The Ice Swan
Page 14
“As you say, I should not be attending so I will take my leave for the evening and send over a bottle of champagne to soothe any ruffled spirits.”
The count curled his hand into a fist on the green felt table. “Not without paying me first.”
“Your rudeness is intolerable and I will not subject myself or my daughter a minute longer. Come, Svetlana.”
Cursing under his breath, the count lurched out of his chair and came around the table with eyes blazing. Two muscled men with bulges beneath their jackets stepped in and blocked his path.
Sheremetev, along with Leonid, appeared behind his guards with a thin smile. “My dear count. Is there a problem?”
“The so-called princess doesn’t see it fitting to pay me what’s owed.”
“Princess Ana is an honored guest of mine and her honor will not be tarnished.” Sheremetev smiled benevolently at Mama and continued. “It is my own honor that requires all debts to be paid in full in a timely manner and as circumstances dictate by the owed.”
Mama stammered and made a show of opening her beaded purse. “W-well, I don’t believe I have the appropriate amount, but if you’ll allow me—”
“I require payment now. As my honor and circumstances dictate,” said the count. “I would hate to alert the authorities.”
Everyone at the table gasped. Threats were never made against nobility. Only low-class mongrels stooped so low as to bring in the laws of commoners.
Svetlana bristled at the insinuation. Had her family not suffered enough humiliation? “Do you know to whom you are speaking? Peter and Paul Fortress would do well to show you manners.”
The count’s eyes narrowed to slits. His pointy beard made him all the more serpent-like. “Is that how you think to threaten me, printsessa? Perhaps you should drag me back to the Reds.”
“Enough. Count,” Sheremetev said. “Gentleladies will not be insulted in my club. Nor do I allow outstanding debt. If you’ll wait for me at the cashier’s booth, your payment I will bring momentarily.”
Scowling, the count grabbed his hat and cane and pushed through the crowd to the indicated booth.
Sheremetev turned to the table and the wide-eyed guests watching every move and word, no doubt savoring for gossip. “Apologies. There are free bottles of champagne for each of you at the bar. Please, enjoy after this upset.” As they all scuttled away whispering to one another, he looked to Mama. “Dear Princess. What a night you have suffered, and to think the tragedy came at my club.”
In an instant Mama’s haughtiness softened to accommodating. “I know that measly count does not represent you or your kindness. Think nothing of it.”
“I’m afraid I must. You see, there is an outstanding debt to be paid.”
“Of course, but I haven’t managed a winning streak these past few nights—I do believe the count was cheating all this time—and my other funds remain back at our lodgings.” Gripping her purse, she lowered her voice to throw off the listening ears around them. “I do so depend on our friendship. Might I ask for an extension of credit?”
The slightest hint of irritation flashed in Sheremetev’s eyes, but he covered it quickly with a nod and pulled a slim cheque book from his inner jacket pocket. “As I told your daughter, I am here to help.”
The strumming strings of a balalaika and gusli vibrated over a small dance space spread across the back wall where two traditionally dressed women stood. As one, they moved and pirouetted, dipped, and floated to a peasant tune often played among the aristocracy for amusement. Excitement buzzed through the crowd as they watched the performance, grabbing flutes of champagne and shots of vodka as waiters slipped by with full trays. An orchestra, not only on the dance floor, but masterfully played among the guests with Sheremetev’s attention to detail as the conductor. If he couldn’t collect their money at the tables, he’d collect it in drink.
For the briefest moment, the world’s cares and her family’s struggles fell away to the haunting dance steps of a life Svetlana knew before. Her feet longed to move; her legs ached to stretch and bend with the rhythm, her body stretching and twisting with elegant control. Though each step was governed, it was the only time she allowed herself to be liberated.
“You enjoy the dance?” Sheremetev’s question shook her from the fantasy.
Svetlana nodded. “It’s beautiful.”
“Many Russian ladies are taught the cultural dances by their nannies in nursery. Do you know the steps?”
“Not these, but others like them.”
Mama sidled closer to Svetlana. “My daughter was training to join the Imperial Russian Ballet.”
“Is that so?” Sheremetev rolled his gold pen between his fingers as he studied her. “I imagine it has been some time since you danced. Would you like to do so again?”
Her heart tugging her, Svetlana glanced at the dancers, then looked away. “Someday perhaps. There are more pressing matters than ballet.”
“So there are.” He wrote Mama’s name in elegant script on the To line of the cheque, then hovered over the Amount line. “You would show us perhaps.”
“No, I’d rather not.”
He pulled his pen away and frowned. “No?”
Leonid stepped to her side. “Papochka, Angel does not wish to entertain. Look at this rabble. For her they are too unrefined.”
“Nothing in my club is unrefined, a point well to remember if you ever hope to succeed me.” Sheremetev kept his voice even, but there was no denying the warning in his eyes.
Leonid dropped his gaze. “Remember, da.”
“Good. Go see to the orders in the basement. Our clients are waiting.”
“But, Papochka—”
Sheremetev jabbed him in the chest with his pen. “Go.”
Leonid cast an apologetic look over his shoulder to Svetlana as he scurried away under his father’s foreboding stare. Her champion gone as quickly as he’d tried to rise to her defense. He was, indeed, her good friend.
Sensing the rebuttal had weakened her cause, Mama’s eyes skittered from the unfulfilled cheque to Svetlana. She clutched her arm. “Silly child. Of course she will.” Her nails dug into Svetlana’s skin. “Please Mr. Sheremetev with a dance.”
Svetlana stiffened against her mother’s restraint. She wasn’t a windup toy perched on a box to perform at whim, and she certainly wouldn’t lower herself to dance in front of card-playing castoffs as they guzzled drinks into oblivion. Ballet was not for casual amusement.
Across the room, the count stared with hatred as his fingers rapped against the cashier booth. If he held true on his promise to alert the authorities, Mama would be arrested with unimaginable horrors awaiting her. Mama would never recover from the humiliation, and her family may never recover from the cost of bail. Money that was to be saved for their survival.
Sheremetev’s gold pen hovered once more over the Amount line. One more payment of debt to their account. He watched her, waiting.
As Mama’s nails dug farther, Svetlana swallowed the knot of pride and nodded. “I will dance for you.”
Smiling, Sheremetev touched his pen to the cheque. “Excellent.”
Chapter 9
As the same question was repeated yet again in a different syntax, Wynn glanced longingly at the pitcher of water mere feet away. His throat was parched after an hour-long presentation before the hospital board and another hour in which questions and accusation had been lobbed at him from every angle in the Paris School of Médecine’s lecture hall. The room seemed to shrink in on him with every passing minute. He dare not step away for a drink lest the white-haired doctors in the gallery smell weakness. He couldn’t afford weakness at this crucial moment when the old dragons had to be won over.
He’d been summoned to explain his cardiological surgery on Lieutenant Harkin after his supervisor learned of the rogue procedure and reported it to the board. Following a month of paperwork, Wynn had finally been called to testify.
“It is often the practice of qualified su
rgeons to ascertain whether an object is best left unremoved to forgo further complications. Death for instance.” From the second row, the questioning doctor squinted at him through large spectacles. “Why did you negate such a practice?”
Wynn tried not to think about the cool water as he answered the question. The same question. For the tenth time. “While this is a tried method, it is not always successful. In the case of my patient I felt he was better served to remove the object.”
“You felt. How quaint. A physician’s job is not determined by emotion but by studious examination, facts, and knowledge gained by those who have gone before.”
“All of which I consulted before making a final decision and gaining permission from the patient.”
“A patient cannot be trusted to know what is best for them. They have not the learning.”
A doctor at the far end of the front row stood up. With dated muttonchops and a pristine white coat, he commanded attention. “While I am in agreement that patients do not have the learning to understand the workings of our profession, I cannot agree that their opinion is invalid. A good doctor must weigh both. It speaks well of Dr. MacCallan that this Lieutenant Harkin confided in him regarding the continuing pain.”
The first doctor inclined his head, causing his spectacles to slip down his nose. “Your words are highly respected, Dr. Lehr, but a good bedside manner cannot be confused with medical aptitude.”
Wynn knew his kind. Shuffling behind his medical books and claiming they held all the answers, too afraid to seek improvement beyond the sacred texts. These men lived in the Dark Ages where medical advancement was akin to witchcraft.
Wynn wasn’t going to the stake based on that man’s stupidity. “If you challenge my aptitude, then you challenge Romero, Williams, Cappelen, and most recently a surgeon in Malta. All performed similar successful operations. As was the surgery performed in Cambrai last year, from which medical notes I used as a basis to my decision.”
“Youth’s arrogance often leads to downfall.”
“A physician’s age does not determine his arrogance. In fact, I’ve found that advancing age often hinders one’s ability to see past their own inclinations.”
A gasp sounded around the room, the inhaled vacuum quickly filled with murmurs of outrage. Hang it all. Wynn grabbed the pitcher and poured himself a liberal amount of water. He downed the glass in one gulp and forced himself to remain calm for the sake of crowd control. He was losing them fast, and if he didn’t recover the discussion they might bar him from medical practice for good.
“Gentlemen, please. I realize how heretical this may sound as the heart is considered a sacred organ, but as well-respected physicians you also know that it is another part of the body. We have an obligation to our patients and the welfare of future generations not to leave it a mystery.” He gazed across the rows of the lecture hall and into the upper galleries. Half empty as many could not spare time away from their patients, but enough had come. All different ages and levels of skill, but a common purpose drew them together. It must continue to bring them together if the world was to have any hope.
“Every man here has seen the horrors of war raging mere miles from our hospital doors. Soldiers, men, boys are brought to our operating tables broken and bleeding. It is our duty, nay, our vow to heal them within our powers and do no harm. I consider it a great harm to neglect procedures that can and will save lives. Lives that we will be held responsible for at Judgment Day.”
Another hour later Wynn had drained a second pitcher of water and packed up his presentation materials. He’d never talked so much in his entire life. All he wanted was to go home and pull the covers over his head until morning without saying a word to another soul.
Exiting the lecture hall, Wynn saw Gerard bounding toward him. “Brilliant.”
“I’m hoarse.”
“Tea with honey.”
The image of a silvery princess with a hole in her dress pouring him tea hit Wynn with a force he’d tried to ignore. She was out of his life, as she’d requested. Extracting her from his thoughts proved to be a mightier challenge. One that was defeating him no matter the soreness lingering from that night.
“You won them over,” Gerard said.
“Were we in the same room? I half expected a noose when I walked out here.”
“Certainly some of them will take more convincing, but you got them talking. Talking will lead to thinking. Thinking leads to change.”
“Changing me from a doctor to a broom pusher if some of them have their say.”
“Looks like you’ll keep your license another day, MacCallan.” Dr. Nestor, the administrative director of Wynn’s hospital, peeled himself away from a group long enough to reposition Wynn under his thumb. Or try to at any rate. “From now on you ask my approval before engaging in such a ridiculous stunt.”
“I doubt Harkin considers it ridiculous from the bed where he’s resting, still alive.”
Nestor stepped closer, bumping the tips of his shoes against Wynn’s. His breath smelled of the ham sandwich he’d eaten for lunch. “One more time. I’ll have you out on your—”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Dr. Lehr stood smiling at them as if not having observed the confrontation. “Dr. Nestor, a pleasure to meet you. You must be very proud to have such a forward-thinking physician on your staff.”
Nestor backed up and wiped a hand over his sweaty upper lip. “I, well . . . He surprises me at every turn.”
“No doubt.” Lehr dismissed Nestor completely and smiled at Wynn, displaying a row of squared off teeth. “My boy, I should like very much to examine your notes and X-rays. I have a few thoughts on myocardial infarction in relation to shell shock.”
Wynn grasped the man’s hand and shook it. “I would be honored.”
“Next week?” At Wynn’s eager nod, Lehr shook his hand once more. “If you’ll excuse me, I must return to my hospital. We have more and more patients coming in with what looks to be a second wave of influenza. Death rates are climbing higher than the first.”
Nestor elbowed his way back into the conversation. “Dr. Lehr, we’ve had a great many cases ourselves. I wonder if we might discuss treatment procedures. Perhaps to share your wealth of knowledge.”
“I would love nothing more, but for now I suggest you pick Dr. MacCallan’s brain. He seems more than up for the task.”
With that, Wynn considered his day a success.
Chapter 10
If she kept her eyes focused on the empty space above the audience’s head, Svetlana might ease herself of the abject humiliation. Around the dance floor she spun. And chasséd. And balloned. A ballet of degradation. One she had been performing for nearly three weeks. What started as a single dance to repay that blighted count quickly turned into another night’s dance for an unpaid champagne tab. The next night, a caviar tab. On and on they went until Svetlana was dizzy from the amount Mama owed. Sheremetev, ever the businessman, offered a dance for a bill, and so she danced nearly every night in hopes of clearing their debt.
The music ended and Svetlana swept behind the curtain to the crowd’s thunderous applause. Her cheeks burned, even more so as she walked the gauntlet of waiters lounging in the corridor. Cigarette smoke filled the tiny space as coarse laughter and suggestive gestures followed her into the dressing room. It had been erected in her honor after one week. Sheremetev had hopes of his own.
Mama lounged on a velvet settee in a gown of fresh silk and fringe, giving an outstanding performance of not looking in debt. “Did they enjoy your performance?”
“They’re too sotted to notice otherwise. I could have slumped in a chair and they would have cheered.” Svetlana sat at the vanity illuminated by those fancy new bulbs a Mr. Edison had created. She preferred the soft glow of candles. They were never harsh enough to point out the dark circles under her eyes.
“But you didn’t. You danced. Never something I really approved of, that was more for your father. He loved to watch you.”
Mama had the grace to look momentarily curtailed. Watching her in the mirror’s reflection, Svetlana spotted a platter and crystal cut glass. She spun around on the low stool.
“What is that?”
“This?” Mama pointed to the platter and shrugged. “A bite to eat. I get famished waiting for you back here after you banned me from sitting out front. The waiters are thoughtful to bring it for me.”
No doubt they were, adding to the expense of yet another bill. Another dance. “I am trying to pay off our debt. How can I make any progress to that end when you continue to partake?”
“This isn’t only for me. I’ve informed the waiters that what isn’t consumed is to be boxed up so I may take it back for Marina. Those priests give us so little sustenance it’s no wonder her clothes are hanging off her.” Sighing, Mama swung her buckle-shoed feet off the settee. “If you find this dancing as distasteful as you make it sound, then sell a bracelet or two and pay the balance off. Be done with it.”
“We only brought so many jewels with us from Russia. Several of which we’ve already sold for money, and the money, too, is dwindling. We must conserve our resources for food and shelter until Papa and Nikolai come.” The war would be over someday. It had to be, and they would know what to do. She wouldn’t have to shoulder the burden alone any longer.
“Then I see no recourse but for you to keep dancing until this distasteful business is behind us.”
All of Svetlana’s patience kept in relentless check, all acceptance of her mother’s selfishly unalterable behaviors boiled over. “You are unbelievable! Will you never accept responsibility for our predicament? If you had shown restraint in your vices, I would not be forced to sell my dancing like some painted bawd on a stage for drunken voyeurs as payment of your debt.”
Mama reared back as if the words had slapped her. “How dare you take that tone with me? I am your mother and a princess from one of the highest houses in all of Russia. How do you expect me to live as less than I am? I know no other way to live.”