“We have the ancient Chinese to thank for laying the foundation of arrhythmia theories,” Wynn said, “but only recently have machines been created to detect the electrical phenomena of the heart. Disorders can be identified—”
An orderly popped up in front of them like a jack-in-the-box. He held out an envelope. “Dr. Neil. A letter for you.”
Dr. Neil waved him off. “Put it on my desk. I’m in conference with Dr. MacCallan.”
The boy’s nervous gaze flickered. “I was told to hand it to you with urgency, sir.”
“Very well.” Dr. Neil snatched the envelope from him and tore it open. “Excuse me a moment, Dr. MacCallan.” Scanning the letter, his eyes widened until they looked ready to fall out of his head. He refolded the letter and tapped it against his palm for several seconds. Finally he cleared his throat and looked at Wynn, his face pinched with displeasure. “I do not know how to say this but right out. You are familiar with a Lieutenant Harkin?”
Uneasiness curled in Wynn’s belly. Why would he ask that? They’d been speaking of Harkin only an hour before. “My patient in Paris.”
“The one whose heart you rotated for object extraction. It seems he has died due to surgical complications.”
The unease balled into a fist of shock and socked Wynn square in the middle of his chest. Harkin. The scared soldier who was nothing more than a lad. Who had trusted Wynn to keep him safe. Dead. It was always a possibility. Anytime a person went under the knife was a gamble with death, but the rationale was lost in a flood of guilt. Each death left a jagged crack through his Hippocratic oath.
Wynn pushed a shaking hand through his hair. “I was going to visit him in London next month. He’d written to me a fortnight ago saying how well he was doing.” The shock of the news spread numbly through his veins until his mind could only focus on a single thought. “It’s more important than ever to advance the cause of cardiology so incidents like this can be avoided. If we have the tools in place, patients like Harkin—”
“Yes, something to consider in future. I’m afraid we must part ways here. We’ll be in touch should we decide to continue the prospect of you joining our hospital.”
“I don’t understand. Minutes ago you offered me a trial position.”
“Your Grace—”
“Dr. MacCallan.”
Dr. Neil sighed through his nose. A common physician’s reaction when a patient refused to comprehend the diagnosis. “In light of this unfortunate development, the hospital’s president feels it would not be in good taste or standing to hire a doctor with a besmirched reputation. We were quite willing to listen to your newfound theories, but seeing as they cannot be considered safe—”
“No surgery is safe.”
“Be that as it may, we have our patients to consider. No one will wish to be operated on by a physician who is already under the displeased eye of the medical profession at large.”
Heated anger avalanched through the numbness, scorching all ability for diplomacy. “A man has died. A man who entrusted himself into my care after being knocked down by a machine gun in service to his country, and all the president cares about is how it will make him look?”
“An investigation is being launched. The authorities will be in contact for your statement.” Dr. Neil placed a hand on Wynn’s shoulder. Another well-meaning physician’s gesture that did little to nothing. “I’m sorry.”
Wynn was left standing alone in the corridor. An hour before he’d been welcomed with enthusiasm as a golden boy, and now he’d been deserted like a pariah. The desertion he could deal with. Even the hot-cold treatment of so-called medical professionals he was accustomed to, but the death of a patient was something he would never shake off. A patient he had promised to do everything he could for. In trying to prove his own gut instinct of what was needed, had Wynn sentenced Harkin to death on that operating table? Had he stopped to consider all the possibilities before rotating that heart? If he’d not been so rash, would Harkin still be alive?
No. He’d done what he thought was right at the time. No surgeon had time to second-guess himself in the moment. Or was that his arrogance defending itself again?
Wynn tore down the stairs as the demons of doubt clawed at his heels. He needed to get out of there. He needed to retrace every step and action he’d taken that day when operating on Harkin. Had he done everything he could to prevent death?
He rounded the front reception desk. “Where is Her Grace?”
The nurse looked up from her files of paperwork. “I believe she was taking a tour of Wing A. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll have one of the junior nurses show you—”
“No need. I’ll find it.”
He’d been in enough hospitals to understand the general layout at a glance. It took him approximately ten seconds to locate Wing A, and fifty seconds with several wrong doors before he located his wife. She sat in a waiting room filled with families. Most noticeably the men were former soldiers, if their missing limbs and facial injuries were any indication.
Weaving his way to her side, Wynn gently grasped Svetlana’s elbow. “Apologies for interrupting, but we need to be on our way.”
Svetlana smiled up at him like the sun coming out of hiding, but he couldn’t feel the warmth due to the numbness lingering in his bones like an ill-fated chill waiting to freeze him out.
“Wynn, I’m so glad you’re here. This is Mrs. McDuff, her husband, Mr. McDuff, and their children. Mr. McDuff lost his leg in . . . Marne?”
Clenching his worn hat in his hand, Mr. McDuff pushed to his feet using a crutch for support. “Yes, ma’am. I mean, Duchess.”
“They have to travel over four hours every month to come here to the hospital only to sit for hours in the waiting room. Most of the other patients find themselves in similar distressing circumstances because adequate care isn’t available where they live in rural areas.”
Wynn tried to focus on what Svetlana was saying, but the words garbled together in his ears as it hit the thickening fog of numbness. She was looking at him. They all were. Waiting for him, the great surgeon, the lofty duke to say something. “It’s a problem everyone is facing. Hospitals and medical staff are doing what they can.”
Mr. McDuff bobbed his head while his wife dipped into a curtsy with tears in her eyes as if Wynn had spouted ecclesiastical revelations. It twisted the guilt of wretchedness like a knife. Svetlana thanked the couple for sharing their story with her and said goodbye to the others in the room. All Wynn could manage was a wooden nod.
Outside, Wynn hailed a taxi and they climbed inside. “Grand Central Hotel.”
Svetlana paused in untangling her fern fronds and frowned. “I thought we were having tea at the Willow.”
“No. We’re leaving for home.”
“Is everything all right?”
“A former patient of mine, a Lieutenant Harkin, died.”
“Oh, Wynn. I’m so sorry. How terrible for his family.” Her gloved hand rested lightly on his. Any other day he would have thrilled at her touch, but he felt nothing beyond the guilt. “I’m sure we can return another time for you to meet with the hospital board.”
The whole truth spilled to his mouth, but he clamped it behind his teeth. How could he tell her about the rejection? The one accomplishment he prided himself on had now been tarnished, and those esteemed opinions he sought to change for the betterment of patient treatment now turned against him. It was enough to cripple the pride of any man.
Besides, she’d witnessed enough suffering and disappointment; he didn’t want to add one more thing to burden her shoulders. Not after he’d vowed to defend her against further woes. He would take the troubles on himself if only to spare her. One day he would tell her, as he’d promised honesty on their wedding day, but not until the storm had passed.
He gently slipped his hand out from hers in a move made to look like he was adjusting his hat. Her hand was too trusting, and the weight of such responsibility was more than he could bear. Glasgow’s g
ray cityscape passed in a blur outside the taxi window, but he saw only his failure in the eyes of a dead man. “Another time. Perhaps.”
Chapter 21
Svetlana eyed the bundles of laundry stacked in the corner of the cramped hovel and tried not to breathe through her nose. A cauldron bubbled over a fire in the center of the room, its pungent smoke wafting through a hole in the thatched roof.
“’Tis the peat that be givin’ off the smoke. Best not to keep yer eyes open too long without a blink, aye.” Mrs. Douglas, mistress of the hovel, busied herself at a rickety table set near the middle of the room. A plain woman with dark hair streaked in silver and creases lining her face, she wore the expression of a hard life, but she couldn’t have aged past forty.
“I have never heard of this peat. Is it common to Scotland?”
“We’ve it all over here in the bogs. All the dead ’uns scamperin’ or growin’ round get compressed right down together and sealed in tight with water, so they do. Good for heatin’. Burns long too.” Mrs. Douglas poured water into a teacup and stirred it with a wooden spoon. “Me man cuts peat for the distillery near Bothwell. Or did afore the war took his hand. They give him work when they can, but who be needin’ a one-handed man for cuttin’ and stackin’?”
“Too many of the returning soldiers find themselves in similar circumstances.”
“Aye. Go off to fight for king and country, they do—only their country canna use them no further when they get home. What thanks is that I ask ye after what they sacrificed?” Placing the cup and saucer on a wooden tray, Mrs. Douglas brought it to where Svetlana sat on a bench, the only seating in the room besides the bed crammed against the far wall. “Drink that right down, Yer Grace. Warm ye up, it will.”
The lady hadn’t poured a cup for herself. The few pieces of mismatched bowls and plates sitting on a shelf behind the table suggested the teacup was the only one of its kind in this humble abode. Though chipped on one side, great care had gone into painting little purple flowers on the sides.
“What beautiful artistry.”
Pink brightened Mrs. Douglas’s rough cheeks. “Me mam was fine with a brush. A real talent she passed on to my lassies.”
Svetlana took a sip of the tea. Mrs. Douglas hovered anxiously. Svetlana swallowed and forced a smile so as not to insult her gracious hostess. “What an unusual flavor.”
“’Tis heather. Same as painted on the cup. A great many uses here in Scotland.”
Svetlana took another polite sip. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t the sophisticated Russian taste she was accustomed to. Like so many other things, it was a difference she needed to learn and accept if she had any chance of being received in the community.
“I find myself amazed at the never-ending resourcefulness of the Scots. Russians tend to limit our creativity to music, dance, and architecture.”
“Been an age since anyone had reason to dance ’round here. Too busy survivin’. ’Twas lucky enough, I was, to take on extra services as a laundress.” Mrs. Douglas hooked her thumb at the piles of laundry. “And me man returned. Not all the wives can say as much.”
“Are the widows able to find work?”
“Some, aye, but not enough for the little mouths they need to feed. Many of them were forced to be givin’ up their jobs to the returnin’ men. I suppose ’tis the way, but some of the lasses don’t want to be returnin’ to the kitchen now they’ve a taste of the freedom.”
“It sounds as if they need opportunities to earn their own way. Especially if they are left as the sole provider for a family.”
“Aye, but take Katie MacKinnon livin’ three doors down. Her man came back, or what’s left of him, and now she’s tendin’ the bairns and him. Savin’ every coin she can to pay for his medical bills whilst hirin’ herself out as a scullery maid down at the pub.”
The back door banged open and in shrieked a pandemonium of four dark-haired children under the age of ten. Like hounds to the scent, they rounded the table and fell on the gift basket Svetlana had brought.
“Out, ye wee rascals! None of that for ye at the now.” Mrs. Douglas tried to shoo them away, but the children ignored her as they tore into wrapped sweets.
“What’s this?” The smallest girl with a long plait swinging down her back held up a wrapped parcel of cookies.
“Russian sweets. Tea cakes, pastila, khvorost, and sushki. Mrs. Varjensky, a lady who came with me from Russia, made them. No heather, I’m afraid.” Svetlana rose and joined the children at the table. She lifted out two small jars filled with pastes. “She’s also a skilled healer. I don’t recall what she mixed these with, but the green is for cuts and bruises, and the yellow is for headaches and fever.”
Tears shimmering in her tired eyes, Mrs. Douglas took one of the jars as if it were a golden scepter. “Thanks be to ye, Yer Grace. And thank Mrs. Var . . . Var . . .”
“Varjensky.”
“Aye, be thankin’ her too. We ain’t never had anyone think of us like this.”
“You are most welcome. Now, I must be going as I do not wish to take up any more of your valuable time.”
“Blessed me. To think I’ve had a real princess in me home.”
“I do hope you’ll allow me to come again.”
“Our door always be open to ye and yers.” The woman wobbled into a curtsy and flapped her hand at her children for them to follow suit. It wasn’t protocol, but Svetlana returned the gesture. Mrs. Douglas deserved it and every other recognition for her stalwart perseverance.
Svetlana stepped outside, grateful to breathe fresh air void of smoke once more. Wynn rounded the corner with a lanky man missing his left hand. He could only be Mr. Douglas.
“I’ll send a few men over on Tuesday to get that barn wall repaired,” Wynn said. Dressed in high boots and tweed trousers, he looked like he’d been wading in muck. “The hole is big enough for the cow to slip through.”
Not a large man by any measure, Mr. Douglas swelled with pride, bringing him nearly to Wynn’s towering height. “Appreciate yer help, I do, Yer Grace, but I can manage without troublin’ ye.”
“It’s no trouble. You’re a good tenant, as was your father before you. We take care of our own.”
Such a good man. Always seeing to the needs of others and never making a promise he didn’t keep. The honesty of his heart was a thing of unfathomable beauty. He had the intellect, wealth, and station to use those beneath him to elevate himself as so many of the so-called nobles did. Not Wynn. He shunned the pretentiousness of titles in favor of doing good and what was right. Even marrying a runaway princess when she had nothing to offer in return. Thank goodness for his stubbornness in pursuing her. She hated to think where she’d be without him.
One of the children, the older boy who looked to be around nine, streaked out of the hovel and planted himself in front of Wynn. Barefoot with dirt smearing his round face, he didn’t appear the least bit fazed to be standing in front of a duke.
“I heard ye fix broken men.”
Wynn squatted so he was eye to eye with the boy. “I do my best.”
“See lots of blood?”
Mrs. Douglas gasped as she hurried out to join them. “Charles Edward Stuart Douglas. There’s nay need for such talk.”
Wynn leaned closer to the boy. “Plenty, but it’s not good to talk about in front of the womenfolk.” He caught Svetlana’s eyes over the top of Charles’s head. Humor flickered in his eyes for a moment, then lost to a sweep of sadness. Though he’d never mentioned it after their departure from Glasgow nearly a week ago, Harkin’s ghost seemed to haunt him.
“Are ye goin’ to help my da?”
Mr. Douglas grabbed Charles’s shoulder and shuffled him away. “That’s enough, lad. No impertinence to His Grace.”
“I wasn’t pertinentin’.” Charles swooped under his father’s arm and stared at Wynn. “He lost his hand fightin’ those Hun. Can ye give him a new one?”
“I’m afraid that’s not my field of specialty—”
Wynn worked his jaw back and forth as if trying to decide how much medical information to pass on to a nine-year-old. Standing, he ruffled the boy’s hair. “Never say never.”
The Douglas family waved goodbye as Svetlana and Wynn rode off in the back of their chauffeured Renault motor car. Wynn absently tucked a wool blanket across her lap before turning to gaze out the window at the bleak landscape. Hills rolled by in winter colors of gray, brown, and frozen green as the reluctant sun did little to grace them with its warmth.
“These war wives and widows feel displaced now that the fighting has ceased. A circumstance I all too well understand.” Svetlana angled the fox fur trim of her coat out from underneath the blanket so it wasn’t crushed. “The armistice may have been signed months ago, but these families are still fighting the repercussions. War has dictated their circumstances, and they must find new ways to survive. I should like to help them.”
“Hmm.” Wynn continued to stare out the window. His long, capable fingers tapped against a dried patch of mud on his knee.
“Perhaps a teaching center where they might learn useful skills or trades outside the home, but then who would care for their children when they’re not at school?”
“Yes, good idea.”
“The other issue is leaving behind these jobs for days at a time because the only medical help to be found for the injured men is in the larger cities.”
“Hmm.”
Svetlana plucked at the tassels dangling from the edge of the blanket. “Mrs. Douglas gave me an interesting cup of tea. Heather, she said. I believe it’s making me sprout a horn. Like a unicorn. Is that common, being the symbol of Scotland and all?”
“Hmm, yes.”
“Wynn!”
He turned to her, eyebrows raised as if he’d been caught off guard. “Did you say something?”
“Yes, but you haven’t heard a word. Where are you?”
“Sitting next to you in the back of the auto.”
“Mentally you are somewhere else. Have been since Glasgow.”
The Ice Swan Page 24
