A Song Unheard

by Roseanna M. White

  “Twelve!” A late start indeed for having such skill. “Remarkable. You must have taken to it quite naturally.”

  She gave one quick nod and cast her glance between him and Jules. “I did. I . . . I picked up that battered old violin that day, and it felt as if . . . as if I’d finally found a part of myself I hadn’t known was missing.”

  “Your family must have been very proud of your natural talent, to have encouraged you to reach such skill. And your instructor must have been delighted to have such an intuitive pupil.” Jules offered an easy smile, but Lukas, at least, knew quite well he was fishing for more information. Jules was as passionate about the teaching process as the music itself. One of these days, in another year or two, he meant to open up a school of his own. Once he’d achieved fame enough to have his pick of pupils.

  Lukas had never shared that particular desire. Perhaps someday he would settle down to such morose things. But just now the thought of children who would as soon duck out of a lesson as have one set his teeth on edge.

  The move of her eyes was exasperated. “I have never had an instructor, so do stop trying to wheedle a name out of me.”

  “Never?” Jules frowned. “Incroyable. You play with far too much skill to be untaught.”

  And she went stiff as ice. “Some people don’t need to be taught in order to learn.”

  “Very true.” Was that not what Père had always said about Margot? That it wasn’t like teaching her at all—it was like reminding her of something she already knew but for which she hadn’t quite had the words.

  He had always thought music similar. That his favorite compositions were capturing something he’d always known existed and putting it to paper. Giving voice, giving words to those soaring notes of joy, the pulsing beats of temper or pain.

  But it had taken teaching for him to learn how to bring those notes to life on an instrument. For everyone he knew, it was the same. Oh, he had met musicians who played by ear, to be sure. But not like this. “So you began at age twelve. Teaching yourself. And now you can re-create the most challenging pieces after hearing them . . . how many times?”

  She shifted, glanced at the incredulous Jules again, back to him. Shrugged. “It depends on the piece. Once, sometimes. Twice or thrice always suffices.”

  Once. Or twice.

  Jules fell to a seat on a chair. “Incroyable,” he muttered again.

  Lukas just held that gaze she’d shifted back to him. It was incredible. Unbelievable. “You are a . . . a prodigy.” He’d never met one, not really. Children with talent, certainly. But this talented? Never. Miraculous, his family would say. God-gifted.

  He’d not given much thought in recent years to gifts from God. And these last few weeks, he wouldn’t have bet God was still even imparting gifts, given the state of the world. But what else could one call this? Her?

  Jules was shaking his head. “You could be a professional. You realize that, do you not? You could have an illustrious career. Win awards. Set tongues to wagging about your skill.”

  She gripped Lukas’s bow, his violin, and looked to be sliding right back into irritation. “I don’t want fame. Or awards or . . . I just want to play. That’s all. To have the music.”

  The music. It had been about that, once, for him. The pure love of it. The desire to spend his days courting it, being courted by it.

  He’d nearly forgotten what it felt like—but now it was searing heat in his shoulder, traveling to his gut. He wanted that again. To remember it, but not only that—to live it. To be reminded day in and day out why he spent his life with a bow in hand and strings under his fingers.

  She could remind him. And he could teach her. Between them . . .

  He drew in a quick breath and put on his best grin. “Will you marry me?”

  Jules narrowed his eyes.

  Willa Forsythe blinked. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Probably. But he kept the grin in place. “Think of it—how well suited we would be. You with your natural fire for the music, me with all I’ve learned. We could teach each other, remind each other of why we love it. Travel together. Tour. Play. Until children come along, then we’ll limit the traveling, of course. But just think of them too—how remarkable they will be.”

  Surely he was mad, because he could almost see it as he spoke the ridiculous words. Strads in both their hands, sitting together in a small ensemble, trading off the lead. Then a dark-haired tot between them. Grinning up at him and calling him Papa.

  Perhaps the injury had addled his brain as much as his shoulder.

  He angled a step closer. “We can spend part of the year in London. Part in Brussels, part in Louvain.”

  No. The jest struck a note of pain. There was nothing left of Louvain to speak of. And Brussels . . . Brussels was lost to him just now.

  His shoulder pulsed again. Not just Brussels was lost. Mère, Margot . . . where were they? What if . . . Non. He wouldn’t entertain such thoughts.

  Willa shook her head and turned away. “I’d heard you were a ladies’ man. I hadn’t heard you went about proposing to girls you just met.”

  “He does not.” Jules glared at him. And switched his words to Flemish. “And why would you begin doing so now? This kind of jest isn’t like you.”

  He shrugged. “If marriage is too much to ask just now, then perhaps a different offer.” He stepped closer again, around the end table between them. “Let me teach you.”

  “Teach me?” She spun to face him. “Make up your mind, De Wilde. Am I a prodigy or a child needing a teacher?”

  “Who says prodigies need no teacher?” He spread his hands, ignoring the continued pulse of his shoulder. “You have the talent. The skill. But I can teach you the theory. The posture. The details. I can turn you into the best violinist of the century—and even if you have no desire for fame, you must realize you would appreciate the music all the more with proper instruction.”

  Jules must have taken to his feet again, for he appeared in his periphery, scowling. “Why would you do that?” Flemish again. “You’ll make her better than you—you know that, don’t you?”

  “Why would you do that?” English, of course, from Willa—and flavored with an accent she hadn’t displayed before, though he couldn’t quite place it.

  Because he saw his father, standing in their old schoolroom, looking down on what Margot was scribbling—what Lukas had assumed to be nonsense. And he saw that realization dawn in the eyes of the man he’d always most looked up to. The realization that what he had worked years to understand, to achieve, came so naturally to this tiny girl. That she would surpass him. And that the best thing he could ever do for himself, for the world, was to help her do so.

  Lukas had always thought it possible for a man of Père’s pride to do it solely because Margot was his daughter.

  But now he understood. It wasn’t because of the bonds that already existed. It was because of the bonds that could exist, if they were forged through a mutual love. It was because Père had found that day someone who would understand him.

  It was because he recognized that she would better the world.

  As this woman before him could do. She could bring such beauty into the dark places. And he could help her.

  He swallowed all that back and let his eyes slide shut. Let his arm scream. Let the years of Lukas De Wilde, world-famous violinist fade away until he was just a boy again, possessed by what was, for him, that most basic love. “For the sake of the music.” He opened his eyes again, captured her gaze, and held it fast. “What say you?”

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway along with feminine laughter. The Davieses and Miss Blaker would return in seconds. And who knew whose side they’d take in this—probably not his.

  She dragged in a long breath. “Lessons, yes.”

  Victory. He would teach her whatever she didn’t know. Get to know her in the process. Decipher what made her so very intriguing.

  And then decide if he was jesting or not about more
.

  The ladies entered again, chattering and waving sheet music about, Miss Blaker carrying a music stand.

  Lukas retreated back to Jules’s side.

  His friend was scowling at him. “What the devil are you about?”

  He sat in the chair beside Jules but kept his gaze on Willa as she looked over the music. “Exactly what I said.”

  “Non. Impossible. Because you said marriage, and that is a word you have avoided like the plague. I have seen you with my own eyes parry every thrust your mother has made in recent years about settling down with a nice girl.”

  Who knew he could torment his friend so fully simply by proposing to a young woman? It was worth maintaining the jest just to watch the temper in Jules’s eyes. “Well, I’d never met this girl.”

  Jules mumbled. Then shook his head. “You are drunk on the pain medicine.”

  “I didn’t take any.”

  “Idiot. Then you are drunk on the pain.”

  “Maybe.” But not just that of his shoulder. As Willa positioned the sheet music on the stand and studied it with furrowed brows, Lukas sighed. The truth of the admission burrowed deep. “Maybe I should be. I have lost my father. My home is destroyed. I have no idea where my mother and sister are—or if they yet live.” He looked over and met Jules’s familiar eyes. “It should hurt. To realize that I have built nothing to last. That now, with one German march, I’ve lost everything that matters. And for what? To chase fleeting pleasures?”

  He looked back to her again, held his breath as she positioned her fingers on his violin’s strings and launched into the opening measures of one of his favorite songs. “No more, Jules. No more.”

  Six

  She wouldn’t go. Willa paced to her window, then back again to the door. She ought to leave now, to get there on time. But she wouldn’t go. It was stupid and foolhardy and utterly ridiculous to think that Lukas De Wilde, arguably the most prominent violinist of their day, was really interested in teaching her about the violin. He must have an angle. Everyone always had an angle. And from the file Mr. V had given her, his angle seemed to be charming everything female.

  Not that she could determine why he’d decided to charm her, female or not. She wasn’t anywhere near as pretty as the women he’d been photographed with before. But if his game wasn’t so simple, then what was it?

  Well, she wouldn’t find out. Because she wouldn’t go. That was that.

  In the street below her open window, children’s laughter floated up to her. If she didn’t look out to see the unfamiliar faces, she could pretend it was Nigel and Olivia and Jory out there, playing and teasing and acting like every child. She missed them. Five days away, and she missed them. She wanted to go home—except they wouldn’t be at home; they’d be in Cornwall. She’d have to go there if she wanted to put her arms around the little ones.

  Blast Rosemary for changing everything on them. Even if it was for the better—which remained to be seen, really.

  Willa strode to the too-soft feather bed and sat on its edge. She had to go. Not home, and not to Cornwall. She had to go to the Belle Vue Royal Hotel, whose direction De Wilde had scribbled down for her last night, and she had to meet him in the reception room he said he had permission to use for practicing. And she had to learn.

  She wanted to learn.

  She dreaded learning—what if he wanted to change everything about how she played? He would no doubt teach her rules. And she detested rules. What were they but contrivances created by the powerful to keep the masses in line? Even in music. He would try to tell her to stand a certain way, fill her mind with nonsense about . . . about mathematics or something, and it would ruin it all.

  But she had to go. She had to go, because it was where he was living, and she’d be close to him, and she could do her job while there. She could find out what room was his and determine how and when to slip into it to search for this blighted key.

  Find it. Go back to London. Hand it over to Mr. V and . . . and go home to her empty flat that would have only Elinor and no little ones, and that was assuming that Elinor hadn’t decided to stay with Lucy and Retta while the children were all away.

  Her fingers dug into the mattress. The world had gone mad. Not just with the war, with everything. Utterly, infuriatingly mad.

  She got up again and strode to the wardrobe. Not set on grabbing a hat for the trek she had to make, but to pull out that battered violin case. She set it on the bed and extracted the equally battered violin.

  Poor thing. It looked like a rag next to the memory of the Stradivarius she’d held last night. Dull and scarred and . . . lighter even, as if the wood were too thin. Perhaps it was. Still, it was one of her oldest friends, and her fingers caressed the familiar curves and corners, ran along the strings.

  A tap sounded on her door along with a soft, “Willa?”

  Gwen, she thought. Though she and Daisy sounded rather alike. “Come in.” She ought to put this old thing away first, but . . .

  Gwen, yes, and she slipped in with a smile. “I had a feeling you were having second thoughts.”

  She had no business having feelings about Willa after knowing her for so short a time. And certainly no business being right. Willa sighed. “I’ll go.” She must, for the sake of the job. That didn’t mean she had to like it, or that she had to listen to a blasted thing he said. She only had to pretend to.

  Gwen clicked the door shut and eased her way over to the bed. She was wearing another high-necked gown without the least bit of fashion to it. Her eyes were on the violin. “Is this yours? It has the look of an old friend. Well loved.”

  Willa breathed a laugh and flicked a fingernail over the deep scratch that had been there when she found the thing. “Well abused before I found it and loved it. It was tossed out. Junk.” She’d known the feeling.

  Gwen smiled and sat down too. “My first violin wasn’t much better. It had been my father’s as a lad, and he’d not been gentle with it. But I loved it. I almost hated to replace it with a better one—almost.”

  Willa smiled in return and put her old friend back in its case. “I didn’t want to bring it out last night. That’s why I said I hadn’t my instrument with me. I can only imagine what Lukas De Wilde would have said if he saw it.”

  Gwen chuckled. “And more, he let you play his. Not that I’m condoning a lie, of course, but that must have been a heady feeling. And your playing—you’re amazing, Willa. I had no idea. And I had to confess to a bit of jealousy in my prayers last night.”

  Never in her life had anyone ever been jealous of her. Willa eased the lid of the case shut and latched it. “Do I . . . Do I need a teacher? Lessons?” She wasn’t sure what answer she wanted.

  She had a feeling Gwen would give her the truth, no matter whether she wanted it or not. The woman tilted her head, gaze focused on some spot well past Willa. Her eyes were a simple brown. A common color, but filled with warmth and . . . peace. A rarity these days. “I saw nothing wrong with your form or execution. But I am not the expert that Mr. De Wilde is. What I do know is that he has never once offered to tutor anyone. He has never offered a lesson. He must have seen something very special in you to do so.”

  Nonsense. She might not know what his angle was, but she was certain it wasn’t as simple as what he’d said. She tapped a finger to the case.

  Gwen stood. “I don’t know why Mr. V sent you here, Willa. But unless this interferes with your true purpose, I say you’d be a fool to let such an opportunity pass you by. No one else in the world can claim to have had instruction from Lukas De Wilde. But you will be able to do so.”

  And more, this was her purpose in coming. Or a means to it. With a nod, Willa stood. “I know. I’m going. I just . . . What do you know of him? Beyond when he’s appeared in the gossip rags?” Which was far too often, apparently. Not that she read the things normally, but clippings made up a good portion of that file Mr. V had given her. Far too often, with far too many beautiful society girls. And beautiful actresse
s. And beautiful opera singers. And . . .

  Gwen’s face pinched. “His reputation is rather scandalous, isn’t it? But Daisy and I both agreed he was of no danger to us. For all his wild ways, he comes from a very decent Christian family. He may not live by such guidance himself just now, but he knows it and respects it.”

  Willa shifted from one foot to another—and heard Barclay in her head, from back in the day when they’d decided to target society marks and that they’d do so best by learning to blend in with them. “Stand still,” he’d said time and again. “Your fidgeting will give you away in a heartbeat. Be at ease.”

  She stood still. But she couldn’t be at ease, not with that talk. “I’m not . . .” She had no reason to confess, did she? Except that she had to. “I’m not what one would term religious. I realize you and Daisy are, but . . .”

  From what Mr. V’s information had told her, they were Methodist or something equally odd and strict.

  But Gwen smiled. “Our faith is the rock we stand on, Willa—but we don’t demand anyone else stand here with us. Though if ever you wanted to, there is plenty of room.”

  Willa relaxed. What had she expected—for this quiet young woman to launch into a sermon of fire and brimstone? “I’m honestly not even certain there is a God. And if there is . . . well, I’ve never seen any evidence.”

  Gwen didn’t look offended. Her smile remained in place as she stood and angled toward the door. “God is real, my friend. And I daresay you have seen Him—you just didn’t know it.” She moved to the door, then paused with her hand on the latch. “I hope you don’t mind if I pray for you.”

  Rosemary claimed to be doing so as well. Which was just bizarre. What made these people think that, if there were a God, He wanted to be troubled with her? But she offered a tight-lipped smile. “I don’t mind.” She just didn’t think it would matter a lick in the grand scheme of things.

  “Good.” Gwen sent a pointed gaze to the wardrobe. “Now you had best get your hat and gloves and get moving, young lady. You’ll be late for your lesson.” She slipped out the door.