The handwriting was barely discernable, but she smiled anyway. Lying back on the pillow that still carried his scent, Svetlana held up her left hand and smiled as her wedding band glowed with new appreciation in the morning light. She had finally become Wynn’s wife. His true wife in all manner of the name. It had been a night of revelations and discoveries, tenderness and passion. She had lain in his arms wrapped in love as a new beginning stretched before them.
Again and again he’d told her he loved her. She’d reveled in the words, never having heard them before. It wasn’t a phrase commonly used in aristocratic Russian families, and she’d certainly never allowed a man to say it to her. Oh, some had tried, but she’d cut off their flowery words before they embarrassed themselves in dribbling nonsense. Wynn was the only man she wanted to hear say it and the only man she wished to say it to. Last night she hadn’t out of fear. She wasn’t accustomed to allowing her emotions so close to the surface, much less confessed out into the open, and panic had seized her. It was past time for fear. Today was the day. This morning she would tell Wynn she loved him.
Swinging her feet out of the large bed, she ignored the soreness and went in search of her robe. Somehow it had been flung
on top of Wynn’s bureau next to the gifted Fabergé egg from Leonid’s name day. She slipped on the robe and tied the sash about
her waist as ideas for the day bloomed in her head like spring flowers after a long, bleak winter. Upon Wynn’s return she
would confess her love and he would kiss her. Her eyes darted to the bed and heat rushed up her cheeks. Afterward they might
go for a walk in the snow and visit one of the lakes—no, he called them lochs—nearby. Maybe go ice skating or on a sleigh
ride. She would need to ask if he—
She pirouetted around the room, neatly refolding her nightdress on the chair, arranging her slippers next to the shoes Wynn had kicked off by the fireplace. Taking his crumpled jacket from the floor, she gently shook it out while humming to herself. A yellow telegram fluttered to the floor. It was none of her business, but the sender being the Royal Medical Academy piqued her curiosity. It was dated the day he’d been summoned to London and addressed to the Duke of Kilbride. Odd. He usually requested his colleagues refer to him as Dr. MacCallan.
Your appearance is required before a medical board of your peers. Stop. Hereby to determine fault of surgical procedure and death of Lt. J. Harkin. Stop. Physician title and license remains withheld until inquest concluded. Stop.
Fault of procedure. Death of Harkin. License withheld. The meanings battled through Svetlana’s brain as the words ran together before her eyes. Was Wynn being accused of killing Harkin because of the surgery? She knew he’d been questioned about it, but never to this degree. Never to the point of stripping away his medical license. An ache throbbed at the base of her skull. All this time. Why had he not told her?
The door opened. “Good morning, my beautiful wife. Or I should say,
“How long?”
“I was only gone about thirty minutes. Luckily Cook already had the oven heated for the scones.”
Clutching the telegram, she slowly turned around. She tried to ignore the mussed hair falling across his forehead and the undone buttons at the top of his wrinkled shirt where a few golden hairs smattered across his wide chest. She tried to block the memory of resting her cheek against that warm chest and clenched the condemning paper tighter.
“How long?”
The pleasantness evaporated from his face as he glanced at the telegram. Very carefully he placed the breakfast tray on the foot of the bed. He’d brought her golden toast with butter, scones with clotted cream, sliced apples, and thin cuts of ham. Somewhere he’d found three snowdrops blooming early in the season and put them in a small vase next to a steaming cup of tea. His thoughtfulness cut to her wounded heart.
“Since Glasgow,” he said quietly.
The cut sank deeper. “Thank you for not lying to me. Again.”
“I was going to tell you. I tried to—”
“When? You’ve had weeks. What would deem me, your wife, worthy to know of your troubles?” Her voice grew cooler with each word as she stepped back into the familiarity of distance and reserve even as pain poured into her widening wound. She folded the telegram precisely in half and dropped it on the table.