Ready. A rather misleading term. Certainly she was ready to put her troubles behind her and breathe for one day without the threat of financial ruin or starvation, but was she ready to marry a man she barely knew? She’d known Sergey for years, which was an anomaly in her social circles. Marriage contracts were often drawn up based on name and wealth alone with the bride and groom having met a mere afterthought. And love, well, that was best left to the fairy tales. She was under no illusion of what this marriage to Wynn meant and her gratitude to him could never be fully expressed.
A side door opened. Svetlana jumped.
“Are you prepared, my child?” The priest was dressed in robes of gold and black with a bushy beard stretching down his chest.
Heart racing, Svetlana nodded. It wasn’t Sheremetev come to drag her away to the den of the Reds.
“I must ask you never to tell that this holy church allowed a man of non-faith to be joined to you, a true believer, in its inner sanctum. If rumors were to spread, anarchy could ensue. Papists will demand their own heretical services.”
It could hardly be imagined that the Catholics would storm these doors when they had the magnificent Notre Dame to worship in, but Svetlana did not bother to correct him. She simply bowed her head in quiet respect as she sought to delicately defend her fiancé. “I believe Anglican is considered a righteous faith in England.”
The priest snorted. “They would.”
The heavy door creaked open to the inner sanctum. Hundreds of candles gleamed from their ornate brass chandeliers and altar stands, while mid-morning sun poured through the windows set high in the cupola and bounced off the golden icons painted on the panels of rich wood.
Dressed in a black-and-gray morning suit, Wynn stood waiting for her. His hair shone like gold under the shaft of sunlight, the glowing aura of a knight to the rescue. While she the maiden led a dragon to his door. Her regret cut deeper at involving him in her woes. If he thought anything of regret, he didn’t show it. Together they traversed the short walk down the aisle and stopped before the iconostasis.
He grasped her elbow and leaned close to her ear. “You’re lovely.”
She mumbled a thank-you, or at least she thought she did. The proceedings turned to a haze as the Orthodox priest read the Epistle, repeated in English by the Anglican priest Wynn had asked to come on his behalf. Then the sacred wedding loaf, the blessing with icons, and the placing of the wedding crowns on their heads.
The cup of warm, red wine was then offered with another blessing. Wynn took a sip and passed the cup to her. As she took the cup, her fingers brushed his. He was trembling. The haze rolled back as she realized he was as nervous as she was. Unflappable Wynn who had calmed her distress time and again. Her own nerves stilled and she smiled. He smiled back. Taking the cup, she raised it to her lips.
The front door banged open. Svetlana jumped, sloshing tiny drops of red down the front of her blue silk dress. A shadowy figure inched along the back wall. Too small to be Sheremetev, but no. He would never come himself. He was a man who sent others to do his dirty work.
Wynn tugged on her hand, and she allowed him to lead her around the lectern behind the priest as the final words were spoken and they were consecrated as man and wife.
“Who is that?” Not the most romantic words a bride had first spoken to her groom, but then again most brides probably weren’t being hunted by political radicals or jilted club owners.
Wynn peered at the shadows in which the figure hovered. “A guest?”
“Everyone we invited is here.” Everyone being her mother and Wynn’s friend Gerard from the hospital. Even Mrs. Varjensky’s cheerful presence was missing as she had volunteered to stay with Marina.
“An inquisitive parishioner?”
“I don’t think so.”
Taking both of her hands, he stepped close. Behind him Mama clutched her cross at the impropriety in a church. “You’re safe. He can never harm you again. As Marchioness of Tarltan you are a British citizen now and answer only to British law.” He pressed a kiss to her fingers. “I will keep you safe.”
She nodded numbly, desperately wanting to believe him, but fear lurked deep in her heart. British or not, the Bolsheviks would never respect such laws. They were the enemy of law.
The figure moved into the flicker of candlelight. Tatya. With a breath of relief, Svetlana hurried toward her with Wynn right behind her.
“What are you doing here?”
Tatya looked her up and down before pressing a hand over her own rumpled dress. “Apology no dress up. No fine duchess like you.” She winked at Wynn. “Hello, sir knight. Pozdravlyayu.”
“Spasibo.” Wynn gave a slight bow, his Russian lessons proving themselves at her congratulations. “You’re the lady we met before in the rain.”
Tatya laughed, startling the priests who were talking to Mama and Gerard. “I no lady. If were, no hearing things. Bad things.”
Cold swept through Svetlana. “What things?”
“I come warn. Sheremetev. He know. Get out while can.” Tatya brushed past her.
“Wait!” Svetlana hurried after her and unbuckled the sapphire brooch at her throat, pressing it into Tatya’s gloveless hand. Her fingers were little more than bird claws, frozen from the November wind. “Take this.”
Tatya shoved it back at her. “I no charity.”
“It’s not charity.” Svetlana closed Tatya’s fingers around the expensive piece. The last jewel she owned. “Take it. Get out while you can.”
* * *
The wedding feast was a solemn affair with a few pastries and sandwiches allotted by the rations to feed the equally solemn guests as they gathered in Wynn’s Parisian townhouse. More specifically, Château Sable Bleu, which sat a mere stone’s throw from the grand Champs Élysées along the fashionable Rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and belonged to Hugh as one of the many grand homes owned by the Duke of Kilbride. Since the war began, the house had been occupied by a major in Hugh’s regiment and the man’s wife. The major was killed a fortnight ago and the wife had gone back to England, returning the key to the MacCallans once again.
The night Wynn proposed to Svetlana, he’d whisked her here along with her mother, sister, and Mrs. Varjensky while he kept to his bachelor lodgings with the other doctors. That would change now.
“Congratulations, mate,” Gerard said as he put on his hat and coat to meet the bitter November air. “You’ve a charming bride, and I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
“Thank you for coming,” Wynn said. “Listen, I’ve been going over the charts for the influenza cases, and tomorrow I’d like to—”
“Tomorrow you’ll be here with your wife. Leave all hospital problems and thoughts to me.”
“Yes, but there’s—”
“The hospital can survive a few days without your brilliance blinding the patients. If there’s an emergency, I’ll know right where to find you. In the meantime, enjoy being married.”
Wynn’s gaze, heavy with doubt, drifted up toward the bedchambers beyond. “I’ll do my best.”
After seeing out his one and only guest, Wynn instructed the new maid to clear away the remaining food and then attend to her mistress upstairs. Wanting to give Svetlana as much time as she needed, he went to the study and pulled out the list of remaining expenses owed to Sheremetev that he and Svetlana had compiled the night before. Tallying them once more and throwing in a bit extra for cushion, Wynn wrote a cheque to the monstrous boar and signed it with a flourish. He then took out a blank sheet of stationary stamped with the Kilbride ducal seal and added a short note.