“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.”