“I can show you now.”
“But I’ve already taken up so much of your day.”
“I would be happy to eat with you.” Filip had never before had such a beautiful dining companion. He ought to enjoy the view while the marriage lasted.
She glanced at the train carriage, then back at him and nodded her agreement, letting him guide her toward the dining car. She really did walk like a princess. It made her stand out, and yet, he liked it. Changing it would be a shame. Of course, not changing it might also be a shame if it caught Orlov’s attention.
Cheerful notes sounded from one of the coaches they passed, an old Czech folk song played on a mandolin.
Nadia smiled. “Do you play an instrument?”
“I’m not very musical, I’m afraid. You?”
“I play the piano, a little.” They passed an open area and saw a group kicking a ball around. Then, a bit beyond that, another group performed gymnastics. Nadia stopped to watch the leaps and tumbles. “They’re very good, aren’t they?”
Filip had thought the movements mediocre rather than extraordinary. “A lot of us can do that easily enough.”
Her head turned toward him. “You can do that?”
“I grew up attending Sokol clubs. They were all about gymnastics and Czech patriotism.”
She hadn’t been loud, not the entire day, but now she seemed even quieter. Perhaps she didn’t approve of Sokol clubs. They weren’t revolutionary in the way the Bolsheviks were, but their nationalism challenged the existing order. Not in Russia, but that might not make a difference. They watched a while longer. A crowd of legionnaires and Russian peasants had formed. Nadia observed with interest, but they observed with enthusiasm, clapping their hands and gasping. It almost made Filip want to join in, but that would leave Nadia alone, and with Zeman and Orlov to watch out for, it was better to stay beside her.
After a while, the performers ended their routine, and night swallowed the railroad tracks. There weren’t many lanterns or candles, but the dining car was still lit. It might once have been a typical dining car, with tables and benches and waiters. Now it was more like a canteen, serving bread and thin cabbage soup for lines of Czechoslovak soldiers and their dependents. Filip and Nadia waited in line like all the others, then took their food to one of the communal tables.
Steam from the soup warmed Filip’s face. He watched his wife and had the impression that she wasn’t used to drinking her soup, but spoons weren’t available. “I suppose that’s not what or how you’re used to eating.”
“I’m willing and able to adapt.” Her tone held a hint of sharpness. Or was it defensiveness?
He hadn’t meant his comment to sound like criticism. It was more an apology that he couldn’t offer her the type of meal she was used to. Maybe he should stop talking. Everything he said came out wrong.
When they finished, he returned their bowls. “I’ll walk you back.”
As they passed the hospital car, a few bandaged men made their slow way up the stairs into the boxcar.
“Do you have many wounded?” Nadia asked.
“Some.”
“I volunteered at a hospital in Petrograd. It was a hospital for officers, of course.” She paused. “I don’t know why I said that. The enlisted were just as wounded, just as much in need of care. But we were always assigned to officer wards. I hate to say it, but volunteering in a hospital was a most fashionable activity for upper-class women.” She took a few steps closer to the car. “Do they need more help, do you suppose? I could volunteer again.”
“It wouldn’t be just officers. And the accommodations aren’t as fancy as what you’re used to.” The wounded usually slept on straw spread on the floor. The boxcar was little better than a barn.
“Volunteering might have started as vanity, but I enjoyed nursing. And I’m not good at anything else. Maybe I could earn my keep this way.”
“Are you so scared of learning to wash clothes?”
She laughed. He’d never heard her laugh before, and the melodious sound did something not entirely unpleasant to his rib cage. “If I remember right, you’re the one who postponed the laundry lessons. I don’t find soap or dirty clothing the least bit frightening.”
Just like that, the tension was broken. He ran a finger across the knuckles of her hand. The skin was warm and smooth. “That’s because you haven’t been introduced to lye soap yet.”
She held up the hand he’d touched. “What’s so scary about lye soap?”
“It dries your skin.”
“Is that all?”
He’d assumed she cared about her skin. Wasn’t that something noblewomen fussed over? “I suppose if your knuckles crack too badly, I can get you some oil to rub into them.”
“As long as you don’t have to trade another family heirloom for it.” Was she teasing him? From the tone of her voice, he suspected the affirmative, but something in her eyes suggested grief, not mirth.
“Does it make you sad?”