The auto jerked to a stop and the door opened to a blast of frigid air. Svetlana jumped, knocking Wynn in the face with the brim of her hat. Embarrassment scorched through her, but she quickly cooled it by flicking the blanket from her lap. No one, aristocrat or servant, was about to make her feel guilty about the almost kiss. Proper decorum was too cumbersome for the back of an auto. Especially when one’s husband looked as Wynn had.
“Welcome home, Your Graces.” A footman stood holding the door open with his eyes staring politely ahead.
Grunting, Wynn unpeeled his arm from around her and whacked away the stiffened peacock feather threatening to take his eye out.
“Impeccable timing, McNab.” He glared at their chauffeur. “Drive slower next time.”
McNab bobbed his head from the front seat. “As Your Grace wishes.”
Wynn climbed out and offered his hand to help Svetlana down, then hooked her hand into the crook of his elbow. They crossed the gravel drive to the gloriously imposing presence of Thornhill. With the tumultuous gray skies behind her, the castle resembled a medieval lady rising on her solitary throne of steel.
“Did you mention something about war widows and wives?”
So he had been listening. Or partially listening. Svetlana lifted her heavy black skirt and stepped over the mud puddling at the front entrance.
“Perhaps a charity ball. We’ll send invitations to the neighboring gentry and all proceeds will go to the war benefit.”
“It’s not feasible to write all the affected families a cheque.”
“No, but perhaps it can ease their immediate suffering while helping to establish a more permanent venture. Such as a training center. Of course, that only alleviates half of the problem.” It would take time and thought to devise a more concrete plan of action, particularly time when her thoughts weren’t consumed by wanting five more minutes in the back compartment of the Renault.
They shrugged out of their overcoats, hats, and gloves and handed them over to the waiting servants who would whisk them away to be brushed free of possible dirt and stored among cedar closets lined with lavender sachets. It felt good to be wearing tailor-made, clean clothing again. Any scuffs were buffed out. Holes were immediately mended. Inches taken in or out. How had she survived last winter with barely a shawl on her back? A patched shawl that too closely resembled Mrs. Douglas’s. First thing in the morning Svetlana would put together a donation box of warm items to be distributed in the village.
Their butler, Glasby, glided across the floor of the Stone Hall, so named for the smooth river stones lining the three-story space that always set guests’ jaws dropping. He held out a post platter stacked with several envelopes.
“Her Grace the Dowager Duchess is having tea in the library along with Princess Marina and Mrs. Varjensky.”
“My mother has not joined them?” Svetlana asked.
“No, Your Grace. She claims a headache and is resting in her chambers.”
“Another protest at the lack of a proper samovar, no doubt. Thank you, that will be all.”
Inclining his head, Glasby glided away as Wynn filed through the post. Svetlana scanned the addresses on the envelopes, hoping against all odds that she might see a familiar script written from Father or Nicky telling her they were alive. Or Sergey. She’d all but convinced herself that she’d imagined seeing him on Armistice Day outside the Paris townhouse. But no letters ever came for her.
She brushed off her pang of sadness. “Shall we go into the library?”
“I’ll join you later. I have a few things to attend first.” Wynn strode toward his study with a thick cream envelope stamped with a London address clenched in his hand.
“Is anything the matter?”
Entering his study, he closed the door without a backward glance. The sound of the shutting door reverberated among the river stones, echoing back the loneliness of the hall in which she was left.
* * *
The paper dropped to Wynn’s desk as if the report were written in damning lead ink. All feeling drained from his legs, and he sagged into his chair like a boneless bag of abject emptiness. The slivers of hope he’d clung to on the precipice of despair had sharpened to knives with each word of the report, twisting deep and thoroughly gutting him.
A glutton for agony, he read the damning words again.
Coroner concludes death of Lieutenant Harkin caused by operative trauma under care of Dr. Edwynn MacCallan with crisis arising several months post operation. Ill-advised surgery was undertaken without physician gaining further consent from supervisor and patient.