A thick absence of feeling coated him from scalp to foot, blocking sound from his ears and sight from his eyes. All sight except the black words. Their tyranny could not be hidden from the cold light streaming in through the window nor the slamming closed of his eyelids. They taunted him in the darkness, searing into his brain. If only Hugh were here. Where are you, brother, when I need you most? We always looked out for each other and now the wolves are set to devour me.
“Wynn?”
Wynn’s eyes shot open. Svetlana stood in the doorway.
“I am sorry to disturb. I did knock.” Head tilted to the side, eyes softened, corners of the mouth slightly pulled down, hesitation in the stance. She was worried. About him. “Is everything all right?”
He wanted his ice princess with her haughty expression and raised eyebrows. The glacial slant of her nose where woes dared not fall lest they slip off to their deserved doom. The arctic chill in her eyes that frosted demeaning circumstances and stamped them beneath the ice where they belonged. That beguiling creature would at least challenge him to exert all his willpower to thaw her with a smirk here and a teasing comment there.
Instead, his willpower was nearly crippled by her look of near pity. He would not be that to her. Whatever it took, she would not witness him crippled by his own arrogance and failures.
“The coroner sent his final report on Harkin. A formality.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. He grabbed the letter and shoved it into the bottom drawer.
Sadness and relief flitted across her face. Wynn’s stomach twisted. What did it cost the soul to lie? Mere fragments breaking off until its existence was nothing more than a hollow shell? Could he learn to live on the meagerness that remained? Could his future with Svetlana exist on it? Would he be able to survive the guilt?
But so much had been taken from his wife; he could not bear to see her suffer further because of him. One day he would tell her the whole truth, but to do so now would only cause her unnecessary pain. He believed she would understand the reason for his concealment when the time came. She had not agreed to become his wife in exchange for a life of disgrace. He had wanted only to save her from that in promise of a good life. He would salvage whatever remained of his reputation and force his feet to tread the path demanded of him. He would give Svetlana the life of happiness she deserved.
“Will you come and have tea with me?” she asked.
“Nothing I’d like more.” Coercing a smile, Wynn stood and shut the drawer, but not quick enough to erase the letter’s final lines burning him with shame.
Edwynn MacCallan is thereby stripped of his medical services and doctoral titles pending a formal investigation of actions.
Chapter 22
Every chandelier in Thornhill blazed with light to warm the stone walls and walnut floors like an ancient oil poured out as anointment for the charity bazaar. The elegant tapestries and glowing candles wrapped the affluent guests in rich comfort as they entered from the frigid night. Gift-laden tables set out for the silent auction were available to peruse while a small orchestra played lively tunes from Tchaikovsky, Stravinksy, and Rachmaninoff. The world may still eye Russia with distrust, but Svetlana wasn’t about to allow the same for its music. Such superiority needed to be heard by all.
Svetlana slipped among her mingling guests and into the dining room where delicacies from shortbread and some kind of oat flattened cakes called bannocks—which Constance assured her were a must at any Scottish gathering—to Russian peasant savories of vatrushaka and pelmeni covered the long dining table in artful arrangements.
Marina came to stand next to Svetlana. With her curled hair pinned atop her head and pearls dangling from her ears, Marina had bloomed overnight into a woman. If they had been home and life had continued as planned, her baby sister would have been presented in court before the tsar and tsarina with suitors standing in line to beg for the first dance. Such things belonged to dreams of the past, but at least they had awoken to a future together.
“I believe Mrs. Varjensky has found her true calling. She was destined to be a caterer.” Marina tilted her chin to indicate the small figure across the room.
The old woman was dressed in a simple but elegant black gown with no adornment other than the lacey shawl Svetlana had given her held together in the front with the matryoshka brooch from Wynn. Standing next to the table, she snagged whoever went by and pointed out all the food choices to them while loading up a plate and practically shoveling the food into their mouths. If the person didn’t immediately groan with taste-bud ecstasy, Mrs. Varjensky would reach for another sample to force on them.
“I found her offering Lord Barrow an oil to massage the lump on his forehead,” Svetlana said. “She claimed the protrusion was caused by a kiss from the devil. Thank goodness he didn’t speak Russian.”
Two women dripping in jewels strolled by and congratulated her on the splendid evening. Svetlana thanked them for coming before allowing herself to take in the other fashionable guests. Smiles and laughter rippled through the soft strains of music and clinking plates. Perhaps they had only come to see the new Russian princess curiosity, but they had come and that was as good a starting place as Svetlana could hope for.
“They’re right. Everything looks splendid tonight. You’ve outdone yourself, Svetka,” Marina said.
“Mama’s party-planning sessions have finally paid off. I’ve been able to put my skills to good use.”
“Anyone with enough money and wine can put together a party, but you’ve done something more. You’ve created an event that exceeds its premise. The guests are excited to be here, unlike all those painted-on expressions of regal boredom drowning in the palaces back home.”
“You forget: we were those bored people.”
“Not anymore. People are having a good time.” Marina’s smile encompassed the room.
“I think they’re all simply curious to see the russkiye. Maybe I should have hired Cossack dancers to really give them a show.”
“No, I think they’re here to see the new Duchess of Kilbride. This mysterious princess from the east with her strange accent and even stranger family in tow. ‘Do they really dine on bear and cabbage?’ they’re probably asking.” Horror flashed across Marina’s face. “Mrs. Varjensky didn’t make bear and cabbage pirozhki, did she?”
“With the way people are going back for seconds, I doubt it. Then again, they are Scottish, and Wynn informed me the cuisine here is all based on a dare.” Svetlana absently plucked at the cream lace on her sleeve, her thoughts drifting far beyond questionable food. “I only hope this evening reflects well on Wynn. He hasn’t been the same since his brother died, which is understandable, but then the death of his patient too. He needs something to lift his spirits.”
Grief touched souls differently, often lingering longer in some. She was by no means an expert on Wynn’s handling of personal sensitivities, but she sensed a change rooting deeper than the loss of his brother. Tension marked his moves and smiling seemed an afterthought. More than once she’d caught him staring off into the distance as if a war raged in his mind. When she asked him about it, he would shake his head and assure her nothing was amiss. But the smile he offered wasn’t from the Wynn she knew.