“No surgery is safe.”
“Be that as it may, we have our patients to consider. No one will wish to be operated on by a physician who is already under the displeased eye of the medical profession at large.”
Heated anger avalanched through the numbness, scorching all ability for diplomacy. “A man has died. A man who entrusted himself into my care after being knocked down by a machine gun in service to his country, and all the president cares about is how it will make him look?”
“An investigation is being launched. The authorities will be in contact for your statement.” Dr. Neil placed a hand on Wynn’s shoulder. Another well-meaning physician’s gesture that did little to nothing. “I’m sorry.”
Wynn was left standing alone in the corridor. An hour before he’d been welcomed with enthusiasm as a golden boy, and now he’d been deserted like a pariah. The desertion he could deal with. Even the hot-cold treatment of so-called medical professionals he was accustomed to, but the death of a patient was something he would never shake off. A patient he had promised to do everything he could for. In trying to prove his own gut instinct of what was needed, had Wynn sentenced Harkin to death on that operating table? Had he stopped to consider all the possibilities before rotating that heart? If he’d not been so rash, would Harkin still be alive?
No. He’d done what he thought was right at the time. No surgeon had time to second-guess himself in the moment. Or was that his arrogance defending itself again?
Wynn tore down the stairs as the demons of doubt clawed at his heels. He needed to get out of there. He needed to retrace every step and action he’d taken that day when operating on Harkin. Had he done everything he could to prevent death?
He rounded the front reception desk. “Where is Her Grace?”
The nurse looked up from her files of paperwork. “I believe she was taking a tour of Wing A. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll have one of the junior nurses show you—”
“No need. I’ll find it.”
He’d been in enough hospitals to understand the general layout at a glance. It took him approximately ten seconds to locate Wing A, and fifty seconds with several wrong doors before he located his wife. She sat in a waiting room filled with families. Most noticeably the men were former soldiers, if their missing limbs and facial injuries were any indication.
Weaving his way to her side, Wynn gently grasped Svetlana’s elbow. “Apologies for interrupting, but we need to be on our way.”
Svetlana smiled up at him like the sun coming out of hiding, but he couldn’t feel the warmth due to the numbness lingering in his bones like an ill-fated chill waiting to freeze him out.
“Wynn, I’m so glad you’re here. This is Mrs. McDuff, her husband, Mr. McDuff, and their children. Mr. McDuff lost his leg in . . . Marne?”
Clenching his worn hat in his hand, Mr. McDuff pushed to his feet using a crutch for support. “Yes, ma’am. I mean, Duchess.”
“They have to travel over four hours every month to come here to the hospital only to sit for hours in the waiting room. Most of the other patients find themselves in similar distressing circumstances because adequate care isn’t available where they live in rural areas.”
Wynn tried to focus on what Svetlana was saying, but the words garbled together in his ears as it hit the thickening fog of numbness. She was looking at him. They all were. Waiting for him, the great surgeon, the lofty duke to say something. “It’s a problem everyone is facing. Hospitals and medical staff are doing what they can.”
Mr. McDuff bobbed his head while his wife dipped into a curtsy with tears in her eyes as if Wynn had spouted ecclesiastical revelations. It twisted the guilt of wretchedness like a knife. Svetlana thanked the couple for sharing their story with her and said goodbye to the others in the room. All Wynn could manage was a wooden nod.
Outside, Wynn hailed a taxi and they climbed inside. “Grand Central Hotel.”
Svetlana paused in untangling her fern fronds and frowned. “I thought we were having tea at the Willow.”
“No. We’re leaving for home.”
“Is everything all right?”
“A former patient of mine, a Lieutenant Harkin, died.”
“Oh, Wynn. I’m so sorry. How terrible for his family.” Her gloved hand rested lightly on his. Any other day he would have thrilled at her touch, but he felt nothing beyond the guilt. “I’m sure we can return another time for you to meet with the hospital board.”
The whole truth spilled to his mouth, but he clamped it behind his teeth. How could he tell her about the rejection? The one accomplishment he prided himself on had now been tarnished, and those esteemed opinions he sought to change for the betterment of patient treatment now turned against him. It was enough to cripple the pride of any man.
Besides, she’d witnessed enough suffering and disappointment; he didn’t want to add one more thing to burden her shoulders. Not after he’d vowed to defend her against further woes. He would take the troubles on himself if only to spare her. One day he would tell her, as he’d promised honesty on their wedding day, but not until the storm had passed.
He gently slipped his hand out from hers in a move made to look like he was adjusting his hat. Her hand was too trusting, and the weight of such responsibility was more than he could bear. Glasgow’s gray cityscape passed in a blur outside the taxi window, but he saw only his failure in the eyes of a dead man. “Another time. Perhaps.”
Chapter 21
Svetlana eyed the bundles of laundry stacked in the corner of the cramped hovel and tried not to breathe through her nose. A cauldron bubbled over a fire in the center of the room, its pungent smoke wafting through a hole in the thatched roof.
“’Tis the peat that be givin’ off the smoke. Best not to keep yer eyes open too long without a blink, aye.” Mrs. Douglas, mistress of the hovel, busied herself at a rickety table set near the middle of the room. A plain woman with dark hair streaked in silver and creases lining her face, she wore the expression of a hard life, but she couldn’t have aged past forty.
“I have never heard of this peat. Is it common to Scotland?”
“We’ve it all over here in the bogs. All the dead ’uns scamperin’ or growin’ round get compressed right down together and sealed in tight with water, so they do. Good for heatin’. Burns long too.” Mrs. Douglas poured water into a teacup and stirred it with a wooden spoon. “Me man cuts peat for the distillery near Bothwell. Or did afore the war took his hand. They give him work when they can, but who be needin’ a one-handed man for cuttin’ and stackin’?”
“Too many of the returning soldiers find themselves in similar circumstances.”
“Aye. Go off to fight for king and country, they do—only their country canna use them no further when they get home. What thanks is that I ask ye after what they sacrificed?” Placing the cup and saucer on a wooden tray, Mrs. Douglas brought it to where Svetlana sat on a bench, the only seating in the room besides the bed crammed against the far wall. “Drink that right down, Yer Grace. Warm ye up, it will.”
The lady hadn’t poured a cup for herself. The few pieces of mismatched bowls and plates sitting on a shelf behind the table suggested the teacup was the only one of its kind in this humble abode. Though chipped on one side, great care had gone into painting little purple flowers on the sides.