A Woman of Choice

by Kris Tualla

  pulled a long hissing breath. She displayed her last weapon.

  “If we do so, Lily will be forced to face what she’s done.”

  Sydney waited for the men to steep the idea in possibilities. Either they would vilify her, or laud her; she honestly didn’t know which to expect, nor which she deserved. She looked at each of them in turn, trying to predict her prospects.

  “She’ll have to apologize.” Rickard downed the brandy. “Grow up a little. Or a lot.”

  “Or she’ll turn tail and run to North Carolina and her mother,” Nicolas outlined another possibility.

  “Either way, we don’t have to do anything ‘to’ her,” Sydney finished the scenario.

  “It’s brilliant,” Rickard handed his empty glass to Nicolas for a refill. “Consider it done.”

  Nicolas went to his study to fetch Rickard another brandy. Sydney stood and followed him into his sanctuary.

  “Would you consider inviting my father and brother to stay so they might get to know you?” she whispered.

  His lips pressed to a grim line and he didn’t look at her.

  She kept her voice soft so they wouldn’t overhear her. “Please, Nicolas? I haven’t seen them in—I don’t know how many years.”

  Nicolas drenched her with his sea-storm gaze. “For how long?” he groused.

  “A day or two?” Sydney rested her hand on his arm. “How long can you bide?”

  Nicolas grunted and eye-rolled a sigh. “Even so. A couple days, then.”

  Back in the drawing room, Nicolas rested his elbow on the mantel. His tone wasn’t as hospitable as his words, but Sydney was grateful for any purchase he might give.

  “Robert. Andrew. My wife and I would be honored if you would be our guests for the next few days.”

  Robert’s gaze hopped to Sydney, then back to Nicolas. “We were planning to go back directly.”

  Nicolas raised flattened palms in front of his chest. “Oh. Well, then. If you must.”

  “Might you stay until Sunday? We’re having Kirstie christened,” Sydney announced her sudden plans.

  Robert shrugged. “In that circumstance, we would be happy to

  accept.”

  “Addie?” Sydney called to the kitchen. “Can you show my father to Rickard’s room and Andrew to my old room? They’ll be staying with us the next two nights.”

  The housekeeper approached, grinning. “Well, God bless us! Come along, then. Look sharp.” Robert and Andrew followed Addie from the room.

  Still hunched in the settee, Rickard swirled the unfinished brandy in his glass. “I believe I’ll go to St. Louis for a day or two.”

  Nicolas finally lifted his heavy gaze off Sydney. “And let Lily stew a bit, eh?”

  “Has Miss Price been to St. Louis?” Sydney planted the idea.

  Rickard’s demeanor brightened. “Why, I don’t know. Do you think I should I ask her to accompany me?”

  “You could do with the diversion.” Sydney let the statement hang.

  Rickard rose to his feet with a soft smile and a rerouted purpose. He patted his pockets absently and glanced around the room. “Yes. Well, if you’ll excuse me, then, I’ll be on my way. But I shall be back before the christening on Sunday!” He shook Nick's hand and left the Hansen manor, whistling as he did so.

  Nicolas assessed Sydney with suspicious eyes. “Have you ever done that to me? Changed the subject to twist my intent?”

  She smiled and slid her arms around her husband’s waist, her head against his solid chest. She heard his heartbeat, steady and strong. “Of course not.”

  January 18, 1820

  Robert and Andrew left on Monday morning. There were back-slaps and hugs, and Sydney sent along a lengthy missive for her mother.

  “I’ll try to visit sometime soon,” she promised.

  “Nicolas and I talked quite a bit about breeding horses out here. Perchance we’ll go into business, aye?” Robert hugged his daughter one last time.

  “Goodbye, sir,” Nicolas offered his hand first to Robert, then to

  Andrew. “Kan Gud er med De. May God be with you.”

  The men climbed into Nicolas’s landau for the ride into Cheltenham, and John slapped the horses into motion. When the carriage disappeared from sight, Nicolas enveloped Sydney in his embrace and held her until, with a hiccough and a shudder, her mourning stilled to silence.

  When John returned that same afternoon, he carried a letter addressed to Mme. S. S. B. Hansen. The return was Mr. N. Ivarsen.

  “It’s probably a bill for services rendered,” Nicolas grumbled.

  “And why would he send that to me?” Sydney broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. She laughed as she read the barrister’s words:

  My Esteemed Madam,

  Please accept my heartfelt congratulations to you on the birth of your healthy daughter. I am most pleased to know that your confinement was not hindered by the lack of a husband.

  My purpose in writing you this day is twofold, however. I am afraid that curiosity has eaten at me these many days and it is my hope you might assuage it. Pray tell, what words did you share with The Honorable Judge G. Benson that encouraged him to hear your testimony?

  It is my intent that, by sharing your secret with me, you will provide me with as yet another valuable tool in my profession.

  I remain, as ever, your Faithful Servant,

  Mr. N. Ivarsen, Esq.

  Sydney sat at Nicolas’s desk. He leaned over her shoulder as she penned her response at the bottom of Nelson’s letter.

  My dear Mr. Ivarsen,

  The information, which I rightly believed to be of assistance to Judge Benson, was also information which, due to its sensitive and personal nature, I did not wish to share with the family members and strangers in the gallery. The statement was, in itself, quite simple.

  Since exchanging our marital vows in December, Nicolas

  and I had not consummated those vows because of my delicate condition. So by law, we could be considered not yet legally married. Therefore, my testimony would be allowed by law.

  Judge Benson was wise enough to understand that making such a statement in court, and on the record, could render our child a bastard. So he allowed my testimony, rightly, while preserving the status of our daughter.

  While I sincerely hope you never need use this tactic, I expect that this response will assuage your peculiar state.

  Respectfully,

  Mrs. S. Sydney Bell Hansen

  Nicolas laughed so hard, he nearly wet himself.

  February 10, 1820

  Kirstie awoke early, long before the household stirred. Outside the window the winter wind keened through leafless trees, moaned over the tops of the chimneys and clattered the shutters. Sydney drew the heavy curtains back and tried to peer out. The horizontal flurries were so thick it would be dangerous to go outside, even to the privy.

  She brought Kirstie into the big, warm bed to nurse. She lay on her side, her bottom pressed against Nicolas’s hip, and tucked the babe to her breast.

  Nicolas turned and curled around her, not completely awake.

  Sydney smiled to herself and whispered over her shoulder. “Congratulations, husband.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re not gelded.” Sydney arched her back and pressed her bottom against his groin.

  Nicolas came awake instantly. He rolled onto his back, lifted the covers. His flesh stood, strong and hard, for the first time since he was kicked. He circled it with his hand and breathed a sigh of relief so huge it seemed to empty the room of air.

  “Thank God. I wasn’t certain…” his voice choked. “It was such a hard hit.”

  Sydney said her own silent prayer of thanks. “I’m quite relieved

  as well. While I shall love you no matter what, I hated to think of that particular activity falling aside.”

  “Perchance we should test it? Just to make certain, you know?” He groped for her hand under the covers and wrapped it around his exigen
t member. He curled against her again and nuzzled the nape of her neck, sending pleasant shivers over her skin that had nothing to do with the room’s chill.

  Sydney turned her head and lifted her lips to his.

  “Ask me tonight,” she murmured, shifting Kirstie to the other breast. “As for now, I desire a few more hours of sleep.”

  When she awoke later, that morning’s sun shone on a recreated landscape. White drifts blinded, sparkling with the pristine purity that only an unspoiled snowfall can own. Bare tree branches glistened with crystal coating. The intense sky turned shadows into sapphires.

  Sydney threw back the curtains and let the sun’s smile light up the manor. She stood in the upstairs hall, Kirstie snug against her shoulder. Nicolas stepped up behind her and slipped his hands around her narrowing waist. He kissed the top of her head.

  “It’s a beautiful day for a thirty-third birthday, isn’t it?”

  Sydney whirled to face him. “Today’s your birthday? What day is it?”

  “February tenth in the year 1820.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gotten you a gift!”

  “You mean, besides marrying me and giving me this little beauty?” Nicolas stroked Kirstie’s hair as her blue-gray eyes explored his face. “I’m quite satisfied.”

  “Even so, it’s the principle.”

  “I don’t seem to recall you having a birthday. Or did it happen before you got your memory back?”

  “On March fifteenth I’ll be thirty-one.”

  “The Ides of March? Good thing I’m not Caesar!” Nicolas teased. “You’re a good age, well suited to me.”

  Sydney shook her head and turned back to the window. “We’re old parents. I’m afraid Kirstie’s friends will believe we’re her grandparents.”

  “If someone mistakes you as that, I’ll inform them that you’re the most desirable ‘grandmother’ I ever met!” Nicolas pressed his

  hips against her back. “See?”

  Sydney laughed suddenly and startled Kirstie who began to cry.

  “Let me take her.” A grinning Nicolas lifted his daughter. “That was my fault.”

  “Half a month to go,” Sydney sighed.

   

  After dinner, Nicolas handed another letter to Sydney without any comment or explanation. He turned his back and poured his brandy, listening to her unfold the paper.

  “I didn’t write to Nelson,” she stated.

  He half-hoped she’d give the opposite answer. Because somebody did.

  “You believe me, don’t you?”

  Nicolas dropped into his favorite chair and rubbed his hand over his face, then through his hair. He didn’t look at her as alternatives shuffled through his consideration, none of them good.

  “Of course I believe you, Sydney.”

  “Nicolas?”

  “Yes?”

  Her glare was pewter and just as cold. “I’ve no interest in your money, your lands, or—what else did the letter say?—your heritage. I don’t even know what that means! I trust you to take care of me and the children. It never occurred to me to consult your lawyer about putting a portion of your income into an account for my access!”

  Nicolas sipped his brandy and gazed into the fire, pondering ramifications. He shifted in his chair. “Have you any ideas, then, who contacted Nelson?”

  Sydney shook her head. Her gray gaze slammed into his. He felt it best to change the subject.

  “Your idea worked. Lily’s gone.”

  She hesitated before biting. “Gone where?”

  “Back to her mama in North Carolina.”

  “For good?” she queried.

  “Definitely for ‘good’!” he quipped and finished his brandy.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  February 26, 1820

  Nicolas threw the front door open and slammed it shut with a grunt that shook the windows.

  “Sydney!”

  “In here.” Sydney appeared through the kitchen door. “What’s amiss?”

  Nicolas strode toward her and thrust a package at her. “It’s addressed to Siobhan Kilbourne in care of Nicolas Hansen. Again.”

  Sydney hefted the package then sat at the kitchen table to open it. When she saw what was inside, she looked at Nicolas, her features gone to chalk.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  Sydney shook her head and hid her face in her hands. Nicolas grabbed the package and lifted out a pink silk chemise trimmed in expensive lace.

  He was beyond livid.

  “Who the helvete is sending my wife French lingerie?” he bellowed.

  Sydney shook her head again, her face still hidden. Nicolas fumbled for a note and found one in the bottom of the wrapping.

  “ ‘I can’t wait to see you wear this, my darling, though the beauty of this simple garment pales in comparison to yours. We shall once again experience Cupid’s blessings…’ Gud forbanner det! What the helvete is going on?” Nicolas crumpled the shift in his outstretched fist.

  Sydney jumped up and pushed past Nicolas. He heard her feet on the stairs, and a moment later, the heavy clunk of their bedroom door. Nicolas stood in the kitchen and stared at the silky garment in his calloused hand. He pulled a deep breath and dropped the shift into its wrapping. He rolled it up and tucked it under his arm, then trudged toward the stairs.

  Someone was either playing a cruel joke, or Sydney was hiding something from him. Would she do that to him? He couldn’t see how. She wasn’t that sort of woman.

  What if she hadn’t regained all of her memory? With Devin gone from home so much, had Sydney turned to another man for comfort? And not remembered?

  Nicolas pushed on his bedroom door, relieved that it wasn’t locked.

  “Sydney?”

  The door to the adjacent nursery was open. He crossed to that once-locked room and stopped in the doorway. Sydney knelt on the floor, diapering Kirstie. She sniffed and wiped her nose with the heel of her hand.

  “I’m sorry, min presang,” he whispered.

  Sydney lifted their daughter to her shoulder. She sat cross-legged, her cheeks marked by tear trails.

  He dropped to his knees next to her. “I don’t believe you’ve played me false. But something’s greatly amiss, is it not?”

  Sydney nodded and patted Kirstie’s solid little back.

  “Might I ask you some rather difficult questions?” Nicolas ran his knuckles up and down her arm. “I don’t mean to suggest any wrong-doing. I’m merely attempting to figure out the solution to this puzzle.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Fine, then.” Nicolas regarded his wife with the kindest expression he could muster. “First off, are you certain that you’ve regained all of your memory?”

  Sydney’s brows dipped. “Yes. I don’t have any gaps in time that I can’t account for.”

  “I only thought that, while Devin was absent from your home so often—”

  “No. Absolutely not. No.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “I simply am certain, Nicolas. There’ve only been two men in my bed. I’ve been married to both. And one is preferable.”

  Nicolas allowed the corner of his mouth to lift. “And the letter to Nelson Ivarsen?”

  “The only letter I ever addressed to Mr. Ivarsen is the one you watched me write.”

  Nicolas’s bowels constricted. “So we’re being toyed with. For what purpose, then?”

  Sydney shrugged. For a pace, Kirstie’s contented gurgles were the only sounds in the room. Then, “Do you consider me to be a practical woman?”

  Sydney’s words found Nicolas off his guard. It took him a moment to respond. “How do you mean?”

  “Do I ask for frivolous things? Am I overly sentimental? Or do I seem to you the sort of woman who is sensible in her choices?”

  Nicolas smiled broadly at that.

  “This question comes from a woman who stated that a pair of breeches was the best gift she ever received? I’d say tha
t qualifies you as most practical.” He leaned toward her, wary. “Why?”

  “Well… the chemise is beautiful. And obviously expensive.” Sydney paused. “It would be a shame to waste it.”

  “Are you serious, madam?” Nicolas blurted. He unrolled the bundle burning under his arm. “You would wear this?”

  Sydney grasped the silk and lace garment. “Someone ought to enjoy a garment so beautiful. It might as well be you and me!”

  She lifted it to her cheek. “Does the color suit me?”

  Nicolas raked his hand through his hair while he tried to conjure a proper objection. But how could he? She reasoned like a man.

  The color did indeed suit her. And the garment was finely made, the silk of the highest quality. The thought of running his hands over her body and feeling her curves through the thin fabric stirred him strongly.

  He wished he’d bought it for her.

  “Again your logic’s irrefutable. Whether I’m glad to be married to such a sensible woman remains to be seen. In the meantime, I can’t state a logical reason why you shouldn’t enjoy the shift.”

  March 1, 1820

  Nicolas was late for supper and his stomach chastised him for the delay. But instead of food, the empty table held a note: Come up to our room. He considered searching out sustenance before going up, but curiosity beckoned like a siren and he followed, helpless.