What did she want to do with it? She’d become his wife under duress, but now that the danger had passed, they found themselves treading unfamiliar waters. Should she ignore the pulling look in his eyes and swim back to the shallows, or give in to the swell of emotion and strike out to deeper waters with him? She was no longer sure where the boundary of safety tethered. With a desperate need for stability, that uncertainty was enough to frighten her.
Her hand fumbled for the doorknob.
“You can use the other door.” He pointed to the door that connected his chambers to hers through the private sitting room. The desire stirring in his eyes blinked away.
She tried not to give in to the disappointment at his polite change in expression. She had made the decision to step back, and like the gentleman he was, Wynn was respecting it. Would she mind so terribly if he threw politeness to the wind and closed the distance between them?
“I didn’t want to make a habit of entering your room that way. That is, I mean to say, I don’t wish to intrude on your privacy.” She twisted the knob. She needed to get out before her rambling carried her away.
“You’ll never intrude, Svetlana. Not at my door. It is always open for you. All you have to do is step through.”
She did step through. Out and into the hall before he carried her right into those deep waters where she no longer knew if she was drowning or floating.
Chapter 20
Glasgow teemed with life and new purpose as the city unrolled itself from the fog of war. Battle scars remained in the wearied faces of its townsfolk, but businesses and shops were beginning to reopen as life resumed, though at an altered pace.
“Any more shops you wish to look in?” Tucking a newly purchased maidenhair fern against his chest, Wynn held tight to Svetlana’s arm as they crossed George Square in the biting January air.
Like the other bit of Scotland she’d witnessed, a wet cold clung to the air as mist rose from the nearby River Clyde and reminded her of Petrograd winters. People bundled into their coats as they scurried under the midmorning shadow of the towering Scott monument while Svetlana lifted her face to inhale the icy air. Winter had always dressed Petrograd in frosted finery, and she, like a true daughter of Russia, reveled in the snow crystals of brilliance.
She shook her head, careful not to unpin the new felt and quail feather hat Wynn had insisted on buying her yesterday, their first day in the city. She’d been looking for a traditional fur shapka.
“You’ve bought out most of them already.”
“My beautiful wife deserves to be spoiled. No more rags or ill-fitting castoffs for you.”
Ignoring the temptation to run a gloved hand over her fine wool skirt, Svetlana squeezed his arm instead. Buttery soft kid gloves, warm woven wool, delicate lace at her throat, and real silk undergarments. It was like returning to a long-lost fairy tale after living in a nightmare for so long. Yet while she had been restored to a castle, many still found themselves in the trenches. Or in an overcrowded, infested basement lost in Paris. In this new chapter of tales, she would not forget what it was like to go without.
Wynn hefted the young fern, its delicate stalk wrapped in protective burlap. “Should we find another florist and see what they have in the way of trees? Or those decorative herbal plants you were telling me about?”
“No, I think this addition will be perfect for now. It’s the wrong time of year to plant them, but I think he’ll grow nicely in the solarium where I can control the temperature better.” She touched one of the small green leaves sprouting from one of the dozen stems as the faint scent of dirt wafted under her nose. Spotting it in the florist’s shop window a block over, she knew the plant begged to be taken home to Thornhill. A beautiful life to grow and care for all her own in any kind of vase she chose. No finely cut empress’s vase required for this little one.
Running feet pounded on the pavement behind them. Shouting filled the air. Fear froze Svetlana to the spot. Bolsheviks.
Three boys chasing a ball streaked by.
Wynn’s worried face hovered in front of her. “What’s wrong?”
“I thought . . .” She pressed a shaking hand to her chest. Her heart thundered for release beneath her restrictive corset. “Sheremetev.”
“You don’t ever have to worry about him again.” Wynn grasped her arm and gently squeezed. “You’re safe now. No one has followed us here.”
Safe. He kept saying it, yet the first time she returned to a city the memories of burning Petrograd and hunted Paris rose from the ashes where she’d thought them buried and dead.
“I’ll take you back to the hotel,” he said.
“No. If I run at every scare, I’ll never stop.” She took a deep breath and forced herself to look around boldly to scare back the shadows threatening to creep around her. “I’m tired of running.”
Crossing the square, they turned down Hanover Street. The smell of coffee and bread lingered among the eateries as the last of the breakfast dishes were cleared away in time for lunch. A woman in a shawl with threads unraveling at the ends stepped out of a café and wiped off the tables. Her eyes widened at Svetlana as she passed before quickly dipping her head. Svetlana tried to acknowledge the curtsy, but the woman wouldn’t meet her eye. No doubt she was freezing in that threadbare wrap.
“Before we leave, I would like to find Mrs. Varjensky a new shawl,” Svetlana said. “She’s very fond of the peasant ones they wear back in the villages, but hers is tattered. Perhaps I’ll get her two. A sturdy wool for every day and a more delicate one for special occasions.”
“I’ll get her a brooch to match. It’s time she used something better than a safety pin for decoration.”
“She’s not the extravagant kind.”
“You told me all women appreciate jewelry.”
“Yes, that’s true, but nothing too grand. She would never wear it.”
“What if I have one made into the image of that doll you told me about? The kind her husband used to carve as a toymaker.”
“Matryoshki dolls. Yes, I think she would like that.” As a child, Svetlana had several of the nesting dolls that decreased in size. She would spend hours placing them one inside another until only the largest one remained. Hers had all been painted as Russian tsarinas, but Mrs. Varjensky said her husband carved his as animals, flowers, soldiers, and fairies. How she would have loved to see such whimsy.
“Good. Tomorrow morning I’ll find a jeweler to have one commissioned.” Wynn frowned. “There’s one problem. I don’t know what they look like.”
“I’ll make you a sketch.”
His eyebrows rose, inching his gray fedora up his forehead. It shaded his eyes to a soft brown. “I didn’t realize you drew.”
“All accomplished young ladies do. One of the few acceptable parlor pastimes, but I’m not very good at noses so don’t laugh when you see my attempt.”