The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  He pushed a hand through his hair. It must be a mess, but if any day could excuse a lapse in grooming, it was this day. Ever since he’d left his wife here to complete the other orders of business, all he could think about was returning to her. Now that he was here, uncertainty plagued him. She’d asked him to call her Lana, but what if it had only been a desperate need for comfort in that horrible moment? Calmed from the ordeal, would she now regret her intimate actions of falling into his arms? How could he convince her that together was the only place they belonged? He didn’t wish to live as man and wife separated, but ultimately the decision was in her hands. He wouldn’t force his love on her if she didn’t desire it.

  Taking a deep breath to calm his jittery nerves, Wynn unlocked the door and stepped inside. She stood by the window bathed in the pearly gray of fading light. Unadorned with hat and veil, her hair was a silver sheen of curls floating over the iced blue of her dress. Dusk softened her lines, blurring her edges to the shadows behind her so he couldn’t see the expression on her face.

  He dropped his hat on a decorative chair next to the door and ran a hand through his hair again. “Svetlana, I—”

  She moved so quickly he almost didn’t see her. One minute she was at the window and the next her arms were wrapped about him, her face pressed into his neck.

  “I love you. I am sorry for everything that has come between us. Sorry for the way I have treated you, for giving you less than you deserve when you have offered me everything with nothing expected in return. When you have cared for me from the very beginning just as you said you would. Will you please forgive me for my horrible snobbishness?”

  Those were the last words he’d expected to hear, but thankfully his arms caught on quicker than his head. “Forgive you? If there is anyone to beg forgiveness, it’s me. I lied to you and broke your trust. I should have told you the truth from the beginning, hang my pride.” He held her close, glorying in the fierceness with which she clung to him as her words spilled through his mind like rushing water breaking through a barrier.

  “My darling, you have been my rock and my salvation, keeping me from slipping into madness. You have taught me resilience, that simply because things are not as you wish or are taken from you does not mean you can’t thrive. My power for good is not limited to the surgical tools in my hands because your strength has shown me how to use it elsewhere without need to fan my vanity. Will you forgive me?”

  In answer she tightened her embrace as if willing herself to knit into him. Bones and breath and skin of one being until two no longer existed. Warm tears slipped down the side of his neck as her lashes brushed his skin like butterfly wings. He threaded his fingers through her hair, dislodging pins that pinged to the floor. Silken curls slipped free and tumbled down her back, caressing his arms as he drew her ever closer to feel the beating of her heart echoing in his chest.

  Time no longer held sway until the last tear trickled down his neck and she took a shaking breath. With excruciating slowness, she leaned back in his arms, mere inches but enough to finally look at his face. Wetness clung to her lashes and the tip of her nose was red.

  “I feel we have been on the wrong foot since first we met. Always one, or two, or three steps out of place from one another. I should very much like to change that. May we start over again?”

  Finding it difficult to breathe when she looked at him like that, he brushed the remnants of a tear from her cheek. “Only if you allow me to court you as you deserve to be courted. With all the wooing of flattery and flowers and serenading that goes with it.”

  “No serenading. I’ve no wish to alert the hounds.” A smile played about her lips as he imagined her recalling his last attempt to sing when they walked the streets of Glasgow. He had no thought for singing but for her lips he had an irrepressible desire to kiss.

  “Flowers and chocolates it is.”

  “Those are insignificant to me when all I desire is you.”

  “Then you shall have all of me, especially my heart. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to give you.”

  “I gladly accept.”

  He kissed her with every unspoken word gathered in his heart, emotions he could express in no other way. Words of longing, of desire, of promise, of love that she responded to with an aching all her own. He had found a life for himself in this woman. A woman he could fight for and fall with and create meaning alongside. Her lips melted beneath his, branding his with need, her arms a lock about his neck from which he never wished to break free.

  Her mouth slowly curved into a smile and he pulled back as much as he dared to witness his handiwork molding those delightful lips. “If we’re to start over again, does that mean you wish to take back the ‘I love you’? Because I have to tell you, that’s not something I’m going to let you forget. I’ve heard it and you can’t unsay it.”

  “No, I do not wish to take it back.”

  “So that means . . .”

  Her smile widened as pink stained her cheeks. “That I love you.”

  “At last! The woman takes pity on this miserable wretch.”

  “There was no pity involved. Nor was it because I was lonely or lost. I fell in love with you because after coming to know you, I knew you would forever be a permanent fixture in my world.”

  A man’s heart holds a secret chamber where only one woman may enter. A place shaped for only her to breathe life into the darkened recesses and drum out a unique rhythm never before heard. Wynn pressed Svetlana’s hand over his heart, allowing her to feel the existence she thrummed into him.

  “I promise to be there for you every day. To walk alongside you and stand firm beside you. I promise to give you shelter in the storms and wings to rise above them. My privilege will be to wipe the tears from your eyes and give you reason to smile again. You are the most precious thing to me and with these words I give you all my life . . . I love you, Lana.”

  Tears misted her eyes. In the fading light they were like the first gloss of stars across twilight. “You are an exceptional man, Wynn MacCallan. A good man, and I am proud to call you my husband. In this instance I believe my pride is a good thing and not to our detriment. I am humbled by your heart’s offering and I shall treasure it until my dying breath.” She blinked back the unshed tears. “Which thankfully was not today.”

  He pulled her closer and suppressed the utter despair of having nearly lost her that day. His life, gone. “You’re safe, Lana. You, your mother, Marina, and babushka. You have nothing to fear any longer.”

  Cupping her hand around his neck, she nudged his forehead down to touch hers. “Will you do one thing for me?”

  “Anything.”

  “Take me home. To our home. I’m ready to begin living our life.”

  He could have shouted for joy. He could have done a backflip. And seriously thrown out his back. But there was one thing above all others that he wished to do.

  “On one condition.” He slipped one arm around her waist, while his other hand took hers, lacing their fingers together. “That you dance with me.”

  Bending her head, she kissed their entwined fingers. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Epilogue

  One year later

  Carpets of purple heather bloomed in the growing twilight as the Rolls Royce pulled up to the newly constructed entrance of Harkin Hospital, the county’s first and only self-sustaining medical center. Svetlana stepped out of the back of the motor car and smoothed the front of her white-and-green striped dress. She was still growing accustomed to the ankle-revealing hemlines, but women all over the world reveled in the looseness of post-war fashion. There was even talk of doing away with corsets altogether, but she wasn’t quite ready for that. A woman needed her shape, after all.

  She stared up at the freshly painted limestone building with a surge of pride. They had done it. She and Wynn had accomplished something greater than themselves, something they never could have done on their own. It had humbled them both to gratefulness.

 
Inside, the white tile floors gleamed brilliantly under the newly installed electric lights as the unique smell of disinfectant and bleached linen permeated the air. Her eyes had watered at first from the strong concoction, but it was one of the many things she’d grown accustomed to as the wife of a physician.

  “Good evening, Yer Grace,” the front desk receptionist said. Dressed in pristine white with a smart cap atop her head, the young woman was one of the newly graduated nurses from the nursing course offered at the old sugar mill that had been remodeled into a learning establishment. Many of the village girls applied, and several had gone on to be offered positions as far away as Glasgow and Edinburgh while more still opted to remain in Glentyre to be closer to their families.

  “Good evening, Nurse Drummond. How is little Lorna?”

  “Fine as dew on a lamb’s ear, Yer Grace. Loving the children’s wing, she is.”

  Another addition located at the rear of the hospital—an entire wing dedicated to children. The upper floor was for the sick, and the lower provided a nursery of sorts for children whose parents were taking courses or worked all day. It was headed by none other than Katie MacKinnon who had flourished in her training to become a shining example for superintendents. She had revolutionized the service into one of happiness and fun for the children and one of relief for parents who could now go to work unfettered knowing their children were well cared for.

  “I’m delighted to hear that.”

  Nurse Drummond reached below her desk and pulled out a small posy tied with a red ribbon. “’Tis not much, and sorry we are without the grandness ye’re used to, but a few of us mithers wanted to thank ye proper. The war took all we had, most of us our men, but we’ve a chance now to provide for our families. Ye championed us, Duchess, and we’re ever so grateful.”

  Svetlana bent her head to smell the tiny yellow-and-white flowers, taking the humbling moment to blink back the emotion washing her eyes. “Thank you for the honor of allowing me to do so.”

  The nurse beamed, then remembered her station and grabbed a clipboard hanging from the wall. “Dr. MacCallan is still in the operating theater. Auld man McGillum ran a saw across his leg out cutting the wood. I’ll be telling him ye arrived when he comes out. The doctor, not auld man McGillum.”

  “Thank you. He may find me next door at the Bear.”

  The Bear, Glentyre’s newest pub, was connected to the hospital by an outdoor covered corridor that passed through a garden Svetlana had single-handedly planted with white roses, purple hyacinths, and yellow kingcups that perfumed the soft spring gloaming. A short wicker fence cornered off a back section for the dacha garden that provided the Bear and the hospital with fresh vegetables, which were rotated out according to season. Once unclaimed and without roots, the ground and its harvest now flourished to their own free will. As did she.

  In the center of the garden stood Constance’s monument dedicated to all the Glentyre Tommies who had served in the war, their names, including Hugh’s, carved for all to remember.

  Pushing through the Bear’s heavy oak door, Svetlana stepped into a large room with thick stone and wood-paneled walls, flickering candles, and gas-lit sconces. A long bar ran the length of one wall, which sparkled with dozens of glass bottles ready for pouring. A fiddler and bodhrán player sat in a corner, plucking and drumming to the enjoyment of the patrons who sat at small round tables piled high with beer mugs and empty plates. Svetlana inhaled the rich scents of cabbage, venison, baked brown bread, and potatoes. Russia filled the air.

  “Angel, you are here!” The Bear’s proprietor, Leonid himself, barged out of the kitchen through a set of swinging doors. He’d grown thicker around the middle, but life exuded from his every pore. “Come! Come sit.”

  Svetlana weaved her way over to him. “I cannot. I’m waiting for Wynn.”

  “He is up to elbows in blood and knives. We wait. Sit. Sit!”

  With no other option than to do as she was told, Svetlana accepted the offered chair he pulled out for her at their usual table. “Something smells delicious.”

  “New recipe.” He turned and barked at one of the servers. None of his staff understood a single word of Russian, but all they had to do was serve their customers food and drink and their boss would be happy. As the server ran back into the kitchen, Leonid plopped into the chair next to Svetlana. “Babushka is making pelmeni with herring caught in the lake—loch? da?—she says addition came to her in dream. I think is vodka inspired, but you taste. Tell the truth.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “Da, that is why you official taste test. You tell the truth. You I trust. Mac, not so much. Everything babushka makes he likes.”

  “Which is precisely why his trousers have grown too tight since you opened this place and took on Mrs. Varjensky to oversee the cooking.”

  “Da, my dream come true. Own place, own rules. No dead bodies.”

  “It’s the only establishment in Scotland to serve Russian cuisine. You should be very proud.”

  Proud didn’t begin to describe Leonid’s attitude. His father had been arrested and the White Bear closed, but he’d had no desire to return to Paris and so had embarked on a lifetime dream of starting his own establishment right there in Glentyre. Everyone in the village knew him, though how anyone could not know of the larger-than-life Russian strutting about was beyond comprehension. He’d taken samples of his vodka and cabbage rolls into every shop until he’d made loyal customers out of each of them. Once they’d overcome their initial terror of him, that is.

  “Where is goddaughter? Has been two days since seeing my kroshka. She will not remember me.”

  The little crumb had arrived three months and one week ago to the joyous delight of her family. Particularly Wynn, who was wrapped around Anastasia’s tiny little finger. No matter how tired he was from a day at the hospital, he always made time for his wee girl.

  “She is at home sleeping. Or she’s supposed to be. Her grandmothers and aunt make her smile too much instead of keeping to a nap schedule.”

  “Stasia loves me best. I come tomorrow for visit so she no longer forgets me. I will bring name day gift.”

  “Her name day celebration is months away.”

  “I will bring gift then too. You want to know what I bring tomorrow?” His eyes widened like a child’s at Christmas waiting for Dedt Moroz. “Proper samovar. Too long you are without. I have her name carved on it so all will know it belongs to Stasia from beloved godfather. She will drink proper tea now.”

  “I have no doubt she will treasure it always.” The Lady Anastasia Edwynnovna MacCallan couldn’t find the end of her nose, much less a teacup, but Svetlana wasn’t about to spoil Leonid’s joy.

  The server came bustling back to the table with a loaded platter of sautéed dumplings and presented it to Svetlana. Peeling off her white netted gloves as per dining etiquette, she forked one of the delicacies and brought it to her mouth. Chewing, she tasted the fire-cooked fish flaked apart with a savory hint of rosemary. She set down her fork and dabbed at her mouth with a clean napkin.

  “A dash of salt would bring out the smokiness.”

  Leonid slapped the table, startling the nearby customers. “That is what I say. ‘Overwhelming the herbs,’ babushka says. I let her in kitchen once and now she thinks in charge.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t allow her in the kitchen anymore.”

  “Nyet. She is the best cook in Scotland. They eat sheep guts before we come.”

  The infamous haggis. Svetlana shuddered. Who would have thought Mrs. Varjensky, a self-imposed head cook who sold herbal medicines on the side, or often to inebriated patrons, would become the cuisine savior of Scotland?

  The fiddler and bodhrán player finished their set and a vibrating balalaika came to take their place to the anticipatory applause of the drinking patrons. Leonid had traveled as far as London to find a Russian musician so the sleepy villagers of Glentyre could appreciate true culture. On Friday and Saturday nights the mus
ician’s wife joined him as a singer and dancer. What would begin as a tribute to Mother Russia would eventually spiral into a wash of vodka and whisky for a rioting celebration of Celtic and Slavic proportions.

  The side door opened and in strode Wynn looking more confident and content than she’d ever seen him. With Harkin’s death ruled a tragedy of undetected slug remnants and not due to complications from surgery, Wynn’s medical license had been reinstated with all honors and reputation intact. Hospitals in London, Edinburgh, and Inverness had warmed to his innovative surgery techniques, the same that had caused censure among his peers months before, and clamored for his services.

  He’d turned them all down in favor of practicing at Harkin Hospital, where people came from all over the country seeking his skills. He’d also discovered a true gift for teaching. Many of the ordinary physician’s tasks were given to other doctors on the roster while the major cases were placed under Wynn’s skilled scalpel. Resigning himself only to the serious operations allowed him time for his other duties as duke. An imperfect balance when he’d rather be in surgery, but a balance all the same.

  Greeting villagers as he passed, Wynn kept his eyes ever on Svetlana, making her heart pound with each step bringing him closer. He leaned over and kissed her generously on the lips, drawing a series of whistles from the nearby tables. The people had grown accustomed to the unusual acts of their duke and duchess, from public affection—which Svetlana tried and failed to chide Wynn from—and surgical duties, to eating among the commoners with their Russian friend almost as frequently as they dined in their castle.

  “Had to do a resection of the pericardium due to end-diastolic pressure in the left ventricle. It’s a new technique coming out of Frankfurt for heart failures. Mmm, what’s this?” He grabbed a dumpling from Svetlana’s plate and popped it in his mouth. The more surgeries, the more improved his appetite. “Fish? Tastes perfect.”

  “That is because you are babushka’s golubchik.” Leonid raised an eyebrow to Svetlana as if to say, See what I mean?