“Then I will learn. Quickly.”
Nestor would gleefully have Wynn’s head on a platter if he discovered this break in protocol, but if the Duchess of Westminster could tend the wounded in a casino turned hospital, why not a Russian princess?
Reluctantly, Wynn released her arm as nurses bustled by, their head coverings flapping behind them. This could be the best decision he ever made or the worst. Odd, how those two were often separated by a precariously thin line.
“You must do precisely as the nurses instruct without question. No privileges will be given. At the first whimper of insubordination, you’re gone. Do you understand?”
She nodded, loose hair slipping from her plait. “Yes.”
“You’ll need a sterilized uniform before you can enter the ward. One of the VADs should do, and your regular clothing will need to be boiled and scrubbed with lye.”
Ana roused herself from where she still leaned against the wall. Her face had paled by two shades. “I’m going too. My daughter needs me.”
The last thing her daughter needed was a nervous mother hovering about and causing more harm than good. She’d only serve to cause upset. To everyone.
Wynn shook his head. “Your maternal feelings are commendable but will be put to greater use from a distance. You must remain strong to care for her once she is released. In the meantime, boil all of your clothing and bed materials in the hottest water you can manage. We need to stop the sickness from spreading to the other émigrés.”
“You are right, of course, Doctor, but I’m not sure . . . I can’t think properly.” Ana clutched the golden cross necklace around her throat. “What’s going to happen to my little girl? She’s so young.”
Svetlana slipped an arm around her mother’s shoulders. “Mama, I believe Dr. MacCallan is correct. Marina will rest much easier knowing you’re far from here and praying for her. Come, I’ll take you back to the church.” She eased the woman toward the stairs before looking back to Wynn. “I’ll return shortly.”
As promised, Svetlana returned an hour later sans hysterical mother. She’d changed from her rumpled clothing into a plain but clean VAD uniform—a blue dress and crisp white apron with a white handkerchief tied around her head—that Wynn had taken from the nurses’ supply closet. He wasted no time in placing her under the watchful eye of Sister Elton, a no-nonsense matron of the first and second Boer War and survivor of the disastrous Gallipoli Campaign. Ironside, the younger nurses called her for her unbending tenacity.
Sister Elton didn’t blink as she stared down at Svetlana from her imposing height. “I don’t care if you’re a princess or a chauffer’s daughter. This is my ward. My rules are to be obeyed at all times.”
To her credit, Svetlana met her stare boldly. “Of course.”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Yes, Sister,” Svetlana respectfully repeated. Shoulders pulled back and chin tilted just so, one might never suspect she was not accustomed to acting the subordinate.
“We’re breaking every hospital rule I know, and I know them all, having written several of them myself over the years, but I can’t deny an extra pair of hands.” In addition to her tenacity, Sister Elton was known for her rationality. She swept a critical eye over Svetlana. “You’ll do well enough. Come.” She opened the infectious ward door and motioned Svetlana in.
A look of uncertainty passed over Svetlana’s ashen face. She glanced back at Wynn. “Aren’t you coming?”
Her expectant reliance on him sent a thrill through his bones, instantly followed by shame that it came at the expense of her sister’s illness. As much as he wanted to devote his time to them, more urgent patients required his care. “I’m needed in surgery. I’ll be up to check on Marina as soon as I can.” His words did little to relieve the anxiety in her eyes. “She will receive the best possible care in this ward. I promise.”
It was the only thing he could promise. The outcome of that care was completely and hopelessly out of his hands.
Chapter 12
Hours had passed according to the sweep of shadows from one wall to the opposite, yet it was as if time stood still, holding all in its unrelenting grip. Decorated in flocked damask wallpaper with faded squares indicating where portraits once hung, the space had previously been part of the hotel’s second floor of suites. The whispers of silk gowns and polished shoes were naught more than echoes of the past stifled among the coughing and moaning of the current inhabitants. The elegance surrounding them mocked the battle for life.
Svetlana used the sleeve of her dress to wipe the perspiration from her brow, careful not to dislodge the mask from her face, as she changed Marina’s sheets for the third time. Every part of her body ached from standing so long and bending over so often, but it was nothing to the agony of watching her sister writhe about in delusions or lie deathly still, so still that Svetlana kept a hand to Marina’s chest to ensure she still breathed. Her own heart had yet to quiet as she’d found a routine in sponging Marina off, checking her temperature, offering a sip of water, adding blankets, removing blankets, and starting the routine again until the sheets needed changing.
As Svetlana gently dabbed the wet sponge along Marina’s arm, she noticed a gritty texture. Salt. Disturbed by this new development, she inched open the privacy curtain and stuck her head out in search of Sister Elton. She’d been ordered to be seen as little as possible lest she arouses suspicion in the other nurses. Catching sight of Sister Elton across the rows of beds, she motioned for her.
The matron came into the cubicle and pulled the privacy curtain closed. Svetlana didn’t wait for her to ask. “There’s salt.”
Sister Elton swiped a finger along Marina’s arm. “She’s losing too much sodium from the excessive perspiration. I’ll order a bowl of broth. Ladle as much as you can into her.”
Svetlana managed two spoonfuls before Marina began coughing so violently that the broth and other substances came up. She quickly wiped away the mess with a napkin. Phlegm shook in Marina’s lungs like a death rattle.
“She’s congested.” Like a summoned angel, Wynn appeared next to her.
Svetlana fought the urge to throw her arms around him in relief. He always seemed to appear when she was in need of assistance. Even if he didn’t, she knew he would always come if she called. Her relief splintered. Of course he would come. He was a doctor. Their rift could be cast aside in the face of illness, but tension lingered in the perimeter.
“We need to remove the congestion before it settles into pneumonia,” he said. “Retrieve the cupping trolley next to the supply station. It’s the one with little glass cups no bigger than a whisky tumbler on it.”
Like the day Leonid was shot, fear rang in her ears. Only this time she wasn’t staring down at a bleeding stranger. This was her sister. And she could die.
“Glass cups. Yes.”
She raced for the trolley and wheeled it back inside the curtain. He’d turned Marina onto her stomach with her nightgown peeled down to her waist.
“Due to the severity, I’ll need to make an incision first.” Wynn reached for a sharp-looking knife that fit slimly in the palm of his hand. “You can look away if this distresses you.”
Svetlana swallowed against the terror of seeing her sister cut open. “Tell me what to do.”