Wieluń, Poland
31 August 1939
Sophie Seymour had been eight years old when she’d first heard someone refer to her as unnatural.
It had been at Heloise Postlewaithe’s birthday party, an event that Sophie had attended only because Mrs. Postlewaithe had invited the entirety of her daughter’s summer Sunday school class. The party had been an affair marked by fancy frocks with copious ruffles, rich cakes and tepid tea, and games that had bored Sophie to death, quite frankly. She’d wandered away from the shrill fracas of musical chairs and pass the parcel without anyone noticing and made her way to the Postlewaithes’ library that was up on the first floor.
The Postlewaithes’ country manor was impressive, their library equally so. Here, amid the blessed silence and the soft afternoon light, Sophie had found a Latin primer, no doubt a leftover from a previous Postlewaithe’s Eton days. At eight, Sophie was already fluent in French, Spanish, and Italian, though she’d never seen the root language from which all of those had been derived. She’d been instantly captivated and settled down in a warm corner of the room to read.
As absorbed in her newfound study and tucked away upstairs as she was, she hadn’t heard the discovery of her absence. She hadn’t been aware of the uproar and panic when it was finally discerned that an eight-year-old girl was missing or hearkened to the fears that, as the initial search had turned up nothing, she might have fallen into one of the manor’s ponds and drowned.
It wasn’t until a frantic Mrs. Postlewaithe had finally discovered Sophie in the library an hour later that Sophie had any indication that anything was wrong. She’d yanked Sophie to her feet, relief dissolving into fury, and snatched the primer out of Sophie’s hands.
“What is wrong with you?” she’d demanded, her face flushed an alarming shade beneath a stylish coiffure that was still perfectly in place.
“Nothing,” Sophie replied, blinking with incomprehension.
“You left the party.”
“The noise was hurting my ears,” Sophie explained, trying to be polite.
“You ruined Heloise’s party,” the woman hissed. “Ruined it all.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We all had to look for you. We thought you’d drowned.”
Sophie shook her head. “I know how to swim,” she tried to reassure her hostess. “My mum made both my brother and me take lessons before we were allowed to go exploring on our own.”
The woman’s lips curled in disgust. “Perhaps your mum should have also taught you that stealing is rude. Taking things that aren’t yours.”
“I wasn’t stealing,” Sophie told her. “I was just reading. And I was going to put it back when I was done.”
Mrs. Postlewaithe looked down at the Latin primer. “And you’re a liar too,” she sneered. “You can’t read this.”
“I can.” Sophie had never been called a liar by a grown-up before. It made her stomach feel awful. “It’s just Latin,” she tried to explain. “And this book starts with basic grammar in tables and uses that to build up more complex sentences. It’s not that hard. I could show you.”
“I don’t need you to show me anything. I know my place in this world. You need to learn yours.”
Mrs. Postlewaithe stared at Sophie and Sophie had stared back.
“You are an unnatural creature,” the woman continued, her expression as hard and cold as the diamonds that hung from her neck. “No one will ever want you. There is something wrong with you.”
That conversation had been thirteen years ago, but Sophie had never forgotten it.
“Am I unnatural?” Sophie asked, staring up at the ceiling.
Beside her, Piotr rolled over in bed. His dark hair was thoroughly tousled, eyes the color of the Baltic Sea thoroughly amused. “Is this a trick question? A test for new husbands?” He propped his head up on his hand.
“You’re laughing at me.”
“You deserve it with questions like that.” He reached over and stroked her bare shoulder. “You’re not having regrets, are you?”
“I regret we did not do this sooner.”
“That makes two of us.” Piotr Kowalski was smiling as he said it. “If I had known that you would have said yes, I would have asked you to marry me the day you ran me over with your bicycle.”
“I did not run you over. I avoided you and hit a tree. Mostly.”
“No, I think you ran me over on purpose. You couldn’t help yourself,” he teased.
“I ran you over because I was late for work. And you should know that I did my best not to fall in love with you.”
“Mmm.” Piotr leaned forward and kissed her with a thoroughness that curled her toes. “You never stood a chance, wife.”
Sophie managed to nod because he was right. Love had been wearing the green-brown uniform of a Polish cavalry officer and had not cursed or seethed when he’d been sent sprawling by her inattention and haste. Instead, love had gently helped her stagger to her feet, her hose torn and beyond salvage, her knee scraped and throbbing, and her lip split and bleeding. He’d righted her bicycle with easy motions before turning back to her, concern stamped across his features.
She’d made a cake of herself after that, in the face of his kindness and his devastatingly vivid blue eyes, babbling apologies and stammering something about needing to get back to the embassy. He had only wet a linen kerchief with his canteen and wiped the blood from her lip with a tenderness that had suddenly made her want to burst into tears. She’d fled, clambering back on her bicycle and pedaling away, realizing only when she’d reached the embassy that she was clutching his kerchief, now stained and crushed.
She’d locked herself in the loo and unsteadily put herself back together as best she could, thoroughly mortified. The practical part of her knew she’d likely never see the kind blue-eyed officer again but instead of relief, she’d felt an intense regret.
“Why did you come back that day?” she asked suddenly. “To the embassy?”
“Because the extraordinary, beautiful blond girl who kept apologizing in at least four languages stole my only kerchief, and I wanted it back.”
“You brought flowers.”
“Because she had also stolen my heart. Though I never got that back, nor do I want it returned. That will be yours forever, moja kochana.”
Sophie glanced down at the band around her finger. In the long rays of the sun that was beginning its descent over the roofs and spires of the city, the ruby and tiny pearls gleamed with a lustrous glow. “You, Piotr Kowalski, are a shameless romantic.”
“Guilty.” He flashed her a roguish grin. “It’s why you love me.”
“I love you because you are kind and brave and honourable. Because you are patient and gentle and smart.”
“What about handsome?”
“The most handsome man of all.” Sophie smiled.
“Indeed. Do go on. What else do you love about me?”
“Now you’re just fishing for flattery.”
“Yes. You can have a turn later. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
Sophie laughed before sobering. “I love you because the day I told you that I would become a professor of languages at Oxford, you asked why I hadn’t already applied. And where we would live.”