Svetlana’s attention snapped up. “Lieutenant Harkin did not die under Wynn’s knife. It was some time after the operation. Where are you hearing this information?”
“One of the maids has a brother who worked as an orderly in the London hospital when that sergeant—lieutenant?—was there.” Wrapping the necklace chain around her finger, Mama gave her a pointed look. “I have to get my information from somewhere when my own daughter won’t tell me.”
“That’s because there is nothing to tell. It was tragic that the young man died, but Wynn did his best to save him. As he did—does—with all his patients.” They may have been in the middle of a marital tempest, but no one could falsely accuse Wynn to her face and remain unchecked. He was a good man and a brilliant surgeon and would rather throw himself in front of a firing squad before seeing harm come to another person.
Had he not done just that to protect the woman he claimed to love? Her head pounded. Yes, he had. With a lie.
The sound of metal zippering over a chain filled the stretching silence. Mama’s cross pulling back and forth on its chain. “The maids also tell me they’ve been lighting the fire and making the beds in both of your separate chambers.”
Svetlana crossed the room in an undignified two strides and glared at her mother from the foot of the bed. All pretense of civility vanished at her mother’s gaming attempts to needle her. “The intimate information of my sleeping arrangements is none of your concern.”
“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?”
“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.”