“What beautiful artistry.”
Pink brightened Mrs. Douglas’s rough cheeks. “Me mam was fine with a brush. A real talent she passed on to my lassies.”
Svetlana took a sip of the tea. Mrs. Douglas hovered anxiously. Svetlana swallowed and forced a smile so as not to insult her gracious hostess. “What an unusual flavor.”
“’Tis heather. Same as painted on the cup. A great many uses here in Scotland.”
Svetlana took another polite sip. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t the sophisticated Russian taste she was accustomed to. Like so many other things, it was a difference she needed to learn and accept if she had any chance of being received in the community.
“I find myself amazed at the never-ending resourcefulness of the Scots. Russians tend to limit our creativity to music, dance, and architecture.”
“Been an age since anyone had reason to dance ’round here. Too busy survivin’. ’Twas lucky enough, I was, to take on extra services as a laundress.” Mrs. Douglas hooked her thumb at the piles of laundry. “And me man returned. Not all the wives can say as much.”
“Are the widows able to find work?”
“Some, aye, but not enough for the little mouths they need to feed. Many of them were forced to be givin’ up their jobs to the returnin’ men. I suppose ’tis the way, but some of the lasses don’t want to be returnin’ to the kitchen now they’ve a taste of the freedom.”
“It sounds as if they need opportunities to earn their own way. Especially if they are left as the sole provider for a family.”
“Aye, but take Katie MacKinnon livin’ three doors down. Her man came back, or what’s left of him, and now she’s tendin’ the bairns and him. Savin’ every coin she can to pay for his medical bills whilst hirin’ herself out as a scullery maid down at the pub.”
The back door banged open and in shrieked a pandemonium of four dark-haired children under the age of ten. Like hounds to the scent, they rounded the table and fell on the gift basket Svetlana had brought.
“Out, ye wee rascals! None of that for ye at the now.” Mrs. Douglas tried to shoo them away, but the children ignored her as they tore into wrapped sweets.
“What’s this?” The smallest girl with a long plait swinging down her back held up a wrapped parcel of cookies.
“Russian sweets. Tea cakes, pastila, khvorost, and sushki. Mrs. Varjensky, a lady who came with me from Russia, made them. No heather, I’m afraid.” Svetlana rose and joined the children at the table. She lifted out two small jars filled with pastes. “She’s also a skilled healer. I don’t recall what she mixed these with, but the green is for cuts and bruises, and the yellow is for headaches and fever.”
Tears shimmering in her tired eyes, Mrs. Douglas took one of the jars as if it were a golden scepter. “Thanks be to ye, Yer Grace. And thank Mrs. Var . . . Var . . .”
“Varjensky.”
“Aye, be thankin’ her too. We ain’t never had anyone think of us like this.”
“You are most welcome. Now, I must be going as I do not wish to take up any more of your valuable time.”
“Blessed me. To think I’ve had a real princess in me home.”
“I do hope you’ll allow me to come again.”
“Our door always be open to ye and yers.” The woman wobbled into a curtsy and flapped her hand at her children for them to follow suit. It wasn’t protocol, but Svetlana returned the gesture. Mrs. Douglas deserved it and every other recognition for her stalwart perseverance.
Svetlana stepped outside, grateful to breathe fresh air void of smoke once more. Wynn rounded the corner with a lanky man missing his left hand. He could only be Mr. Douglas.
“I’ll send a few men over on Tuesday to get that barn wall repaired,” Wynn said. Dressed in high boots and tweed trousers, he looked like he’d been wading in muck. “The hole is big enough for the cow to slip through.”
Not a large man by any measure, Mr. Douglas swelled with pride, bringing him nearly to Wynn’s towering height. “Appreciate yer help, I do, Yer Grace, but I can manage without troublin’ ye.”
“It’s no trouble. You’re a good tenant, as was your father before you. We take care of our own.”
Such a good man. Always seeing to the needs of others and never making a promise he didn’t keep. The honesty of his heart was a thing of unfathomable beauty. He had the intellect, wealth, and station to use those beneath him to elevate himself as so many of the so-called nobles did. Not Wynn. He shunned the pretentiousness of titles in favor of doing good and what was right. Even marrying a runaway princess when she had nothing to offer in return. Thank goodness for his stubbornness in pursuing her. She hated to think where she’d be without him.
One of the children, the older boy who looked to be around nine, streaked out of the hovel and planted himself in front of Wynn. Barefoot with dirt smearing his round face, he didn’t appear the least bit fazed to be standing in front of a duke.
“I heard ye fix broken men.”
Wynn squatted so he was eye to eye with the boy. “I do my best.”
“See lots of blood?”
Mrs. Douglas gasped as she hurried out to join them. “Charles Edward Stuart Douglas. There’s nay need for such talk.”
Wynn leaned closer to the boy. “Plenty, but it’s not good to talk about in front of the womenfolk.” He caught Svetlana’s eyes over the top of Charles’s head. Humor flickered in his eyes for a moment, then lost to a sweep of sadness. Though he’d never mentioned it after their departure from Glasgow nearly a week ago, Harkin’s ghost seemed to haunt him.
“Are ye goin’ to help my da?”
Mr. Douglas grabbed Charles’s shoulder and shuffled him away. “That’s enough, lad. No impertinence to His Grace.”
“I wasn’t pertinentin’.” Charles swooped under his father’s arm and stared at Wynn. “He lost his hand fightin’ those Hun. Can ye give him a new one?”
“I’m afraid that’s not my field of specialty—” Wynn worked his jaw back and forth as if trying to decide how much medical information to pass on to a nine-year-old. Standing, he ruffled the boy’s hair. “Never say never.”
The Douglas family waved goodbye as Svetlana and Wynn rode off in the back of their chauffeured Renault motor car. Wynn absently tucked a wool blanket across her lap before turning to gaze out the window at the bleak landscape. Hills rolled by in winter colors of gray, brown, and frozen green as the reluctant sun did little to grace them with its warmth.
“These war wives and widows feel displaced now that the fighting has ceased. A circumstance I all too well understand.” Svetlana angled the fox fur trim of her coat out from underneath the blanket so it wasn’t crushed. “The armistice may have been signed months ago, but these families are still fighting the repercussions. War has dictated their circumstances, and they must find new ways to survive. I should like to help them.”
“Hmm.” Wynn continued to stare out the window. His long, capable fingers tapped against a dried patch of mud on his knee.
“Perhaps a teaching center where they might learn useful skills or trades outside the home, but then who would care for their children when they’re not at school?”
“Yes, good idea.”
“The other issue is leaving behind these jobs for days at a time because the only medical help to be found for the injured men is in the larger cities.”
“Hmm.”