“Him you love?”
The truth refused denial under the old woman’s probing gaze. Svetlana nodded, gaining strength with the small admission. “Yes.”
“He love you?”
“He’s told me so.” From the very beginning of their marriage he’d told her how much he cared for her. He’d given her honesty when she craved it yet was too scared to accept it.
“All that matters. Love not something happens. Love builds little each day. Must care for, put effort. If no, love burn out. Let me tell wisdom: nothing colder than ashes after fire of love gone. We Russians too long cold.”
Laughing, Svetlana dabbed the tears from her cheeks with her robe’s lacey cuff. “I thought we were proud of that fact.”
“Shh. No one need know truth. Secret we all cold. This why we need men keep us warm. Where yours?”
“Glasgow.”
“That where you need be.”
“But what if—”
“If, if, if. Questions for fools. You no fool. You kind heart admit or no.” Wriggling off the stool, Mrs. Varjensky pulled the tray of baked vareniki out of the oven and set it on the table. A delicious whiff steamed off the golden puffs.
“You’re wrong, babushka. My heart is mine no longer. Wynn took it long ago. I just didn’t realize it until now.” He had taken her heart over so completely that Svetlana was almost afraid to look further into herself lest she discover how little of herself was still joined to it.
“Go where heart is.”
And with those words, she was free. Why had it taken so long? Svetlana hugged the old woman, kissing her soft cheek. “Spasibo.”
Taking a square of linen, Mrs. Varjensky scooped up a handful of the puffs and bundled them into the makeshift sack. “Take. Take and give golubchik. He need eat more.”
A bell sounded in the adjoining servant’s hall. Svetlana ducked through the door and looked at the mounted board where the bell for the front door was rocking back and forth on its spring. Who would call at this late hour?
Svetlana handed the wrapped pastries back to Mrs. Varjensky. “Keep them warm for me. I’ll fetch them in the morning before I leave for the train.”
Hurrying to the Stone Hall, she was met by Glasby, dressed in his customary uniform of black coat and starched shirt. Either he never slept or he went to bed fully dressed, otherwise he could not have beaten her to the door.
Unaffected by the ungodly hour of the surprise visitor, he notched his chin up and opened the door. “May I help you?”
Icy air swept past the opened door and swirled around Svetlana. She drew her robe closer about her and tried to peer past Glasby’s shoulder from where she waited in the shadows. It wouldn’t do to have the visitor spot the lady of the house in a state of dishabille.
The man outside was thick with a fine coat buttoned about him and a hat shadowing his face. He spoke too low for Svetlana to hear him.
“We have no lady here by the name of Angel, if a lady she be,” Glasby intoned. “There is a place one village over where you might have better luck.”
The man tried to push his way inside. “Mac!”
Svetlana rushed from her hiding place. “Leonid? What are you doing here?”
Leonid Sheremetev, looking more wan than when she’d last seen him in Paris, brushed past Glasby and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Blessed holy God, you alive, Angel! I come tell you. You and Mac in danger.”
Chapter 31
A solitary circular window perched high on the wall like the all-knowing eye to the official proceedings instigated within its domain. Its singular existence emitted a pale shaft of mid-morning sunlight that mocked the inner stale air with nature’s brilliance. Wynn would endure the shatters of glass cutting his skin if he could hurtle himself through that window and escape the droning from the pasty old men seated in front of him.
His fate would be decided today. A doctor or a duke. Like any man before the gallows, he wished a swift end to this torturous waiting.
Glasgow’s Medical Hall was none so grand as the Royal Medical Academy, but among the offices, laboratories, and classrooms a chamber had been reserved for said torture. What it lacked in thumb screws and iron maidens it made up for with a long table occupied by seven serious-looking men sitting in severely uncomfortable chairs. The defendant’s chair, the one Wynn occupied, was most likely fitted with a loose spring if the pain at his left backside was any indication.
Dr. Stan, a retired optician, took the seat of precedence at the center of the table. Adjusting his eyeglasses, he looked across the table at Wynn.
“Dr. Lehr’s character reference, along with several other key witness testimonies from Hȏpital du Sacré-Coeur in Paris, have provided this review board a great deal to contemplate. As you know, Dr. Lehr is a trusted physician and his word goes a long way—”
“Get on with it,” came the voice of a disgruntled orthopedist from farther down the table. He’d called Wynn a quack from day one and made no bones about the relish with which he would strip Wynn’s license for good. Orthopedic surgery had been around for centuries, and those old boys didn’t much care for the newfangled ideas associated with cardiology. A straightforward bone was more their game while blood made them squeamish.
Dr. Stan glared at the interrupter. “As I was saying, such high recommendations do not weigh lightly on the decision of this board. They are a great marker in the testimony of character of Mr. MacCallan. No! Pardon me. His Grace, the Duke of Kilbride.”
Wynn didn’t know which was worse. Being called by his name or his title. Above all he was a doctor.
“It is unfortunate anytime a patient succumbs, and we all as oath-taking physicians understand the risk of such loss. The only reason this review is being conducted is because you proceeded with a technique not consented to by your superiors from which your patient later died due to post-op complications.”
“An unethical operation,” huffed Orthopedic Man.
“A new operational method with lifesaving possibilities,” Wynn corrected, rubbing his sweating palms against his thighs.
Dr. Stan nodded patiently. “Yes, all of that is here in the typed report. I am only repeating the charge as a formality. Before the board’s final recommendation is voted on to reinstate His Grace or permanently revoke his medical license, are there any final words that wish to be said?”
Wynn shook his head. He’d said all he could from the truth as he knew it. Whatever the outcome, he would rest with his conscience clear, knowing he’d done the right thing by his patient at the time. It was all any physician could do.
“Very well. All those in favor of reinstating His Grace with full exoneration and medical rights as obtained by all licensed physicians in Great Britain—”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
All eyes swiveled toward the door as scuffling and angry shouts sounded from the other side. The door burst open. In strode Svetlana dressed head to toe in icy blue followed by none other than Leonid Sheremetev.
A junior physician scampered in behind them. “You cannot be in here, miss! The sign says no admittance.” He made the mistake of trying to take her arm.
Leonid grabbed the back of Junior’s jacket and tossed him out the door like a sack of meal. “No ever touch Her Serenity the Princess, weasel man. I make ham sandwich from you.” He slammed the door shut on Junior’s cry of outrage.