by Kris Tualla
That revelation captured Nicolas and dominated his thoughts. Was it possible the child she now carried might meet the same fate? He hated that the idea occurred to him, and hated himself even more for the sense of relief that accompanied it.
“I am so very sorry,” he compensated.
Sydney turned to Nicolas. “Devin spent so much time in Webster Grove, the school board in Carondelet fired him. When he said we were moving to Cheltenham, I was so angry that I screamed at him, called him names. I accused him of caring more for Rodger’s welfare than mine!”
Sydney drew a choppy sigh. “But he was my husband. I was wrong to belittle him the way I had. So I decided to ride to Cheltenham and surprise him with my apology and my support. I borrowed a mule from our priest and rode there as fast as it would go… Which wasn’t very fast, in case you might wonder.”
She glanced sideways at Nicolas. “And you know the rest.”
The oppressive cloudy skies matched the mood of their conversation. Nicolas wracked his brain for another topic to divert her, but Sydney beat him to it.
“I wonder what happened to the mule?”
Nicolas laughed. “You only thought of that now?”
As they entered the town of Carondelet, Sydney shrank still and silent. Consisting of dirt streets, wooden boardwalks and variously constructed businesses, the town was very much like Cheltenham.
A few citizens ambled among the storefronts, but Sydney didn’t greet them. She directed Nicolas west of town to the cabin and he felt her tension as it came into view. She turned concerned gray-green eyes to his.
“In all seriousness, though, I do wonder what happened to the mule.”
The cabin door stood halfway open and a pair of chickens wandered out.
“I hope we haven’t been robbed.” Sydney climbed from the wagon without waiting for him to assist her. He jumped after her and grabbed his rifle. He caught her by the arm.
“Let me go in first.”
Sydney stepped back and entered behind him.
The log and mud-plaster cabin was unoccupied, its simple furniture in disarray. Sydney stood in the center of the room and evaluated her surroundings. He could only image what was going through her thoughts.
“My dishes and pots are still here.”
She opened a chest near the hearth and added the cookware to the items already in there. She asked him to carry that chest to the wagon and he readily agreed. Then she pushed open the door to the bedroom.
When he returned, Nicolas leaned in that doorway and waited. She looked puzzled, as if she was lost. “Several of my quilts are gone. Devin most likely took them. At least he left my wedding chest.”
Sydney opened a plain pine wardrobe and began to snatch dresses and such. She stuffed them haphazardly into the large cedar coffer.
“Is there aught else?” Nicolas asked. “Did you have any animals besides the chickens?”
She looked at him, a little dazed. “We owned a couple of goats.”
“They might be worth taking. If they’re still here.”
“They were in a pen behind the cabin.” Sydney straightened and rubbed her lower back. “I’ll go see about them. Will you take this chest to the wagon?”
Nicolas gripped the handles and grunted as he lifted the heavy chest. Straining with the effort, he carried it to the wagon, and rested a moment. He expected Sydney would reappear with or without the goats. When she didn’t, he went to look for her. When he rounded the corner of the cabin, he saw her on her knees facing two small carved wooden crosses.
Reverently, he lowered to his knees beside her.
“I knew it would be hard to come back here,” she whispered. “But I hadn’t thought what it would feel like to leave them… I wasn’t prepared for this…”
One of the crosses was etched with the name Colin and the year 1811. The second one said Robert, 1814.
“We named them after our fathers, you see.”
Sydney stroked the markers, tracing the names over and over. She sucked ragged breaths that shook her whole body.
He slid his hand along her back and she collapsed against him, her rending sobs unleashed. He rocked her a little, stroked her hair, and felt like a complete ass. How could he be so selfish to wish she would experience this kind of pain ever again? What kind of monster was he?
A terrified one.
Nicolas murmured soothing words in Norse. Sydney lay in his arms, pain relinquished until she sagged, depleted. Then an idea came to him. It might help.
“Would you like me to bring them home with us?”
Sydney looked up at him with swollen, red-rimmed eyes and her curt words were a dagger through his heart.
“To whose home? It isn’t mine. I don’t have a home.” Then she pulled away from Nicolas. “I have no choice but to leave them here. At least they’ll have each other.”
Sydney struggled to her feet and squared her shoulders. She crossed herself, wiped her tears, and rounded the cabin. She didn’t look back.
Nicolas sat still a bit longer.
Dare he pray for his child to come early? In the same manner as Sydney’s first babies, now buried beneath these stones? He shook his head. No matter the extent of his fear, he couldn’t bring himself to ask God for that.
So instead, he climbed to his feet and followed the path of the broken woman he loved.
Chapter Twenty Six
August 7, 1819
Sydney appeared for breakfast dressed in her new work clothes. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she was the recipient of several sharp looks from Addie. Sydney turned her back on the housekeeper and addressed Nicolas, sitting at the table with Stefan.
“Is this a Sunday that Father Mueller is in town?” Sydney blew on her coffee.
“Pastor Mueller will be here this Sunday, yes,” Nicolas corrected.
“Good. I have much to talk with him about.”
Nicolas pondered that uncomfortable tidbit as he stood and refilled his coffee mug. “Addie, I’m going into town for a meeting with Squire Busby. I’ll be home for supper.”
“Is something amiss?” Sydney sipped her coffee, then loudly sucked air over her tongue.
“Well, it seems the schoolteacher has gone missing.” Addie snorted and Nicolas glanced at her back. “According to old Mrs. Ansel, he packed up his things and left the boardinghouse without a word. Busby wants to form a board to hire a new teacher.” Nicolas considered Sydney over the rim of his cup. “Do you plan to work with Sessa today?”
“I plan to reintroduce myself to Sessa today.” Sydney grabbed a biscuit. “I doubt that she even remembers who I am, much less what I’ve already taught her.”
“Go easy,” he admonished.
“Of course I will!” she snapped. Abandoning her coffee, she stomped out the back door.
Nicolas followed. His longer legs caught her easily. “Should you even work with that horse, considering?”
“If I don’t do something with her, then everything up ‘til now will be wasted effort.” Sydney’s mouth screwed sideways. “Not to mention the clothes.”
“Clothes?” he repeated, confused.
Sydney stopped walking and grabbed his hand. She pressed it against her rounding abdomen. He wasn’t expecting that and it shocked him out of language. She cocked one eyebrow at him.
“Clothes.” Sydney forcefully threw his hand aside and walked on. Nicolas stumbled a pace behind her. She spun around and faced him.
“Why don’t you want to talk about it?”
“About what?” he stalled. Panic turned his gut to water.
Sydney crossed her arms and narrowed angry tempest-gray eyes. “You have some time yet. But be aware, it grows shorter.” She gave him her back and strode away with hip-swaying, braid-bouncing ferocity.
He scrambled for a response—any response. “Sydney!”
She kept walking. He trotted after her, plowing through ideas to get back in her good graces. “Sydney…” He grasped her elbow.<
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“What do you want, Nicolas?” she demanded.
He took a moment to choose his words. “I want to show you something special tonight.”
“Oh?” Skepticism fractured her countenance. “Haven’t I already seen it?”
He bit back a smile. “No. Not this.”
She glared at him and bobbed a small nod. “May I go now?”
He kissed her forehead. And he refrained from reminding her to be careful again. It took more restraint than he thought himself capable of.
Nicolas knocked on Sydney’s door as soon as the sun was good and gone. He wore the drawstring breeches and held a blanket.
Sydney, clad in her shift, grabbed a pair of shoes and followed
him downstairs and out the front door. “Where are we going?”
“Wait and see.”
Nicolas took her by the hand. They walked about two hundred yards up the road that led north toward Cheltenham. A large boulder on the east side of the road marked a narrow trail into the woods. Nicolas and Sydney followed the trail another fifty yards and stepped into a moonlit clearing. Soft, mossy ground banked a clear spring-fed pool.
“Oh, how lovely!” Sydney exclaimed.
Nicolas spread the blanket over the moss. He dropped his breeches on the ground and walked naked into the water. He dove under the surface and reappeared about ten yards away.
“Come on in! The water’s perfect!”
Sydney, in her shift, walked slowly into the unfamiliar pond; the water only came to her shoulders. She stepped into Nicolas’s eager kiss. She tasted like the wine they shared at dinner, and her skin felt like silk in the water. He slid against her, separated only by her flimsy cotton shift.
“Lay back,” he suggested.
Sydney closed her eyes and floated on her back as Nicolas supported her with one hand under her shoulders and the other under her hips. Her wet shift was transparent and her hair flowed like black ink spreading through the clear water. Nicolas took her mouth with his in a disembodied kiss that quivered through him.
“Gud, how I’ve missed you. I don’t feel whole without you anymore.” He carried her effortlessly out of the pond, and laid her on the blanket.
Sydney brushed Nicolas’s wet hair out of his face. He kissed her again and pulled the hem of her shift above her waist. He climbed over her and worked his knees between hers. He lowered himself to enter her when she yelped, and scuttled backwards on all fours like a startled crab.
“What! What are you doing?” Her eyes were round as the moon behind him.
“I thought—I assumed—that we could join again.”
“Why on earth would you think that?”
Nicolas sat back on his heels; the mast of his desire lowered.
“We’ve done it before. And we don’t have to worry about making a baby. And you know for certain that you’re not married to
anyone. So…”
Sydney scoffed at his logic. “That’s precisely the point, Nicolas! I’m not married. And I don’t intend to do that particular act again until I am.”
Nicolas stared hard at her. “Are you playing games with me, Sydney?”
Sydney slid forward and wrapped herself around him. He could feel the swelling in her belly and the heaviness of her breasts.
“Nicolas, I’m a thirty year-old homeless woman with no husband and a child on the way. I cannot be bothered with games. They’re a waste of time.”
Nicolas’s thumb traced Sydney’s jaw, dropped down her neck and traced the scar on her chest. Then it continued to her belly and circled the swell. He pulled his hand away.
“This is hard for me, you’re sensible of that. I lost my wife. And if I lose you…” He looked away and heaved a ragged sigh. Sydney ran the back of her fingers down Nicolas’s cheek. He grabbed her hand and kissed it.
“I need time to get my grit up, I reckon. It’s not that I don’t love you, because I do. But I’ve always been a private man, so perhaps you don’t know what I feel.”
“I know, Nicolas.” Sydney rested her other hand on her belly. “I know.”
September 5, 1819
Sydney was puzzled by a sudden and severe downward shift in Nicolas’s mood. He grew irritable and distracted, barking at everyone over imagined inconveniences. Sydney asked Addie if she knew what was going on. She leaned close to Sydney and answered in a sotto voice.
“It’s Stefan’s birthday tomorrow. It’s never a good day. At least Rickard will be here.”
“Stefan’s birth—oh!” Sydney’s chest hollowed out with the connection. Stefan’s birth. Lara and the other boy’s deaths. Poor Nicolas. And poor Rickard.
“Why will Rickard be here?”
Addie tossed her a disgusted look. “To keep that danged fool from falling face down into the privy and drowning in his own piss!”
As surprising as her indecorous outburst was, the elder housekeeper didn’t offer any more explanation. And when Sydney joined Stefan for breakfast the next morning, there was no sign of either Rickard or Nicolas.
“Happy birthday, little man!” She placed a wrapped package in front of his plate.
Stefan’s eyes rounded. “What’s that?”
“A birthday present! Go ahead and open it.”
Stefan picked up the box as though it might dissolve in his hand. Inside was a fishing kit: flies, line and cork bobbers. Sydney found the items in the chest from her home.
“I like this a lot!” Stefan lifted the items from the box one-by-one. “I can go fishing!”
“Yes, you can! But you’ll need help with the hooks at first. Your pappa can go with you.”
Stefan picked up each item and inspected it, then placed it back in its spot.
“Can I show John?” he asked Addie.
“Are you done with your breakfast?” Stefan nodded and his auburn hair flopped forward. He brushed it back and waited for Addie’s release. “Alright then, go ahead.”
Sydney reached for his arm. “Addie and I’ll bake you a cake today.”
“Just ‘cause it’s my birthday?”
“Just ‘cause,” Sydney laughed. “You’re six now and that’s an important age.” Stefan’s face split with an incandescent grin before he disappeared out the back door.
“He didn’t say thank you!” Addie scolded.
Sydney turned and smiled at her. “Yes he did.”
Addie and Sydney worked to create a confection worthy of a sixth birthday, with Addie mixing applesauce, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and raisins into the cake batter. But when Sydney asked where Rickard and Nicolas were, she shrugged with her lips pressed, and stirred the cake batter with visibly more intent. Then Rickard appeared at the back door.
“Addie?”
She turned toward his voice. Pointing with her elbow, she said, “There by the door. The one with the torn label is yours.”
“As always.” Rickard lifted two bottles of brandy—one with a torn label—from the covered basket, then pawed through the remaining contents. “This suits. Thank you, Addie.”
“Thank you, Rick.”
With a wink at Sydney, he was gone. She turned to the housekeeper and waited. Addie angled a glance at Sydney but she just kept stirring the batter. She didn’t speak. That by itself was uniquely unusual, in an already unusual day.
“Addie, what is going on?” Sydney finally asked.
“It’s Stefan’s birthday.”
“Yes, it is.” She eased her voice back. “And it’s the anniversary of Lara’s death. And the other boy. I’m sensible of that.”
Addie poured the liquefied batter into the pans that Sydney prepared. Sydney placed them inside the three-legged cast-iron spiders in the fireplace and covered them with domed iron lids. Then she faced the older woman again, fists on her hips.
“Are you going to tell me?” she murmured.
Addie washed the mixing bowl, but she stared out the window. Her tone was resigned. “He doesn’t want to remember…”
Sydne
y nodded. “I can understand that. So how does he try to forget?”
“Brandy.”
“Oh…” Sydney’s gaze rolled to the back door. “That’s what Rickard came for.”
Addie continued her task. “Not exactly.”
Sydney walked to the older woman’s side. “What did you do?”
“What I always do. What Rickard and I worked out the second year.”
“And that is?”
“I water the brandy in Sir Nicky’s bottle.” A smile quirked the corners of her mouth.
Sydney crossed her arms. “And what is Rickard drinking?”
Adie looked at her now. “Tea and apple juice.”
“Oh.” Sydney struggled to control an inappropriate grin. “Doesn’t Nicolas notice?”
Addie shook her head and her faint levity vanished. “Not after he’s finished the first bottle. I don’t touch that one.”
Sydney walked to the back door. Somewhere out there, the rugged forested hills, lush green grass and pale azure sky scraped by wispy white blades cradled a man intent on wiping away the recollection of loss. It was a fool’s endeavor.
“When will they come back to the manor?” she asked.
Addie appeared beside her. “At candle-lighting. Rickard’s smart enough not to let him sleep out there.”
Sydney ate dinner with Addie, John, Maribeth and Stefan. They enjoyed the birthday spice cake before sending a blissful Stefan up to bed. The still-summer day was hot and sticky, and Sydney sat on the front porch hoping for a breeze. The last vestiges of the sunset dimmed in the sky.
Rickard and Nicolas emerged from the road and ambled crookedly toward the manor. Naked above the perilously low-slung waistband of his wet breeches, Nicolas did not acknowledge Sydney as he stomped heavily across the porch into the house. He reappeared with the pewter flask. He swallowed a long drink from the flask, lowered it, took a deep breath, and then another long drink.
“Were you swimming?” she asked Rickard.