“Don’t I always?”
“Da, that is why you official taste test. You tell the truth. You I trust. Mac, not so much. Everything babushka makes he likes.”
“Which is precisely why his trousers have grown too tight since you opened this place and took on Mrs. Varjensky to oversee the cooking.”
“Da, my dream come true. Own place, own rules. No dead bodies.”
“It’s the only establishment in Scotland to serve Russian cuisine. You should be very proud.”
Proud didn’t begin to describe Leonid’s attitude. His father had been arrested and the White Bear closed, but he’d had no desire to return to Paris and so had embarked on a lifetime dream of starting his own establishment right there in Glentyre. Everyone in the village knew him, though how anyone could not know of the larger-than-life Russian strutting about was beyond comprehension. He’d taken samples of his vodka and cabbage rolls into every shop until he’d made loyal customers out of each of them. Once they’d overcome their initial terror of him, that is.
“Where is goddaughter? Has been two days since seeing my kroshka. She will not remember me.”
The little crumb had arrived three months and one week ago to the joyous delight of her family. Particularly Wynn, who was wrapped around Anastasia’s tiny little finger. No matter how tired he was from a day at the hospital, he always made time for his wee girl.
“She is at home sleeping. Or she’s supposed to be. Her grandmothers and aunt make her smile too much instead of keeping to a nap schedule.”
“Stasia loves me best. I come tomorrow for visit so she no longer forgets me. I will bring name day gift.”
“Her name day celebration is months away.”
“I will bring gift then too. You want to know what I bring tomorrow?” His eyes widened like a child’s at Christmas waiting for Dedt Moroz. “Proper samovar. Too long you are without. I have her name carved on it so all will know it belongs to Stasia from beloved godfather. She will drink proper tea now.”
“I have no doubt she will treasure it always.” The Lady Anastasia Edwynnovna MacCallan couldn’t find the end of her nose, much less a teacup, but Svetlana wasn’t about to spoil Leonid’s joy.
The server came bustling back to the table with a loaded platter of sautéed dumplings and presented it to Svetlana. Peeling off her white netted gloves as per dining etiquette, she forked one of the delicacies and brought it to her mouth. Chewing, she tasted the fire-cooked fish flaked apart with a savory hint of rosemary. She set down her fork and dabbed at her mouth with a clean napkin.
“A dash of salt would bring out the smokiness.”
Leonid slapped the table, startling the nearby customers. “That is what I say. ‘Overwhelming the herbs,’ babushka says. I let her in kitchen once and now she thinks in charge.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t allow her in the kitchen anymore.”
“Nyet. She is the best cook in Scotland. They eat sheep guts before we come.”
The infamous haggis. Svetlana shuddered. Who would have thought Mrs. Varjensky, a self-imposed head cook who sold herbal medicines on the side, or often to inebriated patrons, would become the cuisine savior of Scotland?
The fiddler and bodhrán player finished their set and a vibrating balalaika came to take their place to the anticipatory applause of the drinking patrons. Leonid had traveled as far as London to find a Russian musician so the sleepy villagers of Glentyre could appreciate true culture. On Friday and Saturday nights the musician’s wife joined him as a singer and dancer. What would begin as a tribute to Mother Russia would eventually spiral into a wash of vodka and whisky for a rioting celebration of Celtic and Slavic proportions.
The side door opened and in strode Wynn looking more confident and content than she’d ever seen him. With Harkin’s death ruled a tragedy of undetected slug remnants and not due to complications from surgery, Wynn’s medical license had been reinstated with all honors and reputation intact. Hospitals in London, Edinburgh, and Inverness had warmed to his innovative surgery techniques, the same that had caused censure among his peers months before, and clamored for his services.
He’d turned them all down in favor of practicing at Harkin Hospital, where people came from all over the country seeking his skills. He’d also discovered a true gift for teaching. Many of the ordinary physician’s tasks were given to other doctors on the roster while the major cases were placed under Wynn’s skilled scalpel. Resigning himself only to the serious operations allowed him time for his other duties as duke. An imperfect balance when he’d rather be in surgery, but a balance all the same.
Greeting villagers as he passed, Wynn kept his eyes ever on Svetlana, making her heart pound with each step bringing him closer. He leaned over and kissed her generously on the lips, drawing a series of whistles from the nearby tables. The people had grown accustomed to the unusual acts of their duke and duchess, from public affection—which Svetlana tried and failed to chide Wynn from—and surgical duties, to eating among the commoners with their Russian friend almost as frequently as they dined in their castle.
“Had to do a resection of the pericardium due to end-diastolic pressure in the left ventricle. It’s a new technique coming out of Frankfurt for heart failures. Mmm, what’s this?” He grabbed a dumpling from Svetlana’s plate and popped it in his mouth. The more surgeries, the more improved his appetite. “Fish? Tastes perfect.”
“That is because you are babushka’s golubchik.” Leonid raised an eyebrow to Svetlana as if to say, See what I mean?
Ignoring him, Wynn grabbed another dumpling. “Where’s Stasia? I wanted to show her the new gurney we got in the operating theater.”
Svetlana swatted at his greasy fingers with her napkin. “Firstly, our daughter is three months old. She has not a clue of what a gurney or an operating theater is. Secondly, the last time you took her into that room, a removed organ was still on the table.”
“It was a ruptured appendix. The patient no longer required it.”
“Be that as it may, Stasia is much too young to stare at human organs, required or not.”
“It’s never too early to start her medical knowledge. Speaking of which, I ordered a new set of medical journals on the latest in surgical techniques—”
“They printed your article!”
“Not yet, but in one of the issues they mentioned improvements for strengthening weakened bones and misshapen muscles. A common epidemic among our soldiers, but it might also be useful to Alec MacGregor. You remember him and his wife, Lord and Lady Strathem? They hosted that charity gala for the continued care of convalescent homes.”
“I saw mostly her. Lord Strathem, I believe, prefers his wife to shine while he keeps quietly to the back. A charming woman, but she laughs too much.” She turned to Leonid. “American.”