The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  “Cook woman. No let me come in day.” She made a spitting noise over her hunched shoulder to ward off the devil. “My night secret.”

  There was a rivalry Svetlana had no desire to get caught in the middle of. Perhaps Mrs. Varjensky needed her own kitchen. The old gardener’s cottage would be the perfect place for her to set up housekeeping, and as far as Svetlana knew there was no stove to taint the food with evil spirits.

  “What are you making?”

  “Vareniki.”

  A dumpling with vegetables or in this case—Svetlana sniffed at the boiling pot—fruit. “My nanny growing up used to bring them from her village where her mother made them. She would go to visit twice a year, and Marina and I were so eager for her to return with the sweets.”

  “Twice year? That lucky. Most visit once every ten year. Or never.”

  Svetlana’s memory had always seemed so quaint of tearing into brown paper–covered treats and devouring them without thought beyond the sweetness in her mouth. Peasant delicacies were never eaten among the rich soups and savory meats on nobles’ dining tables. Her childish eyes never noticed the puffiness of her nanny’s eyes or the sad smile holding back tears when Svetlana demanded to know why she had taken so long in returning—not to the poor woman’s village home but to the Blue Palace that was anything but her home. How selfish she’d been as a child.

  Mrs. Varjensky banged her wooden spoon on the pot and came over to the table. “You help.”

  “Me? I know nothing about baking.”

  “Two hands, da? You learn. Listen babushka. She show.” With that, she proceeded to demonstrate how to knead the dough, dust it with flour to prevent it from sticking, and roll it flat. Using a thin, round piece of metal, they cut the dough into circles and filled them with the sugared berries stewing in the pot. Cook wasn’t going to be pleased to find half of her sugar ration depleted come morning.

  Once the first batch of vareniki was placed in the oven, Mrs. Varjensky spit over the closed door to ward off the devil from the suspicious contraption and loudly complained about its inferiority to the brick ovens her people back home had used for generations. She made a quick pot of tea, squinting disapprovingly at it though thankfully avoiding spit this time, and poured a cup for each of them.

  “Tell troubles.”

  Standing so Mrs. Varjensky could have the lone stool, Svetlana took a sip of her tea. A bit strong, but a spoonful of the sweetened berries softened the taste. “I have no troubles.”

  “Mama push away, other family dead, old suitor arrive, Reds still hunt, and husband gone. You troubled, rebyonok.”

  Svetlana choked at the bluntness and put her cup down. Plain white with a chip on the rim, this teacup was not from the set served upstairs. “When you put it like that, I suppose I do have troubles. Not one of them easily solved.”

  “Suitor banished. One solved.” The wrinkles in the old woman’s face burgeoned as she grinned.

  When Svetlana had arrived home after the meeting at the schoolhouse, Sergey was already gone. She’d managed to avoid an explanation to Constance, Marina, and Mama so far, but they would want to know of his sudden departure soon enough.

  Mama. That was a whole other tempest waiting to whip itself into a storm. Svetlana tired of weathering them. The damage proved too painful and the broken pieces irretrievable.

  “My mother, well, we both know that’s an impossibility. She is who she is, and our relationship will never be more than a passing acceptance that we share the same blood and not much more.”

  “Fear make walls. Only strongest flower bloom over tallest wall. No stop climbing. Look at Reds. Build wall of fear and hate. Hate never win.”

  “Rumors circulated in Paris of the Bolsheviks coming after those fleeing to drag them back to Russia. I saw where they met in the back rooms. What if they find us here?”

  “We kill them. My father butcher. I know use knife.”

  Well, that was terrifying and not the answer Svetlana had expected from the sweet old lady she’d come to see as a grandmother.

  Mrs. Varjensky slurped her tea. “Now. Husband. That bigger problem.” A bigger problem than wielding a butcher’s knife? “Why you no with him?”

  Svetlana stared down into her brew. Maybe if she stared hard enough an easy answer would bubble to the surface. “I . . . He has official medical business to see to.”

  “No care. Why you no go with him? Husband wife together. Always.”

  “It’s not always possible to be together. Sometimes circumstances force you apart. Circumstances you didn’t expect, and once they’ve come you have no idea how to recover what was lost.”

  “Nothing lost to those wishing in finding it.”

  “It’s not that I do not wish to find it. Rather, I do not know if I can.” Perhaps it was the warmth of the fire, or the smell of baking bread. Perhaps it was the comfort of the Russian tea, or the old woman’s kind voice, but Svetlana could no longer suppress the well of hurt in her heart. A tear slipped down her cheek. “He lied to me, babushka.”

  “How?”

  “Something happened to him that he decided I was better off not knowing. I only discovered the truth by accident. He claims he was going to tell me before and that he only sought to protect me. He wanted to try to right the wrong first. The trust between us has been broken by his betrayal.”

  Mrs. Varjensky let out a long cackle until tears wedged into the creases on her face. An unexpected response for the second time that evening. Were the midnight kitchen vapors upsetting her mental faculties? She swiped at the tears with the edge of her shawl. Wynn’s matryoshka doll brooch was pinned above her heart. “Pride is stubbornness of youth.”

  “Trust is paramount in a relationship.”

  “So forgiveness.” Pushing her cup aside, she laid a wrinkled hand over Svetlana’s. It was worn with blue veins crisscrossing the tissue-thin skin, yet it pulsed with warmth. “Why he lie? Protect you. This come from love. Men none smart in proving love, but love all same.”

  “He should have told me his troubles from the beginning. I could have helped him. Supported him so that he wouldn’t be forced to carry the burden alone.” More tears came. “I’ve never been one for trusting. Trusting involves relying on others, and more times than not they prove unequal to the task. Then Wynn came along. He softens me in ways I never believed existed. Until him, I was buried under the misunderstanding that I am difficult to love, but he’s made it appear effortless. I can simply be with him.”

  “One time he let down, you cut him out.” Mrs. Varjensky made a ratcheting sound like ice breaking. “You have mistake. He have mistake. All us make mistake. Holding on to mistake is pride. Pride enemy to love.”

  Love. A four-letter notion allotted to poetry and music, yet its substance poured through the very threads of human existence. The poets dreamed of it, the scholars philosophized on its merits, the operas sang of it, and kingdoms rose and fell for it. She didn’t want it to be a concept touted onstage for the amusement of audiences; she wanted it to reside within her. Within Wynn. Perhaps these threads were divided among lovers so that when they met the cords might become whole. If she were to look inside herself, would she find the cord whole? Yes, she believed she would. But she might also find it dangerously close to unraveling.

  “Him you love?”

  The truth refused denial under the old woman’s probing gaze. Svetlana nodded, gaining strength with the small admission. “Yes.”

  “He love you?”

  “He’s told me so.” From the very beginning of their marriage he’d told her how much he cared for her. He’d given her honesty when she craved it yet was too scared to accept it.

  “All that matters. Love not something happens. Love builds little each day. Must care for, put effort. If no, love burn out. Let me tell wisdom: nothing colder than ashes after fire of love gone. We Russians too long cold.”

  Laughing, Svetlana dabbed the tears from her cheeks with her robe’s lacey cuff. “I thought we
were proud of that fact.”

  “Shh. No one need know truth. Secret we all cold. This why we need men keep us warm. Where yours?”

  “Glasgow.”

  “That where you need be.”

  “But what if—”

  “If, if, if. Questions for fools. You no fool. You kind heart admit or no.” Wriggling off the stool, Mrs. Varjensky pulled the tray of baked vareniki out of the oven and set it on the table. A delicious whiff steamed off the golden puffs.

  “You’re wrong, babushka. My heart is mine no longer. Wynn took it long ago. I just didn’t realize it until now.” He had taken her heart over so completely that Svetlana was almost afraid to look further into herself lest she discover how little of herself was still joined to it.

  “Go where heart is.”

  And with those words, she was free. Why had it taken so long? Svetlana hugged the old woman, kissing her soft cheek. “Spasibo.”

  Taking a square of linen, Mrs. Varjensky scooped up a handful of the puffs and bundled them into the makeshift sack. “Take. Take and give golubchik. He need eat more.”

  A bell sounded in the adjoining servant’s hall. Svetlana ducked through the door and looked at the mounted board where the bell for the front door was rocking back and forth on its spring. Who would call at this late hour?

  Svetlana handed the wrapped pastries back to Mrs. Varjensky. “Keep them warm for me. I’ll fetch them in the morning before I leave for the train.”

  Hurrying to the Stone Hall, she was met by Glasby, dressed in his customary uniform of black coat and starched shirt. Either he never slept or he went to bed fully dressed, otherwise he could not have beaten her to the door.

  Unaffected by the ungodly hour of the surprise visitor, he notched his chin up and opened the door. “May I help you?”

  Icy air swept past the opened door and swirled around Svetlana. She drew her robe closer about her and tried to peer past Glasby’s shoulder from where she waited in the shadows. It wouldn’t do to have the visitor spot the lady of the house in a state of dishabille.

  The man outside was thick with a fine coat buttoned about him and a hat shadowing his face. He spoke too low for Svetlana to hear him.

  “We have no lady here by the name of Angel, if a lady she be,” Glasby intoned. “There is a place one village over where you might have better luck.”

  The man tried to push his way inside. “Mac!”

  Svetlana rushed from her hiding place. “Leonid? What are you doing here?”

  Leonid Sheremetev, looking more wan than when she’d last seen him in Paris, brushed past Glasby and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Blessed holy God, you alive, Angel! I come tell you. You and Mac in danger.”

  Chapter 31

  A solitary circular window perched high on the wall like the all-knowing eye to the official proceedings instigated within its domain. Its singular existence emitted a pale shaft of mid-morning sunlight that mocked the inner stale air with nature’s brilliance. Wynn would endure the shatters of glass cutting his skin if he could hurtle himself through that window and escape the droning from the pasty old men seated in front of him.

  His fate would be decided today. A doctor or a duke. Like any man before the gallows, he wished a swift end to this torturous waiting.

  Glasgow’s Medical Hall was none so grand as the Royal Medical Academy, but among the offices, laboratories, and classrooms a chamber had been reserved for said torture. What it lacked in thumb screws and iron maidens it made up for with a long table occupied by seven serious-looking men sitting in severely uncomfortable chairs. The defendant’s chair, the one Wynn occupied, was most likely fitted with a loose spring if the pain at his left backside was any indication.

  Dr. Stan, a retired optician, took the seat of precedence at the center of the table. Adjusting his eyeglasses, he looked across the table at Wynn.

  “Dr. Lehr’s character reference, along with several other key witness testimonies from Hȏpital du Sacré-Coeur in Paris, have provided this review board a great deal to contemplate. As you know, Dr. Lehr is a trusted physician and his word goes a long way—”

  “Get on with it,” came the voice of a disgruntled orthopedist from farther down the table. He’d called Wynn a quack from day one and made no bones about the relish with which he would strip Wynn’s license for good. Orthopedic surgery had been around for centuries, and those old boys didn’t much care for the newfangled ideas associated with cardiology. A straightforward bone was more their game while blood made them squeamish.

  Dr. Stan glared at the interrupter. “As I was saying, such high recommendations do not weigh lightly on the decision of this board. They are a great marker in the testimony of character of Mr. MacCallan. No! Pardon me. His Grace, the Duke of Kilbride.”

  Wynn didn’t know which was worse. Being called by his name or his title. Above all he was a doctor.

  “It is unfortunate anytime a patient succumbs, and we all as oath-taking physicians understand the risk of such loss. The only reason this review is being conducted is because you proceeded with a technique not consented to by your superiors from which your patient later died due to post-op complications.”

  “An unethical operation,” huffed Orthopedic Man.

  “A new operational method with lifesaving possibilities,” Wynn corrected, rubbing his sweating palms against his thighs.

  Dr. Stan nodded patiently. “Yes, all of that is here in the typed report. I am only repeating the charge as a formality. Before the board’s final recommendation is voted on to reinstate His Grace or permanently revoke his medical license, are there any final words that wish to be said?”

  Wynn shook his head. He’d said all he could from the truth as he knew it. Whatever the outcome, he would rest with his conscience clear, knowing he’d done the right thing by his patient at the time. It was all any physician could do.

  “Very well. All those in favor of reinstating His Grace with full exoneration and medical rights as obtained by all licensed physicians in Great Britain—”

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  All eyes swiveled toward the door as scuffling and angry shouts sounded from the other side. The door burst open. In strode Svetlana dressed head to toe in icy blue followed by none other than Leonid Sheremetev.

  A junior physician scampered in behind them. “You cannot be in here, miss! The sign says no admittance.” He made the mistake of trying to take her arm.

  Leonid grabbed the back of Junior’s jacket and tossed him out the door like a sack of meal. “No ever touch Her Serenity the Princess, weasel man. I make ham sandwich from you.” He slammed the door shut on Junior’s cry of outrage.

  Having heard the title of nobility, the men behind the table rose confusingly to their feet. “Pardon, Your Royal Highness, but you cannot—”

  Svetlana’s slim eyebrows spiked beneath the froth of her hat veil. “I am not a royal highness. I am Her Serenity the Princess Svetlana Dmitrievna Dalsky MacCallan, Duchess of Kilbride.”

  Crikey, it was impressive when she rolled out her full title. Released from mourning clothes, she was terribly beautiful to behold. With her silver upswept hair, dress and hat the color of the sky reflecting off a glacier, she moved like a queen of the north. And she had come. Wynn was struck with wonder and fear at the same time.

  He stood, but a low railing separated them as she glided up the central aisle.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She ignored him and kept her attention on the board members. “I have received evidence showing that the surgery performed by Dr. Edwynn MacCallan is not to blame for the death of Lieutenant Harkin.”

  Unable to sit in the presence of a standing lady, Dr. Stan shuffled from one short leg to the other. “Your Highness, er, Your Grace. A wife cannot testify against or in favor of her husband.”

  She waved a gloved hand at the inconsequential matter of law. “I have the evidence to prove that the purpose of this board is complete idiocy.”

  The board mem
bers harrumphed with indignation as Dr. Stan tried to keep the peace. “Be that as it may—”

  “Do you not wish to hear the truth for yourself, or are you more eager to condemn a man, a well-respected physician, for doing what was required of him as a surgeon? Are you so petty in your antiquated mindset that you need to quiet any who might propose advancements in medical knowledge when the true culprit lies at the feet of no one save a German gun?”

  One had to admire her technique. Straight for the jugular. But it could cost them everything.

  “Svetlana,” Wynn hissed.

  She ignored his warning. “How many of you sitting there can boast of never having a patient die on your operating table? Or soon after due to complications unforeseen?”

  “Svetlana.”

  The orthopedist sniffed. “I have never had an expired patient.”

  She ignored him too. “Lieutenant Harkin was a tragic case, but he believed in Dr. MacCallan’s ability to heal him.”

  Sighing, Dr. Stan adjusted his eyeglasses as they slipped down his small nose. “As moving as your spousal support is, Your Grace, we simply cannot allow you to speak for your husband or to submit evidence that should have been turned over when this case first opened. It is against procedure.”

  “I received the letter only yesterday, so you must excuse the tardiness, though not the validity.” Reaching into her handbag, she withdrew two slim envelopes. One was addressed in delicate script and the other carried the broken seal of St. Matthew’s Hospital in London.

  “It is against the law and holds no weight in this decision. More to the point, women simply are not allowed in these proceedings. Your word cannot be counted.”

  “Women indeed. It is no wonder your board proves incompetent.” Sweeping aside, Svetlana motioned Leonid forward. “Then allow me to introduce Leonid Sheremetev, boyar of Muscovy. I don’t believe you have the same qualms for him speaking.”

  Of Moscow Leonid might be, but nobleman he was not. The board members would know nothing of that, but it got their attention. His friend sauntered up the aisle in a finely cut suit that slimmed his pudgy waistline and stood next to Svetlana. What were these two up to?