A Song Unheard

by Roseanna M. White

  Akkerman lifted his brows. “You have more faith in them than I do.” He jammed the last bite of sausage into his mouth, not seeming to notice—or to care—that bits of the pastry crust clung to his lips.

  Though his tongue objected, Lukas took another sip of the awful coffee, just to have something to do. “Have you family still in Belgium?”

  “Getting chummy now, are we?” Akkerman wiped off his mouth—with his sleeve—and leaned forward. “Look, me and mine are no concern of yours. You wanted information on refugee movements and newspapers—that is what I bring you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rumpled, folded sheet of paper. “Here.”

  It landed in the middle of the table, and Lukas reached for it with all the calm he could muster. In barely legible handwriting, Akkerman had made two lists. The first, town names—presumably where camps or Belgian villages were being set up, or where large numbers were integrating into the English towns themselves.

  The second bore names such as L’Indépendance Belge and set his heart pounding. “So there are some—newspapers.” Though the list was short, with only three names. Two had “London” scrawled beside them. One, Brussels. He tapped that one’s name. “This is still running at home? Under the noses of the Germans?”

  Akkerman’s shrug bordered on insolent. “Someone had a copy of it, dated a week ago. My impression is that they do not manage many editions. And who knows how many of those few make their way here?”

  “What about the reverse—how many of the editions from those in London make it back into Belgium?”

  Now Akkerman’s lips curled up into a mean little grin. “There is high demand. For that and even for foreign papers. I have a cousin who helps smuggle them in—for quite a sum too. He says English penny papers are selling in Brussels for fifteen francs apiece. I am thinking I may get in on this trade.”

  “Hmm.” He certainly wouldn’t stop the man from that—it would, shame of shames, take him to the east coast of England and across the Channel. Well out of Lukas’s way. And Willa’s. He squinted at the rest of the information scrawled under the papers’ cities. “These are the names of the owners?”

  “Ja.”

  “Fleming . . . Van—what does this say? Rompu?”

  “Van Rompa. And Allard.”

  Allard. That one sounded familiar. Was he one of the many newspapermen with whom Père had made friends? He could well be. His was the name beneath L’Indépendance Belge, which was obviously a French paper. That meant Allard was either from Brussels or Wallonia—the French-speaking south section of Belgium—like the De Wildes.

  “Thank you for this.” Lukas pulled out the rest of Akkerman’s wage and set it on the table. “If you hear anything else interesting, do let me know. Or if you relocate, I would appreciate word on how to reach you, in case I need your services again.”

  The man pocketed the cash and stood. “I will be here for a while yet.” His grin was wolfish. “Unfinished business of my own still, you know.”

  Willa, he meant. Lukas bit back a response and stayed perfectly still until Akkerman strode through the door. She could no doubt take care of him herself, if he came sniffing around her again. But Lukas would warn her that he was back in town.

  And beg her, for Jules’s sake, to dine with them tonight. Perhaps she’d be inclined to mercy if it was for someone else.

  He checked his pocket watch and stood. Still plenty of time to call on her at the Davieses’ before he had to get to rehearsal. With a bit of luck, she would be home and not out calling on someone else at this time of day.

  The wind greeted him when he stepped out of the bakery, and it inspired him to hurry along his path. These first cold days were always the worst, making him fantasize about a tour that would keep him in the Riviera during this time of year. Or perhaps Africa. South America. Somewhere hot and languid.

  Though Willa wasn’t in any of those places, so all in all, he was rather happy to be in Wales.

  Or would be, if his family were here with him.

  His step slowed as he rounded the corner. Would they be safe here? If he stayed with the orchestra—the only way he knew to make money enough to support them—everyone would know where he was. And, by extension, where they were. Which would mean that those looking for his father’s work would know.

  V would know. And would no doubt come knocking on his door again, that careful smile in place over those careful words. “I can help you,” he had said that first day when Lukas had stepped off the boat, barely conscious until that snapped him into awareness. “I can keep your family safe. Work with us, tell us how to find your father’s work, and we’ll protect you all.”

  Give England his father’s secrets willingly, in other words, and they wouldn’t take them by force.

  Lukas’s hands fisted in his pockets. It wasn’t an option. Not that he didn’t prefer England have them over Germany, but . . . but it wasn’t as simple a matter as handing V a file of papers or a mechanical device.

  It would mean handing him his sister.

  Only when his teeth ached did he realize he was clenching them, that his jaw was so tight the muscle in it was ticking. Did V understand what he was really asking? No, he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. No one outside of the family and a very few of their closest friends realized that Père’s mysterious cypher machine was no machine at all. It was a young girl too smart for her own good.

  It was his duty as her brother to protect her. From Germany, from England, from anyone who would treat her like a weapon. A tool.

  She was so much more than that. Deserved so much better. She deserved a childhood, one full of idle days and escaping from lessons and laughing with friends and . . .

  Though Margot hated all those things. Her mind was never idle. Lessons, when they could actually teach her something new, were her favorite sport. And the only friend she had ever had to laugh with was Claudette.

  Claudette’s father had been Père’s closest friend and colleague. He knew how crucial it was to protect Margot. Perhaps she and Mère were with the Archambaults, perhaps that was how he could find them.

  Though he wasn’t sure who he trusted enough to uncover that information for him. Certainly not Akkerman or any of his “cousins.” But he didn’t know how else to get news of or to his home.

  Blast the Germans.

  The city grew statelier with every step, the houses better kept and larger until he turned onto the street where Willa made her temporary home. Lukas paused a moment before going up the steps to ring. It wouldn’t do to see her with all these thoughts ricocheting through his head—she would know and call him on them. And while he would someday love to share them all with her, he couldn’t afford to do so now.

  He was falling in love with her—that was the simple and unvarnished truth—but that didn’t mean he could trust her. Not fully. Not yet.

  He wasn’t a fool.

  A deep, cleansing breath. A silent prayer that the Lord would take the worry from him and replace it with wisdom, and with knowledge on how to find and rescue his family. Then, when his face felt calm and clear, he rang.

  A servant opened the door to him a moment later and, apparently recognizing him, ushered him in with a smile.

  Lukas fished a card from the case in his pocket and set it on the man’s silver salver. “Lukas De Wilde for Miss Forsythe, if she is in.”

  The servant gave a short bow. “Of course, sir. Have a seat in the parlor and I shall fetch her.”

  “Thank you.”

  The man turned for the stairs, leaving Lukas to step toward the room he’d visited before when he was here.

  But his feet halted a few steps from the doorway. His ears strained.

  Willa’s voice. Faint, and he couldn’t make out the words, but he recognized the timbre. She wasn’t upstairs, she was down. Somewhere.

  He should undoubtedly just take a seat and let the servant search her out. It was the polite and logical thing to do.

  His feet apparently didn’t
receive that message, as they started down the hallway of their own volition. They followed his ears around a corner and down a side hallway to what must be some sort of study, given the sliver of desk that came into view through the open doorway.

  She stood at the far side of it, facing the window, speaking into the telephone that she carried. He leaned into the doorway, figuring that those instincts of hers would note his presence in just a second or two, then he could motion to her that he would be waiting in the parlor and leave her to her conversation.

  Except that she didn’t turn. She gripped the stick of the phone like she fancied strangling it. “I know the difference between a German shepherd and an English mastiff, Barclay.”

  Barclay? She’d never mentioned a Barclay, much less indicated she knew one well enough to ring him up at considerable expense.

  Though come to think of it, she’d never really mentioned anyone. Not by name.

  And dogs? Why was she speaking of dogs? He’d never seen her with one.

  So little he really knew of her. It made a chord of loneliness echo long inside him. Those people he did know were all too far away—physically or emotionally. And this woman who had somehow managed to capture his being with hers . . . she was a stranger.

  Willa gripped the phone tighter and all but growled. “If I were of a mind to do something stupid, do you think I would tell you first? And do give me a bit of credit, will you? I am many things, but I am not—” She turned just a bit, showing him part of her face, her thinned lips that suddenly pulled into a smile. “Well, if I’ve said it so many times, perhaps you ought to remember it and stop assuming you’re the only one in the family with an ounce of intelligence. I—”

  She spun toward Lukas, obviously having just seen him in her periphery. Her smile grew. “—should go. Lukas apparently decided to pay me a call.”

  He didn’t know if he should feel better or worse, that whoever she was talking to apparently knew about him. Perhaps it would depend upon what she’d told this Barclay—that Lukas was an annoying suitor who would not take a hint . . . or perhaps someone with whom she enjoyed spending time.

  Now that she’d spotted him, he could signal as he’d planned. Refrain from further interrupting her. Turn away.

  Instead, he kept on leaning into the doorframe, watching her as she rolled her eyes—as if Barclay could see her—and perched on the edge of the desk. She really wasn’t what one would call pretty. Her nose was a bit flat. Her hair was always slipping out of its chignon. And she hadn’t enough by way of curves to be fashionable.

  So why, then, did he so want to study her for hours? To memorize the way her eyes shifted and focused and saw what his couldn’t? To draw close enough that maybe, just maybe, he could hear the music that whispered inside her? To wrap her in his arms until he sank through those brick walls she barricaded herself behind and emerged on the other side, where she was?

  Her gaze lifted, settled on his. Such blue eyes she had. Tinged a bit with green, but still so vivid. Quite unlike the deep brown of his own family. And sharp—sharp and piercing.

  “All right.” She twisted a bit. “Give the girls my love. And Rosie, if you hear from her, and tell her to kiss the little ones for me.” She set the telephone back onto the desk, still leaning over to speak into it. “All right. I will. Goodbye, Barclay.”

  Rosie. Barclay. Little ones, girls. People who obviously meant a great deal to her. He wanted to know about them but rather feared if he asked, she’d clam up as she often did. So he settled for a smile. “I am sorry. I did not mean to interrupt, only to let you know I was here.”

  She set the earpiece back in its hook and straightened. “You saved me a bit of frustration anyway. Barclay thinks it his sworn duty to torment me.”

  “And he is your . . . ?” It sounded casual, he thought. The sort of question one would ask of anyone who mentioned a random name.

  Or perhaps not, given that teasing curl to her lips. “Jealous, Mr. De Wilde?”

  Lukas pushed off the doorframe and took a step into the study. “Perhaps I would be, if you hadn’t called him family.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, kept her eyes locked on his. Tilted her head. “Shame. And here I thought I’d get to claim to have made Lukas De Wilde wild with jealousy. I don’t know how many women can claim that.”

  “I am not the jealous sort.” Or never used to be—though that could well be because he’d never cared about a woman enough to be jealous of anyone else in her life. The same couldn’t be said for this woman, and that realization brought him another step into the room. “Though I admit it puts my teeth on edge whenever Cor Akkerman mentions you. He is back—so you know. And may well be seeking you out.”

  Her eyes flashed, yes. But not with longing. Not with desire. Not with affection. They flashed with suspicion and wariness and that sort of calculation that Margot would appreciate.

  He prayed to God, silently but sincerely, that her eyes didn’t flash like that over mention of him.

  The calculation snapped and sizzled for a moment, two, then vanished behind her smile. “I appreciate the warning. Is that why you dropped in?”

  “Partly.” He eased another step in, half expecting her to straighten from the desk and edge away. Instead, she tipped her head a degree to follow him with her gaze. “I also had a favor to ask of you. Or rather, Jules has. I am merely relaying it.”

  “Jules.” She blinked and braced her palms against the desk. “What favor could Jules possibly want from me?”

  “That you join him and a lady friend of his and me for supper.” He offered a smile, though it rested strangely on his lips. “It seems she is wary of him because of his association with me, and he hopes that we can convince her that he is benign. And boring. And that I have given up my old ways for you.”

  Another icy flash. Not quite to the level that it had been at mention of Cor, but enough to pierce him. “I am not certain how I can help with this, given that I certainly don’t believe it myself—the part about you anyway. I haven’t spent enough time with your friend to have any idea of how boring he may be.”

  He shrugged. And hooked his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. It wouldn’t exactly prove his reformation to kiss her out of the blue. “I do not know. I merely promised to ask you to join the rest of us tonight.”

  She said nothing as she held his gaze. She said nothing as she pushed off the desk. She said nothing as she took a step toward him, closing the space between them to a foot so scant he could barely catch his breath. Then she smiled. “All right. Come and pick me up. What time?”

  What time? It was that easy? She would just . . . come? He forced himself to swallow. And to remember that he was no novice at taking a woman to a restaurant—his palms had no reason to go damp at the thought of it. “Seven, I imagine. If that suits?”

  “Fine.” She sashayed past him, not even pausing on her way out the door. “I’ll see you then.”

  The room filled with air again, at least. He could drag it in, thank the Lord that she had agreed. And be grateful he had all the afternoon to lose himself in music and put thoughts of Willa Forsythe out of his mind for a few blessed hours.

  Sixteen

  Willa lowered her bow and opened her eyes. She stood by her window, closed against the cool air tapping at its panes, and the view of Aberystwyth’s nicest streets greeted her. The last strains of the music seemed to echo long in her small chamber, sweet and high and . . . empty. That was the way her violin sounded now, in contrast to the Stradivarius. Like an imitation of the real sound, but not the sound itself.

  No. It wouldn’t do. She would go home soon, and this would be the only violin she would have to play. She would have to get used to its timbre again. Be content with it. And why not? It had been a faithful friend all these years.

  Before she had known what she was missing.

  Spinning from the window, she raised her bow again. Played, again, the first line of melody she had ever teased fro
m the strings. It was nothing, really—a pub song she’d heard on the streets. Nothing special, something any child could hum. But it was hers. Because she had touched the bow to the strings and the music had been there, waiting for her. There inside this violin, it had seemed—she had simply asked it to come out, and it had.

  It had been true with that pub song. She remembered thinking, in a burst of childish wonder she hadn’t indulged in for years, that the music must live inside the violin. And that if that music had, perhaps more did as well. The next day she’d gone out, when she was supposed to be finding pockets to pick, and found instead a few melodies. From gramophones in open windows. From other pubs with pianos. She’d walked about her familiar London with her ears open for the first time, and she’d heard it everywhere—music drifting from windows, from doors, from throats.

  She’d gone back to their flat, pulled out that battered violin she’d shoved under the sofa, and asked it if that music would come out too.

  It had. And so had the majestic, glorious stuff she’d gone in search of later, in the nicer parts of the city. When she’d climbed that forgotten half-wall, her ears sniffing out music like a bloodhound, and found the orchestra’s practice room’s windows. Her violin had brought it faithfully to life.

  With a sigh, she sank onto her borrowed bed with its feather mattress. The music always came . . . But maybe it was just leaping from the instrument, maybe it wasn’t in her at all. Maybe it had nothing to do with her and was just . . . luck. Or magic. A magic violin that would play for anyone at all.

  She trailed her fingers over the precious wood, worn so smooth from the thousands of times she’d done just that. It wasn’t the violin—if it had been, the Stradivarius would have been silent in her hands, or produced nothing but screeching nonsense as awful as that atonal mess Lukas had sheet music for.