A Matter of Principle

by Kris Tualla

  Of a sudden, the truth thumped Vincent in the chest. “You’re him, aren’t you? You’re Herbert Q. Percival!”

  “Yes,” Rodger admitted.

  “Damn!” Vincent blurted.

  Rodger’s gaze dropped to the floor. His voice was low and strained. “I sincerely apologize for our earlier misunderstanding.”

  He paused, swallowing audibly. “I also thank you for not exposing my—mistake.”

  “That wasn’t my decision.”

  Rodger’s dark brown eyes flicked up to his. Vincent detected the shadow of confusion.

  “I thank you just the same,” Rodger whispered.

  Vincent crossed his arms over his chest. “And now you want to print Mister Hansen’s speech.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Rodger wagged his head. “What he said today—it wasn’t like any speech I’ve ever heard.”

  “And?” Vincent would not make this easy on him.

  “And I believe that every man in St. Louis county should be given the chance to read it,” Rodger explained.

  Vincent’s top teeth tucked behind his lower, causing his jaw to protrude. His lips pressed together while he attempted to decipher Rodger’s true motive.

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” he finally said. “You have not been particularly supportive of Mister Hansen in the past.”

  “Truly, that is a fair assessment,” Rodger conceded.

  “What changed your stance?”

  Rodger lifted his chin. “It was the character of the man that his words revealed.”

  Vincent scoffed. “And I am to believe this?”

  Rodger squinted at him and shifted his weight to one leg. “Do you believe that I wanted to come here? That this was a simple task?” he demanded, visibly angered. “Damn you, if you do!”

  Vincent gaped at him.

  “Are you going to give me the speech, or are you not?” Rodger pressed.

  “I shall have to consult with Mister Hansen,” Vincent responded.

  “Fine.” Rodger held out his calling card, bristling with anger.

  Vincent hesitated, and then grasped it. Rodger did not let go. His eyes met Rodger’s.

  “Hansen knows where to find me. He’s been there before. It’s really up to him, is it not?”

  Rodger let go of the card, whirled and tripped noisily down the stairs.

  He slammed the front door, rattling the leaded glass.

  

  Judge Benson peered at Nicolas over the top of his spectacles.

  “Don’t I know you?” he queried.

  Nicolas sat behind Sydney and Nelson, but he stood when the judge addressed him. “Yes, Your Honor. You acquitted me of charges just over two years ago.”

  “Did I?” His gaze swung to Sydney. “And I know you as well?”

  She stood as well. “Yes, sir. You allowed me to testify for my husband under special circumstances.”

  A startled look of recognition warmed the judge’s countenance. “And the baby?”

  Sydney blushed. “A healthy girl, Your Honor. Born that same night.”

  The judge nodded and returned to the stack of papers Nelson placed on his bench. “Counselor, approach the bench.”

  Iverson squeezed Sydney’s hand and moved to the front of the otherwise empty courtroom. He huddled with the judge, pointing at papers and answering questions. The judge frowned, nodded, took off his spectacles and chewed one of the earpieces. Occasionally his glance would jump past Nelson and land on Nicolas or Sydney. Both still stood, rooted and silent.

  “Thank you, Counselor.” Judge Benson leaned back and waved Nelson away. He stared hard at Nicolas. Nicolas stared back.

  “You are running for legislator, are you not?” he queried.

  “I am.”

  “And you gave a speech today, did you not?”

  Nicolas glanced at Nelson. Why was he being questioned? The charges were against Sydney, not him. “Um, yes, Your Honor. I did.”

  Judge Benson leaned forward once again. “What exactly did you say?”

  “I beg your pardon, Judge,” Nelson interjected. “Should Mr. Hansen move to the witness stand?”

  “What? No! It’s just us, Counselor. And I’m in a hurry!” Judge Benson snapped. His consideration moved back to Nicolas. “What did you say? About your wife and the charge of murder?”

  Nicolas pulled the folded parchment from his pocket. He opened it and read to the judge, “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 languishes 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?”

  “Ha!” the judge laughed. “Well you’ve got some bollocks, Hansen. I’ll give you that!”

  Nelson cleared his throat. “Your Honor? I am confused by your line of questioning.”

  Judge Benson shook his head. “I have spent the last hour being accosted by every prominent citizen of this city demanding to know what the hell Hansen was talking about! In jail for murder for saving a life?”

  “Your Honor, it was not my intention to—” Nicolas began.

  “No, of course not!” Benson waved his hand. “It never is, is it?”

  The room fell silent. Nicolas looked from Nelson to Judge Benson, and then to Sydney. Chin high, her eyes never shifted from the judge.

  “Mrs. Hansen, have you anything to say on your own behalf?” he asked.

  Sydney’s voice wavered slightly, but her gaze did not falter. “Your Honor, I am a midwife. It is my duty to help women bring living children safely into the world. The mother’s health is first, the babe’s second. Lily Kensington breathed her last before I took the child from her body. If I had not acted as I did, the child would now be buried in her arms.”

  Judge Benson chewed on his spectacles. “Why did Berta O’Shea say otherwise?”

  “May I address that question, Your Honor?” Nicolas asked.

  “Go on.”

  “Berta O’Shea was the only midwife in Cheltenham. My first wife, who was Lily Kensington’s older sister, died under her care.”

  Judge Benson twitched. “I see.”

  “Sydney is simply more competent, and therefore a threat to Mistress O’Shea’s business,” Nicolas continued. “My wife is the victim of her attempts to discredit.”

  “Your Honor,” Nelson spoke up. “You can see in the written testimony that Lady Kensington refused to allow her brother to call on Mistress Hansen, and instead insisted that Mistress O’Shea attend her confinement.”

  “Yes, I see…” Judge Benson shuffled through the papers.

  “It was when Lady Kensington’s life was fading that Mister Atherton summoned Mistress Hansen.” Nelson edged forward and pointed to the papers. “Much to Mistress O’Shea’s expressed disgruntlement.”

  “Mm-hmm.” The judge raised his eyes. “Everyone who has given testimony seems to agree that Mistress Hansen discovered the age of the babe and the condition of Lady Kensington’s womb. Did Mistress O’Shea not know these things?”

  “No, sir. She did not.” Sydney’s words rang clear. They resonated into an ensuing silence.

  “Mistress Hansen, you have not been sworn in. Raise your right hand. Mister Hansen, you do the same.”

  Sydney and Nicolas did so.

  “Do you swear that the testimony you have given and are about to give is the truth, the entire truth, and only the truth?” he asked.

  “I do,” they answered in unison.

  Judge Benson peered at Sydney. “Was there any way that Lady Kensington might have survived this birth?”

  “No, Your Honor. Because of her scarring, the babe could not move out of her womb.”

  “This is the complete truth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Judge Benson leaned back and pursed his lips. His gaze slid from Sydney to Nicolas. He sighed.

  “It seems you
will have to amend your speech, Mister Hansen.”

  “Your Honor?” Nicolas frowned, confused as to how his speech played into anything.

  “You are not married to an accused murderer. The charge of murder is dismissed.” He lifted his gavel and dropped it on the bench. The ring of hardwood against hardwood echoed through the room.

  

  Sydney sank up to her chin in the steaming bath water. It was scented with rose oil and almost made her forget the disgusting smell of the jail cell. Almost. “Burn that gown,” she instructed the hotel’s maid. “I shall never wear it again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The girl rolled the dress into a rough bundle and tucked it under her arm. “Will there be anything else?”

  Sydney twisted her head to see the clock on the mantel. “Dinner in an hour. Ask my husband what he wishes to order, and send it up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And make sure there is a bottle of your best red wine accompanying the food.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” The girl slipped out the door.

  Because their apartment in St. Louis did not have bathing facilities, Nicolas arranged for a suite of rooms at the Regent’s Inn for that night. Sydney dipped under the luxuriously hot water. She held her breath and massaged her scalp for as long as she was able. When she surfaced and wiped the water from her eyes, Nicolas was sitting on the end of the copper tub.

  “Oh my Lord, Nicolas!” she scolded. “You gave me a fright!” She flicked water at him. He flicked it back.

  “You have been out of my sight and out of my bed for twelve nights, wife. Surely you did not expect me to stay away from you?” Nicolas loosened his stock and untied his shirt. He tugged it over his head and dropped it on the floor.

  “Why do you believe I asked for dinner to be served in an hour, and not immediately?” Sydney countered. She ran a washcloth over her arms. Her skin pinkened in the heat.

  Nicolas stood and unfastened his flies, smiling. “Perhaps one appetite has trumped another?”

  “Perhaps.” Sydney teased. She used the cloth to wash between her thighs, making certain Nicolas could see her. Then she trailed the cloth across her bosom. Her skin puckered in response.

  Nicolas stepped out of his trousers. The flag of his desire waved urgently against his belly. “Get out of the water.”

  “Hand me a towel.”

  He did. Sydney stood in the bathtub. Rose-scented steam wafted from her ruddy skin. She squeezed out her long, thick hair and twisted it into a bun. She wrapped the towel around her and stepped out of the tall curled-copper basin.

  Nicolas winked at her and stepped into the tub. He dunked himself under and washed quickly, but thoroughly. Sydney laughed and handed him a towel.

  “I imagine the maid who brings dinner might find your scent rather interesting,” she said, leaning close and inhaling the distinctly feminine aroma.

  Nicolas scrubbed himself dry with the towel, his shortened hair sticking out from his scalp in all directions. The gold curls that covered his body stood on the points of gooseflesh. He threw the damp cloth aside and reached for Sydney’s. With a flip of his wrist, he pulled it from her. She stood naked, damp, and ready.

  “My God, but you are beautiful,” he breathed. He held out his arms and she slid between them.

  “So are you, husband.”

  He lifted her and carried her to the bed. There was no attempt at play; this joining was burning business, long delayed. Their exuberant efforts left them panting, sweating, and satiated for the moment.

  After fortifying with a hearty dinner and two bottles of wine, there was more business to be conducted; slightly less urgent, but not one whit less satisfying.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  May 17, 1822

  St. Louis

  Initially suspicious, Nicolas could not imagine how Rodger might twist the request to print his speech. He debated it with Sydney and Vincent, and ultimately decided to grant Merrick’s request.

  “I assume our understanding is still in force?” Nicolas asked quietly. He passed the handwritten script to Rodger at his desk. The St. Louis Enquirer’s office was nearly empty.

  “It is.” at first, Rodger would not meet his eyes; Nicolas did not let go of the parchment until he did.

  “You have more to lose than I, Mister Merrick. You are sensible of that, are you not?” Nicolas warned.

  Rodger’s thickly lashed brown eyes blinked up at Nicolas. “I am.”

  Nicolas nodded briskly, then turned to go.

  “Hansen?”

  Nicolas glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  Rodger’s gaze washed over him; he suppressed a shudder.

  “Thank you.”

  Nicolas dipped his chin slightly. “You’re welcome.”

  “For all of it,” Rodger added.

  Nicolas straightened and fully faced the young man. He stared down his nose at his nemesis. Then he extended his hand.

  Rodger’s earnest grasp softened Nicolas’s attitude. He smiled a little.

  “Best of luck in the election, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Nicolas paused. “Rodger.”

  

  Nicolas was not prepared for the effect his speech had on the general populace. While several hundred heard his speech, several thousand heard about it. He was a bit of a celebrity now, accosted at every corner. He ducked into a quiet little tavern for a pint of beer and some relief.

  The room was dark and dusky, redolent of cigar smoke, a cool escape from the glaring spring afternoon. Nicolas sat on a tall stool at the bar and downed the pale amber liquid. He ordered a second; his throat was sore from hours of unexpected conversation.

  “That’s him,” a voice from the corner rasped.

  “Where?” A chair scraped, wood on wood.

  “Right there! The big blond fellow.”

  “That can’t be him. Thomas said he was seven feet tall and over three hundred pounds,” the second voice disputed.

  “Six foot four inches in actuality,” Nicolas interjected. He turned to face the startled speculators. “And a trim two-fifty, if you must know. Who do you believe me to be?”

  “Nicolas Hansen. You are him, are you not?”

  Nicolas recognized him as the first man who spoke. He answered, “I am.”

  “The one who gave that speech in the square yesterday?” the second man queried.

  “The same.”

  “Butchy! Give the man another, on me!” The first man called to the proprietor. He grasped his own glass and approached Nicolas.

  “And put the one he’s drinking on my tab!” the second man instructed, tagging along after his friend.

  Butchy nodded and flipped Nicolas’s coin back at him. It rattled in a circle and came to rest next to his beer. Another glass of the cooled ale followed.

  “Thank you, gentlemen.” Nicolas touched his temple in a two-finger salute. “I appreciate it.”

  “Wait until I tell the missus I met you! Name’s Davy McCoy, by the way.” He offered his hand. Nicolas shook it.

  “Nehemiah Osterbach,” the second man stuck out his hand as well. “So all those things you said? They’re true?”

  Nicolas chuckled. “While I cannot vouch for what you might have heard, I can assure you that everything I actually said was God’s truth.”

  “Your wife and your whore are best friends?” Nehemiah’s jaw dropped. “You must be legendary beneath the sheets, man!” He pumped his fist in front of his chest.

  “She’s my ex-whore. Since I met my wife three years ago, I have not visited her in that capacity,” Nicolas clarified.

  “Even so!” Davy lifted his glass in a toast. “To the candidate with the biggest balls!”

  Nehemiah chimed in, “And the strongest—”

  “Thank you!” Nicolas interrupted. “Just remember me when you go to vote, eh?”

  

  “There you are!” Sydney exclaimed when Nicolas opened the apartment door. The low golden-orang
e sunlight slanting through the window signified the approaching sunset. “You cannot imagine what it has been like here!”

  “I might have an inkling,” he began.

  “I’ve been guarding the door,” Leif interrupted. “So many people want to talk to you!”

  Nicolas glanced around the room. “Where is Vincent?”

  “I sent him to bring dinner.” Sydney crossed the drawing room and pushed the curtain aside. She looked outside. “I was not sure we should go out tonight.”

  Nicolas shook his head. “No, that is exactly what we should do, Sydney.”

  She spun to face him, eyes widened. “What?”

  Nicolas strode toward her and grasped her hands. “Do you know that it took me nearly three hours to walk here from the newspaper? Men, and women, kept stopping me to tell me how much they liked what I said!”

  “Truly?” A smile spread over her countenance. “They liked it?”

  “More than I could have ever imagined, min presang! I have never felt this way!” Nicolas had the need to move. The apartment was far too constricting, and his body far too large. “Come with me, wife!”

  Sydney grinned at his boyish demeanor and sat to put on her shoes. “Where are we going?”

  “To talk to my people!” Nicolas bellowed, laughing with arms thrown wide.

  Her gray-green eyes twinkled. “They are your people now, are they?”

  “Might I come, too?” Leif asked.

  “Where are we going?” Vincent stood in the doorway holding a covered tray and a basket.

  Nicolas inhaled the yeasty smell of fresh bread. He grabbed the basket by its handle, set it on the table and dug for the loaf. He pulled it out and broke it in half.

  “Does anyone else want some?” he asked before taking an enormous bite out of one piece. Leif reached for the other. Nicolas pawed through the victuals until he found a chunk of cheese. He unwrapped it and bit into it.

  “Ready?” he said through the food.