“I wouldn’t call you warm, but I suppose you’re no longer freezing.” She turned around and kissed him until something popped in the pan.
She turned back to the stove. “I better not burn whatever it is the butcher sold me.”
Filip took a closer look at the pan. Was the butcher taking advantage of Nadia’s relative inexperience with shopping?
“It’s chicken. Not very much of it, I’m afraid. But I got it for a fair price.”
“I wasn’t trying to second-guess you.” Had he hurt her feelings? She was learning fast. He needed to trust her abilities. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
Maybe she wasn’t angry.
She pulled potatoes from the stove. “I’ve butter for these. Do you think we can have a milk cow in Prague?”
“I don’t think there’s room for one at my grandparents’ house. But we’re right along the milkman’s route.”
“I suppose that will do.”
What would she think of the little townhome? The bottom level was the shop, and the top level was the home. Only three bedrooms and a small kitchen. He had always been content there, but he hadn’t been raised in a manor.
They held hands as Nadia blessed the food. Filip’s family had grown up saying grace before meals, but he paid more attention when his wife spoke the words, sometimes in Czech, sometimes in Russian. She often talked about all she’d learned from him, but the reverse was true as well. He learned from her, especially when it came to matters of faith. It was a living thing, needing constant care. He’d long neglected his, when he’d been young and when he’d gone away to war. He had gone to mass on Sunday the way he’d gone to the Sokol club most other days of the week or to the bakery on Tuesdays.
But Nadia treated faith differently. And in exchange for all the prayers, all the gratitude she directed to God, she had been able to keep her faith, even after her world had been ripped apart and her family murdered. Faith took effort, but it also gave, in comfort, in perspective, in hope. He wanted that for their future family. And his faith, though frail, was beginning to grow.
Nadia was quiet while they ate, so he put a hand on her knee. “Is anything wrong?”
She didn’t answer immediately. “Filip, I, um, I realize there’s something I never told you.”
Her face seemed so solemn. The mood change made his stomach tighten with worry. “Oh?”
“My real name. I mean, my old real name. When I left, the groom told me not to use it anymore, so I lied. My name is Nadia Sedláková now, and that’s true enough. But before, it was Nadia Ilyinichna Linskaya. I just thought I should tell you. I’m sorry I didn’t sooner.”
Filip took her hand. “What would it have been like, to court Nadia Ilyinichna Linskaya? I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
She looked at the floor. “Only because I was a fool. Now I couldn’t wish for a better husband. I trust you with everything.”
Filip felt his heart hammering in his chest, a strange mix of delight at her compliment and guilt. “Nadia, I have a confession too. And I’m afraid my falsehood might be harder to forgive.”
Her face seemed to freeze. “You lied to me about something?”
“Not exactly . . . I just didn’t tell you.” He used his fork to prod the chicken bone on his plate. “In Piryatin, when you asked to board the train, Lieutenant Kral didn’t intend to force you into marriage. He would have let you on because it was the right thing to do, but he had to worry about the legion and their families first. He was busy and distracted. By the time he had a moment to find you a place, you were gone. Jakub Zeman had drawn you away to convince you to marry him.”
“Did Zeman know?”
“I don’t know. Either he took Kral’s words at face value, or he saw an opportunity. And I took Zeman’s words as truth. When I offered to marry you, I honestly thought it was the only way to get you on that train. That, or let you marry Zeman, and I thought I would make a better husband than him.”
“And you have, but when did you learn the truth?”
The next part of his confession was harder. He should have told her as soon as he knew. “Chelyabinsk.”
“But that . . . that was back in May. You caught up to us in June. You’ve known this whole time?”
“I should have told you.” His mouth was dry, and his face was on fire. “But I’d given you the annulment papers, so you had a way out, and if we’d canceled our marriage then, you would have been vulnerable. And I guess I was starting to hope that maybe you’d change your mind and wouldn’t want an annulment.”
Nadia stood and turned from him. There were no windows, so she looked at the walls of the boxcar. Filip had painted them, but his lavender was a far cry from the artwork she’d grown up with. Was she noticing how shabby their home was? How cold and backward and indigent? If he’d ruined everything, he would never forgive himself.
Nadia’s arms fell from their crossed position. “I wouldn’t have married you if I hadn’t thought marriage was the only thing that would save my life.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you if I’d known there was another way.”
“Are you keeping any other secrets from me?”
He wasn’t sure what she wanted, but if it would convince her to stay, he’d give her a full confession of every wrong he’d ever committed. “I cheated in a card game once. Against Dalek. We were eleven, and if he won, he got to keep my new book. I didn’t want to give it up.”
“Have you cheated since then?”
“No. I learned not to gamble. Except when I married you and wagered my heart.”
“Anything else I should know?” She turned to face him. “You don’t have a woman waiting for you in Prague?”
“No, you’re the only woman. I kissed a girl when I was nineteen. Another girl when I was twenty-two. I kissed her a few times, actually. But nothing ever came of it.”
“Have you ever lied to me?” She looked so fragile, as if a wrong word would break her.
Filip turned his gaze to the floor. “There have been times when I haven’t told you all the details of a patrol. Not because I wanted to lie but because I didn’t want you to worry.”
When he glanced up again, she wore a frown. “I’m not the first woman you’ve kissed?”
“No, but you’re the first I’ve ever really loved.” Did she find that upsetting, that he’d kissed other women before he’d even seen her? “Am I the first man you’ve kissed?”
“Yes, of course you are.”
“What about the officer you were to marry?”
She shook her head. “We were always chaperoned, and I was young and quite proper. And . . . well, I was content to marry him, but it wasn’t to be for love so much as because it would have made our families happy.”
“Nadia . . .” Seeing the pain in her expression and knowing he had caused it was a form of torture. “Will you forgive me?”
Her face grew serious. “I wouldn’t have married you had I not thought it necessary.”
Filip studied the floor again at her repeated words. If she was going to chastise him, he deserved it. He’d kept her when he should have let her go. It had been so easy to rationalize his delay in telling her, but he’d broken her trust. He should have said something before they’d made their marriage a real one—but he’d loved her, and he had thought she loved him, and that had seemed to make what they’d experienced together since Verkhne-Udinsk right and proper. Had he ruined it with his deceit?
Nadia continued. “I wouldn’t have married you, and I would have missed out on the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Filip could finally breathe normally. “You aren’t going to hate me for keeping it from you?”
Her lips softened into a smile. “How can I hate you when I’m so completely in love with you?” Her mouth twisted playfully. “But I think you had better kiss me quite thoroughly now that I know I’m not the only woman you’ve kissed. I’m feeling rather jealous.”