The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

January 1919

Thornhill Castle

Glentyre, Scotland

Rain drizzled down the diamond-paned windows of the library where Svetlana sat on a bench seat staring out at the waterlogged afternoon. All it did was rain in Scotland, churning the rolling landscape to a blur of gray and green. Though she missed the refinement of city life, there was something about this wild land that eased the tension from her bones. On a rare day when the sun breached from its sleeping habitat behind the thick clouds, she could almost feel a sense of peace. But even that peace could be overtaken with restlessness.

She’d been greeted at the train station as Her Grace, the Duchess of Kilbride, and whisked off to her new home at Thornhill. By Scottish standards the castle was considered substantial with its towering walls of beige sandstone and turrets that reflected its sixteenth-century style, and while it boasted modern amenities and comforts, it was rather utilitarian compared to the opulence of Russian palaces. Her own Blue Palace had three reading rooms designed for nothing beyond the pleasure of whiling away hours reading next to enormous marble fireplaces. Thornhill, on the other hand, had an entire weapons wing lined with ancient armor, shields, swords, bows and arrows, and all other manner of intimidation for killing one’s enemy. And she once thought Russia had a war-infested history. She’d spent the first few weeks wandering the halls and grounds—weather permitting—familiarizing herself with what had become her new duties, yet she felt adrift without an anchor to keep her steady in the changing currents.

“Good gracious. Studying again.” Wynn’s mother, Constance, breezed in with the tails of her gossamer black scarf flapping behind her. Wreathed in mourning, the fluid lines of her gown enhanced her endless motion. “I don’t believe this room had nearly enough attention until you came along.”

Svetlana closed the book on her lap. A history of the county she now called home and its natural resources. Not to mention the vast fortune accrued under the MacCallan name. Wynn had never told her precisely how wealthy they were.

“I want to learn all I can about the MacCallans and Thornhill. The customs and expectations are different from those in Russia.”

“My dear, when you are foreign, you are judged on an entirely different scale than the native population. When my mother came from America as one of the dollar princesses to marry the ninth Duke of Kilbride, the locals didn’t know what to make of her with her optimism and individualistic thinking. She was a fast learner and did quite well, if I do say so myself. And so will you.”

Svetlana ran a finger over the worn leather binding, so similar to the ones lining her father’s study in the Blue Palace. An ache swelled inside her. They used to read them together after dinner. “Treat your people fairly and they will do the same for you,” he would instruct. “Always seek improvement.”

“I’ve been reading on the advances made on the estate over the years, many of which have helped it continue operating when so many great houses are going under due to the economical strain of war. As chatelaine, I should like to continue the work of mutual benefit for Thornhill and our tenants. According to the account books, they’ve been struggling of late— Oh! Forgive me. I did not mean to imply—”

“Save your breath to cool your porridge, my dear, as the Scots would say.” Constance held up a hand and smiled kindly. “I’m perfectly aware that my housekeeping abilities are atrocious. I love this house and the people here, but it’s never been in my blood to stay rooted for too long. Too many wondrous things out in the world to explore. Which is why I’m so delighted you’re here for me to pass the mantle to.”

Svetlana nodded. She’d been preparing for such a mantle her entire life. The Scottishness of it was a bit of a twist, but the foundations of running an estate remained the same no matter the country. Why then did she feel the drowning waters of uncertainty lapping close to her head? Wynn had offered this course of direction to her life as if it were the most natural one to follow. All other options had closed to her and so she’d followed him into marriage to find safe harbor amid the raging storm. Secluded now in that harbor, she was missing the compass that had pointed her here. The anchoring compass that kept her from drifting back into the storm.

She glanced down at the simple gold band wrapping around her finger. He’d bound everything he had into that ring and offered it to her. His name, his money, his protection, his home. He’d given her so much and she’d not returned anything. She covered the band with her fingers, the cold metal warming at her touch. That changed now. She would make herself the best Duchess of Kilbride she could be and bring honor to his name.

Constance swished herself onto the window seat next to Svetlana, crinkling the corner of the open plant book between them, and took Svetlana’s hand. The gold band winked between them.

“When I received Wynn’s message saying he’d married, I was overjoyed. He’s always been a man to love and be loved. I knew he’d never be completely content with a set of scalpels in his hand. He needed a woman to round him out, and here you are. I couldn’t be more proud to have a daughter-in-law such as you.” Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I’m only sad to have missed the wedding.”

Alarmed at the sudden waterworks, Svetlana tried to edge her hand away, but the older woman clung tight as emotion rolled across her face. Should she offer a hankie or a pat on the shoulder? What would Wynn do? Offer a joke. No, she wasn’t good at those. He’d summon courage and meet the discomfort head-on.

“We missed having you there, but with the war on it would have been too dangerous to send for you. It all happened so quickly.”

“As I often told my husband, when you know, you know.” She nodded and sniffed. “Though I don’t think any of us could have known how all of this would come to pass.” Her glassy eyes lifted to a painted family portrait hanging over the fireplace. The brothers looked very much alike, but Wynn held a familiar twinkle in his eyes while his brother’s gaze was calm and steady.

“Was Hugh very different from Wynn?”

With a short laugh Constance finally released Svetlana’s hand and swiped an errant tear from her cheek. “Good gracious, yes. Where Hugh was contemplative, Wynn was inquisitive. Where Hugh nodded and agreed, Wynn questioned. Where Hugh consulted his books, Wynn simply knew on a hunch. But they were brothers through and through. If one was in trouble, the other was right there next to him.”

“Wynn spoke fondly of him.”

“They were the best of friends, but from the beginning they had their roles. Hugh always knew he would inherit one day and modeled that role of responsibility to a T. Wynn, on the other hand, was left to enjoy his freedom. I confess, we may have spoiled him a bit, but he was never one to sit around and wait to be petted. He always had to do. Still does. He’ll never give up if there’s a path worth pursuing.”

“In Russia we call that having the head of a bull.”

“One of his most endearing qualities, but then I suspect you already know that.”

“I’ve noted it a time or two.”

“I don’t know the circumstances of your marriage to my son. Perhaps the whirlwind of a wartime romance that I hope you’ll tell me all about one day. I want you to know how happy I am to have you in our family. With you, the MacCallan name and legacy will live on and Thornhill will thrive once more. These halls may always carry a sadness for me, but you, my new daughter, have brought the beginning of happiness.”

“Happiness,” Svetlana repeated as if the word were foreign to her. It certainly was not a concept she had dwelled on of late. Revolution, murder, and survival tended to block out any pretense of the notion, but coming to Scotland in this new life had swept away the old fears. Happiness and the ability to pursue it no longer had to be denied.

Constance must have noted her hesitation as she patted her arm in understanding. “We all merit a go at it, do we not? Life is too short to let the uncertainties haunt us, and a woman of your strength deserves reasons to smile.”

Warmth rushed through Svetlana. “Thank you, Mother Constance. I hope I am worthy of your praise.”

Her mother-in-law patted her hand, and Svetlana didn’t pull away. “Just be yourself, dear. I can’t ask for more than that.”

“Ask for more than what?” Mama appeared in the doorway, eyes slanting between Svetlana and Constance. She wore a purple gown. Not having personally known Hugh, she declared full black mourning was unnecessary.

Svetlana withdrew her hand from Constance’s and smoothed the black velvet of her skirt. She’d ordered an entire trousseau befitting her newly married station from Glasgow but her mourning clothes from a local seamstress. The woman’s eyes had nearly popped out of her head to have a princess patron her shop. Svetlana decided to place more orders through her in the future to boost the local economy.

“Acceptance into the family.”

“Oh. The Dukes and Duchesses of Kilbid.”

“Kilbride.”

Mama waved her hand as if batting away an unpleasant thought. Wrapping her colorful shawl around her, she meandered into the room and glanced around at the bookshelves and paintings dotting the paneled walls, careful not to touch anything.

“It’s a nice enough title. Dating back to the sixteenth century, did you say? The Dalsky titles were granted by Ivan the Great. Back then such honors were only given to those who performed memorable deeds in the name of Russia. Other countries seem to give them away like candy to greedy children.”

Constance smiled placidly. “How fortunate your family was to acquire one. Or rather, your husband’s family.”

Mama’s eye glinted at being outmatched. Outmatched perhaps, but not outdone. Crossing herself, she drooped onto the velvet settee angled in front of the fire.

“My poor husband. Whatever has become of him? A loyal man who stayed behind to fight to the death so that we might escape. My poor Dmitri. I fear I shall never see him again this side of Heaven.” She crossed herself again.

Svetlana came to her feet and clenched her hands together to keep from shaking her mother. “Mama, please stop doing that. We don’t know that he’s dead. Nor Nikolai. They are the best soldiers in the army.”

“The tsar’s army, which is no more thanks to those murdering zealots.” Mama touched a trembling hand to her head. “To think about it is more than I can bear.”

In a soft rustle of satin and swishing scarf, Constance glided to the bell pull hanging between two potted ferns. “You’re shivering. Allow me to ring for you a pot of tea. It does wonders for the constitution.”

“How kind of you. You do not know the comforts of having servants about once more. All manner of wild ways we’ve been forced to adopt since fleeing our beloved homeland.”

A few minutes later, a footman dressed in a liveried kilt carried in a gleaming tray with a porcelain teapot, cups, saucers, and a small plate of what the British referred to as biscuits. He poured the fragrant brew with expert precision, inquiring as to the preferred amount of sugar and milk, before passing a prepared cup to Mama with his gloved hand.

Mama took a sip and sighed. “How delicate you make your teas here. I suppose that’s to be expected from using those odd pots instead of a proper samovar.”

Constance shook her head as the footman offered her a cup. “Yes, but then it’s a practice from one of the many nations we’ve ruled over the centuries instead of isolating our traditions behind our frozen walls. If you’ll excuse me, I have a few letters to write. The Charity for Wounded Soldiers is meeting here next month and I’ve yet to make a guest list. Svetlana, dear, let’s plan a time after the rain to inspect those overgrown flowerbeds in the back garden. I think your idea for a dacha garden sounds intriguing.” With a twirl of her floating scarf, she left.

Svetlana dismissed the footman, watching the door close behind him with a weary sigh. She wasn’t in the mood for battle, but sensed it coming anyway.

Mama didn’t disappoint. “To think, my daughter has married into that family. How else must we demean ourselves? Dacha garden indeed. You are a princess, not a country farmer.”

“Perhaps I would like to do more with plants than arrange them in pretty vases with my pretty princess hands.” Svetlana took a deep breath. Mama always knew where to prick her. “Constance is a lovely woman who has done nothing but generously invite us into her family.”

“She’s American.” Mama gave her a pointed look as if to say that explained everything wrong in the situation.

“Half American, and it’s not as if we have much leg to stand on. Fugitives with no home.” Svetlana poured herself a cup of tea and moved to stand closer to the fire. The brew was fragrant and warm and tasted of comfort. Unlike that awful concoction she’d prepared for Wynn in Leonid’s apartment. She smiled at the memory. Did he ever think of that day when he’d held her hands?

“Au contraire. You’ve brought us to this place we’re now supposed to call home. As if anyone could live here and like it with all the rain and cold. The weather seeps straight through the stone walls and settles into my bones.”

“Russia was cold.”

“Yes, but we had furs to keep us warm. There it is a crystal cold that sharpens your lungs and brings you to life. Here it wearies the soul to bleakness. Not that you would know much about my troubles. You spend more time with that woman and in this library than you do with me. Even Marina has abandoned me for that old babushka. She had no business coming with us.”

“Mrs. Varjensky has been good to us. I will do no less by her.”

Mama harrumphed and scooted down into the pillows, cradling her steaming cup of tea. “Of course, but why listen to me? I’m not but your mother who raised you as a princess to live in palaces and ride in fine troikas. Surrounding yourself with musty old books is not the habit befitting the lifetime of training I have poured into you.”

“Those days are over, and I refuse to cling to them as you do. We have the chance to start again. Not many of our people were given that.”

“Start again. What does that even mean?”

The unfamiliar sensation of nerves trailed over Svetlana’s next words. “We can rebuild our lives here. You, me, and Marina. Certainly it is different and many of the customs far from our own, but this is a chance to leave the hurts in the past. We cannot continue to carry our past disagreements and hope to thrive.” The wall between them may not tumble in a day after years of sharp words and wounded pride reinforcing the mortar, but it was high enough and she grew tired from the bricks lobbed at one another.

Taking a sip from her teacup, Mama’s eyebrows rose over the rim. “By thrive I am to assume you mean ingratiate ourselves with these people who have welcomed us into the bosom of their backwater hovels.” So much for not flinging bricks.

Placing her delicate cup on the mantle, Svetlana swept an arm up and pointed a toe out in tendu. She would work her way through an entire warm up in a corset if it meant staying calm.

“I am now Duchess of Kilbride. I must learn to find a new way, and that starts by reading all I can about this place and its people because they’re my people now. My responsibility, and I will do what I can for them.” And for Wynn.

“In Russia—”

“In Russia I was only required to sit perfectly, attend the opera, dance at balls, and offer light conversation in powdered drawing rooms. I want more than that. Here, the nobility are expected to participate in charities, provide benefits to their community, and ensure their tenants are looked after. I can make a difference here.”

“Did your husband tell you all of this? To carry on the work while he’s not here?”

Svetlana rose en relevé. Not a week went by without a letter from Wynn giving her all the details of his hospital and the declining rate of soldier patients as they were shipped back home to Blighty. Odd name for England. He’d also mentioned moving back into his old bachelor quarters with Gerard, which she was glad to hear. That townhouse was too large for him to rattle around in by himself. He needed the company of others. Never once did he mention Sheremetev, Leonid, or the White Bear. He always asked if she was settling in well, the health of Marina and Mrs. Varjensky, and a passing greeting to Mama. Every letter was signed “Yours, Wynn.”

Yours. What did that mean? Yours in letter form? Yours most sincerely? Your husband? Yours in belonging? Which did she want him to be?

Toes aching, she lowered to a plié.

“Growing up, you instructed me not to bother my husband with trivial details of home maintenance while he was away. Those details belong to the woman’s domain, you said, so that the man might keep his focus on more important matters.”

“Sergey never would have dropped you in the middle of such a miserable existence only to abandon you. If he hadn’t been dragged off the train platform in Petrograd, he would’ve been in Paris with us. Our lives never would have veered onto such a desolate path.”

Positions forgotten, Svetlana whipped around with enough force for a fouetté. The heat from the fire seared up her back. “Wynn has not abandoned me, nor has he placed me on a desolate path. Every action has proved him honorable.”

“So was Sergey’s.”

“Sergey is not here, and any future I may have had with him is gone. My future is tied to Wynn, and I will honor the agreement made between us.”

Placing her cup down, Mama drew the edges of the shawl around herself and rolled her eyes away from Svetlana. “You sound like your father.”

From anyone else it would have been a compliment, but not from Mama. She never appreciated a stance against her desire to bend wills. “Is that so terrible? Father is a good man. Honorable and strong.”

“Most think so until it overshadows your marriage. Mark my words, you’ll find out there is truth in my words soon enough.”

The heat waving across Svetlana’s back weaved into her blood. “Why do you dislike Wynn so? After everything he’s done for us, you still treat him as second best.”

Mama notched her chin up, still not meeting her daughter’s eyes. “Wynn wasn’t my choice.”

“No, he’s mine.”

“Choice for what?” The deep male voice cut through the throbbing tension like a welcome shot of relief.

Svetlana spun around to find her dripping-wet husband standing in the doorway. Never had a sight been so joyful.

“Wynn. You’re home.”