“It tells a lot about a marriage. Particularly the early days.”
“I’m sure you’d find more delight to hear of me slipping into Sergey’s bed.”
Mama jerked upright. “There’s no call to be crude.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t realize there was a more delicate way of stating whose bed you’d rather see me in than my husband’s.”
“Good heavens. I did not raise you to speak this way.”
“It’s the only thing ladies of the court discuss.”
“Not in front of their daughters.”
“Behind the back is preferable? Or only with the maids?”
“This is not—that is not why I asked. Always twisting my words around to make me a harpy of the worst kind.” Lips pursed, her mother inhaled several times through her nose as her hands scuffed over the bed linen. Ever the victim. Ever so slowly, the high color on her cheeks receded. “I ask because … Well, what does it matter now? You’re your father’s daughter.”
The angry dart flew straight and true at Svetlana’s heart, but it was too late. She’d armed herself since the first attack. “I once felt special when you told me that. Now I know you never meant it as a compliment.”
“There you go again, knowing all. Whatever would we mere mortals of imperfection do without your insight? Apparently we would have starved, been thrown out into the streets, or killed without you to guide us. I’ve yet to see one lasting ray of hope since we left Russia.”
“I’ve done the best I can to keep us safe.”
“I’m sure you think so.”
With the covers pulled up high on her chest and the pink bow at her throat, her mother was not the bitter harpy she accused Svetlana of making her, but rather a selfish, scared child who knew no better than to lash out when she was hurting. Nothing hurt more than being denied love.
“Did you love my father?” Did you ever love me? Svetlana burned to ask but held back in fear of what the answer might be.
“I did, but it was too exhausting keeping up with that much perfection,” Mama whispered, clutching her cross and slumping into her pillows. “Go away. I’m tired.”
Svetlana turned, crossed the room, and opened the door. Marina stood there precariously balancing a fresh tray of steaming tea. The scent of apples lingered in the strained leaves.
“Oh good. I didn’t know how I was going to get the door open holding this.” The smile dropped from her face. “Svetka. What’s wrong?”
“Mama is tired, but I suspect she’ll feel revived after her tea.”
“We didn’t have cherries, but I strained a few of the chamomile petals you’ve been drying from your herb garden. You don’t think she’ll mind?”
“Of course not. Your thoughtfulness is always appreciated.”
“Do you know when Sergey will return? He left rather unexpectedly, and I worry for him in this strange country.”
Sergey had left not long after their last conversation in the solarium—where he had so brazenly declared himself to her—claiming he needed a few days alone to gather his thoughts while searching for new accommodations. It would be a lie to say she did not feel relief from his temporary absence. She had too many upsets to deal with, and summoning small talk for the man she’d rejected was not one she had the fortitude for.
“I’m not certain. Perhaps he needed time to clear his head. We Dalsky women can be overwhelming in our plights.”
Marina stepped close and touched a gentle hand to Svetlana’s shoulder. “Mama will get better, but it’ll take time. We’ll help her. There’s no sense in you worrying so much about all of us.”
The naïve sweetness on her sister’s face—thinking it was their mother who caused the only trouble—slipped a knife into Svetlana’s heart. “Part of being the big sister is to worry, kotyonok.”
“Then it’s good you have Wynn to look after you. He’s the only one strong enough.”
The knife twisted. Svetlana walked away as the pain swelled in her chest, culminating in the prickle of tears.
“Are we still conducting that village meeting later today?” Marina’s voice trailed down the hall after her.
“Yes. Be ready to leave by three o’clock.” Svetlana rounded the corner and threw open the nearest window. Icy wind rushed in and froze the tears cresting her bottom lashes. She swiped them away with a decisive flick of her hand before closing the window and continuing on.
* * *
The Glentyre schoolhouse was a sea of worn faces all bundled together against the chill rapping against the lead-paned windows. Women in headscarves held tightly to their red-nosed children while the men stared solemnly ahead. Men with missing arms or legs, scarred faces, limps, and haunted expressions of weariness. One might easily despair of their pitiable conditions, but that was a fool’s take. War had pillaged and destroyed with its ravenous appetite for death, but it had not claimed its final stake in this village. There was still a fight to be had, and the overwhelming attendance that day was a rallying cry.
Svetlana stood before them with a world map hanging behind her. Countries, mountains, and oceans were marked in English and Gaelic, the ancient Scottish language she was determined to learn if only a few words for greeting.
She’d taken care to wear a simple black dress of mourning with a silk rosette of blue and green pinned to her lapel. MacCallan colors. Today, above all, was about unity.
“War has mastered our circumstances these past four years and now we must find new ways to survive its aftermath. Together. I stand before you not as a princess or duchess but as one of you. As one who has lived through bloody horrors, mayhem, and death. Left forever scarred, but in no way defeated.” She took heart in the nods circling the room. “So many of you have shared your stories with me and for that I am grateful and humbled. I have felt your loss as my own.”
“Feel our loss, do ye, Yer Grace?” A wiry man with fading red hair and a bandage around his left ear stood up from the back row. “What’d ye ken sittin’ up in yer bonny castle wi’ yer fine furs and jewels to warm ye. Ye dinna speak fae us.”
Svetlana clasped her black lace–gloved hands together and offered a polite smile. “I do not believe I’ve had the opportunity of meeting you before, sir.”
“’Twas lain up in a frog hospital fae neigh on five months wi’ half me brains leakin’ out this hole in me heid.” He tapped the bandage. “Boyd Beardsly’s the name.”
“How do you do, Mr. Beardsly. Hopefully after our meeting we might have a private moment to speak, but for now I shall tell you that I was forced to flee my country as my home was burned over my head. My people were and still are hunted like dogs. My father and brother were murdered because of a sworn allegiance to their rightful king. I have begged in the gutters for scraps of bread to eat. All of my worldly possessions have been sold or stolen, leaving me only with the dignity of my name, which some would gleefully kill me over.
“So, no, Mr. Beardsly, I do not claim to speak for you. Merely as one who has shared a great loss, as you have.” Her steady words belied the pounding of her heart. Her endeavor and acceptance rose and fell with these people. They never asked her to come and situate herself as their lady, but she was determined to gain their trust. If that meant opening this private piece of herself, then so be it.