The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

“You cannot marry him.”

“Mama, I have no choice.” Svetlana flipped the veil over her face as the church’s organ swelled to a bridal march, jangling her nerves. “Besides, it is too late to turn back now.”

She had been engaged to Dr. Edwynn MacCallan, Marquis of Tarltan, for a grand total of three days. That night in the garden she had been shocked into silence at his sudden proposal, but as her questions rose like a frantic tide she could keep silent no longer. For nearly an hour she had questioned his sanity, his reasoning, and his intentions. He had answered each one with calm logic.

She and her family would have the protection of his name and wealth with no obligations on Svetlana’s part except to say I do. A marriage in name only if that was her wish. In the end, when thinking had exhausted her, she asked him why he would go to such trouble for her. He’d merely smiled in that way of his and said he could no longer stand by and watch her suffer when there was something he could do to alleviate her pain.

Mama fussed with the veil that had been borrowed from one of their neighbors in the church basement. It was one of the few treasures the woman had escaped Russia with, and she’d only agreed to loan it when Svetlana offered her daily ration of food.

“To think, a daughter of mine and princess of Russia married to a tradesman. In a borrowed dress with no proper tiara to signify her rank.”

Svetlana stepped away before her mother could jab another hairpin into her scalp. If only Marina were here to bring a sense of calm, but under doctor’s orders she was to remain on bed rest at his family’s townhouse until her strength fully recovered. Wynn had extended his kindness by offering his mother’s closet for Svetlana’s perusal. She was grateful, but a wedding dress and tiara were nothing compared to the absence of her beloved sister, and more than anything Svetlana needed her soothing strength this day.

“Wynn may be a physician, but he is also a marquis, a high noble rank in Britain.”

“It is a sin when you are bound to another man. Sergey will be heartbroken. He’s been so good to you over the years.”

“Sergey and I were never officially betrothed. I cannot wait for him to find us, if indeed he ever does.” Sergey had been good to her. His parting act had been to see her to safety while sacrificing himself to the enemy. She could never forget that, but the promises made in Russia were best left to the past. She had a future to secure. “Wynn is a good man. He would not take on our troubles otherwise.”

“May the saints preserve us from those black deeds.” Mama crossed herself before one of the many gilded icons decorating the vestibule of the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. A fitting place for the ceremony. Not to mention the only place to allow an Orthodox wedding. “How was our family brought to such an abyss? If only I had been stronger. If only your father were here. He would know what to do.”

“He would put the well-being of our family above all else as I am trying to do. Is that not what marriages are for? A weeding out of sentiments for the betterment of an alliance. Wynn is a good alliance.”

“The man is an Anglican!” Mama’s trump card. No proper Russian argued with the dictates of the Holy Church, but wartime had a way of requiring one’s head to be turned the other way as circumstances required.

“Due to our upsetting circumstances, the priest is willing to overlook Wynn’s heresy.” A few gold coins slipped into the altar coin box might have pushed the decision to more favorable means as well.

“Surely there must be another way. Perhaps you have not thought of them all. I’m certain if we were to ask Shereme—”

“No!” Svetlana took a deep breath as every fiber of anger, sadness, and fear roiled within her. Mama would never learn of what happened with Sheremetev nor of the evilness he allowed to hunt them. Wynn was their only hope now. “Go and take a seat.”

“Svetka.” Mama reached a hand toward the veil.

Svetlana pulled away. If one more person prodded her, she would lose her last shred of control. “I’m ready. Please go.”

Ready. A rather misleading term. Certainly she was ready to put her troubles behind her and breathe for one day without the threat of financial ruin or starvation, but was she ready to marry a man she barely knew? She’d known Sergey for years, which was an anomaly in her social circles. Marriage contracts were often drawn up based on name and wealth alone with the bride and groom having met a mere afterthought. And love, well, that was best left to the fairy tales. She was under no illusion of what this marriage to Wynn meant and her gratitude to him could never be fully expressed.

A side door opened. Svetlana jumped.

“Are you prepared, my child?” The priest was dressed in robes of gold and black with a bushy beard stretching down his chest.

Heart racing, Svetlana nodded. It wasn’t Sheremetev come to drag her away to the den of the Reds.

“I must ask you never to tell that this holy church allowed a man of non-faith to be joined to you, a true believer, in its inner sanctum. If rumors were to spread, anarchy could ensue. Papists will demand their own heretical services.”

It could hardly be imagined that the Catholics would storm these doors when they had the magnificent Notre Dame to worship in, but Svetlana did not bother to correct him. She simply bowed her head in quiet respect as she sought to delicately defend her fiancé. “I believe Anglican is considered a righteous faith in England.”

The priest snorted. “They would.”

The heavy door creaked open to the inner sanctum. Hundreds of candles gleamed from their ornate brass chandeliers and altar stands, while mid-morning sun poured through the windows set high in the cupola and bounced off the golden icons painted on the panels of rich wood.

Dressed in a black-and-gray morning suit, Wynn stood waiting for her. His hair shone like gold under the shaft of sunlight, the glowing aura of a knight to the rescue. While she the maiden led a dragon to his door. Her regret cut deeper at involving him in her woes. If he thought anything of regret, he didn’t show it. Together they traversed the short walk down the aisle and stopped before the iconostasis.

He grasped her elbow and leaned close to her ear. “You’re lovely.”

She mumbled a thank-you, or at least she thought she did. The proceedings turned to a haze as the Orthodox priest read the Epistle, repeated in English by the Anglican priest Wynn had asked to come on his behalf. Then the sacred wedding loaf, the blessing with icons, and the placing of the wedding crowns on their heads.

The cup of warm, red wine was then offered with another blessing. Wynn took a sip and passed the cup to her. As she took the cup, her fingers brushed his. He was trembling. The haze rolled back as she realized he was as nervous as she was. Unflappable Wynn who had calmed her distress time and again. Her own nerves stilled and she smiled. He smiled back. Taking the cup, she raised it to her lips.

The front door banged open. Svetlana jumped, sloshing tiny drops of red down the front of her blue silk dress. A shadowy figure inched along the back wall. Too small to be Sheremetev, but no. He would never come himself. He was a man who sent others to do his dirty work.

Wynn tugged on her hand, and she allowed him to lead her around the lectern behind the priest as the final words were spoken and they were consecrated as man and wife.

“Who is that?” Not the most romantic words a bride had first spoken to her groom, but then again most brides probably weren’t being hunted by political radicals or jilted club owners.

Wynn peered at the shadows in which the figure hovered. “A guest?”

“Everyone we invited is here.” Everyone being her mother and Wynn’s friend Gerard from the hospital. Even Mrs. Varjensky’s cheerful presence was missing as she had volunteered to stay with Marina.

“An inquisitive parishioner?”

“I don’t think so.”

Taking both of her hands, he stepped close. Behind him Mama clutched her cross at the impropriety in a church. “You’re safe. He can never harm you again. As Marchioness of Tarltan you are a British citizen now and answer only to British law.” He pressed a kiss to her fingers. “I will keep you safe.”

She nodded numbly, desperately wanting to believe him, but fear lurked deep in her heart. British or not, the Bolsheviks would never respect such laws. They were the enemy of law.

The figure moved into the flicker of candlelight. Tatya. With a breath of relief, Svetlana hurried toward her with Wynn right behind her.

“What are you doing here?”

Tatya looked her up and down before pressing a hand over her own rumpled dress. “Apology no dress up. No fine duchess like you.” She winked at Wynn. “Hello, sir knight. Pozdravlyayu.”

“Spasibo.” Wynn gave a slight bow, his Russian lessons proving themselves at her congratulations. “You’re the lady we met before in the rain.”

Tatya laughed, startling the priests who were talking to Mama and Gerard. “I no lady. If were, no hearing things. Bad things.”

Cold swept through Svetlana. “What things?”

“I come warn. Sheremetev. He know. Get out while can.” Tatya brushed past her.

“Wait!” Svetlana hurried after her and unbuckled the sapphire brooch at her throat, pressing it into Tatya’s gloveless hand. Her fingers were little more than bird claws, frozen from the November wind. “Take this.”

Tatya shoved it back at her. “I no charity.”

“It’s not charity.” Svetlana closed Tatya’s fingers around the expensive piece. The last jewel she owned. “Take it. Get out while you can.”

*  *  *

The wedding feast was a solemn affair with a few pastries and sandwiches allotted by the rations to feed the equally solemn guests as they gathered in Wynn’s Parisian townhouse. More specifically, Château Sable Bleu, which sat a mere stone’s throw from the grand Champs Élysées along the fashionable Rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and belonged to Hugh as one of the many grand homes owned by the Duke of Kilbride. Since the war began, the house had been occupied by a major in Hugh’s regiment and the man’s wife. The major was killed a fortnight ago and the wife had gone back to England, returning the key to the MacCallans once again.

The night Wynn proposed to Svetlana, he’d whisked her here along with her mother, sister, and Mrs. Varjensky while he kept to his bachelor lodgings with the other doctors. That would change now.

“Congratulations, mate,” Gerard said as he put on his hat and coat to meet the bitter November air. “You’ve a charming bride, and I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

“Thank you for coming,” Wynn said. “Listen, I’ve been going over the charts for the influenza cases, and tomorrow I’d like to—”

“Tomorrow you’ll be here with your wife. Leave all hospital problems and thoughts to me.”

“Yes, but there’s—”

“The hospital can survive a few days without your brilliance blinding the patients. If there’s an emergency, I’ll know right where to find you. In the meantime, enjoy being married.”

Wynn’s gaze, heavy with doubt, drifted up toward the bedchambers beyond. “I’ll do my best.”

After seeing out his one and only guest, Wynn instructed the new maid to clear away the remaining food and then attend to her mistress upstairs. Wanting to give Svetlana as much time as she needed, he went to the study and pulled out the list of remaining expenses owed to Sheremetev that he and Svetlana had compiled the night before. Tallying them once more and throwing in a bit extra for cushion, Wynn wrote a cheque to the monstrous boar and signed it with a flourish. He then took out a blank sheet of stationary stamped with the Kilbride ducal seal and added a short note.

This payment hereby honors and discharges all debts owed by the Dalsky family to be paid here in full on behalf of Princess Svetlana MacCallan, Marchioness of Tarltan.

He signed his name at the bottom, relishing the weight of his full title for once.

There. The whole sordid deed was done. He’d have the money delivered to the White Bear first thing in the morning, and then he could begin arrangements for Svetlana and her family to travel to Thornhill. They would be safe at last on his family’s Scottish estate.

Hopefully soon the war would end and he could join them. Maybe start a new medical practice out of Glasgow. He and Svetlana would have to find themselves a new home, one with a large garden for her to plant roses in and for children to play in. He stopped himself at the fanciful dream. He’d promised her this was a marriage in name and appearance only. Yet in time he hoped it would become more. Much more.

Occupying himself for another hour, Wynn finally made his way up the winding staircase to the second-floor landing and knocked on Marina’s door.

Mrs. Varjensky bustled out carrying an empty bowl of soup. She said something and pulled his head down to plant two squishy kisses on both his cheeks. “Golubchik.”

Wynn kissed her back. “Good night, babushka.”

Giggling like a little girl, the old woman clomped down the stairs. Wynn stepped into the room and took quick note of his patient now turned sister-in-law.

“How are you this evening, Marina?”

“Well, thank you.” Marina settled against a fluffy pillow in the oversize bed. “I’m only sorry to have missed the ceremony. But the bride should not have to worry about a fainting sister.”

“The important thing is you’re improving.” He moved closer to the bed. No sweating, clear eyes, pale cheeks, and full breaths. “A few days more and you might be able to move around a bit.”

“I couldn’t do it without Mrs. Varjensky’s nursing. Svetka tries, but she frets too much.” She yawned. “I know you’ll be good to her. She doesn’t think so, but she needs someone to take care of her. Good night. Brother.”

Wynn had moved to the door but stopped at her words. Could he live up to them? He was going to try. “Good night.”

Ascending to the third floor, which was designed as master and mistress suites with a shared common space between them, Wynn hovered outside his door. Should he change and then go see Svetlana? No. She would get the wrong impression if he appeared at her door in pajamas. He could knock on the door of their shared common room. No. That might appear too casual. Before he lost his nerve, he walked down to her door and knocked.

After several long seconds he was met with an, “Enter.”

The room hadn’t changed since he was a boy and his mother ruled as Duchess of Kilbride. Soft lavenders and creams, pillows on every available surface, and silver fixtures that reflected the glow of candlelight. The botany book he’d given Svetlana lay open on the small table next to the bed. To what page he could not see from where he stood in the doorway.

Svetlana turned from where she stood at the window. She’d changed from her wedding attire into a billowy dressing gown complete with out-of-date mutton chop sleeves. To his disappointment her hair remained pinned up. What had he expected? For it to be flowing intimately loose down her back?

He could hope.

She tugged the belt tighter about her waist. “The maid is soaking your mother’s dress. She believes the wine will not stain.”

“Mother hasn’t worn these clothes in over twenty years. I doubt she remembers they’re here. She’d be glad to know they came to good use, though I wish you could have worn the wedding dress you wanted.”

“This was not a usual wedding. I could not have expected anything I wanted.” Color bled to her cheeks. “Forgive me. That is not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant, and you’re right. It wasn’t the wedding I wanted either, but it’s done now.”

“Yes, it’s done now.”

They stood on opposite sides of the room, but the space between them constricted to within the stroke of a single heartbeat. She was wreathed in golden light, illuminating beauty of another world. But she wasn’t of another world. She was here, with him. Claiming his name, and the knowledge of it filled him with awed pride.

She fiddled again with the knotted sash at her waist, breaking the moment. Nervous.

“Won’t you have a seat?”

Eager to put her at ease, he chose the most uncomfortable chair in the room that forced him to sit erect. No draping against pillows or velvet settees.

“Marina looks better this evening. I imagine she should be strong enough to take small strolls around the back garden in a few days.”

“I missed having her at the ceremony today, but I’m grateful you allowed her to come downstairs for the feast. Important moments should be shared with one’s sister.”

“I wish I could have brought her to the church, if only to make you happy.”

“I know.”

He shifted against the chair’s hard back. “I’ve written a cheque to be delivered to Sheremetev in the morning. He has no further reason to pursue the debt.”

“What of his threat about the Bolsheviks? He’s not a man to allow a slight to pass unheeded.” She jerked on the sash, creating another knot. “I would rather face the Reds than marry him.”

“You married me instead.”

Her hands stilled as her eyes flickered to his. “Yes, I did.”

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees in an attempt to appear nonchalant. He felt anything but on this, their wedding night. “As your husband I’m getting you out of France as soon as possible. You and your family will be safe enough on my family’s estate in Scotland.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“As long as this war rages and the injured are brought in, my duties remain here. I will come to you as soon as possible.”

“What will keep Sheremetev from taking out his revenge on you? The danger you have put yourself in because of me—”

“Because you’re my wife.”

“I wasn’t your wife three days ago when you proposed and inadvertently threw yourself into the line of fire.”

“Hardly inadvertently. I knew from the first moment that any relationship with you would be difficult. You don’t make things easy on a man.”

Her eyebrow arched. “You claimed to be a man who appreciates a challenge.”

He smiled. “True, but sometimes a little peace and quiet can be nice too.”

“I seem to have brought anything but peace and quiet to you. You would have been better never having met me.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“No? I’ve offered you nothing in this arrangement. Fake though it is, what good will our union do for you?”

He locked his fingers together as the conversation veered into territory he wasn’t ready to dissect. “You’ve asked me that before.”

“And you gave me a doctor’s answer. Because I needed help. Any number of your patients can say the same thing, but you didn’t marry any of them.”

They’re not as beautiful as you. Nor as fascinating or intellectually stimulating. You alone I wish to know all of me.He could tell her none of that. She’d run out the front door and never look back, and he’d never have the opportunity to woo her properly.

“As I told you the night I proposed, you may think of this as a business transaction offered to you because it was the right thing to do. I can offer you a good position in society where you will lack for nothing and enjoy the comforts to which you are accustomed. And despite your perseverance to convince me otherwise, I enjoy your company and wish to continue doing so.”

“My part in this transaction is companionship?”

“Yes.”

She watched him, waiting to cut apart his answers to find the true meaning behind his words. She’d lived in a shroud of secrecy for too long. Was it any wonder she craved the truth? He wanted her to count on him for that.

“Because I’m drawn to you.”

A simple confession, yet he could not mean it more.

She turned away and faced the window. Whatever response he was hoping for, cold dismissal wasn’t it.

He stood. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

“You haven’t.” She turned back to face him. Her cool reserve dropped as faint pink dusted her cheeks. “In Russia we are not accustomed to sharing such straightforward sentiments. Forgive me if I do not always know how to respond.”

“Honesty. That’s all I ask. In return I’ll be honest with you.”

She nodded. “Honesty between us always.”

Her simple wedding band winked in the candlelight. He longed to kiss it as affirmation of the vows he’d made to honor and protect her. He longed to kiss the tender inside of her wrist, trailing kisses up her arm and over the curve of her shoulder. He longed to press his lips to her throat, feeling her pulse increase as he moved to her jaw and finally to her lips. More than anything he longed to kiss her. His wife. He had every right to, but he wouldn’t violate the tenuous trust between them. He would wait for her.

“Good night, Svetlana.” Gathering his self-control, he crossed to the door.

“Wynn.” He stopped and turned back. She didn’t smile often enough, but now she did. And she was smiling at him. “Thank you.”

Nodding, he stepped into the hallway and closed the door softly behind him, heart nearly beating out of his chest. His wife might like him after all. In the books, November the tenth would go down as the best day of his life.