The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

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 commander 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 from 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.

“I don’t know yet.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Did you wake up one morning and think, Gee, guess I’ll get married today. Nothing better to do. You at least like her, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course. Most of the time, when she’s not trying to freeze me out, but if you can get past that you can see how special she is. I’ve never met anyone like her.”

“I do believe that you, Dr. MacCallan, are smitten.”

“Don’t tell my wife. She’s already suspicious of me, and that’s on our good days.”

“Isn’t your wife the one person you’re supposed to tell?”

“I don’t want to scare her off this early in the relationship. I need more time before I spring it on her.”

“A wooing. How perfectly romantic.”

“Have you been reading the nurses’ dime novels again?”

“Sometimes there’s not much to do on these long shifts, and I have to keep myself occupied, but don’t change the subject. How do you propose to woo your wife and capture her heart when you’re in two different countries?” Gerard tapped his pointy chin. “Come to think of it, in Letters to a Sweetheart, Millicent and George find love via writing letters. Like pen pals. Now that was a satisfying read.”

It wasn’t worth the repeated argument to question his friend’s reading taste. Gerard would storm off only to return with an armload of books to prove his point that Lost Together in Venice and Capturing the Untamed Heart were as important to read as any medical journal. Wynn could barely keep a straight face when he started orating on sheiks and lost desert princesses.

“My stint here in Paris is over by the end of the year—a week from now. Then it’s a Blighty ticket for me. I’ve already written to a few hospitals in Glasgow inquiring about a position.”

“Wish I was going with you, but it’s a few more months until I see England again. I suppose you’re eager to get home and set up Svetlana as the new duchess— Oh, I’m sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to sound crass in the wake of your loss.” Gerard ducked his head, berating himself under his breath. “A terrible thing for me to say.”

Pain stabbed Wynn’s chest as Hugh’s ghost flitted before him. He’d written to Wynn at the beginning of summer saying he hoped to find a wife once the war was over. His preference was a brunette. Wynn had written back saying they would scour the breadth of England until he found his brother the perfect wife with a postscript not to discount blondes.

“Svetlana will make a grand duchess. She was born for it.” He swallowed against the tide of emotion threatening to take him under. “One of us had to be.”

“Aw, Wynn. You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

“That’s because the second son never had to. Not when it comes to running an estate. I’m not a title; I’m a surgeon. I’ve put my entire life into medicine. It’s the only thing I want to do.”

“Who says you can’t?”

“It’s not the way it’s done. Lords of the manor are expected to be just that and nothing more. Overseeing property, collecting rent from the tenants, heading up charities. A lifetime of servitude to duty.” The knowledge of what awaited him at Kilbride extended its shackling weight day by day. By the time he reached his beloved shores of Scotland, would he be able to lift his feet, or would the weight drown him? “If anything good could come of this war, I hope it’s a break in the chains of tradition where men are allowed to carve out their own paths instead of adhering to those laid for them. If a clergyman’s son like you has the right to become a renowned physician, why not a duke?”

Gerard blushed to the roots of his hair. Too many in their profession looked down on him because of his humble roots, but Wynn saw that it kept him grounded and pushed him to work harder than all those who lived life on a silver platter.

“Careful with that talk or they’ll have you pinned as a zealot. Next thing you’ll be campaigning for women’s votes.”

“Women make up half of the world’s population. They should have a voice in how it spins.”

“Come off that talk. Bad enough the entire medical board is buzzing like hornets about your cardiological theories.”

“The heart must be made into its own specialized study if we ever want to achieve proper understanding of its anatomy and physiology for the betterment of treatment.”

Gerard threw up his hands in surrender. “No need to lecture me. I was there when you set them all off.”

“Not all. Dr. Lehr has been sending me case studies of undiagnosed pulmonary—”

“I know. The folders have toppled onto my desk now. Including that request for an interview from the British Medical Journal. You still keep in touch with Harkin?”

Wynn nodded. “He’s back in London now. I wrote and asked if he would like to be part of the interview with me. It could offer a unique and often overlooked view from the patient that’s imperative for surgeons to understand.”

The ward door opened, and one of the junior doctors fresh from school stuck his head in. The new ones were easy to spot. Their noses twitched the air like mice stepping outside for the first time in six years. He scurried over and dropped his voice to a whisper.

“Dr. MacCallan, those X-rays are ready for you to view.” They were also sent on errands that senior doctors shrugged off to the nurses, like conveying messages between the floors.

“Coming,” Wynn said. The young doctor scurried off and Wynn turned to leave. A dripping red star flashed in his head. “Sure you don’t mind me bunking in with bachelors again? That townhouse is too big for me, and I’m hardly there enough to justify keeping it open.” Open where ghosts were left to roam and strange men prowled in the shadows. Neither would he mention to Gerard. His friend had the heart of a lion, but it was an unnecessary burden to put on him. If there was trouble, Wynn could handle it without endangering his friend.

“Sure. I saved your bed for you. It’ll be like old times.”

Wynn offered a smile, but it soured in his stomach.

“Like old times.”Except that everything had changed.