Rain drizzled down the diamond-paned windows of the library where Svetlana sat on a bench seat staring out at the waterlogged afternoon. All it did was rain in Scotland, churning the rolling landscape to a blur of gray and green. Though she missed the refinement of city life, there was something about this wild land that eased the tension from her bones. On a rare day when the sun breached from its sleeping habitat behind the thick clouds, she could almost feel a sense of peace. But even that peace could be overtaken with restlessness.
She’d been greeted at the train station as Her Grace, the Duchess of Kilbride, and whisked off to her new home at Thornhill. By Scottish standards the castle was considered substantial with its towering walls of beige sandstone and turrets that reflected its sixteenth-century style, and while it boasted modern amenities and comforts, it was rather utilitarian compared to the opulence of Russian palaces. Her own Blue Palace had three reading rooms designed for nothing beyond the pleasure of whiling away hours reading next to enormous marble fireplaces. Thornhill, on the other hand, had an entire weapons wing lined with ancient armor, shields, swords, bows and arrows, and all other manner of intimidation for killing one’s enemy. And she once thought Russia had a war-infested history. She’d spent the first few weeks wandering the halls and grounds—weather permitting—familiarizing herself with what had become her new duties, yet she felt adrift without an anchor to keep her steady in the changing currents.
“Good gracious. Studying again.” Wynn’s mother, Constance, breezed in with the tails of her gossamer black scarf flapping behind her. Wreathed in mourning, the fluid lines of her gown enhanced her endless motion. “I don’t believe this room had nearly enough attention until you came along.”
Svetlana closed the book on her lap. A history of the county she now called home and its natural resources. Not to mention the vast fortune accrued under the MacCallan name. Wynn had never told her precisely how wealthy they were.
“I want to learn all I can about the MacCallans and Thornhill. The customs and expectations are different from those in Russia.”
“My dear, when you are foreign, you are judged on an entirely different scale than the native population. When my mother came from America as one of the dollar princesses to marry the ninth Duke of Kilbride, the locals didn’t know what to make of her with her optimism and individualistic thinking. She was a fast learner and did quite well, if I do say so myself. And so will you.”
Svetlana ran a finger over the worn leather binding, so similar to the ones lining her father’s study in the Blue Palace.
An ache swelled inside her. They used to read them together after dinner.
“I’ve been reading on the advances made on the estate over the years, many of which have helped it continue operating when so many great houses are going under due to the economical strain of war. As chatelaine, I should like to continue the work of mutual benefit for Thornhill and our tenants. According to the account books, they’ve been struggling of late— Oh! Forgive me. I did not mean to imply—”
“Save your breath to cool your porridge, my dear, as the Scots would say.” Constance held up a hand and smiled kindly. “I’m perfectly aware that my housekeeping abilities are atrocious. I love this house and the people here, but it’s never been in my blood to stay rooted for too long. Too many wondrous things out in the world to explore. Which is why I’m so delighted you’re here for me to pass the mantle to.”
Svetlana nodded. She’d been preparing for such a mantle her entire life. The Scottishness of it was a bit of a twist, but the foundations of running an estate remained the same no matter the country. Why then did she feel the drowning waters of uncertainty lapping close to her head? Wynn had offered this course of direction to her life as if it were the most natural one to follow. All other options had closed to her and so she’d followed him into marriage to find safe harbor amid the raging storm. Secluded now in that harbor, she was missing the compass that had pointed her here. The anchoring compass that kept her from drifting back into the storm.