A Matter of Principle (21 page)

“
He wore a hat at night, but I saw him the next morning. Straight blond hair, blue eyes…” the redhead added.

“
And big! He was huge!” The brunette pressed her hand between her thighs. “Too bad I couldn’t have him. He asked for dark, but I wasn’t dark enough, if you understand my meaning.”

Rodger’s gut clenched. “Big? Blond? Blue-eyed? And he wanted a Negro girl?”

Carrie nodded. “Sarah had never been made available before, but he was quite insistent. It was her that he wanted. Wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer!”

“
Spent the night with her. The whole night.”

“
Bought her the next morning.”

The blond sweeping the floor spoke up. “Rode off with her and another slave. A man.”

Rodger’s head spun. Hansen had a female slave named Sarah. And he fit the description of the mysterious customer perfectly. Was it possible? His hand shook as he poured more wine.

“
Look at you!” Carrie patted Rodger’s thigh. “Nervous as a schoolgirl.”

“
Are you sure he’s coming?” Rodger asked again to divert her attention.

The kitchen door opened. A trim, tightly-muscled gentleman entered. His black hair was short, curling around his ears and over his forehead. Green eyes met Rodger’s brown ones, and the man smiled. Rodger smiled back, his heart pounding.

Hansen was forgotten. For now.

February 2, 1822

St. Louis

Nicolas’s thirty-fifth birthday celebration was in full swing. The ballroom at the Regent’s Inn was filled to bursting with everyone who was of any importance in the county of St. Louis. Rickard and Bronnie were not able to come; little Glynnis was sick and Bronnie would not leave her.

“
But Sir Ezra and I are here.” Lily smiled at Nicolas and squeezed his arm. “I do hope you’ll save some dances for me?”

“
Um. Yes.” Nicolas turned to greet a prominent grocer and his wife. “Rodney Swithers! Thank you for joining us this evening. And is this beautiful woman your wife? You are a lucky man!”

Sydney watched the skinny, flat-chested woman blush with pleasure at Nicolas’s words. He leaned over and kissed her hand. Nicolas was proving quite adept at politicking, able to connect with both men and women even though, as Sydney regularly mentioned, the women could not vote.

‘
But they do influence their men’ was his confident rejoinder.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sydney saw Lily drift away. Always glad to see her leave, Sydney was very sensible that if she went away angry, she would only conjure up more ways to cause trouble. At the moment, she appeared calm.

Vincent was adept at his task, bringing aristocrat after businessman after government appointee to meet Nicolas. Nicolas in turn made each person feel noticed, appreciated. He thanked everyone for coming, asked something personal about each of them, then encouraged them to enjoy the evening as he handed them off and turned to the next guest.

“
Are you a fan of the theater?” a slight man was asking Nicolas. His short-cropped blond hair lay flat against his skull making him appear bald. A striking woman, much younger, held his arm.

“
I have not had much opportunity of late, as you might well imagine,” Nicolas demurred. “Have you a recommendation?”

“
Well, the Argent is usually reliable. They bring in companies from cities in the east, you see.”

“
Why, yes! My wife and I had the opportunity to see
The Taming of the Shrew
there before we were married.”

The woman stiffened. Something in her demeanor drew Sydney’s attention. Slightly taller than her escort, her blonde hair was pinned back where it bloomed into a froth of curls. But her brows and eyes were dark.

When Nicolas turned to introduce her, she saw in his eyes that he noticed as well.

Sydney extended her hand. “It is my pleasure. Please enjoy your evening.”

Nicolas backed into Leif.
“Vokt disse to. Henne spesielt!”
Watch these two. Her especially.

Leif bowed and retreated. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“
Must you stand so close all the time?
Jeg tror hun er forkledd
.” I believe she is disguised.

“
Yes, Sir. You’re correct, sir. I’m sorry.” Leif moved away from the line waiting to speak with Nicolas.

Nicolas returned his attention to his guests. “Forgive the interruption. He’s a cousin, an orphan from Norway. He has so much yet to learn.”

Chapter Sixteen

February 3, 1822

St. Louis

Nicolas Hansen: More Brothel Connections?

By Herbert Q. Percival

I visited a brothel in St. Charles—an unmarried man has his needs, after all—but I never expected to learn what I did about our own Nicolas Hansen while I was there!

Imagine if you will, a man, married with two young children. And a beautiful wife, to be sure. One who is seemingly intelligent, capable. Together, they strive to present the very picture of marital bliss and upstanding moral values. In the daylight.

But nighttime provides us with an entirely different scenario.

Mr. Hansen, it seems, visits brothels. And he has peculiar tastes in his choice of women there. He likes them dark. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned. Coffee dark. Chocolate dark. Burnt-wood dark.

Black.

I was informed by reliable sources that not only did our hopeful candidate ask for such a girl, but he insisted on trying out a maid, a slave girl, one who had never been used by the customers. And he paid quite handsomely for the privilege.

Was he her first experience? Perhaps. He was so enthralled by his night with her—and yes, dear readers, he spent the entire night with her—that he bought her outright the next morning and rode off with her on his horse. He took her to his home.

And ensconced her right under Mrs. Hansen’s nose.

Could it be, he is merely ‘breaking in’ women for his enterprise in St. Louis? There is nothing like being trained by your employer to meet the exclusive needs of his clientele, after all.

Let it be known, however, that Hansen’s continued claim to be revolted by slavery does not appear to extend to those who serve his bed.

February 5, 1822

Cheltenham

Sydney thanked Margaret Brown for her kind words of encouragement and stepped into the bright, frigid morning. Even going to the dry goods store was a trial, ever since Nicolas declared his candidacy and their lives became fodder for public consumption.

Everyone in Cheltenham read the St. Louis newspapers that were delivered daily now, thanks to Nicolas’s election committee, and all had an opinion on what should be done to whom, for what they said, or did not say, or appeared to think or not think. And not a single body had any compunction about expressing those opinions to her in the strongest language polite convention allowed!

“
Lord, I know You say we shan’t be given more than we can handle,” Sydney muttered, her words forming a holy spirit of wispy white in front of her face. “But I fear You’ve more faith in my self-control than is wise!”

She drew a deep breath and felt the cleansing cold wash through her head and her chest. The air smelled so clean. Dust was buried under a fresh layer of snow; manure was frozen into odorless mounds. Only the pine trees, whose strong presence was never subdued by winter, made their presence known.

Sydney strolled along the street. Few were out this morning; and those that were, hurried past her with a nod or a mumbled ‘morning.’ The quiet of the day soothed her, and she was in no hurry to return home.

Then she heard an odd sound.

Sounds travel better in cold air than warm; she was sensible of that. So she stopped and listened, dropping her hood and turning her head.

There it was again. It seemed to come from old Mrs. Ansel’s boarding house across the road and down a ways. Sydney moved in that direction.

It was unmistakable now. A woman cried out in distress; a child sobbed. The rumble of a man’s response. Sydney knocked on Mrs. Ansel’s door.

“
Mrs. Hansen!” Ada smiled as though relieved. “Thank the good Lord, you have come!” The old woman grasped Sydney’s arm with surprising strength and tugged her into the house.

“
Whatever is occurring, Mrs. Ansel?” Sydney unfastened the frogs of her fur-lined cloak. “I heard cries—”

“
It’s been since last night,” Ada’s ancient voice interrupted. She reached for Sydney’s cloak, pulling it from her grasp. “Mistress O’Shea is here, but I’m afraid she’s not been able to help.”

“
Is there a woman confined here?
Now?
” Sydney wished she had her midwife’s bag.

“
Yes! Upstairs. Come quickly.”

Sydney followed the tiny, spry septuagenarian up the spotless wooden staircase. The child in question, a plump girl of perhaps three years, threw herself against a closed door, crying hysterically.

“
I! Want! My! Mommy!” she screeched.

A man of about thirty grasped at her weakly. “Sally! Stop that! You cannot see Mommy right now!”

The girl wiggled out of his hands. Truthfully, it did not require much effort.

“
But I want to!” Sally crumpled to the floor and began to kick the door. Sydney guessed this particular act must have worked well in the past.

She stuck out her hand to the man. “My name is Sydney Hansen. I am a midwife. Is Mrs. O’Shea inside the room your wife?”

He gripped her hand desperately. “Wilbur Renfrew. Yes. Yes, my Karlie is experiencing pains…” In punctuation, Karlie wailed through the wood door loud enough to be heard over her daughter’s barefoot pummels.

“
And this—Sally is your daughter?” Sydney bit back her first impulse.

“
Yes.” Wilbur addressed the tantrum incarnate: “Darling, stop that. Stop that NOW!”

Sydney wondered if the entire family was deaf, or merely habitually loud. She turned to Ada. “When did Mrs. O’Shea arrive?”

“
Just before dawn, dear.” Ada winced at the abuse Sally continued to inflict on her door.

“
And do you believe her to have the situation in hand?”

Ada looked at Sydney as though she had just inquired if dead kittens made nice earrings. “Does it appear so?” the old woman barked.

Sydney faced Mr. Renfrew. “Do you wish assistance?”

“
With Sally?” he asked, incredulous.

“
With Sally, with Karlie, with the birth?” Sydney pressed. “If not, I’ll be on my way.”

“
No!” Wilbur reached for her. “Please! Help us!”

Sydney glanced at the door, sensible that once again she would tread on Berta O’Shea’s territory. “Are you quite certain?”

Wilbur glanced at his daughter, slowing but still kicking. “Yes. I’m certain.”

Sydney sighed. “Alright, then.” She bent down and lifted Sally from the floor.

Startled into silence, the girl twisted to look at her. “Who’re you?” she demanded. Her cheeks were mottled with indignant fury.

“
I am your secret faerie.” Sydney spoke with her own mother’s Irish brogue.

The girl’s eyes rounded. “My what?”

“
Your secret faerie. Ye’ll know what faeries are, then?”

The girl shook her head. Her red-rimmed eyes slid to her father and back. She frowned a little.

“
Well, girlie. It seems I must be teaching ye, then! Are ye ready to learn?” Sydney set the girl on her feet.

She shrugged, still quiet, still unsure.

“
Come on then. I’ve a magnificent secret to tell ye. If ye wish, ye can tell your da, after.”

“
What’s a da?”

“
Your father, girlie! He’s standin’ right there!” Sydney winked at the dumbfounded Wilbur.

“
Oh.” Sally looked at her father.

“
Go ahead, Sally. You may go.” Wilbur waved the child toward Sydney. Sydney held out her hand and Sally touched her palm with sticky fingertips.

“
Where is your room?” Sydney asked. Sally pointed at the closed door. “Oh. Well, let’s go down by the fire, then.”

Sydney led the girl down the stairs to the drawing room. She sat cross-legged on the floor in a corner and pulled Sally into her lap. Looking exaggeratedly around for eavesdroppers, Sydney began to whisper into the girl’s ear.

“
Do ye know what’s about to appear upstairs?” she began.

Sally shook her head.

“
A new person is comin’ into this world. A very special person!”

“
You mean the baby?” Sally whispered, her gaze intent on Sydney.

“
Aye, girlie. A baby! But not just any baby, ye know that, don’t ye?” Sydney looked around the room again. Then she focused on Sally. “This baby is an angel!”