A Woman of Choice

by Kris Tualla

  “I want to welcome Sydney, and all of our guests, to our home.” Lily started the polite applause herself. “There’s a very important reason why Rickard and I wanted you to meet Sydney tonight.”

  Sydney stiffened in her chair, shouldering the weight of multiple curious stares. Beneath the table, Rickard’s hand slipped over hers and gave an encouraging squeeze.

  “You see, this poor woman, in truth, isn’t named Sydney at all. She’s the victim of either foul play, or a very brutal accident. So brutal, in fact, that it’s caused her to lose…” Lily paused and placed a hand over her heaving bosom. “…all of her memory!”

  A buzz of disbelief filled the room.

  “All of your memory?” exclaimed John McGovern.

  “Well not quite, John,” Rickard stepped in. “She obviously knows how to walk and talk, things like that!”

  “Then what did she lose?” asked Beth McGovern. In her late fifties, she was his slightly younger wife.

  “I don’t know my name or where I live,” Sydney spoke up. “And I don’t remember what happened to me.” That prompted a louder buzz.

  Lily quickly clarified her own role in the evening, “So I—that is, we—invited you all here tonight with the hope that one of you might recognize her.”

  Silence.

  Uneasy glances.

  Sympathetic glances.

  Helpless glances.

  Humiliating glances, all.

  Beth McGovern reached her hand toward Sydney. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m certain something will turn up.”

  “Thank you.” Sydney managed a small smile.

  A man in his forties, Humphrey Sinclair, nodded enthusiastically. “A looker like you, miss, won’t be alone for lo—ouch!”

  He shot an angry look at his chubby wife, Erma. “What’d you do that for?”

  As things were about to unhinge, Rickard addressed Lily, “Is dinner prepared?”

  Lily clapped her hands. Well-dressed Negro slaves carried platters into the room. The aromas of roasted lamb and freshly baked bread mingled midair with conversation and relieved laughter.

  Ashton Caldecott was the first to suggest the sensitive topic of Missouri Territory’s application for statehood. “Have you heard what Tallmadge introduced in Congress?”

  “Dashed New York Republican!” Lee Matthews blurted, then turned to his young wife. “Pardon my language, dearest. I don’t mean to upset you.”

  Fanny blushed and patted her husband’s hand. It was obvious she thought her husband incapable of doing aught inappropriate.

  “Yes, I’ve heard.” Rickard kept his eyes on his meal.

  “I haven’t.” Humphrey Sinclair looked from one to the other.

  “He asked for an amendment to restrict slavery in Missouri as a condition of statehood!” Tremors of approval and dissent rumbled around the table. “The amendment also calls for emancipation of slaves’ children when they turn twenty-five.”

  “We shall be ruined!” Hannah Caldecott fanned her middle-aged body.

  “It’s not as though this year isn’t shaping up to be hard enough as it is!” Humphrey jabbed his fork at Ashton. “For every last one of us!”

  That caught Sydney’s attention. What did he mean by that? Might it have something to do with her own situation? She resolved to ask Rickard or Nicolas as soon as she had the opportunity.

  Fanny turned wide eyes to her husband. “Can they really make that a condition?”

  “The Ohio River is the accepted boundary between the North and the South,” Nicolas interjected. “Most of Missouri does lie north of the Ohio River.”

  “And states north of this line have either abolished slavery or adopted emancipation policies!” Jess Brown pointed out.

  Nicolas addressed Ashton. “Have you heard how the voting went?”

  “The House approved it, but it was defeated in the Senate,” he replied. Another, stronger tremor of approval and dissent shook the room.

  Lee Matthews shook his head. “This is going to be an ugly battle.”

  “It will pit brother against brother.” Rickard said. He did not look at Nicolas.

  And Nicolas did not look at him. Sydney hadn’t thought about it until that moment, but there were no slaves at the Hansen estate. Another thing she resolved to ask Nicolas about.

  “Come now, gentlemen. I’m quite certain Congress will come to their senses and realize that our life in this wilderness necessitates slaves.” Lily batted her eyelashes and looked bored. “Might we find a topic of conversation less upsetting to the ladies?”

  Stuart McAvoy called to Nicolas from the other end of the table, his Scots brogue flavoring his words. “So! What’s happened to you, Hansen? You’ve quite a trophy there on your brow!”

  “Rickard sold me a demon stallion. He didn’t take a liking to me.”

  “Which one, then? Rickard or the horse?”

  Good natured whoops erupted from the men. Grinning at the joke, Nicolas made eye contact with each one until he had the guests’ undivided attention.

  “Sydney’s breaking him for me.”

  Sydney’s eyes widened in surprise and she sucked an audible breath. What was he doing? Why was he telling them that? She glared down the table.

  “Nicolas!” she barked.

  His uninjured eyebrow arched. “What?”

  “Well, I’ll be dashed!” Rickard sat back in his chair and gaped at her.

  Everyone at the table now faced Sydney, astonished expressions to a man. Her supper roiled in her stomach and considered leaving. Her face grew hot. Her palms were wet.

  She could not think of one thing to say.

  Bewildered jokes concerning Nicolas’s prowess as a man, and complimenting Sydney’s as a stallion breaker, abounded with double entendres and redirected the dinner crowd’s attention. Rickard’s ability to judge either women or horses was also the subject of good-natured jibes as everyone enjoyed themselves at their affable host’s willing expense.

  Everyone except for Lily, whose dour expression made it clear she had been completely upstaged.

  When the evening finally ended and Nicolas brought her home, Sydney undressed and sank into her soft bed, glad the night’s prickly ordeal was over. All she wished for was to escape into sleep. In the morning she would eat breakfast, help Addie in the kitchen, and then work with Fyrste. It was as close to normal as her life could be for now.

  As her dreams took over, midnight eyes and afternoon hair floated through her mind. Thunder whispered her name and rumbled ominously between her thighs.

  Chapter Eight

  April 18, 1819

  After nearly six years of dining alone, Nicolas feared Sydney’s constant presence might wear on him. Instead, he found that he looked forward to their conversations. Because she had no memory, there was engaging unpredictability in every thought she expressed. And because she was close to him in age, her easy companionship relaxed him in turn.

  When they finished supper the night after Lily’s dinner party, Nicolas invited her to join him in his study. “The fire is comfortable and I’ve a bottle of port wine if you’d prefer that to brandy,” he offered.

  He wasn’t certain what prompted him to do so; Sydney was the first woman he ever entertained in his masculine sanctuary. Even Lara avoided the room.

  “Will you tell me about your and Rickard’s estates?” she asked, accepting a glass of port. “He has slaves and you don’t. Is his property that much bigger?”

  Nicolas paused. Was she comparing the wealth of the two men? And for what purpose? Lily’s suggestion of a contrived rescue wafted through his contemplation. Nicolas eased into his large stuffed-leather chair, deciding to begin at the beginning. First, he took a slow sip of brandy.

  “It started when my father and Rickard’s father applied for land grants back in eighty-two. When they saw maps of the plots, neither one was particularly pleased. Rickard’s father, being English, wanted farm land. And my father, being Norse, wanted forests for hunting.”


  Nicolas gestured with his brandy glass. “Now, these men had never met before, but they sized each other up and struck a bargain, settling their hash right there in the grant office. They took adjoining grants of five hundred acres each, and re-drew the boundaries according to the lay of the land.”

  Sydney nodded. “And they both procured what they wanted.”

  “They did, mostly. As it turned out, there was more farmable land than they originally thought, so my father leased two hundred acres back to James for as long as the Atherton family desires to farm it.”

  “So Rickard has slaves to work the fields and run the house?”

  “It’s a bit much for Lily.” Nicolas buried his nose—and his grin—in his brandy glass. The image of Lily lifting a delicate white finger in any sort of menial task was impossible for him to imagine.

  Sydney smiled. “Were your parents already married?”

  “No, but the land grant did it. My father went back to Pennsylvania and told my mother that he was moving to the Missouri Territory and would she please come with him. She said ‘yes’ and they married in August of 1782. They moved to this land that same month.”

  A wistful expression settled over Sydney's features. “Your mother must have truly loved your father.”

  “She did indeed, much to the consternation of her parents. Miss Kirsten Sven was their only child and they were not well pleased to have her go traipsing off to the unsettled wilderness.”

  “My parents felt the same way when I moved to Missouri.” Sydney’s wide eyes jerked to Nicolas’s, angry frustration now etched on her face. “And how can I know that, but have no idea why I came here?”

  He shrugged, helpless. “It seems to come in small bits, when you’re not thinking about it.”

  “How can I make that happen?” Sydney groaned. “How can a body think about not thinking about something without thinking about the thing they don’t want to think about?”

  Nicolas opened then closed his mouth, still disentangling her words. She sank back into her chair.

  “Go on with your story,” she muttered with a sullen flourish.

  He chuckled in spite of her frustration. Sydney was so animated that he found her quite amusing. Beautiful and funny? An unusual—and powerfully attractive—combination.

  “Where was I? Oh, yes. My father built a small cabin and they survived that winter on what game he could kill. Then he built this estate over the years, but he never had slaves. He didn’t feel comfortable owning another man. Norway’s not like England. Besides, we aren’t farming for profit.”

  Sydney stared into the fire. “And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  She turned to face him. “Are you comfortable with owning another man?”

  Nicolas waved his hand. “Look around, Sydney. Do you see any slaves?”

  “So the answer, then, is no?”

  “The answer, then, is no.”

  “What if you were farming for profit? Like Rickard?”

  Nicolas narrowed his eyes. Was she challenging him again? For what purpose?

  “I’ve given that idea some thought. But I couldn’t bring myself to such a situation.”

  Sydney turned away. “But your conscience allows you to accept profits from land worked by slaves.”

  “It’s not a perfect world, Sydney. What else am I to do? Let the land lie fallow?” Stung by her words, he stood to pour another brandy. “At the least, I know Rickard doesn’t mistreat them. In fact, he cares for them very well.”

  “That’s some comfort, to be certain.”

  “Have you owned slaves?” Nicolas pressed unkindly.

  Sydney frowned. “I don’t believe so. But of course, I can only assume which side of the issue I stand on.” Nicolas lifted his brandy in chagrined, wordless acknowledgment. Sydney sighed and sipped her wine.

  “Where are your parents now?” she murmured.

  Nicolas gazed into the waning fire. “My mother died of pneumonia in the winter of 1812. She was sixty-two. My father died the following year at sixty-nine. As oldest son, I inherited this estate from my father. And as oldest son of an only child, I inherited my mother’s estate as well.”

  “So you have the inheritance from both your parents, plus the income from the lease?”

  “Yes.” Nicolas stepped behind his chair, unconsciously placing a barrier between himself and what he anticipated her next query to be. He rested loose fists on the chair back and decided to take the offensive.

  “You could say I’m wealthy, by Territory standards.”

  “But you don’t live like a wealthy man.” Sydney shook her head, her expression puzzled. “I reckon what I mean is, you work hard, Nicolas. And you don’t shy away from dirt.”

  Somewhat placated, he leaned his elbows on the chair back and eyed the brandy glass. Its facets glinted in the firelight, sending shards of light through the amber liquid.

  Shards of life glinted through his soul. How might he explain what he felt?

  “It—it feels very good to work.”

  Her voice was soft. “Tell me about work, Nicolas.”

  His gaze lifted to hers. Was she serious? In the firelight, her green eyes were bottomless. Her full lips parted, relaxed. She was guileless, open, allowing him into her. And demanding nothing in return but what he would freely give.

  “Well…” He cleared his throat and searched for words. “It feels good to stretch, and pull, and lift. To swing an axe or a hammer. Or a sheep. There is something deeply satisfying about working your body so hard that you drip sweat, your legs burn, your arms shake. But you can see that new building raised. Or that pile of firewood on the porch. Or draw cold, clear water from that new well.”

  Sydney rolled her wine glass between her palms. “I feel some of that when I work with horses.”

  “Yes!” Nicolas pointed at her. “I would believe that you do.” He walked around the chair and sat again.

  Sydney stared at the deep red liquid in her glass. “Nicolas, might I ask you about something I heard last night at dinner?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did Humphrey Sinclair mean when he said this year is shaping up to be hard enough for every one of us?”

  Nicolas drew a deep breath. “There seems to be a sort of financial panic spreading across the country right now.”

  Sydney frowned. “What’s happening?”

  “Agriculture prices are falling, so farmers have less money. They can’t frequent businesses, so they shutter their doors. Then mortgages are foreclosed on. Once this sort of thing starts, it’s mighty hard to stop.” Nicolas desired to change the subject before Sydney asked about the impact on his own financial situation. “Have you any more questions about the Hansen dynasty?”

  Sydney thought a moment. “Are any of the people you're talking about in the portraits by the stairs?”

  “Of course. Would you care to know who is who?”

  “I would love that!”

  Nicolas warmed to her interest; family pride ran strong in his veins. Years had passed since he had a guest who didn’t know the paintings well. Sydney was already climbing the stairs. He followed and called her back down to the lowest painting.

  “This is my great-grandfather Christian, uh, ‘Fredriksen.’ He was Danish, in actuality. But he spent much of his life in Norway.” The man in the painting wore a curled gray wig and a faint smile. His hand rested on a bejeweled cane. His clothing was heavily brocaded.

  “He’s rather regal!” she opined.

  “He was not well-liked.”

  Nicolas guided Sydney to the next step. “And these are his children, Frederick and Marit Christiansen, when they were in their adolescence.” Frederick bore a striking resemblance to his dark-eyed father, but Marit looked like Nicolas. Clear blue eyes and abundant blond hair framed an impudent smile.

  “She’s your grandmother? There’s a strong resemblance.”

  “That there is. The next painting,” they climbed two stair
steps, “is the wedding portrait of her with my grandfather, Henrik Canute Sven.” There was a determined edge to Marit’s gaze in this portrait, but her smile still held the hint of humor. Blond and green-eyed, Henrik towered over Marit.

  “How tall was he?”

  “In his youth, I believe he topped six foot seven.” Nicolas straightened unconsciously. “They moved to Philadelphia the year after their wedding. Marit did not get along with her father, and she had some rather strong reservations concerning her brother!”

  Nicolas chuckled and shook his head. “But that’s a very long story for another day. We are on to my parents.”

  Up another two stair steps. “This is my father, Reidar Magnus Hansen and his bride, Kirsten Christiansen Sven. This painting was done about six years after they were married, two years before I was born. My grandparents commissioned it on one of their trips back to Philadelphia from the Missouri Territory.”

  Reidar Hansen was tall, gray-eyed, with light brown hair. Kirsten was blond with light blue eyes. They were a very handsome pair. The couple held hands and their bodies faced each other as they gazed out of the painting. They looked happy. Nicolas turned away from the portrait and rubbed a knuckle over his lips, his jaw flexing. He, too, had been happy once.

  He directed Sydney to the last picture.

  “And this is my father’s father, Martin Gunnar Hansen. Born in Norway and emigrated to America at age twenty-seven. He met a good Norse girl on the ship and they were married by the captain. By the time the ship docked in Boston Harbor, my father was a month past conception!” Nicolas smiled a little, then.

  They returned to the study and Sydney raised her wineglass. “Thank you for the tour of Hansen history. I give you your ancestors: may mine be half as interesting, and fully as legitimate!”

  Nicolas chuckled and lifted his brandy. “Skåle!”

  Sydney drained her glass. “So you and Rickard grew up together.”