Heated anger avalanched through the numbness, scorching all ability for diplomacy. “A man has died. A man who entrusted himself into my care after being knocked down by a machine gun in service to his country, and all the president cares about is how it will make him look?”
“An investigation is being launched. The authorities will be in contact for your statement.” Dr. Neil placed a hand on Wynn’s shoulder. Another well-meaning physician’s gesture that did little to nothing. “I’m sorry.”
Wynn was left standing alone in the corridor. An hour before he’d been welcomed with enthusiasm as a golden boy, and now he’d been deserted like a pariah. The desertion he could deal with. Even the hot-cold treatment of so-called medical professionals he was accustomed to, but the death of a patient was something he would never shake off. A patient he had promised to do everything he could for. In trying to prove his own gut instinct of what was needed, had Wynn sentenced Harkin to death on that operating table? Had he stopped to consider all the possibilities before rotating that heart? If he’d not been so rash, would Harkin still be alive?
No. He’d done what he thought was right at the time. No surgeon had time to second-guess himself in the moment. Or was that his arrogance defending itself again?
Wynn tore down the stairs as the demons of doubt clawed at his heels. He needed to get out of there. He needed to retrace every step and action he’d taken that day when operating on Harkin. Had he done everything he could to prevent death?
He rounded the front reception desk. “Where is Her Grace?”
The nurse looked up from her files of paperwork. “I believe she was taking a tour of Wing A. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll have one of the junior nurses show you—”
“No need. I’ll find it.”
He’d been in enough hospitals to understand the general layout at a glance. It took him approximately ten seconds to locate Wing A, and fifty seconds with several wrong doors before he located his wife. She sat in a waiting room filled with families. Most noticeably the men were former soldiers, if their missing limbs and facial injuries were any indication.
Weaving his way to her side, Wynn gently grasped Svetlana’s elbow. “Apologies for interrupting, but we need to be on our way.”
Svetlana smiled up at him like the sun coming out of hiding, but he couldn’t feel the warmth due to the numbness lingering in his bones like an ill-fated chill waiting to freeze him out.
“Wynn, I’m so glad you’re here. This is Mrs. McDuff, her husband, Mr. McDuff, and their children. Mr. McDuff lost his leg in . . . Marne?”
Clenching his worn hat in his hand, Mr. McDuff pushed to his feet using a crutch for support. “Yes, ma’am. I mean, Duchess.”
“They have to travel over four hours every month to come here to the hospital only to sit for hours in the waiting room. Most of the other patients find themselves in similar distressing circumstances because adequate care isn’t available where they live in rural areas.”
Wynn tried to focus on what Svetlana was saying, but the words garbled together in his ears as it hit the thickening fog of numbness. She was looking at him. They all were. Waiting for him, the great surgeon, the lofty duke to say something. “It’s a problem everyone is facing. Hospitals and medical staff are doing what they can.”
Mr. McDuff bobbed his head while his wife dipped into a curtsy with tears in her eyes as if Wynn had spouted ecclesiastical revelations. It twisted the guilt of wretchedness like a knife. Svetlana thanked the couple for sharing their story with her and said goodbye to the others in the room. All Wynn could manage was a wooden nod.
Outside, Wynn hailed a taxi and they climbed inside. “Grand Central Hotel.”
Svetlana paused in untangling her fern fronds and frowned. “I thought we were having tea at the Willow.”
“No. We’re leaving for home.”
“Is everything all right?”
“A former patient of mine, a Lieutenant Harkin, died.”
“Oh, Wynn. I’m so sorry. How terrible for his family.” Her gloved hand rested lightly on his. Any other day he would have thrilled at her touch, but he felt nothing beyond the guilt. “I’m sure we can return another time for you to meet with the hospital board.”
The whole truth spilled to his mouth, but he clamped it behind his teeth. How could he tell her about the rejection? The one accomplishment he prided himself on had now been tarnished, and those esteemed opinions he sought to change for the betterment of patient treatment now turned against him. It was enough to cripple the pride of any man.