The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

Every chandelier in Thornhill blazed with light to warm the stone walls and walnut floors like an ancient oil poured out as anointment for the charity bazaar. The elegant tapestries and glowing candles wrapped the affluent guests in rich comfort as they entered from the frigid night. Gift-laden tables set out for the silent auction were available to peruse while a small orchestra played lively tunes from Tchaikovsky, Stravinksy, and Rachmaninoff. The world may still eye Russia with distrust, but Svetlana wasn’t about to allow the same for its music. Such superiority needed to be heard by all.

Svetlana slipped among her mingling guests and into the dining room where delicacies from shortbread and some kind of oat flattened cakes called bannocks—which Constance assured her were a must at any Scottish gathering—to Russian peasant savories of vatrushaka and pelmeni covered the long dining table in artful arrangements.

Marina came to stand next to Svetlana. With her curled hair pinned atop her head and pearls dangling from her ears, Marina had bloomed overnight into a woman. If they had been home and life had continued as planned, her baby sister would have been presented in court before the tsar and tsarina with suitors standing in line to beg for the first dance. Such things belonged to dreams of the past, but at least they had awoken to a future together.

“I believe Mrs. Varjensky has found her true calling. She was destined to be a caterer.” Marina tilted her chin to indicate the small figure across the room.

The old woman was dressed in a simple but elegant black gown with no adornment other than the lacey shawl Svetlana had given her held together in the front with the matryoshka brooch from Wynn. Standing next to the table, she snagged whoever went by and pointed out all the food choices to them while loading up a plate and practically shoveling the food into their mouths. If the person didn’t immediately groan with taste-bud ecstasy, Mrs. Varjensky would reach for another sample to force on them.

“I found her offering Lord Barrow an oil to massage the lump on his forehead,” Svetlana said. “She claimed the protrusion was caused by a kiss from the devil. Thank goodness he didn’t speak Russian.”

Two women dripping in jewels strolled by and congratulated her on the splendid evening. Svetlana thanked them for coming before allowing herself to take in the other fashionable guests. Smiles and laughter rippled through the soft strains of music and clinking plates. Perhaps they had only come to see the new Russian princess curiosity, but they had come and that was as good a starting place as Svetlana could hope for.

“They’re right. Everything looks splendid tonight. You’ve outdone yourself, Svetka,” Marina said.

“Mama’s party-planning sessions have finally paid off. I’ve been able to put my skills to good use.”

“Anyone with enough money and wine can put together a party, but you’ve done something more. You’ve created an event that exceeds its premise. The guests are excited to be here, unlike all those painted-on expressions of regal boredom drowning in the palaces back home.”

“You forget: we were those bored people.”

“Not anymore. People are having a good time.” Marina’s smile encompassed the room.

“I think they’re all simply curious to see the russkiye. Maybe I should have hired Cossack dancers to really give them a show.”

“No, I think they’re here to see the new Duchess of Kilbride. This mysterious princess from the east with her strange accent and even stranger family in tow. ‘Do they really dine on bear and cabbage?’ they’re probably asking.” Horror flashed across Marina’s face. “Mrs. Varjensky didn’t make bear and cabbage pirozhki, did she?”

“With the way people are going back for seconds, I doubt it. Then again, they are Scottish, and Wynn informed me the cuisine here is all based on a dare.” Svetlana absently plucked at the cream lace on her sleeve, her thoughts drifting far beyond questionable food. “I only hope this evening reflects well on Wynn. He hasn’t been the same since his brother died, which is understandable, but then the death of his patient too. He needs something to lift his spirits.”

Grief touched souls differently, often lingering longer in some. She was by no means an expert on Wynn’s handling of personal sensitivities, but she sensed a change rooting deeper than the loss of his brother. Tension marked his moves and smiling seemed an afterthought. More than once she’d caught him staring off into the distance as if a war raged in his mind. When she asked him about it, he would shake his head and assure her nothing was amiss. But the smile he offered wasn’t from the Wynn she knew.

Since that day in the auto so many weeks ago, he hadn’t tried to kiss her again. In fact, he hadn’t done more than brush her shoulder in passing. Was he regretting his hasty declaration of wanting to move forward with her? Without the stresses of wartime binding them together, was he regretting their marriage? Was that the change he was hiding from her? An ache filled her chest as the fragile foundation they’d built continued its shift.

“I’m certain this party is just the thing to lift his spirits. Think of how much money you’ll raise tonight for the training center,” Marina continued. How blessed was youth without adult worries to tint its optimistic view. “I can’t wait to help with the nursing courses. If there’s one good thing that came from that wretched influenza, it’s knowing we need more nurses on hand. Do you think they’ll let me qualify early?”

“Hospitals have their age requirements, but don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll still need nurses when you turn eighteen.”

“What good is having a top surgeon for a brother-in-law if he can’t bend the rules a little?” Marina grumbled.

“Patience, kotyonok. Your time will come.”

“Time for what? Cats?” Wynn materialized as if summoned. His hair, customarily waved and loose in opposition to the dictates of fashion, was slicked to the side with a sheen that darkened it to brown, with his eyes following suit.

“Kitten,” Marina corrected with a giggle as she eyed Wynn’s knee-baring ensemble. “More important, what is that?”

“A kilt. It’s traditional Highland dress for formal gatherings.”

Svetlana frowned. “We are in the Lowlands, are we not? Perhaps I do not understand the boundaries of your country as well as I presumed.”

“No, you’re correct.” Wynn adjusted the thick material pleating over his shoulder. “Traditionally, Lowlanders follow English standards of dress, but a few decades back, when King George became the first monarch to visit Scotland in nearly two centuries, organized by Sir Walter Scott, I might add, his regal vision was assaulted by tartan pageantry. The visit was a roaring success, blurring the lines between Highland and Lowland and declaring the plaid and kilt part of Scotland’s national identity. It’s a grievous sin now not to wear one. Thus, I am the tartan-draped man before you.”

He wasn’t the only man wearing one, but he certainly outshone all the others with his air of captured ruggedness. He tugged on the finely cut black jacket with its shining gold buttons, setting off the crisp white shirt and black waistcoat beneath. Svetlana had glimpsed the national garb worn by his ancestors—with great swaths of material looped over their shoulders and long eagle feathers blooming from their caps—in the portraits hung along the upstairs corridors. Seeing it in person was a thrill she could not anticipate. Men wore nothing like this in Russia. If they did, they would most certainly freeze. Hardy indeed were the men of Scotland. And this one was hers.

“I haven’t worn this rig in ages and now I remember why, but it befits a duke, I suppose.” A cloud passed over his face. It lasted but a second yet long enough to show the varying facets of his inner struggles.

Not knowing how else to show her support, Svetlana took a step closer and brushed her arm against his. “Very handsome.”

At her touch his expression softened as he looked at her. “And very bonny, as we say here in Scotland. The MacCallan colors suit you.”

A blush rose to Svetlana’s cheeks as she smoothed a hand over the shoulder sash woven in blue-and-green tartan pinned to her purple dress of half-mourning. “Your mother suggested it. As befitting the Duchess of Kilbride.”

“She was right.” His gaze warmed over her face. Butterflies pirouetted through Svetlana’s stomach. He’d looked at her this way before, but each time deepened the degree of intimacy, as if each time he unlocked a new part of her for his eyes only.

“Ahem. People are starting to stare.” Marina cleared her throat, effectively clearing Svetlana’s light-headedness. “Little wonder. You look stunningly perfect together.”

An old familiar grin crossed Wynn’s face. “You’re right. My wife is stunning. What say we shame all the other couples on the dance floor as well?”

Taking Svetlana’s hand, Wynn led her across the Stone Hall and into the Grand Hall with its polished dance floor and mirrored walls. The vaulted ceiling provided the perfect canopy to catch the orchestra’s swelling notes and float them back down to the dancing couples. Wynn swept her into his arms and around the floor to a minuet in A-flat. The last time she’d danced to this was with a Bayushevy prince from Moscow. He’d lumbered like a bear in the middle of hibernation. Wynn wasn’t the lightest on his feet, but her body moved as one with his as if it had been waiting for his direction all along.

The composition moved to Tchaikovsky’s waltz from The Sleeping Beauty. With no addition of brass, the strings and harp awoke from their slumber to unearth soaring melodies of longing and love’s first blush.

“I danced to this at my first ball,” Svetlana said as the hem of her gown floated around her ankles like flower petals on water, drifting her away to another time and place where memories misted with romance.

“You were enchanting.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I didn’t have to be. Your beauty needs no bearing of witness for me to know the spell you wove.” He angled his head so his mouth brushed her ear. “If I’m not careful, your magical feet will carry me right out of here.”

His soft breath feathered along her ear and down her neck, encouraging her to brush her cheek against his, but it was his voice, low and raw, that spiraled through her insides until she hummed with every word.

The music bounced in the background as other dancers blurred around them. Her hand tightened on Wynn’s shoulder. “Carry you to where?”

“Let’s find out.”

He whirled her off the dance floor. Holding hands, they slipped between guests, who cast curious looks after them. Svetlana kept her expression serenely neutral despite the urge in her feet to take flight, to leave behind these people tethered to the earth and dance among the stardust with Wynn.

“Wynn. There you are.” Constance’s voice snagged them as they turned from the Stone Hall. Dressed in an ethereal half-mourning gown of mauve chiffon, she glided from the library with a rotund man on her gloved arm. “This is Mr. Dixon. He’s on the administrative board at Edinburgh Hospital and heard a great many things about you while serving in the African campaign during the war. Mr. Dixon, allow me to present my son and his wife, the Duke and Duchess of Kilbride.”

“My dear Duke and Duchess. An honor.” Voice booming as if he were still in the war and trying to overcome gunfire, Mr. Dixon swept a low bow, or as low as he could, considering his protruding belly. With round, red cheeks and whiskers sweeping down his jaw, he resembled a Dickens character. “Fought in the war, did you?”

Svetlana tried to tug her hand back and stand in a more proper position, but Wynn held tight. “No, sir. I served as a noncombatant doctor in Paris. My brother, Hugh, fought.”

“Ah, yes. I recall reading about him in the paper. Wretched shame that. Too many fine losses. My condolences.”

Wynn’s mouth pressed tight for a second, a telltale of the sadness prickling him. “Thank you.”

Mr. Dixon sipped his port and waited a polite beat of silence. “Would have liked to have been in Paris myself, but the army sent me where they needed me. Hot, dry, and unintelligible languages thrown at me from all sides. Last time I put on an army uniform.” He laughed, straining the buttons down his waistcoat. It was a wonder he’d been able to don the uniform to begin with. “Then again, we medical men go where care is needed most. Am I right, Your Grace?”

“You certainly are.”

“While I was down there sweating my—” Mr. Dixon coughed at Constance’s raised eyebrow. “Well, being uncomfortably hot, I read about the surgery you performed on that lieutenant. Harper, was it?”

Wynn’s hand clenched. “Harkin.”

“Harkin, yes. What a revelation. A breakthrough that you credited in your write-up to having first been performed during the Battle of Cambrai. Do you realize what this means for the future of medicine? Components we long considered a mystery to science are finally being explored with the importance they deserve. You, my dear boy, are the tip of the spear.”

Dropping Svetlana’s hand, Wynn crossed his arms. An invisible shield lodged into place. “Aye, well, I can only hope that the field of cardiology pushes onward as misconceptions are broken.”

“It will! It most certainly will. What with men like you driving the charge. Those stodgy old dust bins have had their time. We need fresh blood to take risks, to give patients a fighting chance. Edinburgh Hospital is poised to take its rightful place among the greatest in the country. We need a man of vision like you to push our skills to the edge of capability. What do you say? Come and work with us. Be our tip of the spear.”

“I thank you for the compliment of asking me, but I must decline. Forgive me.” Jaw clenched, Wynn pivoted on his heel and receded down the darkened hall.

Svetlana’s heart ached after him, but she kept a polite smile on her face. “Mr. Dixon, you and your hospital do my husband a tremendous honor. Perhaps upon further reflection he will reconsider your offer. In the meantime, please enjoy yourself. We have a wonderful selection of delicacies and fine wines in the dining room, and don’t forget to make your bids in the silent auction. There is a pair of Spanish crafted basket-hilted swords that may be of interest. Excuse me, please.”

Leaving behind a puzzled Constance and Mr. Dixon, Svetlana swept down the corridor as apprehension hammered her heart. That wasn’t Wynn back there. That was a stranger who had stood with wounded confidence instead of seizing an opportunity of passion presented to him on a golden platter.

She found him in the solarium. An addition made to Thornhill when Constance was first mistress, the octagonal space was fitted with glass walls stretching to a central high point. Cold starlight bathed the room blue while the scent of potted ferns spiced the air, her maidenhair prize among them. It had taken happily to its new home, spilling its bright green fronds over the pot rim and stretching its roots deep into the rich soil she’d layered around it. It would take time before it was fully grown, but with enough care and solace the plant would flourish.

Wynn stood against the far wall, his arm leaning against the glass as he stared into the darkness of the moor rolling behind the castle.

“I’ve made my decision.” His breath fogged the glass.

It was foolhardy to ask him to reconsider. Once his mind was made up there was no changing its course. If nothing else, she’d learned that about him from the start. Of course, there was nothing stopping her from telling him what a fool he was for turning the offer down, but even that honesty died as she stepped farther into the room and noticed the downward slant of his shoulders. Shoulders that had always been carried erect and with purpose. It seemed he’d shrugged purpose off.

All her questions narrowed to one. “Why?”

“I’m not the man for the job.”

“Clearly they believe you are.”

“Then they’re mistaken. There are plenty of other well-qualified surgeons who could take on the position.”

“The hospital would have gone to them if that were true, but they came to you because you are the best. You do not fear what is right for your patients when your colleagues would leave them to the fickle hands of Fate and old medicine. As if castor oil did anyone any good.”

His blunt fingertips tapped against the glass. “You must have missed the article in Medical Now about the ten benefits it provides.”

“I doubt it can cure a bullet to the heart.” She moved closer, the thin heels of her shoes ticking across the flagstone floor. “Why did you say no?”

“It’s no longer my path.”

“Surgery has always been your path.”

His fingertips tapped harder. “And now being Duke of Kilbride is. You said it yourself.”

“I said you cannot abandon one for the other. This has nothing to do with taking on a title. Something happened to you the day you discovered Harkin died. You shut yourself off, and now you are trying to force yourself into a mold that you would rather not be cast in.”

He whirled around. The blue light slashed across his face, digging into the hollows and hardening the planes until they looked sharp enough to cut.

“But I don’t have a choice, do I? This title is what I am now.”

“It is not all you are. You are a surg—”

“It is all I am.”

Anger crackled through her. She flattened her hand at her side to keep from slapping sense into him. “What has happened to you? What has caused you to turn your back on the very thing that gives you purpose beyond all else?”

“You couldn’t possibly understand.”

“Then tell me! Help me understand. Ever since we returned from Glasgow I feel as if I have been dancing a pas de deux with a shadow partner.” As soon as the words tumbled from her mouth she realized the truth in them. She didn’t want to stand solo any longer, posture erect and footsteps precise as audiences waited for her to tumble under the spotlight. She wanted this man to whirl her onto their own private stage.

“I don’t know what a paw de doe is, but I’ve been right here all along.”

“In body, perhaps. Every other part of you exists somewhere I cannot reach. As if no one can reach you. What troubles take you so far away?”

“My troubles are not worth burdening you.”

“But I have been burdened, have I not? I simply do not know with what.”

“What is it you wish to hear?” He paced away, slashing a hand through his combed hair. “That my brother’s death has left a gaping hole in me? That I’m not the surgeon I once glorified myself to be? That any time I hold a scalpel there’s fear of a Harkin repeat?”

“Your brother’s death will stay with us always. There is nothing to be done but grieve and remember him. As for Harkin, what happened was not your fault.”

“He was my patient! Everything that happened to him was a result of me.”

“This God-like complex does not serve you well. Have you stopped to consider that the operation went perfectly and an unrelated event caused his ultimate demise? If you think everything ties back to you, you’re more egotistical than I originally credited you with.”

She’d never witnessed this side of him, and while it terrified her, she saw the pain of an infested wound oozing from him. One he seemed unable to patch himself, and that difficulty most likely hurt him all the more.

“A blow has been delivered, Wynn. Several. Reeling from the shock is to be expected, but you cannot stay that way forever. At some point you need to pick the pieces back up and move on, otherwise it is a life half lived.”

The pleats of his kilt flared as he pivoted on his heel, dark shadows breaking the fall of blue moonlight. “And if this is the life I now choose?”

“I do not believe that. This is the life you’re wallowing in. A pathetic submission that is below your standards. You try to hide your misery, but I see it in the cracks of your smile. The dullness in your eyes where fire once shone. Even your banter has fallen flat of late.”

“No need to kick a man when he’s down,” he mumbled.

“I am not trying to kick you. I am trying to help you.”

“By pointing out everything I’m doing wrong?”

“By pointing out that you do not need to hide. Not from me.” She stepped in front of him. He flinched at her closeness but didn’t move. She took that as encouragement. If the truth was coming out, it might as well be all of it. “When we first met, trust was a nonnegotiable after the things I had been through. I feared for my life every second, jumping at the slightest noises, waiting for the black gloves to seize me in my bed at night. Then I met you. Kind, considerate, and always trying to make me smile all the while I eyed you with suspicion. I fought against it, but you earned my trust, and now I can rest knowing I’m safe. Because of you, Wynn. Will you honor me now with your trust?”

Pain still trembled in his eyes, but his waves of anger stilled. His shoulders sagged as he looked to the floor. “I don’t deserve you.”

“I know, but here we are.”

His gaze flickered up to catch her smile. He raised his hand and drew his thumb across her cheek and along her jaw. “I cannot stand to lose you, not now, but if you truly knew— If you truly knew, I fear you might think less of me. My pride as a man could not handle that, and with that confession you can see how fragile my ego is.” He tried to laugh, but there was no humor to be found in the admission.

“What is pride between us as long as there is trust?” She touched his hand, holding it to her cheek. “I wish to know all of you, as you have seen me. Even the fearful parts.”

He took a deep breath, summoning the words. “In Glasgow—”

“Pardon the intrusion, Your Graces, but the auction is about to begin.” Glasby stood in the doorway, polished shoes reflecting the moonlight. He’d kept to his impeccable white tie and black tails instead of donning a kilt.

Wynn raked another impatient hand through his hair, standing it up like quills. “Stall them. Bring out more wine and whisky if you have to. I need a moment with my wife.”

“I would, sir, but the duchess’s mother has other ideas.”

Dread flooded Svetlana, drowning all concern for what Wynn had been about to say. “What has she done?”

“It’s more what she’s threatening to do.” Glasby’s expression remained professionally bland. A credit in this unusual household. “Princess Ana wishes to make a speech. I believe she has sampled each of the bottles of scotch.”

“We need to stop her before she finds a captive audience.”

Wynn must have realized the state of his hair, for his hands flew to it, attempting to squash it back into a semblance of order. “How much damage can she do?”

“Do you remember that time you had to carry her from the carriage to the church in Paris? That was on one bottle of champagne.”

“I see your point.”

They hurried out of the solarium and into the Stone Hall where Svetlana’s mother stood three steps up on the grand staircase flapping her arms as if to entice the drawing crowd closer. Having declared it unnecessary to mourn for a man she’d never met, she’d dressed in green silk with emerald accessories liberally borrowed from Svetlana’s jewelry box. Jewelry Wynn had presented her with as duchess.

“Ladies and gentlemen, or in Russian we say damy i gospoda, welcome to Thorphill. Pardon, Thornhill. Home of the dukes of my son-in-law.” Mama smiled with the generous cheer of spirits. “I hope you all have been having a splendid time—I know I have—but there is one question I have for all of you. Why must it rain here so much? In Russia I do not recall it raining nearly as much. What you lack in pleasant weather you more than make up for in drink.” She tipped a crystal-cut tumbler to her red-painted lips.

Wynn covered the three steps in one long stride. “Thank you, Princess Ana. Always a delightful addition to any gathering.”

Mama elbowed him. “I wasn’t finished welcoming our guests.”

Wynn ignored her. “If everyone would like to grab a final glass before we start the auction, now is the time to do so. Otherwise, please be patient while the tallies are made. Remember that all of your generous proceeds will go toward new construction on a training center for education and work experience for those most affected by the war’s suffering.”

Applause rounded the room, echoing off the smooth stones that amplified it to thunder. Svetlana eased a tremulous pent-up breath. What a tremendous moment for their community, one she was so delighted to share with Wynn. A task they were taking on together. He may have deceived himself into thinking he was no longer vital to the medical world—a view she was determined to change—but in no way could he deny the good he was doing this night. May it prove to be the push he needed.

A disturbance rippled from the back of the crowd. A head bobbed closer and closer until the press of guests peeled back to reveal a ghost. Curly hair black as a Siberian night, trimmed mustache, tall and slim with long limbs accustomed to climbing in and out of carriages before palaces. Eyes so dark Svetlana could drown in them. And they were pinned directly on her.

“Sergey?” Mama called as if from a long distance away, barely registering as Svetlana fuzzily tried to piece together the apparition before her. It wasn’t possible.

Sergey’s ghost strode toward her. Svetlana didn’t have time to speak before his arms were around her, dipping her backward, and his mouth devouring hers, proving he was very much alive.

She froze. This wasn’t happening.

Righting her, Sergey pulled back and beamed a smile that outshone the moon.

“Hello, Svetka. I told you I would come, lyubimaya.”

“My love.”Disorientated, Svetlana shook her head as her gaze skittered around the hall in search of Wynn. Where was her unchanging mark as the night slanted sideways? Around her the crowd of guests murmured with what was surely to be tomorrow’s gossip. How could she explain?

She frantically searched the crowd. At last her eyes slammed onto her husband standing rooted to the steps. She caught one glimpse of the horror paling his face before the crowd surrounded her and Sergey, swallowing them whole.