Discreet Gentleman Book One: A Discreet Gentleman of Discovery

by Tualla, Kris

  Chapter Fifteen

  October 7, 1720

  Brander urged the motley team of horses onward. He was less than pleased when he saw what awaited him at the stable that morning before dawn. But he was assured that the draft animals were more than adequate and the carriage quite trustworthy in spite of their appearances. In the end, he didn't care what they looked like; all he wanted was to get on their way quickly. To be rid of Lady Kildahl quickly.

  Because last night she slithered through his dreams uninvited.

  Brander was accustomed to dreaming of women. He had obviously never courted anyone, and was disinclined to frequent brothels, so his male urges usually resolved themselves that way. But when the widow appeared, neglected bits of him took notice.

  The neglected bit that disturbed him most was his heart. Brander was surprised to find himself attracted to the lady when they exchanged letters after she requested his services. And that was before he discovered that she was the beautiful fowler that caught his eye on his first visit to Hamar.

  Then she had the effrontery to be intelligent. And she refused to be crushed by her situation. And she had designed a solution whose only -- invisible -- flaw was him.

  He held a great respect for the attractive widow. And every plod of the horses' iron-shod hoofs brought them closer to the moment he would hand her over his brother.

  Damn.

  The twenty-mile journey west from Christiania then south to their first overnight stop in Drammen should be easy from what he remembered. The terrain along the water was soft hills and meadows, and spotted with clear lakes.

  Brander was glad they had left Christiania at a suitable time, since each day held only nine hours of sunlight this time of year. If they covered three miles in an hour -- a reasonable expectation in this ungainly vehicle -- they should have an hour of light remaining at the end of today's path.

  Since Brander accepted this task, he hadn't allowed himself to think about Arendal. About Hansen Hall or his life there. Now those memories would no longer be denied. They pressed against him; physical, bittersweet, exquisite.

  Brander had been a happy child, in spite of the painful and recurrent earaches and their accompanying fevers. He seemed to have freedom to roam the manor even as a toddler. He remembered when Jarl was born. Brander was not quite three.

  Oddly, he couldn't remember losing the hearing in his left ear. He was perhaps four when it happened, so he was surprised that he couldn't mark the time. But he would never forget the morning -- shortly after his seventh birthday -- when he was stabbed awake by pain like a hot poker. It burned him from right temple to jaw and he cried out, or so he thought. He jerked up in bed. His pillow was smeared with blood.

  The world had gone silent.

  Terrified, he ran to find his parents. His mother thrust his baby brother Roald from her breast and knelt in front of him. Her face was red and her cheeks were wet and her mouth worked constantly, but he couldn't hear anything.

  He tried to talk to her. He cried, "Mamma! Mamma! MAMMA!" and in his panic pushed the word past his throat over and over until it stung. But no matter how much it hurt, he couldn't hear himself. Or her. Or his baby brother lying on the bed with mouth open, fists waving and legs kicking, his scrunched-up face red as apples. Brander knew the babe was crying.

  But he couldn't hear him.

  His father lifted him in the air and shook him to make him stop shouting. Frightened by such unaccustomed roughness, he stared slack-jawed at his father's haggard face.

  His father's lips moved.

  Brander stared at them. They moved again, this time more slowly. And wildly exaggerated.

  Can. You. Hear. Me.

  "Nooooo!" he wailed. "No no no no no--"

  His father shook him again. Stop!

  He did. He hung limp in his father's strong grasp, legs dangling above the floor and his heart bashing about in his chest. The look on his father's face was dreadful to a child. Even at such a young age, Brander recognized fear, disappointment, repugnance and sorrow.

  When his father lowered him to the floor, his knees surrendered and he fell on his face on the wooden planks. Concepts too complicated for his tender age nonetheless solidified in his realization. This wasn't going to go away. He couldn't hear anymore.

  And that was when Niels arrived and became his closest companion.

  Unable to hear himself, he continued to speak from memory for a while. But he stopped when he was eight. When others began to laugh at him, he chose to remain mute rather than subject himself to the cruel taunts of children and the undisguised stares of adults.

  Hansen Hall held the happiest moments of his life and the moments of deepest disappointment. And he had been gone without a word for eight long years.

  The morning's clouds moved slowly over the road, not deciding whether to thicken or disperse. Spatters of rain hit his face even so. A chill breeze gained strength as the day aged. Brander tightened his cloak.

  Niels nudged his arm. "I can drive. You go inside."

  Brander shook his head and pointed toward the swelling mountains. After those mountains should be a valley, he motioned.

  "And?"

  You can drive when we reach the valley.

  Niels shrugged. "If you don't object, I'll go inside and warm myself until then."

  Brander reined in the team. When they stopped, he gripped his cousin's arm: Be careful what you say to the women.

  Niels nodded.

  *****

  Regin straightened and looked out the window when the carriage stopped. They were not close to any town that she could see. She startled when the door opened and Niels launched himself inside. He sat across from her and Marthe, shut the door, and pounded on the roof. The carriage creaked back into motion.

  "Hello," she ventured.

  "Hello, my lady," he responded. He turned to Marthe. "Miss Marthe."

  "Mister Jensen," she murmured.

  "Jensen?" Regin glanced between the two of them. "Are you not Lord Olsen's cousin?"

  "On his mother's side," Niels responded without hesitation.

  It was obvious to Regin that Niels and Marthe had formed a friendship, no doubt born of their common status as personal servant. But she outranked the un-lordly 'Lord' Olsen, so Marthe outranked Niels. No matter; if that friendship aided Marthe in ferreting out information then Regin would hold her silence.

  To that end, she turned toward the coach wall and tucked her legs under her. With a long sigh she closed her eyes and feigned falling sleep.

  Conversation between the pair was scattered and stilted at first. Regin grew tired of waiting for something of import to be said. She also grew tired of the coach. Every pebble in the road seemed to jolt the iron-clad wheels and send that jolt through her bones.

  The cessation of the jolts awoke her. She stretched her cramped limbs and looked around the empty coach. She slid across the seat to the opened door.

  "Are we there?" she called out.

  "No, Lady. We are taking a comfort stop and the men are changing places," Marthe answered from somewhere out of sight.

  Regin stumbled from the coach on tingling legs that felt like they were being stuck with needles. She misjudged the distance from the step to the ground and pitched forward. She cried out in anticipation of landing face first in the mud, but stopped inches above it. Then she floated upward until she was back on her feet.

  She looked up over her shoulder into Lord Olsen's eyes. His concerned face was inches from hers and his hands gripped her waist. She couldn't look away and she couldn't command her mouth to speak.

  His expression warmed from concern to amusement. Then he let go of her.

  Regin strained to stay upright and frantically thought of something to say to deflect his intense gaze. "How do you say 'thank you'?"

  He rested his right palm against his chest under his left collarbone.

  Her brows pulled together as she mimicked the gesture. "I thought that was 'you are welcome'?"


  He pressed his flat palms together and nodded: The same, yes?

  "I suppose..." Regin pressed her palms together. "Same?" Then she flipped them away from each other. "Different?"

  An incredulous look claimed Lord Olsen's countenance, but only lingered for a brief moment before his features went carefully blank. He nodded again.

  "Good." She backed away from him. Then she raised her brows and asked, "Good?"

  He pressed a fist to his heart. Regin pressed a fist to her heart. She rotated the fist and pushed it out in front of her.

  "Bad?"

  She thought he might swoon. Instead, he circled his forefinger to meet his thumb: Yes. All the while, his eyes burned into hers.

  Regin whirled and skittered around the carriage. She hurried off the road and behind a bush, squatting to relieve both her bladder and her nerves. She knew very well that Lord Olsen couldn't hear, and the condition required that he watch those around him with great attention. But when he turned those indistinct eyes on hers, eyes that in one moment were the green meadow grasses, in the next the blue sky above, and in another still the gray of Norway's glacial peaks, she lost her ability to think. Instead, she was pulled into them and they owned her.

  "Lady? Are you ready?" Marthe called.

  "Yes, I'm coming!" she answered. Walking back to the carriage she wondered how she would survive his intimate presence for the rest of their journey.

  *****

  Brander never gave up the reins that day so he would not be expected to join the ladies inside the coach. Lady Kildahl was far too able to understand him and that unsettled him more than he thought possible. So when they passed between the low mountains and entered the valley he just kept driving.

  According to the map, the southern end of that valley opened into a long lake which spilled into a North Sea inlet. Their destination for the day -- the village of Drammen -- snuggled cozily at the water's edge.

  They made decent time, arriving in the town with more than an hour and a half of gray autumn daylight to spare. The clouds never did worse than dampen them with spittle, though the wind grew stronger and icier all day. His ears and cheeks stung with cold and his belly begged for a hot meal.

  Once they were settled in their room at the inn, Brander and Niels went to the common room to eat supper without waiting for the ladies to accompany them. Brander ordered a glass of akevitt and a pitcher of ale. The beginnings of a headache thumped dully behind his eyes, and if he drank enough to make him fall asleep quickly he might crush it before it crushed him.

  The akevitt burned his gullet and set a fire in his gut. He cooled it with a long, deep pull of the ale. A platter of roasted chicken and onions was set in front of them, followed by a dark loaf of hot bread and a jar of honey. Brander asked for a second glass of akevitt. He gulped it down, followed again by the cooling ale. Then he ate slowly and concentrated on the messages his body sent him.

  The food soothed his belly as the alcohol relaxed his muscles. The pain behind his eyes didn't lessen, but neither did it intensify. That was a good indication that once his appetite was satisfied he could crawl into bed, warmed from the inside out, and seek the blessed pain-free haven of slumber.

  A third glass of akevitt sealed the fate of his evening. A soft dizziness swirled in his head and weighted his eyelids. He motion to Niels that he was going to bed. When he stood, he wavered.

  Niels steadied him. "Do you want help?" he asked.

  Brander scowled and wagged his head. That proved a mistake and he gripped the table until the floor stopped undulating beneath his feet. Then he turned carefully toward the stairs and nearly collided with Lady Kildahl.

  He blinked at her for a moment, dropped his chin against his chest, and wove between the tables and inn patrons. He placed one foot determinedly in front of the other on the stairs. Stopping to remember which room was his, he went inside, dropped his clothes on the floor, and slid under the blankets. With a deep sigh, he closed his eyes and waited for the spinning eddy of unconsciousness to rescue him.

  Drammen

  October 8, 1720

  The cold morning was wrapped in thin gray wool: it felt like nothing to touch, but it muffled sound and was impossible to see through. The chilly wetness hanging in the air seemed to soak right past Regin's fur-lined cloak and into her marrow.

  Lord Olsen hadn't dragged them out as early this morning. She wasn't surprised, considering how he looked when she glimpsed him in the common room yester eve. When he did appear at the carriage, his eyes were reddish and a bit puffy. If he truly retired to his bed so early the night before, then he had slept for a solid twelve hours.

  Niels claimed Lord Olsen suffered from severe headaches and occasionally used alcohol to help him sleep them away. Regin thought that was a rather creative way to explain his over indulgence. It seemed to her that Lord Olsen was hurting quite a bit more this morning.

  Niels handed her into the coach and Lord Olsen clambered heavily up to the driver's bench. As Marthe took a seat beside her, Regin pondered what it meant that the man avoided riding with her yet again. Niels sat across from her, pounded on the roof, and their day of travel began.

  Regin stared out the window into the fog. She couldn't see more than twenty feet. With nothing to look at, she wished she had brought along a book, or even paper for drawing or writing poetry. Anything to fill the long, bone-jarring and lonely hours.

  Lonely. She was lonely. And as the day aged, her loneliness grew. Niels and Marthe chatted softly and she had nothing to add to their conversation. She ate her midday meal, chewing and swallowing their cold food only by instinct. She couldn't taste any of it. Or she wasn't paying enough attention to taste it. Or she didn't care.

  Realization seeped into her awareness: she had been lonely for a very long time. But she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge her isolation. She bore as much shame as she was able; her unwilling separation from society was one disgrace too many to contemplate.

  It began when Thorlak lost some rather large wagers -- wagers she learned about only when he began to borrow money from the husbands of her friends. At first the men were glad to help one of their own. Why not? Every nobleman had some secret flaw, some slight obsession, made a few bad decisions. They stood behind each other and covered each other's mistakes.

  To a point.

  Thorlak passed that point. And yet he kept going.

  After that, Regin's friends faded from her life. Not of a sudden. But their invitations came at lengthening intervals until they stopped coming at all. Women with whom she had shared society now crossed to the other side of the street when they noticed her approach.

  Regin ran a fingertip through the moisture that condensed on the coach window. She traced a swirling circle that spiraled in on itself. Like her life seemed to be doing. She didn't even have family to call on.

  She sighed and wiped the coach window clean. Water dripped from her fingers and left dark spots on the coach floor much like the dark spots in her past. If her father had seen the man he chose for his daughter fall so far, that disappointment would have killed him. But then, so would the course she had currently set for herself. Thankfully her father would never know that she sold herself into a second marriage to save Kildahlshus.

  Regin pounded on the roof of the coach.

  Marthe and Niels turned to stare at her.

  "Comfort stop," she croaked. When the carriage slowed enough, she leapt out and ran into the forest.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Regin hid behind a tree. She leaned against its rough bark and ignored drops of water that fell off the leaves and wet her hair. Her cheeks were wet enough as it was. She sniffed thickly and swiped the back of her hand under her nose.

  She couldn't stop crying and that was a problem. Her 'comfort' wouldn't take this long and soon Marthe should come looking for her. The mist hid her from view. Her maid's voice warned of her approach.

  Why couldn't she stop crying? Nothing about her situation was new. Every downw
ard step was months in the past. And every attempt to climb back up was well considered and deliberate.

  So why did her cheeks continue to heat and her throat continue to tighten and her tears continue to flow? She wasn't a weak member of her gender. She made decisions and did what was needed to take care of herself and her estate. And she did so resolutely and without fear.

  Something poked her shoulder and Regin jumped sideways. She looked up and met Lord Olsen's concerned gaze. He reached out to her and his finger stroked her cheek, pushing her tears away. His touch burned like fire.

  Regin wiped her eyes on the edge of her cloak and stepped backwards. His stare followed her and he spread his hands in question.

  She shook her head and looked away from those eyes that saw too much. "It's not your concern," she murmured.

  His knuckle tipped her chin upward. He touched the corner of his eye with his middle finger.

  "I said, it's not your concern," she repeated so he could see.

  Tell me, he motioned.

  She shook her head.

  Tell me.

  She threw her hands wide: Why?

  He reached to touch her cheek again.

  She slapped his hand away.

  He scowled.

  Her hands flew as she spoke. "You don't care anything about me. So don't pretend that you do!"

  Why do you say that?

  "You avoid my company. You refuse to speak to me. What else am I to believe?"

  No.

  "Yes!" She wagged her finger in front of his face. "At one time I believed you had a care for me. Your letters seemed so kind."

  He slapped her finger away: Stop.

  She swallowed her relentless tears and lifted her chin. "I once considered you as a friend I could trust."

  I do care.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. "Prove it."

  His face twisted: Stop.

  "Liar."

  His jaw clenched and he glared at her. His eyes were as dark and gray as the day. He pulled his wallet from his tunic. The words he wrote were black and jagged.