A Matter of Principle

by Kris Tualla

  Was his information about the apartment across the hall a bribe? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was merely a decoy.

  “I did nothing of the sort,” Nicolas insisted.

  Leif stroked his chin, as if his adolescent beard was thick enough or long enough to require such attention. “I believe I know.”

  Both men faced him, surprised and curious.

  Leif tilted his head ever so slightly toward Vincent. “Var det sodomite som angrep ham?” Was it the sodomite who attacked him?

  “Du er en klar ung mann med en meget klar fremtid,” Nicolas clapped Leif on the shoulder. You are a bright young man with a very bright future.

  “I beg your pardon?” Vincent interjected.

  “I said I am famished. Let’s eat before it gets cold!” Nicolas grinned at his secretary.

  May 14, 1822

  St. Louis

  Nicolas sat at the small desk in his apartment. An oil lamp lit the room; the clock chimed once. Discarded papers littered the floor along with a few broken quills. He thought he knew what he wanted to say, but the words were not coming out right. This was to be his biggest speech. The one that convinced St. Louis County that he was their man.

  Was he their man?

  Destiny. Sydney’s word rattled around his skull. It was his destiny to lead men and it always had been, she said. He was born to it. He had no choice.

  “If that’s so, why is this so hard?” he muttered.

  “What?”

  Vincent’s voice startled him and he twisted in the chair. “I was merely speaking my thoughts aloud. Did I wake you?”

  “No, I only wanted a bit of something to drink.” Vincent padded into the kitchen area, stepping around the scattered debris of inadequate words. He lifted one brow. “How is your speech coming?”

  “As well as you might guess,” Nicolas answered waving one hand at the floor.

  Vincent poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Nicolas. “What in particular has you so stymied?”

  “I don’t know that I am able to answer that.” Nicolas heaved a frustrated sigh and drank deeply. The bouquet of the red wine filled his sinuses with a peppery essence.

  “Might I help?”

  Nicolas considered the young man thoughtfully. “Why should they vote for me?”

  Vincent smiled. “Is that all?”

  Nicolas snorted. “That seems to be the issue.”

  “Let’s see.” Vincent began to tick points off on his fingers. “You know the area, you grew up here. You are well-educated and well-traveled. You have some experience in government. You own land and have a stake in what laws are made to protect rights.” He looked expectantly at Nicolas.

  “It’s missing something.” Nicolas drained his wineglass and pointed at the floor. “I have written all of that, but it’s not right, somehow.”

  “At least you are honest,” Vincent shrugged.

  “What?” Nicolas stared at his secretary. “Say that again.”

  “At least you are honest?” The young man yawned and rubbed his eyes.

  Nicolas nodded slowly and chewed his lower lip. “That’s it.”

  “What’s it?”

  “Honest. I haven’t been honest.”

  Fists hovered in front of Vincent’s eyes. “How have you not been honest?” he asked, suddenly alarmed.

  Nicolas waved dismissively. “No, nothing like what you’re thinking! I have not been honest about me, my thoughts, my struggles. I tell the people what I want to do, but I have not told them who I am.”

  “Oh.” He clearly did not understand.

  “Go back to bed, Vincent.” Nicolas turned back to the desk. “I have a speech to write.”

  “Do you need anything first?”

  Nicolas shook his head.

  He was already writing.

  May 16, 1822

  St. Louis

  Nicolas ran his hand through his hair. It was shorter than he was used to; Sydney encouraged him to crop it. It made him look more urban and less like a farmer, she said. Considering the speech he was about to give, he was not sure if that was the right choice.

  No point in concerning himself over that now.

  The sun’s heat radiated through the canvas awning overhead, washing him and Winston Beckermann in soft yellow light. A breeze wafted through now and again, flicking Nicolas’s hair back into his eyes.

  The crowd that gathered fanned themselves and shaded their eyes. Several women carried parasols. Nicolas was glad his speech was short, for their sakes.

  Winston sidled close. “Do you wish to begin, Hansen? Or shall I?”

  Nicolas considered for a minute. He didn’t see how it mattered with what he planned. “Which would you prefer?” he finally asked.

  “Why don’t you take the podium first?” Winston offered magnanimously.

  So you can counter what you expect me to say? Nicolas smiled. At least the people would be fresh on their feet. “Thank you, Beckermann. I shall do so.”

  “Excellent!” Winston retrieved a pocket watch, tethered to his belly with gold links, and flipped it open. “The appointed hour approaches!”

  Nicolas nodded and scanned the crowd. There were, at the least, five hundred men and women in the square. If they were as warm as he, in his waistcoat and frockcoat, Beckermann would have a hard time holding their attention for long.

  Vincent bounded up the steps at the side of the raised platform. “Are you ready?”

  “We are,” Nicolas answered.

  “Who is speaking first?” Vincent turned to Winston Beckermann.

  “I am,” Nicolas stated. “I offered to.”

  Vincent looked at him, brows raised in surprise. “Did you?” They had not discussed it for today, but both were aware of the advantage to speaking last.

  Nicolas clamped his hand on Vincent’s shoulder. “Trust me. It’s for the best.”

  His eyes widened. “What are you planning to do?”

  “Speak the truth.”

  “Oh, God. Nicolas? What truth?”

  Nicolas grinned and shook his head. He leaned down and fixed Vincent with an intent gaze. “Trust me.”

  Vincent paled. He swallowed audibly. “Yes. Sir.”

  Nicolas waggled the young man’s shoulder, and then let go. He turned to Winston. “Shall I?”

  Winston consulted his watch again. “My wife has not yet arrived. Is yours com—oh!” He looked at Nicolas with exaggerated sympathy. “Forgive me, Hansen. Your peculiar position slipped my mind.”

  Of course it did, you sly old fox. Nicolas dipped his chin and forced his expression to remain bland in spite of his clenched gut.

  “Apology accepted.”

  “Splendid.” Winston stepped back. “Best of luck to you!”

  Nicolas moved to the podium and pulled his speech from his pocket. He unfolded it and smoothed it out on a wooden plank that was the height of his waist. The din of the crowd faded as people noticed him. Those with their backs to him turned around. He drew a deep breath through his nose, held it, and blew it out his lips. He watched them watching him.

  Nicolas unbuttoned his blue velvet frock coat. He slipped it off his shoulders and folded it. He was about to lay it on the platform when Vincent stepped up and took it. Nicolas chuckled. The poor man seemed about to suffer an extremely young version of apoplexy.

  Nicolas faced the crowd again. He smiled and began to unbutton his waistcoat.

  Curiosity killed the catcalls. The crowd fell silent, wondering what Nicolas was doing. He shrugged out of the brocade garment and handed it to Vincent as well. Then he loosened his stock.

  Nicolas folded his arms across his chest and gazed at the crowd. He stroked his chin, as though deep in thought. Then he ran his hands through his shortened hair and rested them on the podium. He gripped the beveled edges. His deep voice washed over the crowd, reaching even those farthest in the rear.

  “Dear people of St. Louis, I stand before you today to give the sort of speech that politicians never give. An
honest one.

  “Through the past months I have given you my qualifications for holding office. I have told you of my education, my experiences and my entire life spent in this very county. Now, I will tell you about the man that I am. It is my character that has suffered the severest onslaught throughout this campaign and I have spent many hours defending and explaining my actions. Ladies and gentlemen, I am done with that.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, but stilled quickly.

  “I am a man, thirty-five years of age. I have buried one wife—a beautiful woman whom I loved for her entire life. I closed myself away for six years afterwards, thinking my meaningful existence was over. I was a fool. Will you elect a fool?”

  Another murmur waved, and stilled.

  “I found new love with my current wife, and she brought me back to the world of the living. Without her, I would not be standing here today. And yet she is languishing in a St. Louis jail cell, when all she is guilty of is saving a life. I am married to an accused murderer. Will you elect such a man?”

  Winston Beckermann coughed. Nicolas did not acknowledge him.

  “I locked a man in my root cellar for three days after I discovered his abhorrent deception and incomprehensible duplicity, until the legal bond, which held him to my wife, could be severed. I did not make those charges public. I still have not. That makes me a kidnapper, and in collusion with a criminal.

  “Our daughter was born seven months after those bonds were severed, and one month after our wedding. I am guilty of adultery and fornication.”

  Shocked looks ricocheted through the crowd.

  “I have never invested in a brothel, but during those lonely years, I did frequent one. Now my ex-whore is my wife’s best friend. Will you elect one so debauched?”

  Someone started to laugh, but was smacked into silence by his neighbors.

  “I am the great-grandson of King Christian the Sixth of Norway and Denmark. I was summoned by the royal family to consider taking the throne back from Sweden. I ultimately declined, but I am still a prince by birth. Will you elect a royalist?”

  By now, those gathered in the square stared at Nicolas, enthralled. What he said was true; no one had ever spoken to them this way. They leaned forward, unable to tear their attention away.

  “I am outspoken in my vehement opposition to slavery. But I now own two slaves: a husband and wife whom I once helped to escape those bonds, albeit unsuccessfully. Will you elect a hypocrite?”

  Nicolas paused and pushed up his sleeves. He spread his arms wide. “As I stand here to address you all, I do so as simply the man God created me to be. I am not perfect. Not one of us is. But if the man you see before you today is one you believe you can trust, then vote for me.” He brought his hands forward and clasped them together.

  “I shall leave my fate in your capable hands.” Nicolas bowed at the waist. He turned, collected his garments from Vincent, and left the platform. Winston grinned madly.

  Stunned, the crowd did not react at first.

  Then a low growl of approval grew to a roar. The sound was deafening, so loud it had substance. Men rushed to pound Nicolas on the back or shake his hand. Women wiped their eyes on embroidered lace handkerchiefs. He was so surrounded, that he could not walk. He reached out to shake every hand that was thrust in his direction. Vincent swam to his side.

  “That was brilliant!” he shouted. “Absolutely brilliant!”

  “It was only meant to be honest!” Nicolas shouted back. He could not stop smiling.

  Chapter Thirty Six

  May 16, 1822

  St. Louis

  Winston Beckermann never regained the crowd. The few that remained and listened to him whispered to each other behind their hands. The day was clearly Hansen’s.

  Rodger listened to Nicolas’s speech from behind a tree trunk. He stood close to the front, but off to the side; Nicolas’s gaze swept in his direction but did not pause. Rodger was sure he had not been noticed. When the astonishing speech was finished, and Hansen strode from the platform, he passed near enough for Rodger to touch him. It took every bit of his self-control not to.

  The thrill low in his belly eventually subsided. His breathing calmed and he wiped the remaining sweat from his brow; sweat that had little to do with the heat of the day. He sagged onto a bench when the crowd thinned.

  Rodger was a young man. But he was fairly certain he would never again witness the raw honesty and charismatic power that Hansen displayed today. To stand and declare his faults, shortcomings and mistakes before a gathering of dignitaries and voters was either sheer genius, or rampant stupidity.

  And Nicolas Hansen was not stupid.

  Rodger pulled a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was a reporter. It was his charge, his duty, to write about the goings-on in the county of St. Louis. He was supposed to be fair. And that, of course, was why he created Herbert Q. Percival.

  Herbert gave him a platform to expose the titillating side of the city. It was an outlet which Rodger enjoyed tremendously. The costumes, the rumors and intrigue, the occasional successful assignation; these were the stuff of dreams.

  And revenge.

  Rodger had verbally battered Hansen without pause. Angry at that man’s part in both the banishment of Devin and the death of Edward, Rodger meant to bring him down. He connived, he lied, he weaseled information. He printed every insinuation that had even the tiniest mite of credibility. He poured his focused energies into Hansen’s political destruction.

  Now, alone on a bench in the aftermath of Hansen’s unexpected self-parade of faults and humanity, Rodger was forced to reconsider his own path. If he were to be honest, even ‘Herbert’ would have to admit that Hansen was a better choice for legislator than the corrupt and avaricious Winston Beckermann.

  So what was Rodger’s responsibility now?

  “To print the speech,” he said aloud. “So every man in the county has a chance to decide for himself.”

  To do so, he would have to face both Hansen, and the secretary Rodger mistakenly assessed and tried to seduce. Rodger sat on the bench, unmoving, for another half hour. What he was about to do took more personal courage than he believed he had. But if he backed down now, he would never be able to disregard his own cowardice. When the sun shifted and withdrew the maple’s protective shadow, Rodger stood in the heat. Hell itself could not have felt hotter.

  

  Nicolas stood before Sydney’s cell and read her his speech through the iron bars. He refused to allow the ferrous reek of rust, or the faint tang of urine, distract him.

  “That was the sound I heard!” she exclaimed when he finished. “I was afraid someone was being lynched.”

  “I thought I might be, for a pace,” he confessed. “Are you angry?”

  “Angry?” Her brows furrowed over her gray-green eyes. “Why would I be angry?”

  “Well, it seems that I spilled our dirty laundry in front of everyone in St. Louis County!” Nicolas said sheepishly.

  “What does it matter?” she scoffed. “None of that was secret.”

  Nicolas slipped his arm between the barriers and pulled Sydney close. “You are truly the most amazing woman I have ever known, min presang.”

  “And I happen to be more proud of you this moment than I have ever been, husband,” she replied.

  “Has Nelson been by today?”

  Sydney shook her head.

  Nicolas frowned. “He was supposed to appear before the judge this morning, was he not?”

  Sydney nodded. “Do you suppose that means the news is bad?”

  He did, but he didn’t dare say so. “Have you eaten today?”

  Sydney shook her head again.

  “Shall I bring you something?” Nicolas lifted her chin to see her eyes. They were pooling, but not yet spilling. “Anything at all. You name it.”

  There was a small commotion outside the hallway and Nelson Iverson rushed inside. “Nick! Glad to see you’re here! Come on, Sydney. The judge wish
es you to appear!”

  “N-now?” she stammered and tried to smooth her wrinkled gown. “I’m a mess!”

  “No time for anything else. He’s got a quarter of an hour free and we must hurry!” Nelson waved her toward him while the jailor’s assistant fumbled with the lock. He finally freed it and the rusty bars swung wide.

  Sydney ran out and followed Nelson to his carriage. Nicolas was right behind her. Inside the conveyance, she combed her straight dark hair with her fingers and twisted it into a bun. Her pale cheeks flushed with the unexpected urgency of the summons. Wide, dark eyes met Nicolas’s and he saw her fear.

  He grasped her hands. “Don’t be afraid, min presang. Whatever comes, I will not leave you alone.”

  “Promise? Do you truly promise me, Nicolas?” He felt her hands trembling.

  “With all my being.” He swallowed thickly. “I can no longer live without you.”

  Sydney turned to Nelson. “Have you any idea what the judge is considering?”

  “No, Sydney. I wish I did.” The old barrister attempted to smile. “But for whatever purpose it suits, I’ve never seen a judge act in this manner before.”

  

  Vincent opened the door to the apartment just to stop the staccato knocking. The shock of seeing Rodger standing in the hall tentacled to his fingertips. He clenched his fists without being aware.

  “What do you want?” he challenged.

  “I want Nicolas Hansen’s speech,” Rodger said quietly.

  “Why?”

  Rodger cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “I would like to print it in tomorrow’s St. Louis Enquirer. As my column.”

  “Who are you? I mean who are you really, when you are not wearing a dress?” Vincent sneered.

  Rodger paled. “My name is Rodger Merrick. I’m a reporter for the St. Louis Enquirer.”

  Vincent stepped back, hand still on the door, considering the younger man. “I suppose you find out quite a lot of information with your disgusting disguises. Is that how you manage?”