A Matter of Principle Page 15

  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 kno
w that, don’t ye?” Sydney looked around the room again. Then she focused on Sally. “This baby is an angel!”

  Sally’s eyes widened. “With wings?”

  “O’ course, with wings! But ye won’t see them just yet, ye know. They have to grow.”

  “Oh.” Sally slumped a little with disappointment.

  “And you, girlie, have been chosen as its special sister. No other girl in this world was chosen. Only you.” Sydney shook her head solemnly. “I hope ye are ready to help.”

  “I’ll help!” Sally nodded, her curls bouncing.

  “Alright then. Ye must start now. This very minute. Because if ye don’t, the angel might chose another sister!”

  “No!” Sally looked as though she might cry, for real this time.

  “And here’s what ye must do.” Sydney shifted the girl in her lap. “Ye must be very quiet while your mother is helping the angel pass into this world. It’s a very special magic, and she needs to pay attention. She cannot be concerned about you at this time. Do ye understand me?”

  Sally nodded.

  “Good. Your father will tell ye when the magic is over, won’t ye?” Sydney looked up at Wilbur who, along with Mrs. Ansel, had slipped into the room to listen.

  “Yes!” He cleared his throat. “I will, Sally. I promise.”

  Sally stared at her father. He held his arms out, and Sydney pushed just a little. Sally stood and crossed into her father’s arms. Wilbur cradled her and mouthed ‘thank you’ over her head.

  Sydney climbed to her feet and shook out her skirt. “Now I’ll go be seein’ about helpin’ that angel a bit myself. You see to bein’ a good sister, Sally. And whatever ye do…” Sydney leaned down to the child. “Don’t tell a soul about the baby bein’ an angel, or me bein’ a faerie. This world’s not a safe place for either of us if they find out!”

  “I won’t,” Sally whispered.

  “Promise me, then?”

  Sally nodded and looked up at Wilbur. “You, too, Daddy.”

  “I promise!” Wilbur assured her. “Not a word.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Ada Ansel added. “Let me take you up, dearie.”

  Sydney climbed the stairs behind the landlady once again. The distressing sounds had abated, but as she drew nearer she heard Karlie whimpering. Mrs. Ansel knocked on the door, then pushed it open.

  “I’ve brought Mrs. Hansen!” she announced.

  Berta O’Shea whirled, mouth open first in surprise, then widening in anger. “Why?” she demanded.

  “Is Sally well?” Karlie called from the bed. “She grew so quiet of a sudden…”

  “She’s fine! Mrs. Hansen calmed her. She’s with her father,” Ada’s tone brooked no argument. “And now she’ll help you!”

  “But I am already here,” Berta pointed out. “There is no need for another midwife!”

  With a howl that rivaled any feral creature of the woods, Karlie curled on the bed, her face an astonishing red. Sydney looked to Berta, who did nothing.

  “How far is she?” Sydney asked over the wails.

  “Not far enough,” Berta shrugged. “There’s no reason for you to stay!”

  Sydney stood in place, torn between wanting to rush to the woman’s side, and not wanting to add fuel to an already simmering feud between the two Cheltenham midwives.

  “Oh, God! I’m going to die!” Karlie screamed.

  Sydney was beside her before she remembered crossing the room. She rested one hand on the woman’s belly and the other her back, pressing both. Karlie was holding her breath.

  “Karlie, blow out! Hard!” Sydney instructed. Startled, Karlie complied. “Now breathe in and push your belly against my hand.”

  Karlie did as she was told, almost. She was still scared and in pain, but she seemed to try. The pain passed.

  “That’s good,” Sydney encouraged. She glanced at a clock on the bedside table. “Now close your eyes and relax.”

  Sydney massaged Karlie’s back and murmured comforting words. She felt tension begin to leave the woman’s body.

  “When the next pain starts, I will count out loud. Karlie, you need to take deep breaths in, and push your abdomen against my hand, until I tell you to cease. Might you do that?”

  Karlie turned her head to look at Sydney.

  Sydney spoke low and slow. “Don’t look at me, Karlie. Close your eyes. Rest between the pains.”

  Karlie’s head sank into the pillow. It required several tries, but she began to accomplish it. Sydney kept an eye on the clock.

  “Her pains are but three minutes apart and lasting for more than a minute each,” she said to Berta over her shoulder. “How long has she been this way?”

  Berta O’Shea was angrily stuffing her things into her basket; Sydney had been too busy to notice.

  “She was having pains five minutes apart, lasting but half a minute, until you touched her!” The other woman’s voice wavered, on the verge of hysteria. “You have cast some sort of spell on her! And against me, I’ll wager!”

  “Spell?” Sydney shook her head. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “You are a witch, Hansen.” Berta O’Shea swirled her cloak around her shoulders.

  “Don’t be absurd, Berta! I merely—”

  “Cast a spell on the child, too!” Berta shouted, pointing a finger at Sydney. “She was inconsolable until you came!”

  “The girl only required a firm hand!” Sydney retorted.

  “I’ve seen you do this before!” Berta accused.

  “Do what?” Sydney felt the grip of anger clench her chest.

  “Calm a birthing woman with a word, or a touch!”

  Sydney wanted to scream at the woman’s idiotic logic. “How is that a bad thing?” she managed.

  “It not a natural thing!” Berta countered. “Birthing hurts! It is supposed to hurt! The Bible says it’s a woman’s curse!”

  Sydney narrowed her eyes. “I can’t take away the pain, Berta. You’re being ridiculous.”

  “No? Well, you conjure up something so they don’t notice it, then!” Berta crossed herself.

  Karlie began to whimper.

  Sydney pulled her attention away from the midwife and drew a deep breath of her own. “One, two, three, four…” she whispered in Karlie's ear. “Push against my hand…”

  Berta O’Shea fixed an eye on Ada Ansel. “Mark my words, Lady Ada! There is something not right about this woman! And I shan’t wait here any longer and risk being cast under one of her spells!”

  Berta thrust her hand through the handle of her basket and stomped from the room. Her footfalls faded down the stairs and were punctuated by the rattling slam of the boarding house front door. Ada waved her hands after the departing midwife.

  “Get on with you!” she spat. Then she turned to Sydney. “What will you need, dearie?”

  

  “She called you a witch?” Nicolas handed her a glass of wine.

  “I cannot believe that woman!” Sydney blustered. “Of all the—the—”

  “Ridiculous? Unfounded? Superstitious?” Nicolas offered.

  Sydney pointed at Nicolas. “Yes! All of those!”

  “And dangerous.”

  That brought Sydney up short. “Dangerous?”

  Nicolas sat on the rocking chair by their fire and watched Sydney change and wash for dinner. “Unfortunately, there are those who still believe in witchcraft as an active pursuit.”

  “But this is the nineteenth century!” Sydney scoffed. “It’s been well over a hundred years since the Salem trials!”

  “I am not saying it’s a rational belief, min presang.” Nicolas considered the burgundy liquid in his glass. “But an accusation such as that could stir up some unpleasantness.”

  Sydney considered her husband, lips pursed.

  “Is your concern for me?” she ventured. “Or for your reputation? And your campaign?”

  Nicolas paused. “Can the two truly be separated?”

  Sydney’s shoulders fell. �
�I suppose not.”

  Nicolas reached for her and she crossed to him. He pulled her to his lap. “Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

  “I don’t know. There was a daughter, about three years of age and plump. A holy terror!” A wry smile curled Sydney’s lip. “If Kirstie behaved so, I’d take a switch to her post haste!”

  “Then I pray my daughter’s behavior remains as impeccable as it is thus far!” Nicolas showed mock consternation in his voice and countenance. “What was the ‘terror’ attempting to accomplish?”

  Sydney removed herself from Nicolas’s lap. She wet a cloth and washed her face, talking through the fabric. “She wanted into the room where her mother was laboring, but the father hadn’t a strong enough constitution to control her. She actually lay on the floor, kicking the door!”

  Nicolas chuckled. “What was your weapon?”

  “Imagination. I told her I was a faerie.” Sydney began to un-plait her hair while she spoke. “I used my mother’s Irish brogue.”

  Nicolas narrowed his eyes, frowning slightly. “And that worked?”

  “Like the proverbial charm.” Sydney lifted her brush and worked it through her hair. Perhaps that was a bad choice of words.

  A softly surprised look shifted Nicolas’s countenance. “I remember when Gunnar was born.”

  Sydney paused in her task. “Do you? How old were you?”

  “I was less than two.” Nicolas tapped a knuckle against his lip. “I remember it was my bedtime and I wanted my mother. She couldn’t come; she was laboring. But I didn’t understand that, of course. I was fit to be tied up! Just as your ‘terror’ I imagine.”

  Sydney sank into the chair by her dressing table. “What happened?”

  Nicolas began to laugh. “I clearly remember kicking Addie, screaming that I wanted my Mamma. She tried to put me into bed, but I kept running to my parent’s door. This door.”

  Sydney smiled at the thought of little Nicky, stubbornly insisting, even then, on having his way.

  “They finally allowed me to sit on the floor outside,” Nicolas continued. “But then I could hear her inside.” Nicolas ran his hand through his hair. “In truth, it was rather terrifying.”