Svetlana plucked at the tassels dangling from the edge of the blanket. “Mrs. Douglas gave me an interesting cup of tea. Heather, she said. I believe it’s making me sprout a horn. Like a unicorn. Is that common, being the symbol of Scotland and all?”
“Hmm, yes.”
“Wynn!”
He turned to her, eyebrows raised as if he’d been caught off guard. “Did you say something?”
“Yes, but you haven’t heard a word. Where are you?”
“Sitting next to you in the back of the auto.”
“Mentally you are somewhere else. Have been since Glasgow.”
He flinched, pain washing across his face. If only she could draw it out of him like he did so many times for those hurting. Slipping off her glove and the vulnerability it sheathed, she reached across the distance between them and took his hand. The coldness in her fingers was lost to the warmth of his. How simple a thing touch was, often shared by those wishing to establish a connection. She’d never understood the need for such unseemly indulgences and thought them best left to those of weaker character. She prided herself on solitary fortitude where everything was self-contained. She had been in control, but she had been alone. Holding Wynn’s hand, she was no longer alone. She was exposed and unprotected, but he engendered trust and faith. She would gift him the same.
Curling her fingers around his, she drew his hand to rest on her lap. “Is it Harkin?”
He jerked as if the name were a needle to him and tried to pull his hand back. She held it tighter.
“Please tell me.”
His jaw worked back and forth as he pondered his response before discarding it to consider another. “It’s never easy to lose a patient.”
A carefully selected reply that answered without answering her. Very unlike Wynn. He customarily charged into statements with the confidence of a prima ballerino on center stage.
“I imagine the sadness stays with you forever. I know you did everything you could to help him, but the control of some things remains beyond our grasp no matter how much we wish it otherwise.”
“Your faith in me is touching, though a bit off base in this case.”
“Tragedy often shakes our confidence. Once you start your work at Glasgow Hosp—”
“Glasgow Hospital has decided not to expand their cardiology department. They don’t want their sterling reputation besmirched by questionable practices.” Taking his hand from hers, he crossed his arms over his chest. With the added layers of winter clothing, his breadth was twice as large and doubly formidable. To all but Svetlana. She saw the tucking in of himself to a defensive position after having his pride pricked.
“Oh, Wynn. I’m so sorry. How terrible for you and how shortsighted of them to deny people the advancing treatments they need.”
“You sound like you’ve been reading medical journals.”
“You leave them all over the house.”
“Careful or you’ll be touted a radical.”
“If my husband can stand for surgical improvements, then so can I. A person would have to sit on their brain not to see that these studies and procedures are needed. In fact, I read the other day about a Harvey Cushing who worked as a neurosurgeon during the war and helped to reduce the mortality rate of brain injuries from 50 percent to 29 percent. Something the article called ‘brain wound care.’” Journal diagrams of the dissected brain flashed through her mind. So many parts. So many incidents waiting to go wrong. “Not that I wish you to indulge in brain work. The complications sound increasingly more than cardiology.”
“I don’t think I’ll be performing any type of surgery in the near future.”
His pride may have taken a blow, but she wasn’t about to let him stay down for long. There would be other opportunities. He was like a caged bear, useless to his true purpose, when his skills weren’t being utilized.
“Pay no heed to Glasgow. There are plenty of other hospitals in need of your skills. We only need to apply to them.”
Wynn took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “In the meantime, Thornhill will become my priority. After Father died, Hugh had a list of improvements to be made, but then the war . . . It’s past time attention was paid the estate. As duke it’s my responsibility. Why are you frowning? I thought you’d be pleased after claiming I was deserting her.”
“I never said that. I merely do not wish to see you abandon one responsibility for the other.”
“I haven’t abandoned anything.”
“You are both a duke and a surgeon. I want to help you find equal footing as both.”
He rotated on the seat to look fully at her, pinning her like one of his patients strapped to the operating table under the bright light of inspection.
“Why is it so important to you that I strike this balance?”
“Because there is much good to be done without the seal of approval from a medical board. There are so many people right here in need of help, some of the same people that stuffy medical board refuses to lift a finger for because they are deemed untreatable or lacking in funds.” She bristled at the memory of those families waiting in Glasgow Hospital and the Douglas family scraping to get by. “We have the responsibility to ease the suffering of those around us. Perhaps not in a fine city hospital, or with the blessing of your colleagues, or even for accolades, but that does not mean the endeavor is any less worthwhile.”
“That’s one of the things I fancy most about you. Cut to the heart of the matter.” He half smiled, then looked down at his hands. “Do you think I’ve allowed my ego to overshadow what good I’m supposed to be doing as a physician?”
“I think if you are not careful, pride may overcome what is right by your patients.”
“If it hasn’t already. Being a physician was all that mattered to me, and now . . .” He spread his hands in an aimless gesture. “I never wanted this mantle of duke, you know.”
“But it is yours to bear now. All you must decide is if you will smother yourself in it or use its generous folds to help others. A privilege, I believe, that also exists in the hands of a physician.”
“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought. More than me, I’m ashamed to admit.”
She studied the pattern of lines and checks on the blanket. They started smooth and unbroken until bisecting with opposing lines to weave a new pattern. Much as the threads of her life. They’d woven a silken path until revolution knotted her to a different line twisted with war. Another pattern. And then there was Wynn, striking bold and straight to tie up the loosened threads into an unexpected weft. She traced the thick blue line that drew the eye beyond all other drab colors.
“You have given me so much with no payment asked—”
“You’re my wife. No payment is required.”
“I wasn’t always your wife. Now that I am, my gratitude can better be expressed in ways of supporting you.”
“And I wish you would stop thinking of our marriage as a series of transactions and payments.”
“A difficult request considering it’s all I know of marital matters. That, and I am to smile and oblige you in all situations.”
His hand stole over hers, his fingers twining between hers. “Let me guess, your mother told you that as part of the perfect princess training.”
“All mothers tell their daughters this. It makes for a smoother running household.”
“Since when has anything between us run smoothly? You’ve never withheld your opinion from me before. I don’t want you starting now.”
He was rotating her wedding band, and her thoughts were spinning right along with it. They blurred faster and faster until her carefully attached reservations cast off and the guarded questions to which she only ever surrendered in the loneliness of silence rushed out.