Marina stepped close and touched a gentle hand to Svetlana’s shoulder. “Mama will get better, but it’ll take time. We’ll help her. There’s no sense in you worrying so much about all of us.”
The naïve sweetness on her sister’s face—thinking it was their mother who caused the only trouble—slipped a knife into Svetlana’s
heart. “Part of being the big sister is to worry,
“Then it’s good you have Wynn to look after you. He’s the only one strong enough.”
The knife twisted. Svetlana walked away as the pain swelled in her chest, culminating in the prickle of tears.
“Are we still conducting that village meeting later today?” Marina’s voice trailed down the hall after her.
“Yes. Be ready to leave by three o’clock.” Svetlana rounded the corner and threw open the nearest window. Icy wind rushed in and froze the tears cresting her bottom lashes. She swiped them away with a decisive flick of her hand before closing the window and continuing on.
* * *
The Glentyre schoolhouse was a sea of worn faces all bundled together against the chill rapping against the lead-paned windows. Women in headscarves held tightly to their red-nosed children while the men stared solemnly ahead. Men with missing arms or legs, scarred faces, limps, and haunted expressions of weariness. One might easily despair of their pitiable conditions, but that was a fool’s take. War had pillaged and destroyed with its ravenous appetite for death, but it had not claimed its final stake in this village. There was still a fight to be had, and the overwhelming attendance that day was a rallying cry.
Svetlana stood before them with a world map hanging behind her. Countries, mountains, and oceans were marked in English and Gaelic, the ancient Scottish language she was determined to learn if only a few words for greeting.
She’d taken care to wear a simple black dress of mourning with a silk rosette of blue and green pinned to her lapel. MacCallan colors. Today, above all, was about unity.
“War has mastered our circumstances these past four years and now we must find new ways to survive its aftermath. Together. I stand before you not as a princess or duchess but as one of you. As one who has lived through bloody horrors, mayhem, and death. Left forever scarred, but in no way defeated.” She took heart in the nods circling the room. “So many of you have shared your stories with me and for that I am grateful and humbled. I have felt your loss as my own.”
“Feel our loss, do ye, Yer Grace?” A wiry man with fading red hair and a bandage around his left ear stood up from the back row. “What’d ye ken sittin’ up in yer bonny castle wi’ yer fine furs and jewels to warm ye. Ye dinna speak fae us.”
Svetlana clasped her black lace–gloved hands together and offered a polite smile. “I do not believe I’ve had the opportunity of meeting you before, sir.”
“’Twas lain up in a frog hospital fae neigh on five months wi’ half me brains leakin’ out this hole in me heid.” He tapped the bandage. “Boyd Beardsly’s the name.”
“How do you do, Mr. Beardsly. Hopefully after our meeting we might have a private moment to speak, but for now I shall tell you that I was forced to flee my country as my home was burned over my head. My people were and still are hunted like dogs. My father and brother were murdered because of a sworn allegiance to their rightful king. I have begged in the gutters for scraps of bread to eat. All of my worldly possessions have been sold or stolen, leaving me only with the dignity of my name, which some would gleefully kill me over.
“So, no, Mr. Beardsly, I do not claim to speak for you. Merely as one who has shared a great loss, as you have.” Her steady words belied the pounding of her heart. Her endeavor and acceptance rose and fell with these people. They never asked her to come and situate herself as their lady, but she was determined to gain their trust. If that meant opening this private piece of herself, then so be it.
“God save you, Your Grace!”
“Bless ye, Yer Grace!”
“She’s not a toff, Beardsly! She’s a MacCallan.”
Beardsly scowled at the echoing voices around him before offering Svetlana a reluctant sniff. “Reckon ye hae at that. On wi’ yer speech then.” He waved a dismissive hand and plonked back down on the bench.
From the front row, Constance beamed while Marina sent her a sly wink. They, too, wore black and matching rosettes. If nothing else, she had their support.