxed scrotum.”

  Nicolas’ mirth exploded. “Now that was a good one!”

  Rickard hooted, wiping tears. “Hyena-in-heat’s buttocks?” He drew a breath and laughed louder.

  Nicolas was relieved. The strain of Lily’s demands extracted a heavy toll from Rickard; he was thinner and more deeply lined than when Nicolas returned from Norway. Then, happily wed and facing the birth of his daughter, he radiated joy. Not so, now.

  “Will you answer me, Rick?” Nicolas ventured when they quieted.

  “Why? Are you going to give me the money?” Rickard asked with good-natured sarcasm.

  “Perhaps.”

  Rickard froze. “How?”

  Nicolas stood to pour new brandies. “I sold my land in Norway.”

  “So you said.”

  Nicolas turned to face Rickard. He handed him the refilled glass. “How much?”

  “Two hundred and twenty acres at eighty dollars an acre. Seventeen thousand, six hundred dollars, to be exact.” Rickard gulped the brandy.

  Nicolas nodded slowly.

  “So now, ‘Prince’ Nicolas, what have you to say?”

  “Would you sell it outright and lease it back? Or would you prefer a loan?”

  Rickard threw his brandy glass at Nicolas who ducked. It hit the far wall, knocking a sizable chip from the plaster. “You have some nerve!”