“Well, you certainly don’t decide when you’re out of your mind with pain from an injury and upset about your family on top of it. You are in no state to make any life-altering decisions just now, Lukas.”
It wasn’t as if he’d put a family jewel on her finger. It had only been one little proposal—why did it bother Jules so?
Lukas pulled out the folded paper, covered on both sides with small, neat words in French. “Would you leave now? Please?”
Jules loosed a sound that was half sigh and half growl. And spun for the door. “I give it a month before you lose interest. So just don’t marry her in that month, and you’ll both come out of this well enough.”
Making no response, Lukas waited until the door clicked shut behind the naysayer and then lifted the sheet of paper to his nose and closed his eyes.
Mère’s letters always smelled like her, from the bit of perfume she touched there, to the upper-right corner. Just now it seemed a scent from a different world. A world still sane and understandable and steady. So very different from this chaos into which the Kaiser’s army had plunged them all.
He opened his eyes again, but the words were too blurry to read. The questions were too blinding.
What if these were the last words of his mother’s he ever read? What if something had happened to them on the road between Louvain and Brussels? What if it were years before he knew anything of their whereabouts or well-being? Or if he never knew?
An invisible hand curled around his throat and squeezed. Another pressed on his chest until he thought he’d scream from the pain of it. Something inside him pulsed, stretched . . . but what? Toward what?
He’d failed. Failed the only people in the world who really mattered. Failed at the last promise he’d made his father. He hadn’t kept them safe. He hadn’t been there the one time they really needed him. And now what could he even do? Here from Wales, where he could not search, could not do anything but play the violin and moan in pain? What hope did his mother and sister have, if they were still alive to hope at all?
Nothing. Certainly not him. He could do nothing.
The hand gave up squeezing and seemed to claw his insides instead. Red, blinding agony . . . and then something softer whispered over him. Something that cooled the fire a degree and made him open his eyes. It felt a bit like Mère’s touch always had on his forehead as a boy. The way she’d sweep his hair from his brow and press a kiss there.
He unfolded the letter.
I do not know when this will reach you, my boy, or if it will. But surely by the time it does, things will have changed in our world. We just got the news of that letter sent to the king from the Kaiser, claiming that he has heard France intends to march through Belgium and that we had better accept an alliance with Germany now. Lies, as every Belgian knows. Lies that will rip at our lives. The king would never negate the very conditions of our independence—alliance with any country. The army has been called out to defend our borders and our neutrality.
But we all know the army is more for parades than fighting. I cannot help but think they will not last long against the German war machine. By the time you receive this, no doubt the outcome is known.
You will worry, I know, and so I pray this reaches you quickly and stays your hand. Remain in Paris, I beg of you. Out of harm’s way. If Germany invades . . . It is too much to hope for that they will not seek us out, hoping to find your father’s work. Especially—we did not tell you this. You were on tour, and we did not want to worry you. But a month before he died, the German government had contacted him. They were trying to convince him to move there, to bring them his work. Of course he refused. But they know who he is. They know what he was doing. They will want it, even with him gone.
You know what this means. They will seek us, and they will seek you.
I am already preparing to leave, but it will take time. Margot is reviewing all of his work so that if any is lost . . . We will destroy it before the Germans can get their hands on it. And then we’ll go. I do not yet know where or how, and it is best I don’t. Best I rely not on my own reasoning, which they will be able to deduce, but on the Lord.
He will deliver us, Lukas. I know He will.
“Did you? Did you deliver them, God?” His hands were shaking, the paper fluttering in them, making the words blur again. Lukas set it down on the table for a moment and pressed at his eyes. Sniffed.
He didn’t expect an answer. God had never answered him—though to be fair, Lukas had probably never really listened. Never really expected any kind of response. Had rarely prayed beyond the words uttered by rote during Mass. Something he’d done less and less over the years as he traveled.
It had never mattered. Until now, when it did. Because it must. Because there was no one else in the world who could help them. “Lord . . . I don’t know you. But they do. They do, and they love you. Protect them, please. I beg of you.”
He didn’t hear the voice of the Lord. But he heard Margot—sarcastic, too-smart Margot, looking up at him with that gaze of hers that would have unnerved him if he didn’t love her, love it, so much. She’d been, what, ten at the time? When she had cornered him on one of his visits home to Louvain.
“Do you even believe in anything? You don’t act as though you do.”
He’d laughed, waved it off. Or tried to. “Of course I believe in something.”
“In yourself, perhaps. You know how it hurts Maman, don’t you? Your behavior? Seeing all those articles in the gossip columns about you? You break her heart.”
It hadn’t been what he’d wanted to talk about, certainly not with his sister, fourteen years his junior, who ought not to even know anything about the kind of behavior their mother so despised. “You shouldn’t read those parts of the paper” had been the only retort he could think of making.
She’d rolled her eyes at him in that way Mère had tried, and failed, to break her of.
Lukas had studied her for a moment. She’d always looked like any other girl her age. Average height, straggly hair, neither too thin nor too heavy. But she could drill holes through him with her stare. He’d thought, perhaps, to challenge her that day. Or perhaps to defend himself. He still wasn’t sure of his reasoning.
“If you’re so smart, why haven’t you reasoned your way to the realization that there is no God who cares about the minutia of our lives?”
She’d snorted. “I’m so smart I’ve reasoned my way to Him. Because there are things I don’t understand. Things I never will. But He does.”
“So a Creator-God, then.”
“Lukas.” She had a way of saying his name. She didn’t drag it out as Mère did when she was frustrated with him. She just changed the pitch—high on the first syllable, low on the second, hitting that K with an accent. “Let me put this in terms you can understand. Can a man compose a symphony without paying attention to each individual note? Can he put together an orchestra without caring about each musician in it? It’s ridiculous to posit a Creator who stands back, unconcerned. If we grant a God, we have to grant a complete God.”
It wasn’t that he believed in a God who was Creator only . . . but he’d almost wanted her to. To have that thing he could point to as a fault in her. A failing in their parents’ eyes that they would worry over, rather than always focusing on his soul.
But that had been stupid and selfish. He was glad she had her faith in God. More now than ever was he glad.
And for the first time, he wished he understood it a little better. That it was more to him than his sister’s faith, or his mother’s, or his father’s.
He wished he had that Someone to lean on, as they always had.
He picked up the letter again.
I know you tire of hearing that I pray for you. But perhaps now, with trouble upon us, it will mean a little more. I pray that you turn to the Lord, Lukas, before it is too late. I pray that you follow His guidance to safety, as we will do. I pray that someday I see you again, and that I see you with His light in
your eyes.
If this coming storm is as dark as I fear, then the future of the De Wilde family is uncertain at best. Your father was a good man, a godly man, a man who obeyed the call on His life. But he talked too much of all his work, and he gained the attention of men he ought not to have. And now we will all pay the price of it.
I know he told you to protect us. But you cannot, my precious son. We are in God’s hands, and God’s alone. War is knocking on our door, and it is bigger than any of us. But the Lord is bigger than war. He will take care of us, if it is His will. And if it is not, then it will be to His glory. Rest in Him.
Rest? Where was rest to be found in any of this? Lukas set the letter down carefully upon the table, knowing he’d want to reread it later. Then he covered his face with his hand and leaned back against the couch.
He’d always had some intention of settling down to a life of which his parents would approve. In that nebulous someday of the future. Someday when he was older and ready to be boring. Someday when the star of his fame had dimmed. Someday when he cared more about pleasing them than about pleasing himself.
It had never once occurred to him that there wouldn’t be a someday—which proved what a fool he was. That his father would die so suddenly. That his mother and sister would be lost to him. That everything he once sought would grow pale and inconsequential under the shadow of war.
This, then, was what Margot had meant. God had known. God had always known. Man might not, but the Lord did. And perhaps, if one were on good terms with the Almighty, that would bring comfort rather than resentment.
God had known—and had done nothing to stop the horrors.
Again, Margot’s voice in his head. Or his heart. “What would you have Him do, Lukas? He warns us of how not to act, but we disobey—like that time I climbed the tree when Papa had told me not to. But how is mankind railing at God any different than when I screamed at Papa for not catching me when I fell, even though I’d done it deliberately when he wasn’t nearby?”
He scrubbed his hand over his face. He could still remember her screams of pain when she’d fallen. And the look on Père’s face. He had held her and he had wept and he had said he was sorry for not being there, never pointing out that it would have been avoided had she obeyed.
Did man’s actions grieve the Lord so in heaven? Did He ache for them, even as they tore themselves apart?
Would it all be different if more people heeded His advice, as Margot implied?
Of course it would be. He didn’t have to know God personally to recognize that basic truth—that if everyone lived by those principles of right and wrong, the world would be a much better place.
Though that meant . . . Lukas’s heart twisted. Or perhaps his stomach. Or his diaphragm. Something that robbed him of breath and made him double over.
What lives had he ruined in his blind quest for his own pleasure?
“Oh, God. I cannot put it all to rights. I don’t know how. I don’t know where they are or remember their names or . . .” He hadn’t cared who those women were or why they were there, slipping room keys into his palm. It had only mattered that they were there and willing and beautiful.
Something foul and thick and tangible slithered about inside him. Something that had long been there—but he’d been blind to it. Until now. Now he thirsted for something pure and bright. Hungered for a feeling of cleanliness.
His parents had taught him the answers to all his questions, surely. But he’d buried the knowledge under too many years of disdain. Now he couldn’t call them back up from whatever depths he’d banished them to. God forgave, he knew that. Jesus had come to earth for that purpose.
But how did one go about turning filth over to a God of purity? How did one get to know His voice? How could one ever escape the fear that one’s sins had ruined more lives than one could ever put to rights?
He pushed to his feet, groping for the jacket he’d slung over the back of a chair. He needed a priest. There was surely a Catholic church somewhere in the city. He’d seen spires while out walking. He had no idea what church they belonged to, but he’d head in that direction. It would have a man of the cloth in it or near it. Someone who could answer his questions.
Shoes—he needed shoes. He found his lying helter-skelter beside the armchair and slid them on, then slid out the door. He’d forgotten to grab his hat, but he hardly cared about that. A slow trek down the stairs and then he was surging through the lobby, gaze on the front door of the hotel.
He nearly bowled over Daisy Davies, who was just turning from the reception desk. She gave a little squeal and slapped a hand to her chest, her eyes wide. Her hair looked a bit frazzled, perhaps from the weather. Or perhaps because it always did.
Lukas steadied her with a hand to her elbow, muttering apologies all the while. In French, but she didn’t seem to mind his lapse. A smile soon replaced her surprise, only to melt away again into what could only be termed alarm.
“Mr. De Wilde, you look terrible! What are you doing out of your room? Why, I only dropped in to leave you a note assuring you we were praying for you—we were all a bit worried when Mr. Bellamy said you were too much under the weather for Willa to come today.”
Praying? Lukas blinked, stepped back a few inches. That was right. Someone had said something about how religious the Davieses were. “It is injury, not illness. I will be well. But I have a question for you, if you would, Miss Davies.”
Her smile returned, though it lit her eyes more than it curved her mouth. “Of course. What is it?”
Though he opened his mouth, it took him a moment to find the words to say. Never in his life had he sought out a man of God of his own free will—he’d rather avoided them, always certain they could see his sins and would judge him for them. “I have just had word from my mother, from before the invasion. I would seek a priest. Perhaps you know of one? I have seen some of my colleagues leaving for Mass, but I never went with them, and . . .” He could have knocked on one of their doors, he supposed. But at this point that would require going back up the stairs.
Miss Davies’s eyes filled with calm. “Of course. You will be looking for Father Baggaley, at Our Lady of the Angels. He is a good and godly man, and I know he has been a great comfort to the other refugees. He and our own reverend are good friends, and I have met him several times. I can take you to him.”
His head bowed. “I would be grateful.”
“You look ready to fall over.” She touched a hand to his arm, a quick press-and-retreat. “Please, sit and wait just a moment. The car is parked a few streets over, but I’ll go and fetch the driver and we shall deliver you to the church—it is very near my own, as it were, and I was about to go that direction. You don’t look as though you could handle a walk.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to argue, but she may have a point. That light touch had sent him swaying. “I thank you. I shall just . . . just wait outside in the fresh air.”
“Very well.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and he got the distinct feeling she did so to steady him, not so that he could lead her toward the door.
The rain-scented breeze was a welcome slap in the face when they stepped outside. It wasn’t raining here, not yet, but the clouds were dark over Cardigan Bay, and low. Certainly damp enough to account for her frizzing hair.
Miss Davies released him. “I’ll return posthaste. Do rest, Mr. De Wilde.” She waved a hand at one of the benches dotting the promenade on the other side of the street.
He nodded. Even crossed the street toward the bench.
But then a flash of beige caught his eye.
He waited until Miss Davies was out of sight—he was fairly certain she wouldn’t hesitate to turn back and scold him—before he wove his way through the pedestrians, toward that figure lounging against the seaside railing.
Cor Akkerman. And he didn’t bother darting away at Lukas’s approach. Nor did he bother straightening. He just gave a snarling smile. “Have another lady
friend already, do you, De Wilde? I am sure Willa will be interested in learning of it.”
And she would probably believe the worst of him, given his history. She would be right to do so, in general. But in this particular case, Miss Davies would no doubt tell her about their run-in well before Cor Akkerman could insinuate anything.
Lukas touched a hand to the railing to steady himself. “How long since you left Belgium?” The only other refugees he’d seen were the ones he worked with every day—and they’d all come over on the same boat he had. They’d all been in Brussels when the Germans invaded, and they’d seen little. They knew less.
Akkerman quirked a surly brow, probably at his daring to speak Flemish. Or at the slight French accent that colored it. “What’s it to you?”
“I thought perhaps you may have news I haven’t heard yet.”
“And why would I tell it to you if I did?”
Lukas’s eyes slid shut. “Please. We have common enemies, n’est-ce pas? The Germans. They chased you out of your home as surely as they chased me out of mine.”
Akkerman snorted. “From what I hear, you musicians weren’t chased—you were lured here by a couple of rich sisters with promises of safety and money.”
“Money to send home.” He opened his eyes again. “You know as well as I that the food in Belgium will run out in a matter of weeks. If people don’t send money and food—if the Germans don’t allow it—our people will starve by Christmas.”
The cockroach before him just shrugged. “You have a point?”
His fingers curled over the top edge of the brick under his hand. He wanted to walk away, send the insect scurrying. But of whom else could he ask these questions? The other Belgians he saw daily knew no more than he did about the plight of others, and they couldn’t leave to search out answers any more than he could.
This man, though. He was clearly a bit of a wanderer if he had followed Willa here from London. “Do you know where there are more refugees? Have you heard where they’ve gone? I seek my family.”
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