The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  He flinched, pain washing across his face. If only she could draw it out of him like he did so many times for those hurting. Slipping off her glove and the vulnerability it sheathed, she reached across the distance between them and took his hand. The coldness in her fingers was lost to the warmth of his. How simple a thing touch was, often shared by those wishing to establish a connection. She’d never understood the need for such unseemly indulgences and thought them best left to those of weaker character. She prided herself on solitary fortitude where everything was self-contained. She had been in control, but she had been alone. Holding Wynn’s hand, she was no longer alone. She was exposed and unprotected, but he engendered trust and faith. She would gift him the same.

  Curling her fingers around his, she drew his hand to rest on her lap. “Is it Harkin?”

  He jerked as if the name were a needle to him and tried to pull his hand back. She held it tighter.

  “Please tell me.”

  His jaw worked back and forth as he pondered his response before discarding it to consider another. “It’s never easy to lose a patient.”

  A carefully selected reply that answered without answering her. Very unlike Wynn. He customarily charged into statements with the confidence of a prima ballerino on center stage.

  “I imagine the sadness stays with you forever. I know you did everything you could to help him, but the control of some things remains beyond our grasp no matter how much we wish it otherwise.”

  “Your faith in me is touching, though a bit off base in this case.”

  “Tragedy often shakes our confidence. Once you start your work at Glasgow Hosp—”

  “Glasgow Hospital has decided not to expand their cardiology department. They don’t want their sterling reputation besmirched by questionable practices.” Taking his hand from hers, he crossed his arms over his chest. With the added layers of winter clothing, his breadth was twice as large and doubly formidable. To all but Svetlana. She saw the tucking in of himself to a defensive position after having his pride pricked.

  “Oh, Wynn. I’m so sorry. How terrible for you and how shortsighted of them to deny people the advancing treatments they need.”

  “You sound like you’ve been reading medical journals.”

  “You leave them all over the house.”

  “Careful or you’ll be touted a radical.”

  “If my husband can stand for surgical improvements, then so can I. A person would have to sit on their brain not to see that these studies and procedures are needed. In fact, I read the other day about a Harvey Cushing who worked as a neurosurgeon during the war and helped to reduce the mortality rate of brain injuries from 50 percent to 29 percent. Something the article called ‘brain wound care.’” Journal diagrams of the dissected brain flashed through her mind. So many parts. So many incidents waiting to go wrong. “Not that I wish you to indulge in brain work. The complications sound increasingly more than cardiology.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be performing any type of surgery in the near future.”

  His pride may have taken a blow, but she wasn’t about to let him stay down for long. There would be other opportunities. He was like a caged bear, useless to his true purpose, when his skills weren’t being utilized.

  “Pay no heed to Glasgow. There are plenty of other hospitals in need of your skills. We only need to apply to them.”

  Wynn took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “In the meantime, Thornhill will become my priority. After Father died, Hugh had a list of improvements to be made, but then the war . . . It’s past time attention was paid the estate. As duke it’s my responsibility. Why are you frowning? I thought you’d be pleased after claiming I was deserting her.”

  “I never said that. I merely do not wish to see you abandon one responsibility for the other.”

  “I haven’t abandoned anything.”

  “You are both a duke and a surgeon. I want to help you find equal footing as both.”

  He rotated on the seat to look fully at her, pinning her like one of his patients strapped to the operating table under the bright light of inspection.

  “Why is it so important to you that I strike this balance?”

  “Because there is much good to be done without the seal of approval from a medical board. There are so many people right here in need of help, some of the same people that stuffy medical board refuses to lift a finger for because they are deemed untreatable or lacking in funds.” She bristled at the memory of those families waiting in Glasgow Hospital and the Douglas family scraping to get by. “We have the responsibility to ease the suffering of those around us. Perhaps not in a fine city hospital, or with the blessing of your colleagues, or even for accolades, but that does not mean the endeavor is any less worthwhile.”

  “That’s one of the things I fancy most about you. Cut to the heart of the matter.” He half smiled, then looked down at his hands. “Do you think I’ve allowed my ego to overshadow what good I’m supposed to be doing as a physician?”

  “I think if you are not careful, pride may overcome what is right by your patients.”

  “If it hasn’t already. Being a physician was all that mattered to me, and now . . .” He spread his hands in an aimless gesture. “I never wanted this mantle of duke, you know.”

  “But it is yours to bear now. All you must decide is if you will smother yourself in it or use its generous folds to help others. A privilege, I believe, that also exists in the hands of a physician.”

  “You seem to have given this a great deal of thought. More than me, I’m ashamed to admit.”

  She studied the pattern of lines and checks on the blanket. They started smooth and unbroken until bisecting with opposing lines to weave a new pattern. Much as the threads of her life. They’d woven a silken path until revolution knotted her to a different line twisted with war. Another pattern. And then there was Wynn, striking bold and straight to tie up the loosened threads into an unexpected weft. She traced the thick blue line that drew the eye beyond all other drab colors.

  “You have given me so much with no payment asked—”

  “You’re my wife. No payment is required.”

  “I wasn’t always your wife. Now that I am, my gratitude can better be expressed in ways of supporting you.”

  “And I wish you would stop thinking of our marriage as a series of transactions and payments.”

  “A difficult request considering it’s all I know of marital matters. That, and I am to smile and oblige you in all situations.”

  His hand stole over hers, his fingers twining between hers. “Let me guess, your mother told you that as part of the perfect princess training.”

  “All mothers tell their daughters this. It makes for a smoother running household.”

  “Since when has anything between us run smoothly? You’ve never withheld your opinion from me before. I don’t want you starting now.”

  He was rotating her wedding band, and her thoughts were spinning right along with it. They blurred faster and faster until her carefully attached reservations cast off and the guarded questions to which she only ever surrendered in the loneliness of silence rushed out.

  “Then what do you want from this marriage?”

  If her bluntness surprised him, he didn’t show it. Nor did he take long to consider it.

  “A chance to move forward. With you.” His eyes darkened, like the glowing heart of an emerald under moonlight. Mesmerizing and tempered on the cusp of passion. “What do you want, Lana?”

  She took a shaky breath that mimicked the tripping of her heart. Surprisingly, she didn’t need long to consider her own answer as the words came from her heart without complication.

  “I think I would like that too. My whole life has been rooted by obligation and expectation, yet I tire of the stillness. I wish to see what exists beyond the borders. With you.”

  The back of his fingertips traced her face, blazing a path from her cheek, along her jaw, to her chin and curving around the other
side. With each pass he closed the distance between them, leaving mere inches between his lips and her need to claim them.

  “After meeting you, it’s a good thing I specialize in heart troubles. I feel I’m about to lose mine.”

  In that instant the strength of his emotions overwhelmed her, plunging her to heady yearning. She gathered her courage to receive them as the tide swept her away to deeper currents from which he beckoned. He was not for the faint of heart. She’d never fainted a day in her life, but she felt light-headed.

  She tilted her head as his warm breath fanned her face. His green eyes dissolved to desire, taking her right along with him. Finally, she would know what it was like to kiss her husband.

  The auto jerked to a stop and the door opened to a blast of frigid air. Svetlana jumped, knocking Wynn in the face with the brim of her hat. Embarrassment scorched through her, but she quickly cooled it by flicking the blanket from her lap. No one, aristocrat or servant, was about to make her feel guilty about the almost kiss. Proper decorum was too cumbersome for the back of an auto. Especially when one’s husband looked as Wynn had.

  “Welcome home, Your Graces.” A footman stood holding the door open with his eyes staring politely ahead.

  Grunting, Wynn unpeeled his arm from around her and whacked away the stiffened peacock feather threatening to take his eye out.

  “Impeccable timing, McNab.” He glared at their chauffeur. “Drive slower next time.”

  McNab bobbed his head from the front seat. “As Your Grace wishes.”

  Wynn climbed out and offered his hand to help Svetlana down, then hooked her hand into the crook of his elbow. They crossed the gravel drive to the gloriously imposing presence of Thornhill. With the tumultuous gray skies behind her, the castle resembled a medieval lady rising on her solitary throne of steel.

  “Did you mention something about war widows and wives?”

  So he had been listening. Or partially listening. Svetlana lifted her heavy black skirt and stepped over the mud puddling at the front entrance.

  “Perhaps a charity ball. We’ll send invitations to the neighboring gentry and all proceeds will go to the war benefit.”

  “It’s not feasible to write all the affected families a cheque.”

  “No, but perhaps it can ease their immediate suffering while helping to establish a more permanent venture. Such as a training center. Of course, that only alleviates half of the problem.” It would take time and thought to devise a more concrete plan of action, particularly time when her thoughts weren’t consumed by wanting five more minutes in the back compartment of the Renault.

  They shrugged out of their overcoats, hats, and gloves and handed them over to the waiting servants who would whisk them away to be brushed free of possible dirt and stored among cedar closets lined with lavender sachets. It felt good to be wearing tailor-made, clean clothing again. Any scuffs were buffed out. Holes were immediately mended. Inches taken in or out. How had she survived last winter with barely a shawl on her back? A patched shawl that too closely resembled Mrs. Douglas’s. First thing in the morning Svetlana would put together a donation box of warm items to be distributed in the village.

  Their butler, Glasby, glided across the floor of the Stone Hall, so named for the smooth river stones lining the three-story space that always set guests’ jaws dropping. He held out a post platter stacked with several envelopes.

  “Her Grace the Dowager Duchess is having tea in the library along with Princess Marina and Mrs. Varjensky.”

  “My mother has not joined them?” Svetlana asked.

  “No, Your Grace. She claims a headache and is resting in her chambers.”

  “Another protest at the lack of a proper samovar, no doubt. Thank you, that will be all.”

  Inclining his head, Glasby glided away as Wynn filed through the post. Svetlana scanned the addresses on the envelopes, hoping against all odds that she might see a familiar script written from Father or Nicky telling her they were alive. Or Sergey. She’d all but convinced herself that she’d imagined seeing him on Armistice Day outside the Paris townhouse. But no letters ever came for her.

  She brushed off her pang of sadness. “Shall we go into the library?”

  “I’ll join you later. I have a few things to attend first.” Wynn strode toward his study with a thick cream envelope stamped with a London address clenched in his hand.

  “Is anything the matter?”

  Entering his study, he closed the door without a backward glance. The sound of the shutting door reverberated among the river stones, echoing back the loneliness of the hall in which she was left.

  * * *

  The paper dropped to Wynn’s desk as if the report were written in damning lead ink. All feeling drained from his legs, and he sagged into his chair like a boneless bag of abject emptiness. The slivers of hope he’d clung to on the precipice of despair had sharpened to knives with each word of the report, twisting deep and thoroughly gutting him.

  A glutton for agony, he read the damning words again.

  Coroner concludes death of Lieutenant Harkin caused by operative trauma under care of Dr. Edwynn MacCallan with crisis arising several months post operation. Ill-advised surgery was undertaken without physician gaining further consent from supervisor and patient.

  Despite agreed upon medical practices of the hospital, Dr. MacCallan proceeded to his own advantages and ensured his reputation for aggressive and malignant theories which prove detrimental to the sacred oath of caretaking.

  “Aggressive and malignant.” Daggers into his soul.

  They now thought him an arrogant butcher with no care of destroying those entrusted to his care, as if his Hippocratic oath meant nothing. As if he didn’t mourn every life that couldn’t be saved. Did they truly think his arrogance stripped him of human decency in the delicate balance of life and death?

  He dragged his hands through his hair as his mind railed against the accusations. Harkin had shown no signs of post-op complications, although many could lay dormant for months. Wynn yanked open the desk’s bottom drawer where he kept correspondences and pulled out the third envelope down. A letter from Harkin dating two weeks before his death stating that the physicians at St. Matthew’s Hospital in London had cleared him with a full bill of health. Surely if a complication had lain dormant, they would have discovered and diagnosed it.

  Despite the letter’s false claim, Wynn had made sure to gain Harkin’s permission before the operation. He had been scared, as most patients were, but never once had he voiced disagreement.

  A thick absence of feeling coated him from scalp to foot, blocking sound from his ears and sight from his eyes. All sight except the black words. Their tyranny could not be hidden from the cold light streaming in through the window nor the slamming closed of his eyelids. They taunted him in the darkness, searing into his brain. If only Hugh were here. Where are you, brother, when I need you most? We always looked out for each other and now the wolves are set to devour me.

  “Wynn?”

  Wynn’s eyes shot open. Svetlana stood in the doorway.

  “I am sorry to disturb. I did knock.” Head tilted to the side, eyes softened, corners of the mouth slightly pulled down, hesitation in the stance. She was worried. About him. “Is everything all right?”

  He wanted his ice princess with her haughty expression and raised eyebrows. The glacial slant of her nose where woes dared not fall lest they slip off to their deserved doom. The arctic chill in her eyes that frosted demeaning circumstances and stamped them beneath the ice where they belonged. That beguiling creature would at least challenge him to exert all his willpower to thaw her with a smirk here and a teasing comment there.

  Instead, his willpower was nearly crippled by her look of near pity. He would not be that to her. Whatever it took, she would not witness him crippled by his own arrogance and failures.

  “The coroner sent his final report on Harkin. A formality.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. He grabbed
the letter and shoved it into the bottom drawer.

  Sadness and relief flitted across her face. Wynn’s stomach twisted. What did it cost the soul to lie? Mere fragments breaking off until its existence was nothing more than a hollow shell? Could he learn to live on the meagerness that remained? Could his future with Svetlana exist on it? Would he be able to survive the guilt?

  But so much had been taken from his wife; he could not bear to see her suffer further because of him. One day he would tell her the whole truth, but to do so now would only cause her unnecessary pain. He believed she would understand the reason for his concealment when the time came. She had not agreed to become his wife in exchange for a life of disgrace. He had wanted only to save her from that in promise of a good life. He would salvage whatever remained of his reputation and force his feet to tread the path demanded of him. He would give Svetlana the life of happiness she deserved.

  “Will you come and have tea with me?” she asked.

  “Nothing I’d like more.” Coercing a smile, Wynn stood and shut the drawer, but not quick enough to erase the letter’s final lines burning him with shame.

  Edwynn MacCallan is thereby stripped of his medical services and doctoral titles pending a formal investigation of actions.

  Chapter 22

  Every chandelier in Thornhill blazed with light to warm the stone walls and walnut floors like an ancient oil poured out as anointment for the charity bazaar. The elegant tapestries and glowing candles wrapped the affluent guests in rich comfort as they entered from the frigid night. Gift-laden tables set out for the silent auction were available to peruse while a small orchestra played lively tunes from Tchaikovsky, Stravinksy, and Rachmaninoff. The world may still eye Russia with distrust, but Svetlana wasn’t about to allow the same for its music. Such superiority needed to be heard by all.

  Svetlana slipped among her mingling guests and into the dining room where delicacies from shortbread and some kind of oat flattened cakes called bannocks—which Constance assured her were a must at any Scottish gathering—to Russian peasant savories of vatrushaka and pelmeni covered the long dining table in artful arrangements.