The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  * * *

  The Glentyre schoolhouse was a sea of worn faces all bundled together against the chill rapping against the lead-paned windows. Women in headscarves held tightly to their red-nosed children while the men stared solemnly ahead. Men with missing arms or legs, scarred faces, limps, and haunted expressions of weariness. One might easily despair of their pitiable conditions, but that was a fool’s take. War had pillaged and destroyed with its ravenous appetite for death, but it had not claimed its final stake in this village. There was still a fight to be had, and the overwhelming attendance that day was a rallying cry.

  Svetlana stood before them with a world map hanging behind her. Countries, mountains, and oceans were marked in English and Gaelic, the ancient Scottish language she was determined to learn if only a few words for greeting.

  She’d taken care to wear a simple black dress of mourning with a silk rosette of blue and green pinned to her lapel. MacCallan colors. Today, above all, was about unity.

  “War has mastered our circumstances these past four years and now we must find new ways to survive its aftermath. Together. I stand before you not as a princess or duchess but as one of you. As one who has lived through bloody horrors, mayhem, and death. Left forever scarred, but in no way defeated.” She took heart in the nods circling the room. “So many of you have shared your stories with me and for that I am grateful and humbled. I have felt your loss as my own.”

  “Feel our loss, do ye, Yer Grace?” A wiry man with fading red hair and a bandage around his left ear stood up from the back row. “What’d ye ken sittin’ up in yer bonny castle wi’ yer fine furs and jewels to warm ye. Ye dinna speak fae us.”

  Svetlana clasped her black lace–gloved hands together and offered a polite smile. “I do not believe I’ve had the opportunity of meeting you before, sir.”

  “’Twas lain up in a frog hospital fae neigh on five months wi’ half me brains leakin’ out this hole in me heid.” He tapped the bandage. “Boyd Beardsly’s the name.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Beardsly. Hopefully after our meeting we might have a private moment to speak, but for now I shall tell you that I was forced to flee my country as my home was burned over my head. My people were and still are hunted like dogs. My father and brother were murdered because of a sworn allegiance to their rightful king. I have begged in the gutters for scraps of bread to eat. All of my worldly possessions have been sold or stolen, leaving me only with the dignity of my name, which some would gleefully kill me over.

  “So, no, Mr. Beardsly, I do not claim to speak for you. Merely as one who has shared a great loss, as you have.” Her steady words belied the pounding of her heart. Her endeavor and acceptance rose and fell with these people. They never asked her to come and situate herself as their lady, but she was determined to gain their trust. If that meant opening this private piece of herself, then so be it.

  “God save you, Your Grace!”

  “Bless ye, Yer Grace!”

  “She’s not a toff, Beardsly! She’s a MacCallan.”

  Beardsly scowled at the echoing voices around him before offering Svetlana a reluctant sniff. “Reckon ye hae at that. On wi’ yer speech then.” He waved a dismissive hand and plonked back down on the bench.

  From the front row, Constance beamed while Marina sent her a sly wink. They, too, wore black and matching rosettes. If nothing else, she had their support.

  Buoyed by the audience’s desire not to shun her, the nervous whirling in her stomach ceased. “Thank you, Mr. Beardsly. As I was saying, our most pressing need is medical assistance. At present you are required to travel to and from Glasgow for exams and medications, wasting valuable income and days away from your farms and shops. I propose we open a medical facility here in Glentyre with trained nurses and a dedicated physician knowledgeable in the latest advancements to treat returning soldiers.”

  “His Grace kens about all that,” said a man missing his left arm. A Mr. Grover, if Svetlana recalled, who farmed sheep. Next to him sat his wife clutching two children. They had been due a third child, but recently lost the baby.

  Nerves tripping back into place, Svetlana pinched her fingers together. Wynn was the last thing she wanted to talk about, but he might as well be the proverbial elephant in the room. “His Grace has many responsibilities requiring his medical skills and duties for the estate. He is in full support of this proposition.”

  “His support, aye, but what o’ him tendin’ us as a healer? No every day there’s a duke what can stop a bleedin’ man.” Mr. Grover’s gaze softened to look at his wife. “Or woman, fae that matter.”

  “The duke’s greatest desire is to serve the people of Glentyre, but in doing so he is forced to decline a commitment as permanent attending physician.” Truth, but not the whole of it. “In addition to a medical facility, we will also have classes for those wishing to learn viable skills, open to both men and women, fourteen years of age and older.”

  Murmurs rippled around the room. Women bent their heads together while several of the men perked up.

  “Ye’re proposin’ we pay fae this how? What few spare coins we hae left? Hospitals isna cheap,” Mr. Grover said.

  “The old weaver’s mill is the prime location candidate. Repairs and renovations are at no cost to you, and we will be taking applications for tradesmen to work the site with priority given to Glentyre men. Classes and training sessions will be free of charge excluding any supplies needed. However, medical appointments and prescriptions will be your own expenses as per arrangement by the newly founded Ministry of Health and the Army Medical Board.”

  Medical Board. A collected tomb of cranky white-haired old men, Wynn had called them. She instinctively scanned the room for him, her stomach fluttering with disappointment at not finding him. Her search found a small man dressed all in black hovering near the back corner. Sallow skin, greasy hair, and a pointed nose gave the repugnant image of a rat. The hairs prickled on the back of her neck as the memory of men dressed in black with red armbands dragging Sergey from the train platform trampled its horror over her once more. Some nights she still dreamed of them coming for her.

  And like the instant waking from a dream, the man slipped behind the crowd. An expectant audience stared back at her.

  “Thank you all for coming today,” she hurried. “Before you leave please enjoy the pies and vatrushkas.”

  Constance and Marina moved to where Mrs. Varjensky stood with the baskets of food spread across a row of desks against the far wall. Svetlana weaved through the crowd in search of the rat man. Only by looking him in the eye could she put her nightmare to rest.

  “Yer Grace. How ever can we be thankin’ ye?” Katie MacKinnon, whom she’d first heard about while sitting with Mrs. Douglas, wobbled into a curtsy in front of her. She waved at her three little children to follow.

  “Mrs. MacKinnon, a delight to see you.” If not a little untimely.

  The woman’s chapped cheeks glowed pink. “An answer to prayer, this is. What with me man laid up ’tis hard to find proper work.”

  “I hope this will ease a burden weighing so heavily on our community.”

  “’Tis braw hearin’ ye say ‘our community.’ We’ve a real princess championin’ us, but my only hitch is what’s to become of the bairns if’n I should take a class? Their da canna manage them on his own.”

  The three children’s tattered clothes barely brushed their exposed ankles, but their hair was neatly combed as they stared at Svetlana with hungry eyes. When was the last time they’d seen a full meal on their table?

  “I see the dilemma. This will take thought, but I give my word something will be managed.”

  “Oh, thank ye, Yer Grace. A godsend, ye are.” Mrs. MacKinnon wobbled another curtsy. Over the top of her bowed head, the rat man stared at Svetlana. Nose twitching, he scurried into the outer hall.

  “Excuse me, please. Be sure to sample the vatrushkas and take some home if you like.” Svetlana hurried after the rat as people reached out to tal
k to her. She waved them off as politely as she could. It wasn’t a coincidence that man was here. If there was a threat, she needed to know.

  Charging into the outer hall lined with coat hooks, she smacked into Sergey.

  “What’s all this?” He grasped her shoulders, holding her steady.

  “You’ve returned.”

  “I could not stay away for long. You must know that.”

  Wasting no time deciphering that comment, she wriggled away just as the black flap of a cloak disappeared outside and the door banged shut on a gust of wind. She ran after the intruder. The wind whipped across her face and scattered the leaves around her feet as she scanned the schoolyard. A few tired horses and one fine gray from Thornhill’s stable dotted the area, but not a soul to be seen.

  Dead grass crunched beneath Sergey’s polished boots as he joined her. “What’s the commotion?”

  “Did you see him?”

  “See who?”

  “A man. All in black.” She stared down the single road leading from the schoolhouse and into the village. “You must have seen him in the hallway.”

  “I saw no one but hunched over villagers stuffing their faces.” Taking her arm, he propelled her back inside. “It’s much too cold for you to be standing in the elements.”

  “I’m Russian. My blood is made of winter’s ice.” She peered past him to the peep window squared out of the school’s door.

  “Tell that to your red ears and cheeks.”

  “He must have walked right by you.”

  “I saw no one, I tell you.” He looked down at her. Every single mustache hair was perfectly combed and softened with oil smelling of nutmeg. “Are you feeling yourself, kroshka?”

  She’d never cared for nutmeg. “I am not your little crumb.”

  The corners of his mouth turned down and he took half a step back, locking his hands behind his back. “Forgive my old habit of informality, it’s only that I worry for you. Perhaps you spend too much time around these muzhika.”

  “They are not peasants.”

  “They might as well be for the social divide between us and them. As a gentleman and your oldest friend, I urge you to reconsider circulating among them so closely. It’s not appropriate for a lady of your rank. They carry diseases.”

  This amount of idiocy was expected from her mother, but she never thought to witness it in Sergey. “I am not ill in the head if that is what you are suggesting, nor will I tolerate slander against these good people.”

  “Forgive me. I do not wish to insult you, merely to see you well looked after. Allow me to care for you, Svetka. The way you deserve. Far from this. Let me take you away. No one will ever find us. We’ll be safe.” He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her to the fine wool of his overcoat. Hugh’s overcoat.

  Mottled with anger at his bold persistence, Svetlana shoved him away. Something wasn’t right. Sergey had never acted so out of character. “You forget yourself. Out of respect for the friendship we once held, I shall forget this distasteful notion while reminding you that I am a married woman.”

  “Married to a disgraced man standing accused of murder whom you never loved. Is that what you mean?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “How do I not know when you rightfully belong to me? My eyes are everywhere you are. I love you, Svetka. This is our last chance to be together or all will be ruined. Send him away and come with—” Sergey jerked backward.

  Wynn stood there holding the back of Sergey’s collar. Rage thundered across his face. “I’ve a suggestion of where to send you.” He dragged Sergey outside and pinned him against the back wall of the schoolhouse. His forearm crushed against Sergey’s windpipe. “Lower than a snake’s belly, slithering into my home and trying to seduce my wife. I’ve a mind to send you straight back to the hole from whence you crawled.”

  Wheezing, the whites of Sergey’s eyes bulged as his gaze skittered to Svetlana. “H-help.”

  Wynn leaned forward. Sergey purpled as the full weight of Wynn’s bulk settled on him. “Pack your bags and leave the country. If I hear even a rumor of your name, I won’t waste a second in breaking your scrawny neck.”

  Wynn dropped his arm and Sergey crumpled to the ground in a coughing fit. “S-so much f-for y-your oath to d-do no harm-m.”

  “That oath was for humans. It said nothing about evil beasts. Go.”

  Sergey grabbed at the rough stone wall and hauled himself up. Red blotched his slim face as his dark eyes bored hatred into Wynn. Shuddering, he looked to Svetlana.

  Wynn blocked him. “Last warning.”

  Panting, Sergey stumbled away to mount the fine gray horse and rode off. He looked back only once.

  Svetlana trembled, but not from the gusting cold nor from the violent scene. Somehow through it all she’d felt utterly calm watching Wynn’s barely restrained fury come within an inch of release, knowing he exerted complete control. Nothing was going to happen without him allowing it. Seeing him for the first time since their confrontation was what sent uncertainty shaking along her nerves. The ice crackled around her heart as it yearned for his nearness, while her head shouted for fortification around its beating vulnerabilities.

  Hatless as usual, his hair waved unfettered in the breeze while the richness of his brown suit set off the gold in his eyes to perfection. Eyes that took her in with that efficient manner of his where nothing remained hidden. He reached for her hand. “You’re shivering. Let’s get you inside.”

  Exposed under that penetrating gaze, she angled away from his touch. It would undo her. “What are you doing here?”

  His attention drifted from her face to her left ear. A hazy smile pulled at his lips. “Those are the earrings I gave you. I told you that I’d—”

  “—captured a star.”

  “Captured a star that had shrunk in the presence of your beauty. I also said—”

  “We said many things that night.” Svetlana tugged at the curls she’d tried to cover her ears with that morning. A vain effort. Why of all her earrings could she not help herself from choosing these?

  “I meant every one of them. I still do.”

  Another shard of ice fractured off her heart. She imagined the pain of his duplicity seeping into the crack, hurting her all over again. “Do not avoid the question with an entanglement of emotions.”

  “Loving you isn’t an entanglement. It’s a privilege.”

  “Then you should not have endangered it by withholding information vital to our future.” Lies in a royal court or chandelier-graced parlor she could swat off with a flick of her glittering fan, but a lie from the man she had most trusted could not so easily be discarded.

  He sighed. A weary, wordless sound that her tired soul recognized. “I wasn’t going to come today. It might’ve raised too many questions, and I didn’t want you put on the spot to answer them. Unfortunately, a summons from Glasgow forces me to crash your event.” He scowled down the road where Sergey had disappeared. “Though not a moment too late.”

  She could not care less about Sergey at that moment. “The medical board?”

  “Last hearing. They’ll be making a formal decision at the end. I won’t ask you to come, but I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to.”

  Svetlana noticed his overnight valise strapped behind the saddle on his horse, tethered a few feet away. Her stomach dropped. “Are you leaving now?”

  “It starts tomorrow morning. I think they like to let me know last minute in hopes I won’t show up.” He grinned, but it wasn’t convincing. His life’s work hung in the balance. “I know things have been strained between us of late and I take full responsibility. My pride and ambitions have hurt the people I care for most. My patients. Our tenants. You. I want to do what’s best by all of you. For us.”

  She longed to hold him, to tell him she needed him and that she believed justice was on his side. Not because he was a surgeon or a duke, but because her life was incomplete without him. His words rocked against her anger, but
pride bolstered her defenses and sealed off the confession.

  “I believe you, but what has fractured between us cannot be mended so easily.”

  “But it can be mended. Tell me it can, please.”

  “I-I wish I could be certain.”

  “At least it’s not a no.”

  He kissed her gently on the cheek, no more than a whisper of saddened regrets, and then he was gone. Svetlana stood in the schoolyard long after, impervious to the cold air. An ache swirled inside where her heart hung heavy in her chest like a broken pendulum.

  Chapter 30

  Svetlana padded along the corridor, the stone floor cold beneath her satin slippers. All of Thornhill was fast asleep as she found uncertainties troubling her mind after having received a reply from Mrs. Roscoe along with a sealed report from St. Matthew’s. She would need to send it by special messenger to Glasgow first thing in the morning if it was to have any hope of reaching Wynn’s trial in time.

  Steering clear of the Grand Hall and its ghostly memories of dancing in Wynn’s arms, she wandered into the far back reaches of the house where the floors and walls turned into a more contemporary wood style. Contemporary, at least, in comparison to the hodge-podge sixteenth- and seventeenth-century parts of the castle.

  Descending a short flight of stairs, she followed the scent of baking bread to the kitchen. A large, rectangular room, its brick walls were warmed by cream paint and shining copper pots hanging from an iron rack over the worn worktable. Mrs. Varjensky stood in front of the enormous hearth stirring a black pot dangling over the fire. She refused to use a proper stove, claiming the old ways were better. Purer with no modern vapors to taint the food.

  “No sleep?” the old woman said without turning around.

  “Nyet.”

  “Sit. Sit.”

  Svetlana perched on the only wooden stool next to the table. Apparently not much sitting was done in a kitchen. Bits of floured dough spotted the counter. “Midnight baking?”