A Song Unheard

by Roseanna M. White

  The breath he dragged in was long and ragged at the edges. “Willa. I will earn your trust. Prove to you that you can risk a chance on me. I will. I need to make sure my family is safe, but—”

  “Of course you do. I would never judge you for that.”

  “Just for . . . being Lukas De Wilde.”

  The last of the music ebbed away. She eased back, as much as the arm still around her would allow. There were easy responses. Things to dismiss the conversation. Words that would effectively place another brick between them.

  But the truth slipped out instead. “My father was like you. Charming and handsome and sure of himself. And he left before I ever even met him—off to find the next woman to charm, no doubt. I’ll not be like my mother. I’ll not.”

  His larynx bobbed up, then sank below the cashmere scarf that screamed money as surely as that watch of his did. “You have every right to judge me so. I was that type of man—before. I realize this. And I regret it. I know I cannot ask you to trust me, trust that I have changed, when I have had so little time to prove it. But I will. There will be no next woman for me, ever. Just you.”

  Words. Words were so easy. No doubt her father had said similar ones to her mother. Just you, no one else.

  But words meant nothing. She shook her head. “Perhaps were I another kind of woman, I could let you prove it. But I’m not. Even if you were faithful a year, a decade, I would always be waiting for you to leave. Expecting it. What kind of relationship could we possibly have with that thought always hovering?”

  She was broken. Had been since she was six, staring at that note that said she couldn’t trust anyone. That no matter how many times someone said I love you, it didn’t matter.

  Love was just a word. Three deceptive sounds linked together into a lie.

  If he really had changed, he deserved better than that. And if he hadn’t, then she was right to doubt him. Either way, this could be nothing but summer. Fleeting. Soon over. Swallowed by the cold winds of autumn.

  His arm tightened around her, and he kissed her again. Fast and hard. Blaring trumpets and pounding percussion and a syncopated rhythm.

  She let him. Savored the feelings that swept through her, crashing like cymbals. They would be a memory soon enough. Something to think about as she lay on her hard little cot in London, staring up at that battered poster on her wall.

  When he pulled away again, it was by a whole step. His fingers left her cheek, and he took her hand with a deliberate, decisive motion. Placed it back on his arm and turned her toward the street again.

  “I will prove it to you. I will never leave.” A promise. Or perhaps a threat.

  Or perhaps, maybe, an accusation. Because even if he didn’t, she would still be broken.

  Seventeen

  London was about like Lukas remembered it—crowded and fast-paced and just how he liked a city. Without the charm of Paris, perhaps, but he had always enjoyed it. He could spend months or years in its bustle and be content, if this was where Willa wanted to live.

  He strode out of St. Pancras Station with a glance over his shoulder in appreciation for the grand architecture. The enormous, graceful arches, the Gothic windows, the—

  “Oh!”

  “Pardonnez-moi!” The words spilled out by rote even as he reached to steady whomever he’d plowed into, dropping his bag in the process. A woman, apparently, and a young one. He noted carefully pinned blond curls, a somewhat faded hat, and big blue eyes that looked up at him and went wide.

  Her mouth fell open. “You’re . . . you’re Lukas De Wilde!”

  A month ago, he would have been pleased at being recognized. And would have immediately noted that she wasn’t just blond and wearing a hat, she was pretty. Quite. But there was no catch in his pulse today. No hum of appreciation asking to gather in his throat. There was just the thought that she was pretty, and she wasn’t Willa, and so he didn’t much care.

  Something went soft and relieved inside. No attraction, no compulsion. No rearing head of his past. It was too much to hope, no doubt, that he would never struggle with the man he’d been. But he wasn’t now. Not yet. The Lord was filling him with something new instead.

  He set the girl back on her feet and offered a vague smile. “Oui. I am flattered that you recognize me.”

  “Oh, well of course I do.” She held out a hand, wrist limp. “Elinor Sayers. I have long been a fan, monsieur.”

  Because it was polite, he took her hand, raised it, kissed it. Because she wasn’t Willa, he let it drop again as soon as he could. “How do you do, Miss Sayers. My sincerest apologies for running into you. I ought to have been paying better attention.”

  As he ought to be still. People swarmed, parting around them, a few sending scowls their way as they impeded other pedestrians.

  Elinor Sayers didn’t seem to notice. She beamed up at him, pressing her hand to her cheek. “Oh, don’t be sorry. I’m certainly not. I can’t believe it! I didn’t know you were in London. Have you a concert here? If so, I shall go and buy a ticket to it straightaway!”

  “Ah, no. Not this time. Though I am playing with an orchestra that will soon be touring Wales, if you ever make it there.”

  The girl pulled her lips into a pout and cast a glance past him, toward the station. She was probably on her way somewhere and in danger of missing her train. “I rarely leave London.” A strange thing to say here. And come to think of it, she carried no bag. Perhaps she was meeting someone. “Such a shame—but I shall certainly keep an eye out for when you next come here for a concert.”

  A smile, a nod, and he bent down to pick up his fallen bag. It was light—had only the essentials, after all. “Have a lovely day. And again, my apologies for running into you.”

  “And again—no apology necessary.” She gave him a pretty, dimpled smile and walked away. The sway of her hips was, he had to think, exaggerated.

  Lukas shook his head and redirected his attention toward Kings Cross. He had spent most of the train ride studying a map of London, trying to find where L’Indépendance Belge was located. From the looks of it, he could walk to it in fifteen to twenty minutes, without need to catch the tube.

  In years past, he would have procured a room at the Midland Grand Hotel for the night after he had met with Monsieur Allard. But his money was shrinking too rapidly. He would find a cheaper place somewhere—perhaps the newspaperman could recommend a decent, economical room.

  The day was already advanced, the sun hanging low and casting long shadows. Autumn’s early dusk would catch up to him if he didn’t hurry, so he gripped the handles of his bag and set off down the street.

  “Lukas De Wilde?”

  He nearly groaned when a man stepped in front of him—though something stopped him. Perhaps because the man—young, perhaps a year or two his junior but no more—didn’t have the sound of a fan like the blond girl. He wore a derby at a jaunty angle and a wool coat in charcoal grey.

  Something about the way he stood was familiar. Or, no, perhaps it was . . . something else.

  The man held out a hand. “Barclay Pearce. Willa let me know what train you were on and said you might appreciate some help.”

  Barclay. Willa’s . . . family, though she’d never said what kind. Cousin, he would guess. And he could scarcely believe she’d contacted him on Lukas’s behalf. Would she do so if she didn’t care for him at all?

  Maybe. It was obvious she cared about reuniting his family. Just not for joining it in any capacity. Still. He would be warmed by the gesture of goodwill on her part. And be glad to have a London native to help him find the press that was probably in some back-alley shop.

  His shoulders relaxed, and he reached out to shake hands. “How do you do, Mr. Pearce. I did not expect Willa to go to such trouble.”

  Mr. Pearce laughed. “She has shown you her charming side, I see. And yet she hasn’t scared you off completely?”

  A smile tickled his lips. “I heard her play. Need I say more?”

  Somet
hing sparkled in his companion’s eyes—recognition perhaps. “She’s good, isn’t she? We always thought she was, but we’re no judge of such things.”

  “She is . . . miraculous.” He could think of no other word for it.

  “Well.” Pearce clapped a hand to Lukas’s shoulder and held out his other in the direction he had been going. “You were going this way? Can I help you find what it is you’re looking for?”

  “Perhaps.” He shifted his bag so he could reach into it for his map.

  “Oh, you don’t need a map, if that’s what you’re going for. I’ve got the whole city up here.” Pearce tapped his hat and offered a grin that transformed his face from ordinary to notable.

  The claim struck him as something Willa would say. A cousin, definitely. First cousin, he would bet. Lukas nodded and lowered his bag to his side again. “Thank you. According to the information I have, I am looking for Tavistock Place. Though I am not certain how accurate this information is. I do not suppose you have heard of any Belgian newspapers near here?”

  Mr. Pearce’s brows lifted. “You came to London to seek out a newspaper?”

  Was that really so odd? Any number of refugees were, he would guess, trying to use such means to find their missing family members. “The man who runs it. My father’s friend.” He hoped. Prayed. Surely that was why the name Allard had sounded so familiar. “I am hoping he has news that can lead me to my mother and sister.”

  There was a hitch in Pearce’s gait. “You don’t know where they are?”

  Lukas shook his head. And clenched his teeth against the emotion that surged. It took him a moment and a swallow to be able to answer aloud. “I know only that they are not at the house in Louvain—it was burned. And they are not at the house in Brussels. Germans have overtaken it.”

  His shoulder pulsed a reminder of how he had discovered that particular bit of information.

  “I’m sorry.” Pearce sounded it—truly sounded it, not as though he offered polite words to a stranger. “We’ll help however we can, Willa and I. And my sisters.” The girls, they must be. Though Willa hadn’t mentioned names other than Rosie.

  “Thank you.”

  Mr. Pearce motioned to the corner. “We’ll want to cross there, to Euston.”

  They traversed the intervening distance in silence, dodging the many pedestrians going the opposite direction, the lampposts, the occasional tree planted in the pavement. It smelled of smoke from chimneys and the fumes from automobiles’ exhaust, and horns and bells and shouts colored the air.

  Its own kind of symphony, was a busy city.

  They reached the corner and paused to await a break in traffic. Lukas was about to ask Mr. Pearce what part of the city he—and perhaps Willa—called home but managed no more than to open his mouth before he heard his name being called from the direction of St. Pancras.

  His head swung to the left, and he sighed. The blond girl was hurrying down the sidewalk, hand waving. Another blonde was at her side—several years older, her hair a deeper shade of gold. A sister, perhaps, or a friend.

  He was beginning to regret working so hard to achieve a level of fame. And certainly posing for all those posters. Though to be sure, he was rarely recognized outside his own circles, where people expected to see him.

  Miss Sayers dug into her little handbag as she approached. “So sorry to bother you again, Mr. De Wilde. But I would have kicked myself had I let the opportunity pass by. Could I trouble you for an autograph? Please?”

  Another sigh gathered, but he pushed it down and dug out a smile instead. “Of course. No trouble at all.” And it wouldn’t have been on a normal day, when he wasn’t racing the sun toward Allard’s.

  But without patrons excited to see and hear him, he would have no career. He set down his bag again and reached for the paper and fountain pen she’d pulled out of her bag.

  Not just a paper—an old program from his last solo concert in London. Where had she gotten that? Or rather, why had she been carrying it in her handbag? A glance up showed him she was blushing.

  “I haven’t carried this bag since last year—just got it out for the change in season and realized it was still in there. A happy coincidence today, though it must make me look a complete fool to you.”

  “Not at all.” Hoping his smile put her at ease, he spread out the program against his left palm and asked her for the spelling of her name. Once he’d written it and added a short message, he signed his name and handed it back.

  Her companion straightened when he did so, offering a smile. Her attention, however, seemed to have been on Barclay Pearce.

  But the ladies said their farewells and hurried off in the other direction without detaining them any further, leaving Lukas to pick up his bag again and turn back to his companion. The day must be catching up with him. Already his bag felt heavier, and he’d scarcely begun walking.

  Mr. Pearce looked amused. “Does that happen often?”

  “Not really, other than at concerts.” Or when he dared to approach his own house in Brussels when there were Germans inside it. Though having a girl come at him with a pen and program was a far cry from a soldier with a gun.

  They’d probably torn the whole house apart, looking for Père’s work. Destroyed what family mementos they hadn’t burned. But none of that mattered, so long as he could find his family.

  “Shall we cross?”

  He followed Willa’s cousin across the street and around another corner onto Judd Street. The hordes of people soon thinned out, giving them room enough to walk two abreast again.

  Lukas cleared his throat. “Willa has said little about her home and family. Do you live near each other, Mr. Pearce?”

  “A street or two apart. And you may call me Barclay. I’m not one for formality.”

  Not the sort of thing a gentleman usually said—nor a man of profession, actually. But he must be one or the other, given the cut of his coat and how well it fit him, the quality of the fabric. And the fact that he was a relative of Willa’s, who dressed every bit as well, even if she claimed to be of limited means.

  “Barclay. Thank you. You may call me Lukas.” It was what Jules always called him anyway—though they’d been friends since they were in short trousers, so it hardly counted. Still, he would cling to the idea that someday this man could be his family too. Familiarity was not out of place.

  “And Willa is . . . reserved, let’s call it. Don’t take it personally. I don’t think she would have told me her hair color as a child if I hadn’t been able to see it for myself.”

  Lukas chuckled. But it was more sad than funny. A consequence, he supposed, of the absent father she’d mentioned last night. “She is unlike anyone I have ever known, to be sure.”

  Barclay slowed, and a glance over at him showed Lukas that his brows were a knot of question. “I’d be the first to agree. Is that why you . . . are tutoring her? On the violin? Though to be honest, I was dubious that she really needs lessons.”

  “Oh, they will not change much about the way she plays. I hope only to polish what is already brilliant and teach her music theory. But it is an excuse to spend time with her.”

  Now Barclay came to a complete stop, and the question on his face went hard and stubborn. “She’s about as friendly as a brick wall. Why are you looking for excuses to spend time with her?”

  “She is not a wall. Just hides behind one.” He met the man’s gaze without flinching. Let him see whatever he wanted in Lukas’s eyes. “She mentioned only the lessons?”

  Barclay folded his arms over his chest. “She is about as communicative as a brick wall sometimes too. What else ought she to have mentioned?”

  Lukas shrugged and kept walking. He may not know exactly where he was going, but he knew he hadn’t any daylight to waste. “She eventually let me take her on a picnic. And we had supper with another couple last night.”

  “Hmmph.” Barclay fell in beside him again. “I will ask again—why? If you think she’s some wealthy heiress—�
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  “I think only that she intrigues me. That she looks at the world as so few people do, seeing more than what is on the surface. That she can touch a violin and make it sing with a skill beyond any I have heard. That if ever I can inspire her to love me, it will be with a determination that will never fade—she does not work in half measures.”

  Barclay stopped again. “Wait, wait, wait. Did you just say love? Are you aware that you’ve only known her for a few weeks?”

  “Quite aware. But sometimes you know.”

  “No. You don’t.” Shaking his head, Barclay charged forward once more. “The world is going mad, that’s what. First Rosie off and marries Branok Hollow without so much as a by-your-leave—which is inexcusable, no matter how much I like him. No blasted way is Willa going to do the same stupid thing.”

  Lukas followed half a step behind. In part, he would admit, so Barclay wouldn’t see the grin he couldn’t quite tamp down. “No need to worry, mon ami. Willa thinks me mad for speaking of such things as well. Or rather, thinks me joking.”

  Amusement eclipsed the frustration in Barclay’s green eyes. “That does sound more like Willa than being swept up in it all. Come to think of it, I would have liked to see her response if you actually said such things to her. She isn’t much for romance, is our Willa.”

  “So I have learned. But I will win her through habit, if nothing else. I will simply stay right there by her side until she gets so accustomed to me, she cannot imagine me not there.”

  “If anything can win Willa, that might be it.” But he sounded doubtful. Which didn’t exactly light hope in Lukas’s heart. “Though I maintain you’re a fool if you really think you know so quickly you want to win her. Not that she’s not worth winning, mind you—no one can hold a candle to Willa, unless it’s Rosie or El or Lucy or Retta.”

  Lukas’s eyes went wide. “Are they all your sisters? Her cousins?” He could not imagine so many girls, with their frills and trills and tears, in his home. But then, he had rather lucked out on the sister score with Margot. Even as a tot, she’d had no use for frills, preferred quiet over trills, and cried no more than boys her age.