Wynn held up his hand. “As I told your daughter, there is no charge in wartime.”
For the first time, Mama dared to relax her face into what others might be fooled into considering as a friendly look. “Are all physicians as noble as you?”
“I wouldn’t call it noble, ma’am, but we do what we can for those in need.”
Mama glanced away and touched the bottom slanted bar of her Orthodox cross. “How these times make us all suffer. Some more than others.”
“You’re right about that, but you’ll never hear those Tommies complaining. I think they’re all out for the medal of suffering in silence.”
Mama’s lips pursed at his not taking her pitying bait. “Yes, well, we have seen a great deal of suffering on our travel here.”
“Do you plan to remain in Paris or travel on to a final destination?”
“Any final destination for a Russian is in Russia, though the circumstances do not allow for it at present. Here we shall stay with nothing but our dignity until such a time as we may return.”
“I believe we all feel that way about going home.” The easy light in his eyes flickered.
It was the slightest break in an illusion of well-being that Svetlana felt all too keenly. She didn’t want to believe that of him. Couldn’t allow herself to believe it. No one was to be trusted. Not even kind doctors who pulled glass from her leg.
Svetlana shifted on the hard floor. “Is Mrs. Varjensky comfortable?”
Wynn nodded, looking once more the confident doctor. “She’s resting now, as you should be doing. Keep your leg elevated and only put weight on it if you must. A bit of valerian root or white willow bark in scandal water should help relieve any pain for the both of you. Tomorrow I’ll try to get you proper medicines.”
“What is this scandalous water?”
“Tea. Because ladies often use it as social lubricant for gossip.”
Svetlana’s gaze dropped to the wrapped package in his hand. “What do you have there?”
“Pastry of some sort.” Unwrapping the muslin, he held up a ring of baked dough with cheese in the center. “Mrs. Varjensky insisted.”
“Vatrushka.”
“Vatrushka.” His pronunciation was terrible, but it didn’t keep him from grinning. A habit he so easily allowed. “Breakfast. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long night and my next round of duties begins in eight hours. I’ll bring the medicines after my shift.”
The panic from earlier came swooping back. They didn’t need him returning and drawing attention. “We can make do without and will trouble you no further.”
“As my patient it’s your prerogative to trouble me. Let’s me know I’m still needed.”
“But the soldiers—”
“I should warn you now that I’ve perfected the art of ignoring patients’ gallant notions of martyrdom. Part of a physician’s training.” He sketched a short bow and backed out of the chamber. “Ladies, I bid you all a pleasant morning and remainder of the day.”
Svetlana struggled to her feet in a last desperate attempt. Her leg cramped in protest. “Marina can collect the medicine instead of you coming so far to deliver it.”
Wynn stuck his head back in and cocked an eyebrow at her. “You’re going to be a difficult one, aren’t you? Rest.” With a quick flash of his eye, he disappeared.
Mama gasped. “That man winked at you.”
“No, a mere twitch,” Svetlana said. It was very much a wink, but admitting so brought no favors.
“He could be dangerous.”
“As dangerous as using titles in front of him?”
Huffing, Mama surged to her dainty feet. The fraying hem of her once fashionable skirt swished around her ankles. “Whatever he is, he’s proven the English have nothing of court protocol. Mrs. Dalsky. As if I would answer to such a commoner’s name. Blessed be he’s a simple physician and not expected to circulate within higher society.”
“I think he’s nice,” Marina said, patting Svetlana’s hand. “He took care of you. And Mrs. Varjensky.”
He did. When no one else would.
Mama sniffed and pulled at a loose thread from her shawl. “Hmph. Another commoner. I don’t know why you insisted on bringing her.”
“Her sons were killed in the February Revolution last year and her husband died while they were escaping from the Bolsheviks,” Svetlana said, ignoring the sting that came with her mother’s criticism of her judgment. It came more often than not at Svetlana’s expense. “She has no one left. We couldn’t leave her in that miserable church with people crawling on top of one another.”
While making their way through Belgium they had heard of a church on the outskirts of Paris that was taking in White émigrés, but upon arrival there had only been space enough in the basement for them to sit back to back in hopes of sleeping. Mama had demanded—loudly—that serene princesses of relation to the tsar himself deserved an entire corner to themselves. It hadn’t taken long for threats to come. Svetlana had sneaked out her family and Mrs. Varjensky in the middle of the night and led them into the city only to find themselves beneath the floor of another church.
“How is your leg?” Mama’s expression softened, but the sunlight streaming through the window was not kind to the lines on her face. Her skin was soft and smooth as a young girl’s in Petrograd, but the passing months had left their wearisome marks.
“It will heal.”
“God give you strength. Rest now.”
Svetlana took Marina’s offered hand and lowered herself once more to the pallet. Marina folded her shawl and propped it under Svetlana’s ankle. “I’ll see if I can find something to make the tea for you and Mrs. Varjensky. Try to close your eyes.”
Every fiber in Svetlana’s body cried out for rest the way it did after a long day of dancing. But unlike the familiarity of a ballet barre to push her onward, nothing of comfort was to be found here. Nothing but unrest and danger. They could stay no longer.
Chapter 3
Svetlana Dmitrievna Dalsky. Princess. A Russian princess. Princess Svetlana of the silver hair and arctic eyes who didn’t smile. Svetlana of the too many names who wanted no one to find her.
But Wynn had found her and she’d been a constant on his mind ever since.
“Wake up, Your Excellency. You’re in a daze.” Gerard ribbed him.
Wynn blinked. Drying soap suds covered his hands. “Sorry. Mind elsewhere.” He quickly rinsed off the lather and dried his hands with a fresh cloth. The sounds of cleanup from the surgery thumped in the room next door.
“Let me guess. Somewhere far north of here with the strains of a balalaika playing in the background.” At Wynn’s frown, Gerard rolled his eyes and stuck his hands under the steaming stream of water. “If you’re to woo a lady of Russian origins, you might as well start learning her culture. Women appreciate that sort of attention to detail. I’ll lend you my copy of Pushkin.”
“I see the rumor mill is already churning.”
“How can it not? I hear the lady puts a glittering diamond to shame.”
“Was it also mentioned that said lady had a large glass fragment embedded in her tibialis anterior muscle?” Wynn tossed a clean towel directly at his mate’s head. Or that she’d had the strength of a soldier not to cry out in pain when he’d yanked said glass from her leg?
The towel knocked Gerard’s glasses sideways. “Ah, so that’s why you walked her home. Going to see her again?” Adjusting the wire frames, his large eyes blinked behind the glass.