The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Did you wake up one morning and think, Gee, guess I’ll get married today. Nothing better to do. You at least like her, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. Most of the time, when she’s not trying to freeze me out, but if you can get past that you can see how special she is. I’ve never met anyone like her.”

  “I do believe that you, Dr. MacCallan, are smitten.”

  “Don’t tell my wife. She’s already suspicious of me, and that’s on our good days.”

  “Isn’t your wife the one person you’re supposed to tell?”

  “I don’t want to scare her off this early in the relationship. I need more time before I spring it on her.”

  “A wooing. How perfectly romantic.”

  “Have you been reading the nurses’ dime novels again?”

  “Sometimes there’s not much to do on these long shifts, and I have to keep myself occupied, but don’t change the subject. How do you propose to woo your wife and capture her heart when you’re in two different countries?” Gerard tapped his pointy chin. “Come to think of it, in Letters to a Sweetheart, Millicent and George find love via writing letters. Like pen pals. Now that was a satisfying read.”

  It wasn’t worth the repeated argument to question his friend’s reading taste. Gerard would storm off only to return with an armload of books to prove his point that Lost Together in Venice and Capturing the Untamed Heart were as important to read as any medical journal. Wynn could barely keep a straight face when he started orating on sheiks and lost desert princesses.

  “My stint here in Paris is over by the end of the year—a week from now. Then it’s a Blighty ticket for me. I’ve already written to a few hospitals in Glasgow inquiring about a position.”

  “Wish I was going with you, but it’s a few more months until I see England again. I suppose you’re eager to get home and set up Svetlana as the new duchess— Oh, I’m sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to sound crass in the wake of your loss.” Gerard ducked his head, berating himself under his breath. “A terrible thing for me to say.”

  Pain stabbed Wynn’s chest as Hugh’s ghost flitted before him. He’d written to Wynn at the beginning of summer saying he hoped to find a wife once the war was over. His preference was a brunette. Wynn had written back saying they would scour the breadth of England until he found his brother the perfect wife with a postscript not to discount blondes.

  “Svetlana will make a grand duchess. She was born for it.” He swallowed against the tide of emotion threatening to take him under. “One of us had to be.”

  “Aw, Wynn. You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

  “That’s because the second son never had to. Not when it comes to running an estate. I’m not a title; I’m a surgeon. I’ve put my entire life into medicine. It’s the only thing I want to do.”

  “Who says you can’t?”

  “It’s not the way it’s done. Lords of the manor are expected to be just that and nothing more. Overseeing property, collecting rent from the tenants, heading up charities. A lifetime of servitude to duty.” The knowledge of what awaited him at Kilbride extended its shackling weight day by day. By the time he reached his beloved shores of Scotland, would he be able to lift his feet, or would the weight drown him? “If anything good could come of this war, I hope it’s a break in the chains of tradition where men are allowed to carve out their own paths instead of adhering to those laid for them. If a clergyman’s son like you has the right to become a renowned physician, why not a duke?”

  Gerard blushed to the roots of his hair. Too many in their profession looked down on him because of his humble roots, but Wynn saw that it kept him grounded and pushed him to work harder than all those who lived life on a silver platter.

  “Careful with that talk or they’ll have you pinned as a zealot. Next thing you’ll be campaigning for women’s votes.”

  “Women make up half of the world’s population. They should have a voice in how it spins.”

  “Come off that talk. Bad enough the entire medical board is buzzing like hornets about your cardiological theories.”

  “The heart must be made into its own specialized study if we ever want to achieve proper understanding of its anatomy and physiology for the betterment of treatment.”

  Gerard threw up his hands in surrender. “No need to lecture me. I was there when you set them all off.”

  “Not all. Dr. Lehr has been sending me case studies of undiagnosed pulmonary—”

  “I know. The folders have toppled onto my desk now. Including that request for an interview from the British Medical Journal. You still keep in touch with Harkin?”

  Wynn nodded. “He’s back in London now. I wrote and asked if he would like to be part of the interview with me. It could offer a unique and often overlooked view from the patient that’s imperative for surgeons to understand.”

  The ward door opened, and one of the junior doctors fresh from school stuck his head in. The new ones were easy to spot. Their noses twitched the air like mice stepping outside for the first time in six years. He scurried over and dropped his voice to a whisper.

  “Dr. MacCallan, those X-rays are ready for you to view.” They were also sent on errands that senior doctors shrugged off to the nurses, like conveying messages between the floors.

  “Coming,” Wynn said. The young doctor scurried off and Wynn turned to leave. A dripping red star flashed in his head. “Sure you don’t mind me bunking in with bachelors again? That townhouse is too big for me, and I’m hardly there enough to justify keeping it open.” Open where ghosts were left to roam and strange men prowled in the shadows. Neither would he mention to Gerard. His friend had the heart of a lion, but it was an unnecessary burden to put on him. If there was trouble, Wynn could handle it without endangering his friend.

  “Sure. I saved your bed for you. It’ll be like old times.”

  Wynn offered a smile, but it soured in his stomach.

  “Like old times.” Except that everything had changed.

  Chapter 18

  January 1919

  Thornhill Castle

  Glentyre, Scotland

  Rain drizzled down the diamond-paned windows of the library where Svetlana sat on a bench seat staring out at the waterlogged afternoon. All it did was rain in Scotland, churning the rolling landscape to a blur of gray and green. Though she missed the refinement of city life, there was something about this wild land that eased the tension from her bones. On a rare day when the sun breached from its sleeping habitat behind the thick clouds, she could almost feel a sense of peace. But even that peace could be overtaken with restlessness.

  She’d been greeted at the train station as Her Grace, the Duchess of Kilbride, and whisked off to her new home at Thornhill. By Scottish standards the castle was considered substantial with its towering walls of beige sandstone and turrets that reflected its sixteenth-century style, and while it boasted modern amenities and comforts, it was rather utilitarian compared to the opulence of Russian palaces. Her own Blue Palace had three reading rooms designed for nothing beyond the pleasure of whiling away hours reading next to enormous marble fireplaces. Thornhill, on the other hand, had an entire weapons wing lined with ancient armor, shields, swords, bows and arrows, and all other manner of intimidation for killing one’s enemy. And she once thought Russia had a war-infested history. She’d spent the first few weeks wandering the halls and grounds—weather permitting—familiarizing herself with what had become her new duties, yet she felt adrift without an anchor to keep her steady in the changing currents.

  “Good gracious. Studying again.” Wynn’s mother, Constance, breezed in with the tails of her gossamer black scarf flapping behind her. Wreathed in mourning, the fluid lines of her gown enhanced her endless motion. “I don’t believe this room had nearly enough attention until you came along.”

  Svetlana closed the book on her lap. A history of the county she now called home and its
natural resources. Not to mention the vast fortune accrued under the MacCallan name. Wynn had never told her precisely how wealthy they were.

  “I want to learn all I can about the MacCallans and Thornhill. The customs and expectations are different from those in Russia.”

  “My dear, when you are foreign, you are judged on an entirely different scale than the native population. When my mother came from America as one of the dollar princesses to marry the ninth Duke of Kilbride, the locals didn’t know what to make of her with her optimism and individualistic thinking. She was a fast learner and did quite well, if I do say so myself. And so will you.”

  Svetlana ran a finger over the worn leather binding, so similar to the ones lining her father’s study in the Blue Palace. An ache swelled inside her. They used to read them together after dinner. “Treat your people fairly and they will do the same for you,” he would instruct. “Always seek improvement.”

  “I’ve been reading on the advances made on the estate over the years, many of which have helped it continue operating when so many great houses are going under due to the economical strain of war. As chatelaine, I should like to continue the work of mutual benefit for Thornhill and our tenants. According to the account books, they’ve been struggling of late— Oh! Forgive me. I did not mean to imply—”

  “Save your breath to cool your porridge, my dear, as the Scots would say.” Constance held up a hand and smiled kindly. “I’m perfectly aware that my housekeeping abilities are atrocious. I love this house and the people here, but it’s never been in my blood to stay rooted for too long. Too many wondrous things out in the world to explore. Which is why I’m so delighted you’re here for me to pass the mantle to.”

  Svetlana nodded. She’d been preparing for such a mantle her entire life. The Scottishness of it was a bit of a twist, but the foundations of running an estate remained the same no matter the country. Why then did she feel the drowning waters of uncertainty lapping close to her head? Wynn had offered this course of direction to her life as if it were the most natural one to follow. All other options had closed to her and so she’d followed him into marriage to find safe harbor amid the raging storm. Secluded now in that harbor, she was missing the compass that had pointed her here. The anchoring compass that kept her from drifting back into the storm.

  She glanced down at the simple gold band wrapping around her finger. He’d bound everything he had into that ring and offered it to her. His name, his money, his protection, his home. He’d given her so much and she’d not returned anything. She covered the band with her fingers, the cold metal warming at her touch. That changed now. She would make herself the best Duchess of Kilbride she could be and bring honor to his name.

  Constance swished herself onto the window seat next to Svetlana, crinkling the corner of the open plant book between them, and took Svetlana’s hand. The gold band winked between them.

  “When I received Wynn’s message saying he’d married, I was overjoyed. He’s always been a man to love and be loved. I knew he’d never be completely content with a set of scalpels in his hand. He needed a woman to round him out, and here you are. I couldn’t be more proud to have a daughter-in-law such as you.” Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I’m only sad to have missed the wedding.”

  Alarmed at the sudden waterworks, Svetlana tried to edge her hand away, but the older woman clung tight as emotion rolled across her face. Should she offer a hankie or a pat on the shoulder? What would Wynn do? Offer a joke. No, she wasn’t good at those. He’d summon courage and meet the discomfort head-on.

  “We missed having you there, but with the war on it would have been too dangerous to send for you. It all happened so quickly.”

  “As I often told my husband, when you know, you know.” She nodded and sniffed. “Though I don’t think any of us could have known how all of this would come to pass.” Her glassy eyes lifted to a painted family portrait hanging over the fireplace. The brothers looked very much alike, but Wynn held a familiar twinkle in his eyes while his brother’s gaze was calm and steady.

  “Was Hugh very different from Wynn?”

  With a short laugh Constance finally released Svetlana’s hand and swiped an errant tear from her cheek. “Good gracious, yes. Where Hugh was contemplative, Wynn was inquisitive. Where Hugh nodded and agreed, Wynn questioned. Where Hugh consulted his books, Wynn simply knew on a hunch. But they were brothers through and through. If one was in trouble, the other was right there next to him.”

  “Wynn spoke fondly of him.”

  “They were the best of friends, but from the beginning they had their roles. Hugh always knew he would inherit one day and modeled that role of responsibility to a T. Wynn, on the other hand, was left to enjoy his freedom. I confess, we may have spoiled him a bit, but he was never one to sit around and wait to be petted. He always had to do. Still does. He’ll never give up if there’s a path worth pursuing.”

  “In Russia we call that having the head of a bull.”

  “One of his most endearing qualities, but then I suspect you already know that.”

  “I’ve noted it a time or two.”

  “I don’t know the circumstances of your marriage to my son. Perhaps the whirlwind of a wartime romance that I hope you’ll tell me all about one day. I want you to know how happy I am to have you in our family. With you, the MacCallan name and legacy will live on and Thornhill will thrive once more. These halls may always carry a sadness for me, but you, my new daughter, have brought the beginning of happiness.”

  “Happiness,” Svetlana repeated as if the word were foreign to her. It certainly was not a concept she had dwelled on of late. Revolution, murder, and survival tended to block out any pretense of the notion, but coming to Scotland in this new life had swept away the old fears. Happiness and the ability to pursue it no longer had to be denied.

  Constance must have noted her hesitation as she patted her arm in understanding. “We all merit a go at it, do we not? Life is too short to let the uncertainties haunt us, and a woman of your strength deserves reasons to smile.”

  Warmth rushed through Svetlana. “Thank you, Mother Constance. I hope I am worthy of your praise.”

  Her mother-in-law patted her hand, and Svetlana didn’t pull away. “Just be yourself, dear. I can’t ask for more than that.”

  “Ask for more than what?” Mama appeared in the doorway, eyes slanting between Svetlana and Constance. She wore a purple gown. Not having personally known Hugh, she declared full black mourning was unnecessary.

  Svetlana withdrew her hand from Constance’s and smoothed the black velvet of her skirt. She’d ordered an entire trousseau befitting her newly married station from Glasgow but her mourning clothes from a local seamstress. The woman’s eyes had nearly popped out of her head to have a princess patron her shop. Svetlana decided to place more orders through her in the future to boost the local economy.

  “Acceptance into the family.”

  “Oh. The Dukes and Duchesses of Kilbid.”

  “Kilbride.”

  Mama waved her hand as if batting away an unpleasant thought. Wrapping her colorful shawl around her, she meandered into the room and glanced around at the bookshelves and paintings dotting the paneled walls, careful not to touch anything.

  “It’s a nice enough title. Dating back to the sixteenth century, did you say? The Dalsky titles were granted by Ivan the Great. Back then such honors were only given to those who performed memorable deeds in the name of Russia. Other countries seem to give them away like candy to greedy children.”

  Constance smiled placidly. “How fortunate your family was to acquire one. Or rather, your husband’s family.”

  Mama’s eye glinted at being outmatched. Outmatched perhaps, but not outdone. Crossing herself, she drooped onto the velvet settee angled in front of the fire.

  “My poor husband. Whatever has become of him? A loyal man who stayed behind to fight to the death so that we might escape. My poor Dmitri. I fear I shall never see him again thi
s side of Heaven.” She crossed herself again.

  Svetlana came to her feet and clenched her hands together to keep from shaking her mother. “Mama, please stop doing that. We don’t know that he’s dead. Nor Nikolai. They are the best soldiers in the army.”

  “The tsar’s army, which is no more thanks to those murdering zealots.” Mama touched a trembling hand to her head. “To think about it is more than I can bear.”

  In a soft rustle of satin and swishing scarf, Constance glided to the bell pull hanging between two potted ferns. “You’re shivering. Allow me to ring for you a pot of tea. It does wonders for the constitution.”

  “How kind of you. You do not know the comforts of having servants about once more. All manner of wild ways we’ve been forced to adopt since fleeing our beloved homeland.”

  A few minutes later, a footman dressed in a liveried kilt carried in a gleaming tray with a porcelain teapot, cups, saucers, and a small plate of what the British referred to as biscuits. He poured the fragrant brew with expert precision, inquiring as to the preferred amount of sugar and milk, before passing a prepared cup to Mama with his gloved hand.

  Mama took a sip and sighed. “How delicate you make your teas here. I suppose that’s to be expected from using those odd pots instead of a proper samovar.”

  Constance shook her head as the footman offered her a cup. “Yes, but then it’s a practice from one of the many nations we’ve ruled over the centuries instead of isolating our traditions behind our frozen walls. If you’ll excuse me, I have a few letters to write. The Charity for Wounded Soldiers is meeting here next month and I’ve yet to make a guest list. Svetlana, dear, let’s plan a time after the rain to inspect those overgrown flowerbeds in the back garden. I think your idea for a dacha garden sounds intriguing.” With a twirl of her floating scarf, she left.

  Svetlana dismissed the footman, watching the door close behind him with a weary sigh. She wasn’t in the mood for battle, but sensed it coming anyway.