The Calais port was jammed cheek to jowl with Red Cross ships, makeshift hospitals, and ambulances. Wounded soldiers were propped against cargo boxes as they waited to hobble up the gangways while the more serious cases lay on stretchers with nurses dotting among them. The days of armistice celebration had waned to the excruciating task of transporting the weary combatants home.
The ship swayed gently as Wynn stood on the deck with Svetlana after seeing her and her family’s things stowed safely in their room. It was cramped, but it would do to make the voyage from Calais to Portsmouth. Every other available space, including the deck, was taken up by wounded Tommies.
“Will you not come with us? Your mother needs you.” Dressed in a black frock from his mother’s wardrobe, Svetlana stood stark against the white bandages and stained uniforms surrounding them.
“I gave my word to the hospital to remain through the end of the year. I won’t abandon my patients.”
“You would not be abandoning them. You have a duty from your brother now as well.”
“A dukedom I never wanted. My work was never at the estate carrying around those titles. It’s always been in surgery.” He snorted. “Little good that’s done for my brother.”
“There was nothing you could have done for him.”
“That’s because there was no body to repair. That shell obliterated everything. I have nothing to take back to our mother.”
Heads turned their direction at the harshness in his voice. Wynn took a deep breath and gripped the rail. Rage and sadness spiraled through him until he could no longer discern up from down. Hugh had been killed leading a charge on some muddy field one week before the armistice. He’d escaped the war without a scratch only to be cut down by a screaming shell. His commander had written a glowing report of Hugh’s heroism and selfless leadership that served as an inspiration to his men. Hugh had always been the shining example. His memory was the only thing left to shine, and the loss pierced Wynn to the core.
Svetlana stepped closer, blocking off the curious stares. “Your desire to stay is admirable, but responsibilities often take us from where we would like best to remain. You cannot hide forever.”
“Is that what you Russians call grief consolation?”
“Russians console their grief with vodka. It makes for miserable funerals.”
“And here I thought it was the deaths.”
“I can tell you from experience that hiding will not make your sorrow disappear.” She rested her hand on his arm. Her wedding band made a slight bump from under her glove. “Come with us, Wynn. See to your mother. Honor your brother. Tend to the wounded who are arriving in Britain every day.”
He wanted to say yes. Wanted to leave behind the death and destruction that clung to the very air here. He wanted to take his new bride home to meet his mother and show her the peace he knew as a boy growing up at Thornhill. Who was he kidding? There was no peace to be found there now. Every rock and blade of grass would remind him of Hugh and the legacy Hugh had left him as the new Duke of Kilbride. To return would be a severance from everything Wynn had worked so hard to achieve medically. He might as well cut off his right arm.
The whistle blew, signaling all non-passengers to go ashore. Around them, nurses tucked in blankets and said final goodbyes to their patients, reassuring the men that new nurses would be waiting for them in Blighty. Svetlana looked down and shuffled her feet. Nervous. And why shouldn’t she be, embarking on this journey to an unfamiliar country? She was capable of overcoming any obstacle that might arise, just as she’d done escaping Russia, but he didn’t want to abandon her to the unknown. On their wedding day he’d sworn to protect her, and he had every intention of keeping his word as a husband and a man. The only way he knew to do that was to send her away.
“You’ll be safe at Thornhill. Mother will teach you everything you need to know about the estate as its new duchess.”
“I would prefer you to teach me.”
The whistle blew again. A high, lonesome sound marking their final moments together. There hadn’t been enough time between them.
“All ashore who’s going ashore,” called the porter as he walked up and down the deck swinging a bell. “Last call.”
Svetlana looked at Wynn with an expression he couldn’t discern, as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. What should he say to her, his wife of two weeks? Good luck? Don’t be a stranger; write me sometime? Will you miss me? Can I kiss you goodbye?