The Ice Swan Read online

  “What is this scandalous water?”

  “Tea. Because ladies often use it as social lubricant for gossip.”

  Svetlana’s gaze dropped to the wrapped package in his hand. “What do you have there?”

  “Pastry of some sort.” Unwrapping the muslin, he held up a ring of baked dough with cheese in the center. “Mrs. Varjensky insisted.”

  “Vatrushka.”

  “Vatrushka.” His pronunciation was terrible, but it didn’t keep him from grinning. A habit he so easily allowed. “Breakfast. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long night and my next round of duties begins in eight hours. I’ll bring the medicines after my shift.”

  The panic from earlier came swooping back. They didn’t need him returning and drawing attention. “We can make do without and will trouble you no further.”

  “As my patient it’s your prerogative to trouble me. Let’s me know I’m still needed.”

  “But the soldiers—”

  “I should warn you now that I’ve perfected the art of ignoring patients’ gallant notions of martyrdom. Part of a physician’s training.” He sketched a short bow and backed out of the chamber. “Ladies, I bid you all a pleasant morning and remainder of the day.”

  Svetlana struggled to her feet in a last desperate attempt. Her leg cramped in protest. “Marina can collect the medicine instead of you coming so far to deliver it.”

  Wynn stuck his head back in and cocked an eyebrow at her. “You’re going to be a difficult one, aren’t you? Rest.” With a quick flash of his eye, he disappeared.

  Mama gasped. “That man winked at you.”

  “No, a mere twitch,” Svetlana said. It was very much a wink, but admitting so brought no favors.

  “He could be dangerous.”

  “As dangerous as using titles in front of him?”

  Huffing, Mama surged to her dainty feet. The fraying hem of her once fashionable skirt swished around her ankles. “Whatever he is, he’s proven the English have nothing of court protocol. Mrs. Dalsky. As if I would answer to such a commoner’s name. Blessed be he’s a simple physician and not expected to circulate within higher society.”

  “I think he’s nice,” Marina said, patting Svetlana’s hand. “He took care of you. And Mrs. Varjensky.”

  He did. When no one else would.

  Mama sniffed and pulled at a loose thread from her shawl. “Hmph. Another commoner. I don’t know why you insisted on bringing her.”

  “Her sons were killed in the February Revolution last year and her husband died while they were escaping from the Bolsheviks,” Svetlana said, ignoring the sting that came with her mother’s criticism of her judgment. It came more often than not at Svetlana’s expense. “She has no one left. We couldn’t leave her in that miserable church with people crawling on top of one another.”

  While making their way through Belgium they had heard of a church on the outskirts of Paris that was taking in White émigrés, but upon arrival there had only been space enough in the basement for them to sit back to back in hopes of sleeping. Mama had demanded—loudly—that serene princesses of relation to the tsar himself deserved an entire corner to themselves. It hadn’t taken long for threats to come. Svetlana had sneaked out her family and Mrs. Varjensky in the middle of the night and led them into the city only to find themselves beneath the floor of another church.

  “How is your leg?” Mama’s expression softened, but the sunlight streaming through the window was not kind to the lines on her face. Her skin was soft and smooth as a young girl’s in Petrograd, but the passing months had left their wearisome marks.

  “It will heal.”

  “God give you strength. Rest now.”

  Svetlana took Marina’s offered hand and lowered herself once more to the pallet. Marina folded her shawl and propped it under Svetlana’s ankle. “I’ll see if I can find something to make the tea for you and Mrs. Varjensky. Try to close your eyes.”

  Every fiber in Svetlana’s body cried out for rest the way it did after a long day of dancing. But unlike the familiarity of a ballet barre to push her onward, nothing of comfort was to be found here. Nothing but unrest and danger. They could stay no longer.

  Chapter 3

  Svetlana Dmitrievna Dalsky. Princess. A Russian princess. Princess Svetlana of the silver hair and arctic eyes who didn’t smile. Svetlana of the too many names who wanted no one to find her.

  But Wynn had found her and she’d been a constant on his mind ever since.

  “Wake up, Your Excellency. You’re in a daze.” Gerard ribbed him.

  Wynn blinked. Drying soap suds covered his hands. “Sorry. Mind elsewhere.” He quickly rinsed off the lather and dried his hands with a fresh cloth. The sounds of cleanup from the surgery thumped in the room next door.

  “Let me guess. Somewhere far north of here with the strains of a balalaika playing in the background.” At Wynn’s frown, Gerard rolled his eyes and stuck his hands under the steaming stream of water. “If you’re to woo a lady of Russian origins, you might as well start learning her culture. Women appreciate that sort of attention to detail. I’ll lend you my copy of Pushkin.”

  “I see the rumor mill is already churning.”

  “How can it not? I hear the lady puts a glittering diamond to shame.”

  “Was it also mentioned that said lady had a large glass fragment embedded in her tibialis anterior muscle?” Wynn tossed a clean towel directly at his mate’s head. Or that she’d had the strength of a soldier not to cry out in pain when he’d yanked said glass from her leg?

  The towel knocked Gerard’s glasses sideways. “Ah, so that’s why you walked her home. Going to see her again?” Adjusting the wire frames, his large eyes blinked behind the glass.

  “I’m taking medicine to her and the other patient who came in with her.”

  “Good play. Always need a reason to make a second impression. Or so I’ve been told. Never gotten a chance to make one myself.”

  “The fact that I’m treating them for wounds makes no never mind.”

  “Of course, that too.” Gerard tossed his towel in the bin with the other used ones and followed Wynn out of the washroom and into the carpeted hall where nurses bustled with supply trollies. “Is she staying nearby?”

  Wynn stopped himself from nodding. Svetlana had taken great pains to hide her family, to the point of foregoing their titles, and had been terrified at his discovery. Whatever hunted them, they were safe enough at the church. Yet he had no desire to usher in needless fear by giving them away.

  “Near enough. Seems to be quite a few of her countrymen on the run.”

  “Who can blame them? The people are revolting, and their tsar abdicated to a mob who is keeping him and his family locked in a palace like prisoners. The whole country is in turmoil. I hope they set it right again and soon before Germany takes advantage of the chaos. The Allies need stabilizing in this war.”

  They rounded the corner to the administrative hall. Hotel staff once operated within these small offices that were now overrun with dead-on-their-feet medical staff. Wynn opened the door to their designated office, switched on the light, and immediately regretted it. Ignoring the mounds of paperwork was easier in the dark.

  “Speaking of stable, that first lieutenant who was brought in from machine-gun wounds has a heart stutter,” Wynn said.

  “He took six bullets to the chest. I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”

  “I don’t feel right about it.”

  “I doubt he does either.” Walking around his desk, Gerard slumped into his chair. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, but you need to keep your head down about this cardiac development. The surgeons around here aren’t keen on these newfangled ideas.”

  Wynn scoffed as he did anytime those white-haired naysayers halted progress for the sake of tradition. “Just because we don’t completely understand cardiology doesn’t invalidate its imperative need. We as doctors should not fear it. If anything, we should work harder to refine
a procedure that doesn’t involve stopping a patient’s heart. Permanently.”

  “You want to take that risk to your career? You’re the best surgeon I know, Wynn, but even you have your limits.” Gerard scratched his freckled hand through his red hair, sticking it up like needles in a pincushion. “Enough of the heavy. I’m off shift, but I’ll see you at supper. If you can make it away from your prettier patients, that is.”

  Wynn grinned. “A fact I will not argue. Now go on with you.”

  Despite the anticipation of seeing Svetlana again, the predicament of his heart patient ate away at Wynn’s peace of mind. There had to be an explanation he couldn’t yet ascertain. Slipping into the white coat that signaled to one and all his doctoral status, he climbed the staircase to the third-floor post-operation recovery ward. After the Somme push two years prior, the existing walls of individual rooms had been knocked down to accommodate the influx of wounded. Privacy was at a premium and reserved for the most severe cases that needed more one-on-one attention, but here the patrol of nurses could march from one end of the corridor to the other with an attentive eye on the whole of their domain.

  A nurse dressed in the pristine white apron of the Red Cross looked up from her small desk by the landing. “Good afternoon, Doctor MacCallan.”

  “Afternoon, Sister. I’m here to make a small round with particular interest to Lieutenant Harkin.”

  “He’s been put halfway down the left wing next to the window.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “While in good spirits, he’s been complaining about a dull ache in his chest.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m here to see about. Thank you, Sister.”

  Afternoon sunlight filtered through the evenly spaced windows, casting the ward and its lined hospital beds into a haze. Patients swathed in all manner of bandages from head to broken toes lay sleeping or reading quietly. More than one stared blankly at the wall with the haunted look that chased them from the trenches.

  Wynn made a quick round of the more concerning cases and found there was nothing his measly skills could do to improve upon the nurses’ tender and thorough care. Finally, he came to Harkin’s bed. Wrapped from neck to waist in bandages, the man held a letter written in flowery script. He looked up as Wynn scanned the status clipboard hanging from the end of his bed.

  “Afternoon, Doc.” Harkin’s voice was rusty from the trauma inflicted on his lungs.

  “Good afternoon. How are you feeling?”

  “Better than yesterday when I had more than one hole in my bellows to breathe through.” A wheezing laugh tumbled out. Harkin grimaced and clutched his chest.

  Setting down the clipboard, Wynn came around the side of the bed and placed a steady hand on the man’s shoulder. He skimmed the bandages for pinpricks of blood. “Take it easy. We don’t want those wounds splitting open on account of humor. In this case laughter is not the best medicine.”

  “Still got pains, Doc. Right here.” Harkin pointed to his heart. “Like a dull ache pressing on me.”

  “How often are the pains coming?”

  “Steady as a second hand on a clock.”

  Wynn pulled out his stethoscope and placed it over Harkin’s heart. Nothing but a steady beat. Uneasiness pitted in his stomach. He motioned over the ward matron. “Sister, send Lieutenant Harkin for an X-ray. I want to see what’s going on in there.”

  She nodded. “I believe Major Reynolds was having a spot of trouble with it this morning. New technology is always troublesome, but he assured me it would be operational by later this afternoon, if not tomorrow morning.” She made a note on her clipboard. “I’ll send one of the VADs to check the status right away.”

  “Notify me at once with the results.”

  “Of course, Doctor.”

  Wynn gave Harkin his best reassuring smile. “We’ll get this cleared up. Don’t worry.”

  Harkin glanced down at the letter in his hand as a shadow crossed his face. “I ain’t a croaker yet, am I?”

  “You were mowed down by a machine gun and survived. Everything else is a walk in the park.”

  Or so Wynn hoped. He never lied to his patients. It promoted distrust in his sworn duties as a healer, an oath he did not take lightly, though there were times to hold back the truth. Patients often needed a glimmer of hope to cling to and if that rested in Wynn’s silence, then so be it.

  Signing off duty, Wynn stopped by his rented room and buttoned into a fresh shirt that didn’t smell of carbolic lotion. He added a drop of eau de cologne that had nothing whatsoever to do with the woman he was about to visit.

  Patient, he corrected. The patient he was about to visit.

  Mayhap she would smile today. He’d never given much thought to making a woman smile. Certainly he’d endeavored to offer a pleasant evening to whichever debutante his mother cajoled him into escorting to the season’s balls or theater outings, but the experiences never left a lasting impression. This woman had. Her sadness and the stubborn way she tried to overrule it tugged at him in a way he never expected. All he wished to do was relieve her of the burden.

  With the challenge set before him, Wynn headed down the street to Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. Thick white clouds formed overhead, blocking out the mid-summer sky. With any luck a light rain shower would cool down the temperatures and keep the Tommies from heat exhaustion. There was nothing more embarrassing for an experienced soldier than to be brought into hospital with sunburns instead of a stray bullet.

  Wynn paused at the cellar door. Smoothed his waistcoat—having foregone a jacket in the heat—and rerolled a shirtsleeve that had slipped. He chided himself for being so ludicrous. He was here as a physician. Nothing more. Before he could question the shine on his shoes, he entered.

  Voices rose to meet him on the descent into the cool chamber. People milled about in states of boredom and all the variations that took on individual characters. Children running about, women folding and refolding their meager belongings, and men in heavy discussion among themselves. People caught in limbo as war raged around them. They couldn’t take up arms nor could they go about the ordinary duties of hearth and home. It was a demoralizing existence of waiting while one’s fate was determined elsewhere.

  The whispers and stares intensified the farther he waded in. He caught snatches of one word rising with reverence above the rest: printsessa. Svetlana. He’d never given much thought to titles. Nobles and peasants bled alike on the operating table, but these people had stared at her yesterday in awe. He’d witnessed a few crossing themselves—not in a devil-get-thee-behind-me way, but more as if seeing the Almighty’s chosen. All of which had been wiped away the second they spotted him trailing behind.

  “Good afternoon.” He smiled at a little girl staring boldly at him. Her mother yanked her away. Was there something about him that Russians didn’t like?

  Stepping over what he assumed to be the line into aristocratic territory, disgruntled voices shifted between the blanket dividers. Svetlana, her mother, sister, and four other agitated adults stood at the far end of the last row in what could only be described as a full-blown disagreement complete with gesturing and finger-pointing. Why did they all speak French?

  Unaffected as a cliff against howling winds, Svetlana stood in the center of the warring parties speaking calmly and keeping her mother from leaping forward like a pepped-up rabbit. She caught Wynn watching and hurried over. “I will be with you shortly, Doctor. Excuse us.”

  A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind and yanked him into a blanketed chamber littered with vials and tin pots. Mrs. Varjensky smiled up at him. “Oy, smotrite kto prishol to. Golubchik.” She pushed him onto a folded blanket serving as a cushion and bent over one of the pots with ladle in hand while prattling away. Spooning what smelled like an earth broth into a small wooden bowl, she pushed it into his hands and stared at him with spare eyebrows raised in expectation.

  He wasn’t the least bit hungry and by the looks of things the occupants of the cellar needed the nourishmen
t more than he did, but manners were manners. He lifted the bowl to his lips and took a deep swallow. “Very good.”

  Mrs. Varjensky gestured for him to eat more, and he obliged. She quickly ladled in more soup.

  After three more sips, Wynn put down the bowl. “It’s delicious, but I’m too full to take another bite.” He gestured to indicate a full belly.

  Clucking, she patted his cheeks, his forehead, and his stomach, then shook her head and ladled in more. “Kushai, golubchik.”

  “On ne goloden.” Svetlana stood in the doorway. Hair twisted off her neck, she was still dressed in the clothing from yesterday, but the tear in her skirt had been repaired with dainty stiches that put his own suturing to shame. Then again, material was different from skin.

  Wynn scrambled to his feet. “Good afternoon.”

  She didn’t look at him as she continued in back-and-forth Russian with Mrs. Varjensky. Wynn stood awkwardly as the conversation flowed around him without bothering to include him. Mrs. Varjensky patted his stomach again, to which Svetlana finally looked at him.

  “She thinks you’re too thin,” she said, those pale blue eyes with the slight tilt at the outer corners taking in everything.

  “That’s something I’ve never been accused of. Handsome, funny, and charming, yes. I concede to those accusations, but never thin. My mother used to chide me for eating everything in the pantry before Cook had a chance to restock. I once ate an entire platter of game hens that were supposed to be reserved for a dinner party. Cook chased me around the kitchen for an hour with her wooden spoon.”

  Her expression never changed but for a slight flicker behind her eyes calculating his words. At last she clasped her hands in front of her in the tell-tale sign of a polite apology. “I am sorry we do not have meat to offer you.”

  So far he was losing the smile challenge. Miserably. “No, that’s not what I meant. Your hospitality has been very gracious. How do you say ‘thank you’ in Russian?”