The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  Ignoring him, Wynn grabbed another dumpling. “Where’s Stasia? I wanted to show her the new gurney we got in the operating theater.”

  Svetlana swatted at his greasy fingers with her napkin. “Firstly, our daughter is three months old. She has not a clue of what a gurney or an operating theater is. Secondly, the last time you took her into that room, a removed organ was still on the table.”

  “It was a ruptured appendix. The patient no longer required it.”

  “Be that as it may, Stasia is much too young to stare at human organs, required or not.”

  “It’s never too early to start her medical knowledge. Speaking of which, I ordered a new set of medical journals on the latest in surgical techniques—”

  “They printed your article!”

  “Not yet, but in one of the issues they mentioned improvements for strengthening weakened bones and misshapen muscles. A common epidemic among our soldiers, but it might also be useful to Alec MacGregor. You remember him and his wife, Lord and Lady Strathem? They hosted that charity gala for the continued care of convalescent homes.”

  “I saw mostly her. Lord Strathem, I believe, prefers his wife to shine while he keeps quietly to the back. A charming woman, but she laughs too much.” She turned to Leonid. “American.”

  Leonid nodded in complete understanding.

  “An American who married the surliest Scotsman in the country,” Wynn said. “That should count in her favor.”

  “It does.”

  “You Russians and your need for the dismal.”

  After several more tasting rounds, Svetlana and Wynn bid Leonid good evening and walked back to the hospital. Wynn signed off his shift notes to Gerard who had come to work alongside his friend. He was proving himself most formidable with a scalpel, though with a caution that tempered Wynn’s zeal.

  Wynn shoved his arms into his jacket and plopped his hat on his head. “Should be a light load tomorrow. I’d like to examine a heart from a shell-shocked victim recently deceased. I have a theory about corollaries between inordinate amounts of stress and thrombosis.”

  Having not a clue what that meant, Svetlana slipped on her netted gloves. “As long as it does not interfere with talking to the estate agent. Mackie has an idea of turning the eastern plots of land into more viable revenue streams. And you wanted to do a walkabout to the tenants before planting begins.”

  “Which I have scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.” Pausing next to the front door, Wynn pulled out a handkerchief and swiped it across the brass plaque that read:

  This hospital is dedicated to the memory of Lt. John Harkin.

  Let all who pass through these doors enter in the name of good and healing.

  The burden of Harkin’s death had scarred Wynn with unflagging pain as he blamed himself for not seeing the shell fragment that had grown infected after Harkin was deemed on the mend from his surgery. Every day he attempted to bury his guilt within these sterile walls, each life saved a recompense stacked against the judgment in which he held himself. Harkin was an innocent struck down by the lingering evil of war, but Wynn had done his best to see that the man had not died in vain. His memory would live on for as long as this hospital stood.

  Twilight’s purples had deepened to indigo with a night sky of spangled stars like dozens of diamonds broken from a necklace as their auto carried them home. The air tingled with the fresh waters of the nearby Cairnmuir River and the musky heather blooms as the welcome sight of Thornhill loomed in the distance. Svetlana snuggled contentedly at Wynn’s side, his arm about her shoulder.

  “My third favorite sight in all the world.” Wynn’s low voice hummed against her ear, making her drowsy. Or tempted to kiss him.

  She traced a gloved finger over his muscular thigh. “What are the first two?”

  “You and Stasia.”

  “Delighted to hear that. I was half expecting an open heart to be among the ranks.”

  His lips brushed her ear. “That’s my fourth.”

  Turning her head on a giggle, she caught his lips. The world fell away into nothingness as she lost herself in him. His kiss, gentle and confident, yet possessive of every part of her, was something she could not live without as it stirred to life parts of her untouched beyond him. She was deeply, irrevocably, and hopelessly in love with her husband, and the surrender had never been sweeter.

  “Ahem, Your Graces.”

  Svetlana pulled slowly, reluctantly away like a shell from its pearl. Their chauffeur held open the auto’s door as light blazed from Thornhill’s entrance. Somehow they’d arrived home without the slightest notice. Svetlana merely looped her handbag over her wrist and climbed out. It wasn’t the first, nor likely the last, time he’d catch them in an embrace.

  Stepping inside the entrance hall, Svetlana removed her hat and gloves and handed them along with her handbag to her waiting maid.

  “I interviewed three more candidates for the ballet costume mistress position today. None suitable.” Turning the last unused room at the old sugar mill into a ballet studio had been the perfect addition. It did not compare to the Bolshoi Theater, but dancing before the tsar and tsarina could not match the excitement of watching her little ballerinas jeté and arabesque for the first time. Her love for dance had finally found fulfillment. Fitted with mirrors, a barre, and a roster of potential pupils, her class of twelve was nearly ready for its first recital, but no seamstress had been found to create proper costumes of woodland creatures and flowers.

  Wynn handed over his hat and jacket to the waiting footman. Despite proper dressing etiquette, he complained the sleeves were too restrictive and he would not be restricted in his own home. More likely, he’d grown accustomed to the looseness of a surgeon’s smock. “That’s because your standards are ridiculously high. Not everyone trained at the Imperial Ballet.”

  “They should have.”

  “Aren’t our mothers sewing the costumes?”

  Svetlana laughed. “They showed me yesterday what was intended to be a squirrel but resembled more of a lumpy sackcloth. There was not even a tail.”

  Wynn rolled his eyes, unconcerned with the catastrophe brewing. “I’m sure your class doesn’t care if the squirrel has a tail or not. They’re much too thrilled with learning ballet from a real-life princess.”

  Svetlana tapped a finger to her chin. “Perhaps I should put an advertisement in The Lady’s Journal. There are enough Russians fleeing to British shores. Surely one is bound to have worked for a proper ballet company.”

  “Have your assistant send the advertisement. That is why you hired her. Poor girl doesn’t know what to do with herself when you keep insisting on doing everything with your own hands.”

  “Why should I not perform duties that I am perfectly capable of executing? Duchess is not a title equated to lady of leisure.”

  “It should be. And I’ve a few ideas of leisurely activities starting now.” He scooped her into his arms against her squeal of protest and started for the stairs.

  Glasby swooped in out of nowhere and blocked them. With his formal black tails and starched white tie, he resembled a formidable penguin.

  “There is a visitor for you, Your Graces. I’ve shown him into the library.”

  “Visiting hours are over. Tell him to come back tomorrow.” Wynn moved to step around him, but Glasby didn’t budge.

  “I believe you will make an exception in this case. He has traveled a long way to see the Princess Svetlana.”

  “Traveled from where?” A spark of fear kindled in Svetlana’s chest as Wynn set her on her feet. Months of calm had eased her anxiety, but more than once an unguarded moment had been seized by memories of horror. The past had found them again.

  “The gentleman has requested to answer all questions himself.” Despite Glasby’s formality, the glimmer of a smile teased his lips.

  Svetlana’s apprehension eased. Bolsheviks would never elicit a smile. Glasby hurried to fling open the library door, by this time grinning widely.

/>   Svetlana stepped inside the room. Her mother and Marina sat on the settee by the fire where a tall, thin man with silvery blond hair blocked the dancing orange flames. He turned and the light flashed across an unfamiliar black eyepatch, but he was unmistakable.

  “Nicky!” Svetlana raced across the room and launched herself into her brother’s arms. Her living, breathing brother. Tears coursed down her cheeks as they clung tightly to one another. “We thought you were dead.”

  Laughing, a sound that seemed rather rusted, Nicky pulled back. A sheen of tears watered his good eye. “Clearly I’m not.”

  He was still as handsome as a saint, though he’d grown painfully thin. As if the muscles of manhood had withered from his imposing frame. Svetlana gently touched the strap of his eyepatch. “What happened?”

  “A souvenir from being a Russian nobleman. Turns out we’re no longer welcome in our country.”

  “But how did you survive? We were told you and Papa were shot.”

  Nicky’s mouth twisted with disdain. “Sergey seems to have spun all sorts of lies. Treacherous cur. Mama told me he threw himself under a train.”

  Behind him, Mama gave a slight shake of her head for Svetlana to keep quiet. Some secrets were best left unsaid.

  Nicky held Svetlana’s hands. They’d never been an overly affectionate family, but time had softened them, it seemed, for they held tight to one another. Perhaps afraid to let go and find the other gone.

  “The Bolsheviks captured what was left of the White Army standing guard and shot us next to the Neva River. Papa died instantly when he tried to defend his men. A bullet scraped the side of my face, knocking me backward into the river where I floated downstream. A goat herder found me and hid me for over a year. I searched for you and Mama and Marina all over Paris, but it seemed hopeless, so I took a ship to England with other white émigrés.”

  A smile lit his tired face. “In London I was reading a newspaper article about collecting lost items from Imperial Russia for an exhibit at the Royal Victoria and Albert Museum. Imagine my surprise at the organizer being none other than the Duchess of Kilbride, the former Princess Svetlana Dalsky.”

  “An astonishing story.” Tears filled Svetlana’s eyes and fell unchecked down her cheeks. “I cannot believe you stand before us.”

  Marina clapped her hands and jumped up to hug them. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Mama’s arms circled around them. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “All of my children together at last. Never shall we part again.” She motioned to Wynn, who stood by the door quietly observing. “I said all of my children.”

  Svetlana’s heart overflowed with joy as her family’s arms wrapped around her, locking her safely in their embrace. They had journeyed far and been lost to one another only to find themselves together again at last, this time stronger through the forbearance of their struggles.

  Wynn’s arms circled her waist from behind, drawing her close to his chest so that she felt the steady beat of his heart. That’s what he had always been for her, the steady beat that gave her courage. A beat she would never have to do without again.

  “I thought Russians were averse to displays of affection,” he whispered into her ear.

  “Shh. It will ruin our hard-earned image.”

  “Hate to tell you, Princess, but you shattered that for me long ago.”

  Svetlana smiled. “Spasibo.”

  The End

  Discussion Questions

  Why do you think Wynn has complicated feelings toward his title, and how does his chosen occupation reflect these feelings?

  What does Svetlana learn about herself over the course of the story? In what ways have her altered circumstances forced her to change?

  In 1917 heart surgery was not part of medical practice. In fact, it was said that, “Surgery of the heart has probably reached its limit set by nature. No new methods and no new discovery can overcome the natural difficulties that attend a wound of the heart,” and that “The surgeon who operates on the heart will lose the respect of his colleagues.” Given that this was such a radical procedure, would you have allowed Wynn to perform heart surgery on you?

  After Svetlana and her family escape Russia, they must embrace new places and traditions in order to survive. If you’ve ever had to uproot your life, how did you cope? Were you resistant to your new home or did you welcome it?

  What do Svetlana and Wynn admire about each other? In what ways do their personalities complement one another?

  Do you think Wynn made the right choice to operate on Harkin or should he have consulted other medical advice first?

  Dancing is Svetlana’s passion and the only way she can truly express herself, just as Wynn finds his calling through surgery. If they were never allowed to dance or be a physician again, might they have found true contentment in other ways? Or does the heart long only for its true passion, never settling for less?

  Svetlana states time and again that Russians are not known for their optimistic outlook, citing the miseries penned by Tolstoy and Pushkin to be a true reflection of life. Do you think this contributed to her denial of happiness and love? Or was the Revolution more to blame?

  Setting takes a large role in The Ice Swan, from revolutionary Russia, to war-torn Paris, and finally to peaceful Scotland. How are each of these places significant to Wynn and Svetlana? How does each location help them to grow, not only as individuals but as a couple?

  Most often we read about rags to riches stories, but The Ice Swan provides the reverse. Svetlana begins as a princess with the world at her feet only to be cast down into a basement begging for food. What kinds of challenges might a person in this position face, physically and mentally? Would they truly be able to say that money doesn’t buy happiness?

  Acknowledgments

  First off, I want to thank Netflix for suggesting the show Road to Calvary after I finished watching Seyit and Sura. It’s like you know me so well and make sure I’m always aware of the newest and best foreign period dramas to be absorbed by. The Russian Revolution and the sad fate of the Romanov family were nothing new to me, but this show gave me insight into the catalyst of those horrific years, how it affected the Russian people, and how the country was forced to pull out of the Great War in order to fight its own civil war. Thank you for broadening my horizons and sparking the voice for Svetlana’s plight as one of the millions displaced from their home.

  Netflix is not alone in deserving my gratitude. Fiddler on the Roof, Downton Abbey season 5, and War and Peace are wonderful visual tellings of this turbulent region and what it meant for people caught in the grinding wheels of prejudice. For a more in-depth study of Russia’s history and how each event piled atop one another like stones until it built into the crushing boulder that was the Russian Revolution of 1917, Orlando Figes’s Natasha’s Dance was an invaluable resource and one I cannot recommend highly enough. Be warned, it is a heavy read, but well worth it.

  Thank you to Rick Barry who was oh so patient in helping me understand the Russian language, the difference between ovich and an ovna, and offering suggestions to my vocabulary list. Without you my Russian characters would sound, well, not Russian.

  I wouldn’t be sitting here typing this list of thank yous if it weren’t for Linda, my agent, who still puts up with me after all these years and never stops fighting to see me succeed. You’re one in a million, lady.

  To my team at Thomas Nelson, who are just as excited about these crazy stories as I am and work so hard to polish them into a diamond. Amanda, Jocelyn, Jodi, Kerri, Margaret, Laura, Matt, and everyone else working behind the scenes. Stories would not be what they are without your zest and commitment, and I’m so excited to be a part of your publishing family!

  Last but certainly not least, to my family. Daisy, for your unwavering companionship and never-fail bark to alert me that the Amazon guy is here. Again. We’d be lost without your vigilant protection. Miss S for the rainbow of color you explode into our lives. And to Bryan, my constant.
Love y’all.

  About the Author

  With a passion for heart-stopping adventure and sweeping love stories, J’nell Ciesielski weaves fresh takes into romances of times gone by. When not creating dashing heroes and daring heroines, she can be found dreaming of Scotland, indulging in chocolate of any kind, or watching old black-and-white movies. Winner of the Romance Through the Ages Award and the Maggie Award, she is a Florida native who now lives in Virginia with her husband, daughter, and lazy beagle.

  Learn more at www.jnellciesielski.com

  Instagram: @jnellciesielski

  Praise for J’nell Ciesielski

  “The Ice Swan is a ray of light in the middle of a Europe that was sinking into darkness. Ciesielski’s talent for storytelling from the heart is a feast for the readers’ eyes.”

  —Mario Escobar, bestselling author of Remember Me and Children of the Stars

  “A Scottish lord and an American socialite discover love during WWI in this gorgeous historical romance from Ciesielski . . . The undercurrent of mystery and Ciesielski’s unflinching approach to the harsh realities of wartime only enhance the love story. Readers are sure to be impressed.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Beauty Among Ruins

  “Beauty Among Ruins is a sweet, sweeping romance that embraces the strain on the home front in the rugged Scottish Lowlands in the First World War. The protagonist, Lily, is charming and affable as she transitions from a posh life as a Manhattan socialite to an aide in a convalescent hospital. The dashing Laird Alec MacGregor is deliciously brooding; a true mirror of the breathtaking terrain over which he presides. The rest of the cast of characters, both friend and foe, are all a delight. Ciesielski deftly and accurately re-creates the intricacies of a stately castle-turned-hospital that absorbs the reader from the first page. An atmospheric, engrossing romance for fans of Downton Abbey and Somewhere in France. A real gem!”