The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  “Food will be rationed for some time to come, but I’ll give her a few more coins to find what she can. We do deserve a celebration.”

  “And dresses. We must all have new wardrobes now.” Mama twirled about the room with a dreamy smile on her face. A look that was always expensive.

  “This is hardly the time to discuss such matters,” Svetlana said.

  Mama stopped twirling and pressed her mouth into a tight line. She never liked being told no when she was excited, and she certainly didn’t enjoy learning from her past debts. Debts Wynn had paid off on her behalf.

  “Another time then. I’ll go and set a menu with that maid until a proper cook is hired. Heaven knows she’s in need of a proper mistress. The French aren’t known for hard work like the Russian peasants.” With a sweep of her heavy skirts, pilfered from Wynn’s mother’s Victorian wardrobe, she left.

  The room seemed to sigh in relief.

  “I’m afraid that along with food rationing, I’ve more bad news,” Wynn said. “I wasn’t able to procure travel tickets. In fact, I wasn’t able to make it to the ticket office at all. The crowds were too great to make it beyond three streets. Took me nearly an hour to walk the way back. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

  “Won’t the ships be needed to take the soldiers home?” Svetlana asked.

  “Yes, but it’s going to take weeks, months even for command to start making new orders. Everything will be in chaos for a while. I’ll get you to Scotland. Don’t worry.”

  She nodded to keep the worry from surfacing. She had no doubt he would do everything in his power to get them to safety, but every minute spent in Paris was another minute for Sheremetev to track them down. She walked to the window. The gloom had lifted from the streets, cast off as easily as a cold shroud upon the emergence of the heartening sun. Eyes no longer turned to the ground as if weighted by their own misery. Faces no longer tensed in hardship. Every miserable second they had endured for the past four years disappeared in the new day’s celebration of peace. They could begin living again.

  Laughter, tears, relief, unmeasurable pain, and disappointment sought footing on this new day. One could live many times over in such torrents of emotion. For some the agony would never end. For some like Svetlana, a war still raged in a distant country that no longer wanted her. She had been cast into the shadow, left searching for where the light might shine.

  A face far below in the street stilled among the swarming throng as it looked at her. A face she had not seen in a very long time. A face that yet appeared in her dreams. Svetlana gasped.

  Sergey.

  She raced down the stairs and out the front door and was immediately swept into the pulsing crowd. Pushed and pulled, she couldn’t control her own feet as the people carried her along. She twisted her head left and right. Where was he? Had she imagined him? She tried to call his name. The crush of bodies hemmed her in until she could hardly breathe. A foot clamped onto the back of her dress and she pitched forward, slamming into a man’s back. She tried to push away, but the wall of bodies pinned her from moving.

  Suddenly the bodies peeled back. Wynn’s arm came around her like a shield while he used the other as a ram to shove through the crowd. In a matter of seconds, they were back on the townhouse’s front steps.

  “The next time you want to get yourself stampeded, give me warning.” Wynn’s fingers dug into her shoulders. His eyes scanned her face, body, and back up. “Are you all right? What were you thinking running out like that?”

  She gasped against the racing of her heart. The faces in the crowd blurred. No Sergey. “I thought I saw someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone, but he’s not there. He looked right at me, but he’s gone.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Sergey. He was right here.”

  Wynn scanned the crowd, then slipped his arm around her waist. “Let’s go inside. If it was him, he may have gotten taken away by the crowd. He’ll come back.”

  Inside, Svetlana hurried to the sitting room window that overlooked the front street to look for him. Wynn followed her. He stood behind her, his face reflecting in the glass. “Are you certain it was him?”

  “No. I saw him only for a moment, but it had to be. He said he would find us in Paris, but then the Bolsheviks took him. How would he find us at this address?” The moment of unexpected joy fractured into pieces of a frightening puzzle. “He would have heard where the Russian émigrés have consolidated and gone there. Someone may have pointed him to Sheremetev. Sheremetev knows everyone and everything. It wouldn’t be that difficult for him to track us here and use Sergey as bait to lure us out.”

  Wynn turned her to face him. His hands cupped her cheeks, large and warm and steady. “Don’t even think that. That man is never coming near you—”

  Knock. Knock.

  Svetlana jumped. She couldn’t help the pathetic reaction. The world, so bright and glorious minutes before, now closed in on her.

  Wynn’s thumb stroked her cheek. “It’s only the hospital’s message boy. Gerard must have sent him. Wait here and I’ll be right back.”

  He left to answer the door, and Svetlana was abandoned to the swarm of fear. An animal trapped in a cage with no way of escape. She wrung her hands together. The unfamiliarity of her wedding band rubbed against her skin. What would Sergey think of her marriage? There was never a formal engagement between them, yet part of her felt guilty with betrayal. He would have to understand she’d had no choice.

  That is, if she were allowed to explain first before being executed.

  In that instant, she was done. Fear had reigned as master for far too long. She may not have complete control of her circumstances, but above all she could have control of herself and herself refused to cower any longer. She was a princess marchioness. Not a beaten animal.

  She swept from the room into the foyer where Wynn stood. “Tomorrow I’m going with you to the ticket mast—”

  A yellow telegram was clenched in his fist. The fear she’d overcome moments ago rippled into action.

  “What’s wrong?”

  His fist shook, the knuckles stark white against the yellow paper. “My brother was killed.”

  Chapter 17

  The Calais port was jammed cheek to jowl with Red Cross ships, makeshift hospitals, and ambulances. Wounded soldiers were propped against cargo boxes as they waited to hobble up the gangways while the more serious cases lay on stretchers with nurses dotting among them. The days of armistice celebration had waned to the excruciating task of transporting the weary combatants home.

  The ship swayed gently as Wynn stood on the deck with Svetlana after seeing her and her family’s things stowed safely in their room. It was cramped, but it would do to make the voyage from Calais to Portsmouth. Every other available space, including the deck, was taken up by wounded Tommies.

  “Will you not come with us? Your mother needs you.” Dressed in a black frock from his mother’s wardrobe, Svetlana stood stark against the white bandages and stained uniforms surrounding them.

  “I gave my word to the hospital to remain through the end of the year. I won’t abandon my patients.”

  “You would not be abandoning them. You have a duty from your brother now as well.”

  “A dukedom I never wanted. My work was never at the estate carrying around those titles. It’s always been in surgery.” He snorted. “Little good that’s done for my brother.”

  “There was nothing you could have done for him.”

  “That’s because there was no body to repair. That shell obliterated everything. I have nothing to take back to our mother.”

  Heads turned their direction at the harshness in his voice. Wynn took a deep breath and gripped the rail. Rage and sadness spiraled through him until he could no longer discern up from down. Hugh had been killed leading a charge on some muddy field one week before the armistice. He’d escaped the war without a scratch only to be cut down by a screaming shell. His comman
der had written a glowing report of Hugh’s heroism and selfless leadership that served as an inspiration to his men. Hugh had always been the shining example. His memory was the only thing left to shine, and the loss pierced Wynn to the core.

  Svetlana stepped closer, blocking off the curious stares. “Your desire to stay is admirable, but responsibilities often take us from where we would like best to remain. You cannot hide forever.”

  “Is that what you Russians call grief consolation?”

  “Russians console their grief with vodka. It makes for miserable funerals.”

  “And here I thought it was the deaths.”

  “I can tell you from experience that hiding will not make your sorrow disappear.” She rested her hand on his arm. Her wedding band made a slight bump from under her glove. “Come with us, Wynn. See to your mother. Honor your brother. Tend to the wounded who are arriving in Britain every day.”

  He wanted to say yes. Wanted to leave behind the death and destruction that clung to the very air here. He wanted to take his new bride home to meet his mother and show her the peace he knew as a boy growing up at Thornhill. Who was he kidding? There was no peace to be found there now. Every rock and blade of grass would remind him of Hugh and the legacy Hugh had left him as the new Duke of Kilbride. To return would be a severance from everything Wynn had worked so hard to achieve medically. He might as well cut off his right arm.

  The whistle blew, signaling all non-passengers to go ashore. Around them, nurses tucked in blankets and said final goodbyes to their patients, reassuring the men that new nurses would be waiting for them in Blighty. Svetlana looked down and shuffled her feet. Nervous. And why shouldn’t she be, embarking on this journey to an unfamiliar country? She was capable of overcoming any obstacle that might arise, just as she’d done escaping Russia, but he didn’t want to abandon her to the unknown. On their wedding day he’d sworn to protect her, and he had every intention of keeping his word as a husband and a man. The only way he knew to do that was to send her away.

  “You’ll be safe at Thornhill. Mother will teach you everything you need to know about the estate as its new duchess.”

  “I would prefer you to teach me.”

  The whistle blew again. A high, lonesome sound marking their final moments together. There hadn’t been enough time between them.

  “All ashore who’s going ashore,” called the porter as he walked up and down the deck swinging a bell. “Last call.”

  Svetlana looked at Wynn with an expression he couldn’t discern, as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. What should he say to her, his wife of two weeks? Good luck? Don’t be a stranger; write me sometime? Will you miss me? Can I kiss you goodbye?

  She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small gold coin with a pistol slug smashed into the middle. “My father’s. He was shot while fighting in the Balkans. This kopek saved his life. I’ve kept it sewn in my clothes all this time.” Taking his hand, she placed it in his palm and wrapped his fingers around it. “He carried it everywhere he went as a talisman. May it bring you safely home as well.”

  Wynn leaned forward to kiss her, then stopped and pulled back. “Goodbye, Svetlana.”

  Heart heavy for more reasons than he cared to count, Wynn strode down the gangway. Away from her, away from the memories of home, and toward the bleakness stretching before him.

  “Wynn! Wait.” Svetlana hurried toward him and kissed his cheek. “May God bless you.”

  Then she was gone. A black smudge standing at the rail of the ship as it grew smaller and smaller on the choppy waves of the Channel. All that remained was the warmth of her lips on his cheek, the weight of the coin in his hand, and an unbearable loneliness.

  * * *

  The townhouse was a shell of a ghost that haunted Wynn with memories at every turn. Svetlana’s skirt rustling down the stairs. A wedding feast scattered across the dining table. His mother and father dancing in the sitting room when they would come to Paris in the autumn. Hugh sitting with a stack of books next to the fire. Bittersweet images seared into Wynn’s brain. His brother should be here; they should be toasting together the end of the war and taking on the world as only brothers can. Anything Wynn did now would only be half a success.

  A month ago he put his bride on a ship and sent her off to the wilds of Scotland while he stayed behind to wrestle with his grief. He’d thrown himself with abandon into the saving work of surgery. As if by piecing together broken and splintered bodies he could piece himself back together.

  He grabbed the last of his papers from the study and shoved them into his suitcase. That was the last of it. He could leave these claustrophobic walls and not come back until the ghosts were gone. If they ever were. As he stepped outside, a chill frosted his face. The war had ended by Christmas, but its devastation lingered like gangrene in the open wounds of the city. Hospitals overflowed with patients, the walking wounded shuffled along the streets, and citizens struggled to rebuild their lives. Hardly anyone noticed it was Christmas Eve.

  Fitting the key into the door, Wynn locked it. The streetlights flickered on behind him. His heart rate spiked. No. It was all right now. German night devils didn’t fly anymore. The City of Light could shine once more. He leaned down to grab his suitcase and saw it. Scratched into the door was a star with red streaking down it. Not blood, he would know that in an instant, but red paint. Fresh. He whipped around and scanned up and down the street. Two men dressed all in black with hats pulled low over their faces watched him from a darkened doorway.

  Keeping his eyes on them, Wynn started down the steps. The mystery men ground out their cigarettes and followed. Wynn forced his pace to remain even but gripped his suitcase tighter. It was heavy enough to use in a pinch. Mayhap it was time to start carrying a blade more damaging than a scalpel. He crossed the street. The footsteps followed. There was only one explanation to why he was being tailed.

  Sheremetev. The debt was paid—nearly twice the amount actually owed. All that was left to be angry about was Svetlana. Was this the man’s recourse when denied what he thought was his? Brute intimidation?

  The Russian had chosen the wrong man if he thought that would work.

  Wynn hurried across a busy intersection and looked back, readying himself for confrontation. Nothing but ordinary people going about their business. Senses on full alert, he hailed a passing taxi and climbed inside.

  “Hospital du Sacré-Coeur, s’il vous plait.”

  The auto lurched into gear, throwing Wynn back against the seat as they dodged around a horse-drawn carriage. There on the street corner were the two men watching him from under the shadows of their hats as he passed. By the time he arrived at hospital, his blood pressure was sky high. It took several minutes before the familiar scent of antiseptic and bleached linen took hold and provided its comforting effect. As difficult as the task had been, he was relieved he’d sent Svetlana away when he did. Now he had only himself to worry about.

  “Something wrong?”

  Wynn jerked from his reverie. “No.”

  Gerard frowned at the clipboard in Wynn’s hand. “Then why are you reading that upside down?”

  They stood in the middle of the post-op ward with patients asleep all around them as the lamp from the nurse’s desk glowed softly in the corner. As comforting to a physician as the stitching of skin and mending of bone, the silence worked its healing magic in the lost hours of night.

  Wynn flipped the clipboard around. “Lost in thought.”

  Gerard peered over his shoulder at the patient notes. “About a fractured tibia? Has married life softened you that much?”

  Hardened him, more like. Those thugs looked more than ready to break his legs if given the opportunity. “More like painted a target on my back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A target for bad jokes. Forget it.” Wynn hung the clipboard at the foot of the bed and continued his walk down the aisle with his ear cocked for labored breathing or moans of pain fr
om the recovering men. “Don’t mind if I move back into the bachelor quarters with you, do you? Too quiet rattling around in that old house by myself.”

  “Sure. The missus won’t care? Hate for her to think I’m corrupting you back to the days of a single man. It’s a shame you lovebirds couldn’t spend more time together as newlyweds.”

  Not having much experience with women for himself, Gerard was always quick to think a mere handshake between a man and woman was akin to a declaration of love. After Wynn sewed up the bare skin on Svetlana’s leg that long-ago day, Gerard had them written together in the stars. Wynn hated to burst his friend’s notion of romance, but he hated him believing a lie even more.

  Putting a hand on Gerard’s shoulder, Wynn led him to a quiet corner of the ward away from curious ears of VADs, who were fueled by rumors at teatime.

  “It’s an arrangement of mutual convenience. Svetlana needed help, and I couldn’t turn my back on her.”

  “Never could ignore the cry for help. Either way, you landed yourself a real lady.” Gerard scratched a hand through his orange thatch. The corners of his mouth turned farther and farther down. “You said it was mutual. What are you getting out of it?”

  Svetlana had asked him the same thing, and he’d told her as much truth as he dared. Because he was drawn to her in a way he’d never been drawn to another woman. She challenged him to do more, to be more. How could he not fall for a woman with such strength? Time would tell if he was to fall into her arms or a rocky bed of loneliness. Knowing his preference, Svetlana would be the one to decide his fate. If he couldn’t say all that out loud to her, he certainly wasn’t confessing it to Gerard in the middle of a sick ward.

  Stalling, Wynn crossed his arms and stared down at the floor. The once expensive hotel carpet had been trampled threadbare from patrolling nurses and trolleys wheeling about.