result of childbirth, giving him a son, now eight years of age. He remarried, to a divorcée, in December, 1819. A second child, a daughter, was born to him in January of 1820.
Skitt. Nicolas folded the December 4 th newspaper and laid it on the nightstand. He gripped a tumbler of brandy and downed it, setting the empty glass on the periodical where it left a damp ring.
And so it began.
He swung from the bed and relieved himself in the chamber pot. Turning down the lamp, he slid back between the hotel’s meticulously starched sheets. Sydney stirred and turned away from him with a soft, humming sigh. He curled around her, his face pressed against her dark, rose-scented hair.
Nothing that was printed was untrue. And it was all public record, what with the marriage, death, divorce and birth certificates being filed with the county recorder. And there was no way for the columnist to know about his political experiences in Christiania, unless he was directly asked.
Which he wasn’t.
That was a problem.
Did this bode ill for the future of his campaign? Was the Enquirer’s editor—what was his name? VanDoren?—likely to print whatever was given him? Nicolas’s gut clenched; he knew the answer. Whatever sold papers.
His path became clear to him.
“ If I am to do this thing, I must do it honestly,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath moist in Sydney’s tresses. “God in Heaven, give me strength to face what comes.”
December 19, 1821
Cheltenham
Nicolas threw the covers from him and sat up with a start, heart pounding and filmed with sweat. Sydney was not next to him. He remembered that she was called out to a birth.
He’d had the strangest dream.
He was in the yard outside with the mermaid statue he left with Gunnar. The mermaid was lying in the grass and he straddled it. His hands caressed her wooden breasts. Somehow she opened, and he pushed inside of her, thrusting until he climaxed. It was so real.
‘ Wood’ into wood, he thought. How ironic . He had not had dreams like this since he was a teen. He felt the sheets, palms skimming the smooth cotton in search of his emission. Nothing. They were dry. That was unexpected; his prick tingled like he had peaked.
The bedroom door opened. In the pale quarter-moon light, Nicolas saw Sydney’s trim figure step into the room. She set her bag on the floor and started to undress.
“ Welcome back, min presang ,” he said quietly.
“ I’m sorry, Nicolas. Did I wake you?” she whispered.
“ No. I—simply woke up.”
Sydney left her clothes on the floor and retrieved her nightgown from the foot of the bed. She climbed under the blankets and slid close to Nicolas. Her skin was cold from her winter’s night outing. He curled around her.
“ Did it go well?” he asked, face pressed in her hair.
“ Yes. A girl. Big and strong.” Sydney sighed. “Taycie is doing so well, I believe she might soon be able to handle a birth on her own.” She placed his hand against her breast, pushed her bottom against his groin. She yawned loudly. “If I wasn’t so tired, I’d take randy advantage of you, husband.”
Oddly, his body did not respond.
December 25, 1821
Not a bit of snow had fallen for weeks; the frozen earth was brown and brittle. Christmas morning’s sun nudged over the horizon, jailed by the forest’s bare trunks and black branches. Nicolas and Jeremy wrestled the frost-dampened Yule log through the front door and into the drawing room’s fireplace. Addie was already in the kitchen, teaching Anne how to make rice pudding, and the pinnekjøtt , the traditional Norwegian dish of salted lamb ribs which Nicolas had grown up with.
Stefan tumbled down the stairs, Leif in noisy tow.
“ Did Julenisse come?” he shouted.
“ Sh!” Nicolas frowned. “There are a few civilized inhabitants of this estate who choose to rise at a respectable hour! Namely your Mamma and Kirstie!”
“ Sorry, Pappa ,” Stefan whispered loudly.
Skitt. Nicolas folded the December 4 th newspaper and laid it on the nightstand. He gripped a tumbler of brandy and downed it, setting the empty glass on the periodical where it left a damp ring.
And so it began.
He swung from the bed and relieved himself in the chamber pot. Turning down the lamp, he slid back between the hotel’s meticulously starched sheets. Sydney stirred and turned away from him with a soft, humming sigh. He curled around her, his face pressed against her dark, rose-scented hair.
Nothing that was printed was untrue. And it was all public record, what with the marriage, death, divorce and birth certificates being filed with the county recorder. And there was no way for the columnist to know about his political experiences in Christiania, unless he was directly asked.
Which he wasn’t.
That was a problem.
Did this bode ill for the future of his campaign? Was the Enquirer’s editor—what was his name? VanDoren?—likely to print whatever was given him? Nicolas’s gut clenched; he knew the answer. Whatever sold papers.
His path became clear to him.
“ If I am to do this thing, I must do it honestly,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath moist in Sydney’s tresses. “God in Heaven, give me strength to face what comes.”
December 19, 1821
Cheltenham
Nicolas threw the covers from him and sat up with a start, heart pounding and filmed with sweat. Sydney was not next to him. He remembered that she was called out to a birth.
He’d had the strangest dream.
He was in the yard outside with the mermaid statue he left with Gunnar. The mermaid was lying in the grass and he straddled it. His hands caressed her wooden breasts. Somehow she opened, and he pushed inside of her, thrusting until he climaxed. It was so real.
‘ Wood’ into wood, he thought. How ironic . He had not had dreams like this since he was a teen. He felt the sheets, palms skimming the smooth cotton in search of his emission. Nothing. They were dry. That was unexpected; his prick tingled like he had peaked.
The bedroom door opened. In the pale quarter-moon light, Nicolas saw Sydney’s trim figure step into the room. She set her bag on the floor and started to undress.
“ Welcome back, min presang ,” he said quietly.
“ I’m sorry, Nicolas. Did I wake you?” she whispered.
“ No. I—simply woke up.”
Sydney left her clothes on the floor and retrieved her nightgown from the foot of the bed. She climbed under the blankets and slid close to Nicolas. Her skin was cold from her winter’s night outing. He curled around her.
“ Did it go well?” he asked, face pressed in her hair.
“ Yes. A girl. Big and strong.” Sydney sighed. “Taycie is doing so well, I believe she might soon be able to handle a birth on her own.” She placed his hand against her breast, pushed her bottom against his groin. She yawned loudly. “If I wasn’t so tired, I’d take randy advantage of you, husband.”
Oddly, his body did not respond.
December 25, 1821
Not a bit of snow had fallen for weeks; the frozen earth was brown and brittle. Christmas morning’s sun nudged over the horizon, jailed by the forest’s bare trunks and black branches. Nicolas and Jeremy wrestled the frost-dampened Yule log through the front door and into the drawing room’s fireplace. Addie was already in the kitchen, teaching Anne how to make rice pudding, and the pinnekjøtt , the traditional Norwegian dish of salted lamb ribs which Nicolas had grown up with.
Stefan tumbled down the stairs, Leif in noisy tow.
“ Did Julenisse come?” he shouted.
“ Sh!” Nicolas frowned. “There are a few civilized inhabitants of this estate who choose to rise at a respectable hour! Namely your Mamma and Kirstie!”
“ Sorry, Pappa ,” Stefan whispered loudly.
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