The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

One year later

Carpets of purple heather bloomed in the growing twilight as the Rolls Royce pulled up to the newly constructed entrance of Harkin Hospital, the county’s first and only self-sustaining medical center. Svetlana stepped out of the back of the motor car and smoothed the front of her white-and-green striped dress. She was still growing accustomed to the ankle-revealing hemlines, but women all over the world reveled in the looseness of post-war fashion. There was even talk of doing away with corsets altogether, but she wasn’t quite ready for that. A woman needed her shape, after all.

She stared up at the freshly painted limestone building with a surge of pride. They had done it. She and Wynn had accomplished something greater than themselves, something they never could have done on their own. It had humbled them both to gratefulness.

Inside, the white tile floors gleamed brilliantly under the newly installed electric lights as the unique smell of disinfectant and bleached linen permeated the air. Her eyes had watered at first from the strong concoction, but it was one of the many things she’d grown accustomed to as the wife of a physician.

“Good evening, Yer Grace,” the front desk receptionist said. Dressed in pristine white with a smart cap atop her head, the young woman was one of the newly graduated nurses from the nursing course offered at the old sugar mill that had been remodeled into a learning establishment. Many of the village girls applied, and several had gone on to be offered positions as far away as Glasgow and Edinburgh while more still opted to remain in Glentyre to be closer to their families.

“Good evening, Nurse Drummond. How is little Lorna?”

“Fine as dew on a lamb’s ear, Yer Grace. Loving the children’s wing, she is.”

Another addition located at the rear of the hospital—an entire wing dedicated to children. The upper floor was for the sick, and the lower provided a nursery of sorts for children whose parents were taking courses or worked all day. It was headed by none other than Katie MacKinnon who had flourished in her training to become a shining example for superintendents. She had revolutionized the service into one of happiness and fun for the children and one of relief for parents who could now go to work unfettered knowing their children were well cared for.

“I’m delighted to hear that.”

Nurse Drummond reached below her desk and pulled out a small posy tied with a red ribbon. “’Tis not much, and sorry we are without the grandness ye’re used to, but a few of us mithers wanted to thank ye proper. The war took all we had, most of us our men, but we’ve a chance now to provide for our families. Ye championed us, Duchess, and we’re ever so grateful.”

Svetlana bent her head to smell the tiny yellow-and-white flowers, taking the humbling moment to blink back the emotion washing her eyes. “Thank you for the honor of allowing me to do so.”

The nurse beamed, then remembered her station and grabbed a clipboard hanging from the wall. “Dr. MacCallan is still in the operating theater. Auld man McGillum ran a saw across his leg out cutting the wood. I’ll be telling him ye arrived when he comes out. The doctor, not auld man McGillum.”

“Thank you. He may find me next door at the Bear.”

The Bear, Glentyre’s newest pub, was connected to the hospital by an outdoor covered corridor that passed through a garden Svetlana had single-handedly planted with white roses, purple hyacinths, and yellow kingcups that perfumed the soft spring gloaming. A short wicker fence cornered off a back section for the dacha garden that provided the Bear and the hospital with fresh vegetables, which were rotated out according to season. Once unclaimed and without roots, the ground and its harvest now flourished to their own free will. As did she.

In the center of the garden stood Constance’s monument dedicated to all the Glentyre Tommies who had served in the war, their names, including Hugh’s, carved for all to remember.

Pushing through the Bear’s heavy oak door, Svetlana stepped into a large room with thick stone and wood-paneled walls, flickering candles, and gas-lit sconces. A long bar ran the length of one wall, which sparkled with dozens of glass bottles ready for pouring. A fiddler and bodhrán player sat in a corner, plucking and drumming to the enjoyment of the patrons who sat at small round tables piled high with beer mugs and empty plates. Svetlana inhaled the rich scents of cabbage, venison, baked brown bread, and potatoes. Russia filled the air.

“Angel, you are here!” The Bear’s proprietor, Leonid himself, barged out of the kitchen through a set of swinging doors. He’d grown thicker around the middle, but life exuded from his every pore. “Come! Come sit.”

Svetlana weaved her way over to him. “I cannot. I’m waiting for Wynn.”

“He is up to elbows in blood and knives. We wait. Sit. Sit!”

With no other option than to do as she was told, Svetlana accepted the offered chair he pulled out for her at their usual table. “Something smells delicious.”

“New recipe.” He turned and barked at one of the servers. None of his staff understood a single word of Russian, but all they had to do was serve their customers food and drink and their boss would be happy. As the server ran back into the kitchen, Leonid plopped into the chair next to Svetlana. “Babushka is making pelmeni with herring caught in the lake—loch? da?—she says addition came to her in dream. I think is vodka inspired, but you taste. Tell the truth.”

“Don’t I always?”

“Da, that is why you official taste test. You tell the truth. You I trust. Mac, not so much. Everything babushka makes he likes.”

“Which is precisely why his trousers have grown too tight since you opened this place and took on Mrs. Varjensky to oversee the cooking.”

“Da, my dream come true. Own place, own rules. No dead bodies.”

“It’s the only establishment in Scotland to serve Russian cuisine. You should be very proud.”

Proud didn’t begin to describe Leonid’s attitude. His father had been arrested and the White Bear closed, but he’d had no desire to return to Paris and so had embarked on a lifetime dream of starting his own establishment right there in Glentyre. Everyone in the village knew him, though how anyone could not know of the larger-than-life Russian strutting about was beyond comprehension. He’d taken samples of his vodka and cabbage rolls into every shop until he’d made loyal customers out of each of them. Once they’d overcome their initial terror of him, that is.

“Where is goddaughter? Has been two days since seeing my kroshka. She will not remember me.”

The little crumb had arrived three months and one week ago to the joyous delight of her family. Particularly Wynn, who was wrapped around Anastasia’s tiny little finger. No matter how tired he was from a day at the hospital, he always made time for his wee girl.

“She is at home sleeping. Or she’s supposed to be. Her grandmothers and aunt make her smile too much instead of keeping to a nap schedule.”

“Stasia loves me best. I come tomorrow for visit so she no longer forgets me. I will bring name day gift.”

“Her name day celebration is months away.”

“I will bring gift then too. You want to know what I bring tomorrow?” His eyes widened like a child’s at Christmas waiting for Dedt Moroz. “Proper samovar. Too long you are without. I have her name carved on it so all will know it belongs to Stasia from beloved godfather. She will drink proper tea now.”

“I have no doubt she will treasure it always.” The Lady Anastasia Edwynnovna MacCallan couldn’t find the end of her nose, much less a teacup, but Svetlana wasn’t about to spoil Leonid’s joy.

The server came bustling back to the table with a loaded platter of sautéed dumplings and presented it to Svetlana. Peeling off her white netted gloves as per dining etiquette, she forked one of the delicacies and brought it to her mouth. Chewing, she tasted the fire-cooked fish flaked apart with a savory hint of rosemary. She set down her fork and dabbed at her mouth with a clean napkin.

“A dash of salt would bring out the smokiness.”

Leonid slapped the table, startling the nearby customers. “That is what I say. ‘Overwhelming the herbs,’ babushka says. I let her in kitchen once and now she thinks in charge.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t allow her in the kitchen anymore.”

“Nyet. She is the best cook in Scotland. They eat sheep guts before we come.”

The infamous haggis. Svetlana shuddered. Who would have thought Mrs. Varjensky, a self-imposed head cook who sold herbal medicines on the side, or often to inebriated patrons, would become the cuisine savior of Scotland?

The fiddler and bodhrán player finished their set and a vibrating balalaika came to take their place to the anticipatory applause of the drinking patrons. Leonid had traveled as far as London to find a Russian musician so the sleepy villagers of Glentyre could appreciate true culture. On Friday and Saturday nights the musician’s wife joined him as a singer and dancer. What would begin as a tribute to Mother Russia would eventually spiral into a wash of vodka and whisky for a rioting celebration of Celtic and Slavic proportions.

The side door opened and in strode Wynn looking more confident and content than she’d ever seen him. With Harkin’s death ruled a tragedy of undetected slug remnants and not due to complications from surgery, Wynn’s medical license had been reinstated with all honors and reputation intact. Hospitals in London, Edinburgh, and Inverness had warmed to his innovative surgery techniques, the same that had caused censure among his peers months before, and clamored for his services.

He’d turned them all down in favor of practicing at Harkin Hospital, where people came from all over the country seeking his skills. He’d also discovered a true gift for teaching. Many of the ordinary physician’s tasks were given to other doctors on the roster while the major cases were placed under Wynn’s skilled scalpel. Resigning himself only to the serious operations allowed him time for his other duties as duke. An imperfect balance when he’d rather be in surgery, but a balance all the same.

Greeting villagers as he passed, Wynn kept his eyes ever on Svetlana, making her heart pound with each step bringing him closer. He leaned over and kissed her generously on the lips, drawing a series of whistles from the nearby tables. The people had grown accustomed to the unusual acts of their duke and duchess, from public affection—which Svetlana tried and failed to chide Wynn from—and surgical duties, to eating among the commoners with their Russian friend almost as frequently as they dined in their castle.

“Had to do a resection of the pericardium due to end-diastolic pressure in the left ventricle. It’s a new technique coming out of Frankfurt for heart failures. Mmm, what’s this?” He grabbed a dumpling from Svetlana’s plate and popped it in his mouth. The more surgeries, the more improved his appetite. “Fish? Tastes perfect.”

“That is because you are babushka’s golubchik.” Leonid raised an eyebrow to Svetlana as if to say, See what I mean?

Ignoring him, Wynn grabbed another dumpling. “Where’s Stasia? I wanted to show her the new gurney we got in the operating theater.”

Svetlana swatted at his greasy fingers with her napkin. “Firstly, our daughter is three months old. She has not a clue of what a gurney or an operating theater is. Secondly, the last time you took her into that room, a removed organ was still on the table.”

“It was a ruptured appendix. The patient no longer required it.”

“Be that as it may, Stasia is much too young to stare at human organs, required or not.”

“It’s never too early to start her medical knowledge. Speaking of which, I ordered a new set of medical journals on the latest in surgical techniques—”

“They printed your article!”

“Not yet, but in one of the issues they mentioned improvements for strengthening weakened bones and misshapen muscles. A common epidemic among our soldiers, but it might also be useful to Alec MacGregor. You remember him and his wife, Lord and Lady Strathem? They hosted that charity gala for the continued care of convalescent homes.”

“I saw mostly her. Lord Strathem, I believe, prefers his wife to shine while he keeps quietly to the back. A charming woman, but she laughs too much.” She turned to Leonid. “American.”

Leonid nodded in complete understanding.

“An American who married the surliest Scotsman in the country,” Wynn said. “That should count in her favor.”

“It does.”

“You Russians and your need for the dismal.”

After several more tasting rounds, Svetlana and Wynn bid Leonid good evening and walked back to the hospital. Wynn signed off his shift notes to Gerard who had come to work alongside his friend. He was proving himself most formidable with a scalpel, though with a caution that tempered Wynn’s zeal.

Wynn shoved his arms into his jacket and plopped his hat on his head. “Should be a light load tomorrow. I’d like to examine a heart from a shell-shocked victim recently deceased. I have a theory about corollaries between inordinate amounts of stress and thrombosis.”

Having not a clue what that meant, Svetlana slipped on her netted gloves. “As long as it does not interfere with talking to the estate agent. Mackie has an idea of turning the eastern plots of land into more viable revenue streams. And you wanted to do a walkabout to the tenants before planting begins.”

“Which I have scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.” Pausing next to the front door, Wynn pulled out a handkerchief and swiped it across the brass plaque that read:

This hospital is dedicated to the memory of Lt. John Harkin.

Let all who pass through these doors enter in the name of good and healing.

The burden of Harkin’s death had scarred Wynn with unflagging pain as he blamed himself for not seeing the shell fragment that had grown infected after Harkin was deemed on the mend from his surgery. Every day he attempted to bury his guilt within these sterile walls, each life saved a recompense stacked against the judgment in which he held himself. Harkin was an innocent struck down by the lingering evil of war, but Wynn had done his best to see that the man had not died in vain. His memory would live on for as long as this hospital stood.

Twilight’s purples had deepened to indigo with a night sky of spangled stars like dozens of diamonds broken from a necklace as their auto carried them home. The air tingled with the fresh waters of the nearby Cairnmuir River and the musky heather blooms as the welcome sight of Thornhill loomed in the distance. Svetlana snuggled contentedly at Wynn’s side, his arm about her shoulder.

“My third favorite sight in all the world.” Wynn’s low voice hummed against her ear, making her drowsy. Or tempted to kiss him.

She traced a gloved finger over his muscular thigh. “What are the first two?”

“You and Stasia.”

“Delighted to hear that. I was half expecting an open heart to be among the ranks.”

His lips brushed her ear. “That’s my fourth.”

Turning her head on a giggle, she caught his lips. The world fell away into nothingness as she lost herself in him. His kiss, gentle and confident, yet possessive of every part of her, was something she could not live without as it stirred to life parts of her untouched beyond him. She was deeply, irrevocably, and hopelessly in love with her husband, and the surrender had never been sweeter.

“Ahem, Your Graces.”

Svetlana pulled slowly, reluctantly away like a shell from its pearl. Their chauffeur held open the auto’s door as light blazed from Thornhill’s entrance. Somehow they’d arrived home without the slightest notice. Svetlana merely looped her handbag over her wrist and climbed out. It wasn’t the first, nor likely the last, time he’d catch them in an embrace.

Stepping inside the entrance hall, Svetlana removed her hat and gloves and handed them along with her handbag to her waiting maid.

“I interviewed three more candidates for the ballet costume mistress position today. None suitable.” Turning the last unused room at the old sugar mill into a ballet studio had been the perfect addition. It did not compare to the Bolshoi Theater, but dancing before the tsar and tsarina could not match the excitement of watching her little ballerinas jeté and arabesque for the first time. Her love for dance had finally found fulfillment. Fitted with mirrors, a barre, and a roster of potential pupils, her class of twelve was nearly ready for its first recital, but no seamstress had been found to create proper costumes of woodland creatures and flowers.

Wynn handed over his hat and jacket to the waiting footman. Despite proper dressing etiquette, he complained the sleeves were too restrictive and he would not be restricted in his own home. More likely, he’d grown accustomed to the looseness of a surgeon’s smock. “That’s because your standards are ridiculously high. Not everyone trained at the Imperial Ballet.”

“They should have.”

“Aren’t our mothers sewing the costumes?”

Svetlana laughed. “They showed me yesterday what was intended to be a squirrel but resembled more of a lumpy sackcloth. There was not even a tail.”

Wynn rolled his eyes, unconcerned with the catastrophe brewing. “I’m sure your class doesn’t care if the squirrel has a tail or not. They’re much too thrilled with learning ballet from a real-life princess.”

Svetlana tapped a finger to her chin. “Perhaps I should put an advertisement in The Lady’s Journal. There are enough Russians fleeing to British shores. Surely one is bound to have worked for a proper ballet company.”

“Have your assistant send the advertisement. That is why you hired her. Poor girl doesn’t know what to do with herself when you keep insisting on doing everything with your own hands.”

“Why should I not perform duties that I am perfectly capable of executing? Duchess is not a title equated to lady of leisure.”

“It should be. And I’ve a few ideas of leisurely activities starting now.” He scooped her into his arms against her squeal of protest and started for the stairs.

Glasby swooped in out of nowhere and blocked them. With his formal black tails and starched white tie, he resembled a formidable penguin.

“There is a visitor for you, Your Graces. I’ve shown him into the library.”

“Visiting hours are over. Tell him to come back tomorrow.” Wynn moved to step around him, but Glasby didn’t budge.

“I believe you will make an exception in this case. He has traveled a long way to see the Princess Svetlana.”

“Traveled from where?” A spark of fear kindled in Svetlana’s chest as Wynn set her on her feet. Months of calm had eased her anxiety, but more than once an unguarded moment had been seized by memories of horror. The past had found them again.

“The gentleman has requested to answer all questions himself.” Despite Glasby’s formality, the glimmer of a smile teased his lips.

Svetlana’s apprehension eased. Bolsheviks would never elicit a smile. Glasby hurried to fling open the library door, by this time grinning widely.

Svetlana stepped inside the room. Her mother and Marina sat on the settee by the fire where a tall, thin man with silvery blond hair blocked the dancing orange flames. He turned and the light flashed across an unfamiliar black eyepatch, but he was unmistakable.

“Nicky!” Svetlana raced across the room and launched herself into her brother’s arms. Her living, breathing brother. Tears coursed down her cheeks as they clung tightly to one another. “We thought you were dead.”

Laughing, a sound that seemed rather rusted, Nicky pulled back. A sheen of tears watered his good eye. “Clearly I’m not.”

He was still as handsome as a saint, though he’d grown painfully thin. As if the muscles of manhood had withered from his imposing frame. Svetlana gently touched the strap of his eyepatch. “What happened?”

“A souvenir from being a Russian nobleman. Turns out we’re no longer welcome in our country.”

“But how did you survive? We were told you and Papa were shot.”

Nicky’s mouth twisted with disdain. “Sergey seems to have spun all sorts of lies. Treacherous cur. Mama told me he threw himself under a train.”

Behind him, Mama gave a slight shake of her head for Svetlana to keep quiet. Some secrets were best left unsaid.

Nicky held Svetlana’s hands. They’d never been an overly affectionate family, but time had softened them, it seemed, for they held tight to one another. Perhaps afraid to let go and find the other gone.

“The Bolsheviks captured what was left of the White Army standing guard and shot us next to the Neva River. Papa died instantly when he tried to defend his men. A bullet scraped the side of my face, knocking me backward into the river where I floated downstream. A goat herder found me and hid me for over a year. I searched for you and Mama and Marina all over Paris, but it seemed hopeless, so I took a ship to England with other white émigrés.”

A smile lit his tired face. “In London I was reading a newspaper article about collecting lost items from Imperial Russia for an exhibit at the Royal Victoria and Albert Museum. Imagine my surprise at the organizer being none other than the Duchess of Kilbride, the former Princess Svetlana Dalsky.”

“An astonishing story.” Tears filled Svetlana’s eyes and fell unchecked down her cheeks. “I cannot believe you stand before us.”

Marina clapped her hands and jumped up to hug them. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Mama’s arms circled around them. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “All of my children together at last. Never shall we part again.” She motioned to Wynn, who stood by the door quietly observing. “I said all of my children.”

Svetlana’s heart overflowed with joy as her family’s arms wrapped around her, locking her safely in their embrace. They had journeyed far and been lost to one another only to find themselves together again at last, this time stronger through the forbearance of their struggles.

Wynn’s arms circled her waist from behind, drawing her close to his chest so that she felt the steady beat of his heart. That’s what he had always been for her, the steady beat that gave her courage. A beat she would never have to do without again.

“I thought Russians were averse to displays of affection,” he whispered into her ear.

“Shh. It will ruin our hard-earned image.”

“Hate to tell you, Princess, but you shattered that for me long ago.”

Svetlana smiled. “Spasibo.”

The End