The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  “You did good in St. Peters—gah, Petrograd. Will we ever grow accustomed to that new name? I heard talk of the Bolsheviks wanting to change it again to honor their leader, Lenin.”

  “The only good I did was self-serving or what reflected well in the social parlors so the Dalsky name glittered even brighter. What good did that do when the Revolution struck? It made me an outcast, a thing to be hated, starved, and flung out into the cold. I will never be that again, nor allow anyone in my care to be so.”

  On the back of the bench behind her, Sergey’s fingers tapped an erratic rhythm as if his thoughts proved too restless for containment.

  “That is a peasant’s way of thinking. Share in the misery and all that. One must look out for themselves.”

  “A decent person does not look out only for themselves.”

  His fingers stopped as he considered her for a long moment.

  “It seems the Revolution has changed us both. Me to hardness and you to tenderness. I think, perhaps, you are the victor in this metamorphosis, and I should heed your lead. I am your humble student, my lady.” He placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head in courtly manner.

  A half smile curled the edge of Svetlana’s mouth. His gesture erased the years of terror, and they were once more sitting in her family’s parlor at the Blue Palace jesting without a care. She’d missed his familiar friendship, a link stabilizing her through time when so much had been stripped away.

  As he straightened, the light caught on a thistle stickpin with an amethyst for the purple flower nestled into the folds of his necktie.

  “This is unusual for you to wear,” she said. “The symbol of Scotland.”

  “Your mother-in-law was kind enough to offer me suitable clothes for my stay.”

  Consumed by her own sadness and keeping Mama from hysterics, she had barely given thought to others in need.

  “I apologize for not thinking to offer them myself. I have been remiss in my duties as hostess and as your friend.”

  “Nonsense. Your grief is priority, and your mother-in-law has been most gracious. These belonged to a son named Hugh, I believe. She said he needed them no longer.”

  The dead leaves rested lightly in her palm, their musty scent of decay a pungent reminder of fallen life.

  “He died in November. The war. He was Duke of Kilbride, but his death passed the title to Wynn, and now Wynn has a hole in his heart that can never be repaired.”

  “Then you have both lost someone dear to you. Would that I could give Nicky back to you. I shall take the greatest care of this for your husband in honor of his brother.” Looking down, he fiddled with the folds of his necktie. The amethyst winked in and out of the silky material. “I cannot deny that such a piece would have proven beneficial on my travels.”

  Svetlana thought back to those nights racing through the woods, her corset weighted with valuables she had sewn in for safekeeping.

  “We had to sell so many of our precious gems along the way for food and clothing. What we had left was stolen in Paris.” She cast an eye over his fine clothes. At complete odds to the rags he had arrived in. “How ever did you afford passage from Paris?”

  Eyes kept on the stickpin, he twisted it back and forth. “I managed a few odd jobs before I saved enough to buy a steerage ticket. The poor souls in the Russian quarters of the city were more than happy to help their fellow countryman in his time of need.”

  Strange. The doors of Paris had slammed shut on her in her hour of need—both French and Russian. Only one dared to crack open with exception and show her kindness. And a second with a man who loved nothing more than to take advantage of her kind.

  She crushed one of the dead leaves in her palm. The brittle pieces crunched under her thumb. “Did you ever come across a Sheremetev?”

  Sergey’s fingers stilled for the briefest of moments. “As in the Muscovy Sheremetevs? Who ruled half the shipping and trading on the Black Sea before the Revolution? I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?”

  “The man who rules Little Neva—the Russian neighborhood in Paris. His presence was everywhere, particularly at a club called the White Bear.”

  “I kept my profile low and away from places like that. Any inquiries I made were with discretion and never with names.”

  “One of Sheremetev’s greatest abilities is using discretion to his purposes.” She watched for any flicker of recognition on his face. And why should there be? This was one of her oldest friends in the world who had sacrificed himself for her well-being. She had no reason to believe he would lie to her. Had the Revolution and scraping by to survive turned her so cynical? It had turned her desperate and look where that got her. Straight under the thumb of the vilest man on earth. She glanced down at the band of gold wrapped around her finger and covered it with her other hand, safe and protected. Without it she would still be under that hideously fat thumb. “Wynn tried to warn me.”

  Abruptly, Sergey stood and paced away. “The duke proves himself invaluable on more than one occasion. How fortunate for you to find such a man.” Though he pulled his lips into a smile, it didn’t mask his clipped words.

  A mingling of sadness and guilt weighed on her heart. “I know my marriage was a shock to you. It was to me as well, but times were desperate. I’m sorry for any heartache I may have caused you.”

  “We were never formally engaged, it’s true, but I felt as if there was an understanding between us. As a gentleman I cannot hold you accountable for my fault in not proposing when I had the chance. Are you happy with your choice?”

  “Wynn is a good man. He’s kind, and generous, and brilliant.”

  “You avoid my question. I asked if you are happy.”

  She’d once told Wynn happiness was a foreign illusion to Russians. Their national inclination was given to sadness and stoic reality. He’d laughed. Of course he had. It made her see the lightness missing from her life. A lightness that had stolen into her to make her realize she didn’t miss the stoicism quite as much as she thought she would.

  “Despite the hardships and sorrows, yes, I’ve found happiness.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Sergey! That is not an appropriate question to demand of a lady.”

  He fell to his knees in front of her, knocking the dead leaves from her hands and scattering them about the floor. She moved to clean them up, but he blocked her.

  “Leave those for the servants to clean. As you did in the Blue Palace. I fear your time here has altered you.”

  “If by altered you mean I take more responsibility, then yes. And that starts by not creating messes for others to clean.”

  Still, he did not move. “I apologize. My feelings have led carelessness to overtake me.” Anguish roamed in his dark eyes. “I ask this as a friend. As a man you once cared for. Has your love slipped from me to another?”

  Apart from the wild impertinence of the question, Svetlana couldn’t bring herself to tell him no, she’d never loved him. In her own way, perhaps, knowing that most marriages started without the sentiment but with hope of growing into love, but that deep, head-over-heels thrill of exhilaration had never consumed her when it came to Sergey.

  “I did have affection for you, Sergey, that I can never deny—”

  “Then don’t!”

  “But it is a feeling that belongs in the past. Wynn has become my future.”

  “Your future was planned with me. There’s still time to make it so.” He grabbed her hand, cradling it between his own. His fingers were long and cool, matching the iciness of hers. Unlike Wynn’s warm ones, which could immediately draw the coldness from her.

  “Come away with me. Now. To a place where no one can find us.”

  She withdrew her hand from Sergey’s. “I am Wynn’s wife. I pledged my loyalty to him.”

  “But you didn’t want to.” Sergey’s eyes flickered over her shoulder, then back to her as he leaned closer. “We’re destined to be together.”

  Svetlana opened her mouth,
but promptly closed it. She didn’t need to explain herself nor defend her decisions. She regretted the forced haste of her union, but not once had she had cause to regret marrying Wynn.

  “Apologies for the interruption.” Wynn spoke from the open doorway behind them. Svetlana spun around and spied a telegram in his hand and a cool expression icing his face. “I’m off to London for a few days.”

  The telegram. Svetlana shot to her feet, brushing Sergey out of the way. “What’s happened?”

  “I’ve been called to speak before the medical board.” His gaze flickered to Sergey, then back to her. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to pack to catch the two o’clock train.” He turned and left.

  Svetlana hurried down the corridor after him. Despite her long legs, her pace was no equal to his.

  “Has it do with Harkin?”

  “Most likely.”

  “But you’ve given your statement.” Her words hit his retreating back.

  “They want it again.”

  “Has something in the report changed that they need you to verify? Why so many inquiries over a single death when your profession deals in tragedy every day?” She had not been privileged to see the business side of medicine for long, but what she had glimpsed consisted of mounds of paperwork, hidebound old men, and red tape. So many rules on how and when to save a life. If a life was lost due to a broken rule, the fury of repercussions would be great indeed. And if that life had been unnecessarily put at risk— “Do they suspect he was killed?”

  “There’s been no mention of foul play.”

  “Then I am coming with you.”

  That stopped him. He turned around to face her. “No, there’s no need. I’ll be back in a few days. Besides, your mother needs you.”

  “So do you.” She swallowed against a charge of emotion. She needed him to know that he was her choice despite events threatening to persuade him otherwise. “It meant nothing. When Sergey kissed me. Nothing has been reciprocated on my part.”

  The coolness melted from his eyes and pooled to soft green. He trailed his fingertips along her jaw like a sculptor admiring his creation. Svetlana leaned in to his touch, marveling at his ability to center her as the one woman in his world.

  “You’re so beautiful. Have I ever told you that? Looking at you, I lose my bearings between heaven and earth.” His husky voice ached with desire. Svetlana laid a trembling hand over his heart to show him she felt the same, but the movement shifted something in his eyes. The molten gold cooled and his touch dropped from her face. “Even if the moment is a fleeting indulgence.”

  He was retreating from her again. Pulling into himself while keeping her at arms’ length. Too much separation and they might never find a way back together.

  “Please allow me to come with you to London.”

  His gaze swept over her face as she saw his mind whirling with conflict. Yes formed on his lips, but at the last he shook his head. “I need you to stay here. When I get back, I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

  Unease sprang to her heart. “Explain what?”

  “Will you trust that I have only your best intentions in mind?”

  “I trust you completely. As I hope you do me.”

  In answer he leaned down and brushed his cheek against hers before pressing a kiss to her skin. He lingered for the briefest moment before walking away. Svetlana cupped her hand over her cheek, longing to hold a part of him close since she could not hold the man himself. Steps apart again.

  If she wished to close the distance, she would have to take matters into her own hands. That started with getting to the bottom of the medical board and their continued harassment of her husband. To do that, one needed to know the right people, and as before in Russia, she had begun to cultivate her own notable list in her new country. Striding with purpose to the library, she sat at her writing desk and pulled out a crisp slip of cream paper with the Duchess of Kilbride seal embossed in gold at the top. She may not be able to solve the torment in her husband’s mind, but she could try to bring peace. She dipped her nib in the ink and set it to paper.

  Dear Mrs. Roscoe,

  I deeply appreciate the rose bulbs you included in your last package. They shall make a splendid addition to my garden come spring, and I hope you will accept my invitation to see them in full bloom on an extended stay at Thornhill.

  If I may be so bold, I wish to shorten my pleasantries in order to bring a matter of great importance to your knowledge and perhaps request a favor of the most generous kind. I understand that your husband has recently taken the position of hospital administrator at St. Matthew’s in London . . .

  Chapter 25

  Rain slashed down the windows of the Royal Medical Academy in east London. It turned the mounds of snow into gray slush that clogged the footpaths and splattered the buildings with icy sludge from each passing motor car. Situated on the corner of some highbrow street crossed with a priggish lane, the RMA had towered as a goliath in all its white limestone and colonnade glory since 1684, presiding over the health and advancement of medicine for mankind. More correctly, advancing the field when the governing old whitebeards deemed such advancements worthy of the cut. Everything not worthy was immediately thrown out like yesterday’s chips or newspaper.

  Which was precisely how Wynn found himself sitting on a bench outside the delegation hall staring at his bullet-punched kopek. For nearly five days he’d sat in that tomb of a chamber under the grilling eyes of the medical board directors and answered question after question about his education, training, experience during the war, political leanings, religious beliefs, readings, and everything else they could think of to suss out whether he was of sound mind to perform surgery.

  The implication of such a finding should have been the single point to occupy his mind, but it wasn’t. His thoughts remained fixated on Thornhill, or rather within Thornhill. The instant that telegram arrived to summon him to London, he’d gone in search of Svetlana.

  And found that weasel kneeling at her feet. The same weasel who had barged into their home, wrapped his arms around Wynn’s wife, and kissed her for all the county to witness. She’d said it meant nothing to her, but that didn’t stop Wynn from wanting to beat the miscreant black and blue.

  Guilt hit Wynn hard and quick like a punch to the rectus abdominis. Was he wrong to have married her when she waited for Sergey? A man she’d known for years, another Russian? Wynn braced his arms on his knees and hung his head. If given the option, would she wish to free herself of the marital contract and leave with Sergey? She had grounds to obtain an annulment. Wynn squeezed his hands together as his fingertips turned cold. Could he let her go when she’d come to mean so much to him?

  “Not going to be sick, are you?” Gerard. His old friend had finally returned from war-torn Paris only to find a summons waiting for him to give a report on one Dr. Edwynn MacCallan, with whom he assisted in surgery that fateful day last summer. After giving his testimony of the events, Gerard had sat in the upper galleys as Wynn’s moral support.

  “No.”

  “Thinking about what’s going on behind those doors?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you look like you’ve diagnosed your dog with one week to live?”

  Wynn heaved a sigh and pocketed the coin. “I’m in love with my wife.”

  “Oh. Hard time that.”

  Wynn lifted his head and stared at his friend. “How would you know?”

  “I’ve got brothers, haven’t I? They’re always going on about the misery of the old ball and chain, then follow it up with adamant declarations of love. Which is then followed up with a pint.” Gerard plopped on the bench and scratched a freckled hand through his ginger thatch of hair. “Do you need a pint?”

  “No.”

  “You might after today.”

  Wynn jerked upright, every nerve on edge. “Why? Have they said something?”

  “No. At least not while I was in there. Bickering back and forth. It’s enough to ma
ke a man’s head explode.” Gerard’s thin shoulders sagged as he rolled his homburg hat between his hands. “The truth is, mate, they don’t know what to do with you. Half the room is for tossing you in the tower, and the other wants to reinstate you with a formal apology by saying death is a part of our practice and you’ve always been a man to uphold your oath to do no harm.”

  “And if my arrogance overtook my oath on that operating table? Would Harkin be here with us? You always told me it would get me in trouble one day.”

  “I also said you were bloody brilliant.”

  Wynn snorted. “Aye, bloody brilliant at disgracing myself.”

  “Aha! That right there is where a pint will help. After a few you won’t feel disgraced anymore. You won’t feel anything anymore.”

  “I’m not a drinker. You know that.”

  “And you know I am. Come on. You can keep me from falling off my barstool while telling me all about your blue devils. As a physician I’m obligated to keep confidential whatever a patient tells me.”

  Gerard stood and slipped on his overcoat, then donned a hat that slid down over his ears. He never could find a fit to complement his scrawniness. “Come on, Your Grace. Those old toads dismissed you for the day. Sitting out here punishing yourself won’t do a bit of good.”

  Did he truly want the best for his patients, or was he in it for the glory? The question burned on Wynn’s tongue. He’d been too afraid to ask it, but his pride was trampled by the misery of needing to know. The walls of the ivory tower he had built of his medical achievements began to quake. “Do you think I caused Harkin’s death?”

  “I think we do the best we can as physicians. The rest is in the Almighty’s hands. And Him you are not.”

  “They’ve taken everything from me. If I can’t be a surgeon, what am I?” How pathetic he sounded. A more degrading state than having his license revoked, and one he’d never suffered before. It left him disoriented like a body of tissues and organs with no bone structure to keep him upright.