A Matter of Principle

by Kris Tualla

  Sydney jumped to her feet and grabbed Nicolas’s wrists. She pulled the hand holding the cheese down to her mouth and took a large bite. She did the same with the bread.

  “Ready!” she answered. Her cheeks puffed out like a successful squirrel.

  Nicolas began to laugh so hard, he had to sit down. The floor was the most efficient place to land. He rested there, red-faced and shaking, whooping and wiping tears on his sleeves. Leif rescued the bread and cheese before Nicolas dropped them. Vincent set the tray on the table. He surveyed Nicolas and Sydney’s hilarity and scratched his head.

  “What on earth transpired while I was gone?”

  

  Nicolas walked through the gradually darkening streets of St. Louis, a modern-day Pied Piper. But instead of leading thirteenth-century rats, he led an ever-changing pack of nineteenth-century Missourians. They were attracted by his appearance and his words. After a long hour, an exhausted Sydney sat to wait on a bench. Vincent stayed with her, but Leif continued with Nicolas.

  Over and over again the people asked about bits of his speech. Did he really do this? Was he really like that? For those who were not present in the square and only heard about it later, he repeated portions and explained his meaning.

  Not everyone was impressed, however. Mutterings erupted around the edges of the crowd. Occasionally the gauntlet of an inquiry was thrown.

  “How’d yer wife kill that lady?”

  “The woman was already dead. My wife cut her open to save the child.”

  “She cast a spell? I heard she’s a witch!”

  “She is not a witch. She doesn’t know any spells.”

  One man pushed his face in front of Nicolas’s. “So this is what a prince looks like, huh?”

  “No. This is what I look like,” Nicolas retorted.

  “I fought agin Fat George!” one elderly man shouted. “We don’t take kindly to royalists out here!”

  “My father fought against him as well!” Nicolas countered.

  “Aw, what does that prove?”

  A refined voice called out, “Missouri is a slave state, sir. You are sensible of that, are you not?”

  Nicolas turned in the voice’s direction. “I am keenly aware.”

  “Then why do I get the notion you’ll be wanting to change that if you are elected?” A well-dressed dandy cut through the crowd like the bow of one of Beckermann’s ships.

  Nicolas recognized him. He worked for Beckermann. “The terms of statehood cannot be undone,” Nicolas said. “But there are decisions to make which might ease the plight of our dark brothers.”

  The unexpected impact against the back of his scalp snapped his head forward. Something fell to his shoulder, and then the ground. Wetness dripped into his collar. Stunned, Nicolas reached for the spot and pulled damp fingers away. Brown pulp. He smelled the too-sweet rot of the overripe apple.

  “Careful who you claim as brother!” a voice snarled. “I am no black savage and neither are my kin!”

  “Nor I!” a woman yelled. “Stinking animals can’t even talk!”

  Leif grabbed Nicolas’s elbow. “I think we should go.”

  Nicolas edged sideways. He did not attempt to draw anyone else into conversation. Honesty, it appeared, was not always well received. The sun had fallen below the buildings a half hour earlier and the sky was fading. Lamp-lighters worked their way down the street adding yellow balls of luminescence to the colorless gray scene. One hand gripped him and spun him around.

  “Are you running away, Hansen?” the accoster sneered.

  “No. My beautiful wife awaits and we have supper plans.” Nicolas smiled and tipped his hat. “Good candlelighting, sir.”

  Leif and Nicolas walked away from the crowd with long, even strides. One rotten apple smashed on the street beside him, but the second caught his shoulder. He did not look back.

  May 18, 1822

  St. Louis

  Sydney stretched and squinted at the bedroom curtains. Morning light glowed soft pink around their heavy brocade edges. The sun was not yet up, but soon would be. Nicolas snored softly beside her. She curled on her side and pressed her back against him. Without waking, he rolled toward her and tucked his knees behind hers. His arm draped over her. He sighed deeply.

  Nicolas’s speech was to be printed in this morning’s St. Louis Enquirer. Yester evening’s mixed response had caught them all off guard. Printed word seldom had the same impact as spoken word; would Nicolas be understood? Sydney wondered if Beckermann’s speech would be printed as well. It occurred to her that none of them stayed behind to hear what he had to say.

  Today they would return home to Cheltenham. Sydney smiled, then. She could barely wait to see their children, sleep in their own bed, and eat Anne’s home-cooked food. She longed to put on her breeches, saddle Sessa, and ride through the wooded estate without caring about anything else. She would give the mare her head and let her run at her own pace. Sydney imagined the wind on her face. She felt the sun on her cheek.

  Tomorrow, they would once again attend church as a family. Father Mueller’s down-to-earth homily would teach them about some Biblical edict, there would be singing, and perhaps communion. Sydney and Nicolas had not found a church in St. Louis where they felt comfortable attending only sporadically. So, as those things go, they had simply not attended at all, using Sunday mornings to recover from multiple Saturday night political soirees. Sydney sorely felt the lack; the rosary on the bedside table had felt her touch more often in these last three months than in the last three years, she reckoned.

  And come Tuesday, Nicolas would cast his ballot, along with every male landowner in St. Louis county. By the end of May, the results would be published.

  Try as she might, Sydney could not fall back to sleep. She was too excited. Easing herself away from Nicolas, she slid from the double bed. Silently, she began to pack.

  

  Nicolas never expected to be the sort of man who was run out of town.

  “It’s not that bad!” Sydney chided, laying the newspaper flat on the table.

  “Well, there may not be any more rotten apples thrown. But once people read Beckermann’s comments, I’ll consider myself lucky if that’s the worst that transpires!” Nicolas sipped his strong, black coffee. His fork poked holes in a sodden stack of half-eaten pancakes, the island in a shallow pool of molasses.

  Apparently, Winston Beckermann had authored an article for the St. Louis Enquirer which methodically attacked each point of Nicolas’s speech. For each rhetorical question Nicolas asked, Winston had a derisive answer. Beckermann’s article was printed right below the transcript of Nicolas’s speech.

  Vincent looked stricken. “I suppose I should have anticipated this!” he moaned. “That Sam Stafford is a wily fox. I am so very sorry, Nicolas.”

  “I should have listened to the both of you,” Nicolas responded. “But I didn’t believe that Rodger would attempt to undermine me again. We seemed to have reached an agreement.”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t Rodger,” Sydney suggested. “Perhaps the editor—what was his name?”

  “Van Doren,” Nicolas grumbled.

  “Van Doren may have been the one to plan this. He might have even asked Beckermann to write the thing.” Sydney tilted her head. “Are he and Beckermann friends?”

  “Winston Beckermann has the entire city of St. Louis in his pocket, from what I hear,” Vincent commented.

  “Well there you are. And stirring up the pot this way will certainly sell more newspapers, will it not?” Sydney pressed.

  “Yes, I suppose it will. It’s the end of the week before the election, after all.” Nicolas felt he had swallowed a stone. A big hot one, that resided in his belly. “Nonetheless, this is rather devastating.”

  Sydney rested her hand on his. “People will remember all the other things you said.”

  “I confess I don’t have much faith in that, min presang.” Nicolas shook his head. “After this, I fear all my campaigning wi
ll come to naught.”

  “It had better not!” Vincent stated. “We worked far too hard.”

  “When are we leaving?” Leif stumbled from his room rubbing his eyes.

  “When we have finished packing,” Sydney answered. “Do you require my help?”

  Leif shook his head and slumped into a chair. He watched Nicolas mutilate the pancakes. “Are you planning to eat that?” he queried.

  Nicolas shoved the plate toward the teen. “How much time do you expect it will take you, Sydney?”

  “I should be ready by noon, if not before.”

  Nicolas nodded his approval. “We shall load the carriage, have dinner across the street, and then be on our way.”

  Two hours later, Nicolas stood in the hallway, over-stuffed leather satchel in each hand and saddlebag over one shoulder, and frowned down the stairs.

  “Is something amiss?” Sydney paused in her packing. Folded bedsheets partially filled a small wood chest, and she was trying to fit a quilt in as well.

  “There is a mess of correspondence on the floor under the mail slot.”

  Sydney peeked around the doorjamb. “Oh, my Lord!”

  There were at least a hundred folded parchments of various sizes tumbled into a precarious mound on the floor of the entry. Nicolas descended the stairs and picked up a couple of the missives.

  “They are addressed to me.” He looked up at Sydney, surprised.

  “All of them?” She hurried down the stairs, grasping a handful when she reached him. As she flipped through them, Nicolas’s name was on every one. She looked up at her perplexed husband.

  “I’ll get something to put them in.” She rushed up the stairs, calling back over her shoulder, “We can read them on the way home!”

  Nicolas set his bundles down and opened one letter.

  Go back to the country where you belong. We don’t need no darky sympathizers making our laws. It was not signed.

  Nicolas pulled a heavy sigh. “At the least we’ll have tinder for the fire,” he muttered, and stuffed the paper into his pocket.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  May 19, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Sydney was so very glad to be home; even if the bulk of Nicolas’s second evening was taken up with Rickard, Ashton Caldecott, John McGovern and Nathan Busby. The sheriff greeted her warmly and apologized red-faced for having to be the one to incarcerate her. Sydney graciously accepted his apology, and then Nicolas and his committee took up residence behind his closed study door.

  Now Kirstie was rocked, storied, kissed and tucked in her bed. Before Sydney turned down Stefan’s lamp and kissed him goodnight, he determinedly read her a chapter from James Cooper’s novel The Spy, even though he paused for assistance every few sentences. Leif played checkers with John in the Spencer’s apartment.

  At loose ends, and quite curious, Sydney made a pot of coffee to take into Nicolas’s study. She paused outside the door. Holding the tray to the side, she listened.

  “What the hell were you thinking, Hansen?” That had to be Caldecott. Sydney knocked softly, and pushed the door open.

  “I don’t know…” Nicolas responded. He sat by the hearth, elbows on his knees, flipping squares of inked parchment into the flames. He watched them burn and didn’t look at her.

  “Coffee, gentlemen?” Sydney set the tray on Nicolas’s desk.

  “Thank you, Sydney,” John McGovern smiled at her. “That was quite thoughtful, my dear.”

  “If you are holding my husband hostage, at the least I want you to be refreshed,” Sydney teased.

  “Hostage?” Ashton Caldecott snorted. “What’s the point?”

  Sydney glanced at Nicolas’s back. The slump of his shoulders, limned in orange from the fire, spoke volumes. Her gaze slid to Rickard and she lifted her brows. He shrugged and shook his head.

  “What are you discussing? If you don’t mind my asking.” Sydney kept her voice light. She poured mugs of coffee.

  “We are discussing this!” Ashton held up the St. Louis Enquirer, crumpled in his fist.

  “Oh, Nicolas’s speech?” Sydney handed Ashton a mug of coffee. “Would you care for brandy, Ashton?”

  “Uh, yes. And yes.” He held out his mug while Sydney poured brandy into his coffee. “Thank you.”

  “John?” Sydney held the bottle ready. “Would you care for some in your coffee?”

  “I suppose. But only a little, thank you. Is there cream?”

  Sydney handed him a small white pitcher.

  “I’ll skip the coffee,” Nate Busby grabbed an empty mug from the tray. Sydney grinned and poured him a generous brandy.

  Sydney fixed her eyes on the last guest. “Rickard?”

  He stood and walked to her. “Coffee only for now, thank you.” His hazel eyes met hers, his expression grim. When she handed him the cup, he laid his hand over hers and squeezed.

  “So what did you all think of Nicolas’s words?” Sydney asked. She crossed the study to her husband and handed him a mug of black coffee and brandy. “He certainly garnered everyone’s attention, did he not?”

  Nicolas’s eyes lifted to hers. He accepted the coffee without a word. His defeated countenance wrenched her heart. Her knees failed her, and she sank into a chair close to his.

  “Attention?” Caldecott sneered. “That he did.”

  “Ashton, all is not lost!” John posited.

  “No?”

  “I agree with John,” Rickard stated. “In spite of these messages, the opinions of a few ignorant city-dwellers do not represent the opinions of every man in the county!”

  “And they most likely don’t own land if they live in the city,” Sydney observed.

  Ashton shrugged. “Perhaps not. But even so…”

  “Even so, it’s bad business. Nick is up against a powerful man,” Nate interjected. “He has money, position, property.”

  “Exactly my point! Nick, you handed the man every weapon he needed to defeat you!” Ashton smacked a palm against his forehead. “I cannot fathom your thoughts on this!”

  Everyone in the room stared at Nicolas; he stared into the fire, unmoving. His jaw clenched and Sydney saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped the coffee mug.

  “Were the letters all bad?” Sydney whispered.

  He nodded.

  “You are not regretting your speech, are you?”

  His eyes shifted to hers. Blue-black in the firelight, intent under lowered brows, they pinned her. His head shook the tiniest bit. Sydney’s mouth softened to the hint of a smile. Husband and wife understood each other.

  Sydney stood. “I shall leave you men to your discussion.” She crossed to the coffee service and lifted the tray. She walked to the door of the study and turned to face the committee. “But before I go, I do have one thing to say, if I may?”

  “Go ahead, Sydney,” Rickard said.

  “I am so very proud to be associated with the candidate, Nicolas Hansen.” She lifted her chin and made eye contact with each of the committeemen. “What good is a representative who cannot be trusted? A legislator who lies to procure his election? We are part of a young empire, one still finding its way through rough terrain. Those who lead this nation must be worthy of the calling.”

  Gazes ricocheted around the room.

  Rickard cleared his throat. “Let us pray that the men of St. Louis County understand their part in that legacy, Sydney.”

  “I have been,” she replied. “And I shall continue to do so. Goodnight, gentleman.”

  

  Nicolas pushed the bedroom door open. A single candle was close to guttering in its pewter dish on his oak dresser. Sydney turned over in the bed; he saw her eyes glitter in the faint light.

  “What time is it?” she whispered.

  “Nearly midnight. Rickard is staying over.” Nicolas sat in the old rocker and pushed each boot off with the opposite foot. “He had too much to drink.”

  She sat up. “And you?”

  “I had enough.” Trul
y, his head swam more than he expected. It required too much effort to get up from the rocker and undress, so he simply sat. Sydney pushed back the covers and got out of bed. As she moved toward him in her long white nightgown, she looked like a black-haired angel. His own guardian angel. She always saves me.

  “Save me, min presang,” he pleaded.

  Sydney pulled the ottoman next to the rocker and sat facing Nicolas. She took his calloused hand in her soft, warm ones. Even in the dim light, her eyes radiated empathy. “Were they particularly hard on you, husband?”

  “Caldecott was near apoplexy. He kept asking what possessed me to say such things. John McGovern—well, you know John—he tried to make peace, but it was fairly clear he agreed with Ashton.” Nicolas scrubbed his jaw with his free hand. “Busby didn’t have much to say. He mostly sat and scowled.”

  Sydney massaged his hand. It felt good. “And Rickard?”

  “Rickard loves me. He tried to bring a balance, keep everything optimistic, but Caldecott overpowered him.” Nicolas scratched his head. “When the others left, though, he tore into me.”

  “He did?” Sydney’s brows arched. “What did he say?”

  “I don’t recall, precisely. A lot of ‘you have to be smarter’ and ‘tell the people what they want to hear.’ Then something about ‘the goal is to be elected.’ I think his point was that the end justifies the means.”

  Sydney’s eyes pinned him. “Do you agree?”

  Nicolas heaved a deep sigh. “No. Perhaps. Yes.”

  Sydney chuckled. “Are you sure?”

  Nicolas smiled, in spite of his mood. “It is the general opinion that my honesty was a mistake.”

  “Hmm.”

  Nicolas tilted his head. “What are you thinking?”

  Sydney lifted his knuckles to her lips. She kissed each one, leaving them damp while her warm breath tickled his skin. Then she rested his fist against her cheek. “I am thinking that you had no other choice but to reveal the man that you are.”