“A prodigy, Miss Forsythe. A miracle—and hardly a child. You, of all people, ought to understand that— think of where you were at fourteen. And you, of all people, ought to understand that we did not force her to do anything. We merely . . . offered her a violin. And asked if she would like to play.”
Willa sank back against her seat. To Margot, yes, it would look like that. But to Lukas, it would look far different. It would look like he’d traded his sister’s life for Willa’s.
Her eyes slid shut. She wasn’t alone. She had her family. She had this new, fragile understanding with the Lord that she would have to explore. She even, oddly, had Mr. V.
But Lukas De Wilde was as out of reach as he’d been as a poster upon her wall.
Lukas let the cold wind off Cardigan Bay whip him. Wrap him in its invisible arms. Chill him to the very bone. But he didn’t rise from his bench. It was better just to sit here and listen. And to wonder at how much life could change in a few short months. A country invaded. A family lost. A love experienced. A friend . . . a friend grown so very distant.
“You should come,” Jules said from beside him. “It will be great fun. Enora has convinced Nanette Georges to come along—she’s a pretty one, oui?”
Lukas drew in a long breath and let it back out. “I cannot, Jules. But thank you. I must say my farewells and catch the train.”
“But you can’t mean it.” Jules’s smile caught at half-mast. “You can’t leave. Not now, when the tour is just beginning. You love to tour. And what will we do without you?”
“There is always another violinist happy to play my part. And I will find a new position in London.” It wouldn’t have his friends. But it would be close to his family. And he couldn’t bring himself to be more than a tube ride away from them just now for more than a day. “I have already spoken to the Davies sisters. I will send what I can to them, for the Belgian Relief Fund.” His face went tight. “Our countrymen certainly need every bit of help they can get.”
“But . . .” Jules sighed. “Is it your arm? Is this new injury bothering you?”
Lukas touched a hand to the sling he’d consented to wear this time, to hold his shoulder immobile for the first few days, while it healed. “Not overmuch. It will heal quickly. It is not that, Jules, that led me to this. It’s—”
“Willa Forsythe.”
He shook his head and focused his gaze on the slate-grey water across from them, the sweep of sand that disappeared into it. “I have not even seen her in a week.” He wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. To assure himself she was well, to thank her for risking her life for his family. To tell her that if she wanted his forgiveness for all she’d done, for being a thief, for lying to him, then she had it.
Even if she didn’t want it, she had it.
He wanted to pull her close and tell her she had no reason to steal, not anymore. He could give her a different life, if she let him. She could give herself one.
But she didn’t love him. She’d made that perfectly clear from the start. She hadn’t loved him going into Belgium, so why would her stance have changed after suffering as she had for him and his? After, to her way of thinking, he had abandoned her like her parents had? She wouldn’t see that he’d had no choice. She’d see only that he walked away in anger when they were still in Wales. That he’d left her to the German soldiers on the docks in Antwerp.
He would see her again, eventually. He would thank her. Offer that forgiveness. But not until he had the strength to withstand her dismissal and to walk away again without crumbling when all he wanted to do was gather her into his arms and beg her to be a part of his life forever.
Jules snorted. “I knew it wouldn’t stick. That you’d realize soon enough she isn’t your type and walk away. A man doesn’t change so quickly, so thoroughly.”
The pain yawned around him, threatening to strangle him. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t look into his friend’s eyes.
But Jules ducked his head to meet his gaze anyway, then scrunched his face in question. “And yet . . . you look heartbroken, Lukas. What happened?”
He dug his fingers into his leg, but it did nothing to distract from the real agony. “She doesn’t love me.”
“She . . .” Jules sighed. “But you love her? Then I don’t understand. Since when does Lukas De Wilde not chase the thing he wants until he gets it?”
Since the one he wanted was too far out of reach to even hope to catch. He stood from his bench and stretched out a hand. “I owe you thanks, Jules. For saving my life. And I . . . I forgive you for it.”
Jules breathed a laugh and clasped his hand. “That, at least, is the Lukas I know. I’m not sure what to make of a lovesick one—but you’ll get your girl, if you really want her. You always do.”
A ridiculous statement, since he’d never really wanted one in particular. Not like this. “I had better hurry. The train won’t wait for me.”
“You’ll keep in touch?”
“Of course. And you’ll let me know when Enora agrees to marry you?”
His friend’s smile went boyish. “If she agrees. Certainly. You must stand up with me, you know.”
“I would have it no other way.”
They said their farewells, and Jules strode back across Marine Terrace and into the hotel. Lukas had no reason to follow. He’d already spent his last night in those rooms, packed his things, had them sent ahead of him to the train station.
There was nothing left for him now in Wales. But he stood there a minute more, taking it in. He’d come back someday. When it didn’t hurt so much to relive the two months he’d spent here.
A quick check of his watch verified that he’d run out of time. The car would be waiting for him, so he moved toward it. Even managed to drum up a smile for the woman waiting inside.
Gwen Davies didn’t look as if she felt any of his strain. “Are we ready, monsieur?”
She certainly seemed to be, in her traveling suit, a little handbag clutched in her lap, and pure light in her face. But then, she’d known from the start that Willa wasn’t really an old school chum. She had no reason to fear seeing her again as much as she longed for it.
Lukas cleared the feeling from his throat. “Of course, Miss Davies.”
“Thank you again for agreeing to let me accompany you. I do hate traveling alone.”
He merely nodded. The other sister and Miss Blaker would follow Gwen in a few days, but someone had to be here now to help spread the word about the symphony’s tour. Or at the very least, they had wanted to be. No doubt they could have hired it out had it not been something they’d anticipated doing themselves for months.
Miss Davies sighed. “You are certain she is well?”
“Recovering. That is what I am told.” He had seen Barclay a few times—and V. Both gave him updates on Willa’s well-being, obviously knowing he needed those morsels, even if he doubted that she’d approve of their talking to him about her. “The gunshot she took to the side did not hit anything vital. And the rest worked itself out in a few days.” Sore muscles. Joints so stiff it took days for them to fully loosen. According to Barclay, she’d practically lived in a deep bathtub for the last week.
Even Barclay Pearce ought to know better than to mention such things to a man, born to society or not. Had he no sense at all?
“You have really not seen her?”
He didn’t look at Miss Davies just now either. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d see on her face, but it would no doubt match her tone of voice—reproving, gentle, disbelieving.
“In deference to her wishes.” She certainly had not asked after him, had she? And so he’d kept busy. Finding a house suitable for his mother and sister. Seeing Margot safely to her new position. Trying to push away the guilt for doing so that he couldn’t quite shake, regardless of how excited his sister had been. How buoyant each evening when she came home. How right when she’d said, “Would you not have jumped at the chance to join an orchestra at my age? Can you not see this is the sam
e for me? All I have ever wanted, Lukas, is to be treated as an adult. To do something that matters with this gift God has given me.”
But she wasn’t an adult. Or shouldn’t be. Perhaps Mère had lengthened her hem and put up her hair so she looked older. But she was only fourteen. She was . . . She was . . . not a child, when it came to her mind. He knew that. It was unfair to expect her to want to spend her days embroidering or knitting or playing the piano when that was not who she was.
He had relented. And he was rewarded with her joy. With V’s assurances. With Barclay’s promises that he would stick as close as he could to her whenever Lukas himself wasn’t nearby. Their mother went with her every day, both of them posing as secretaries. Apparently the whole codebreaking operation was so secretive that they all hid in a tiny cupboard of a room whenever an outsider came in anyway.
He had met the men she’d be working alongside. Good men, if an odd collection. Few were military, despite working now in the Admiralty building.
But they all had the same instincts Margo had, to see the patterns. The puzzles. Though some had seemed baffled when she claimed they must follow it up with mathematics.
Perhaps she could teach them something.
“Are you quite certain that’s what Willa wants?” Miss Davies said, pulling him back to the car and the streets passing by outside the window. “And that it isn’t your anger with her keeping you apart? You realize, don’t you, that the things you loved about Willa—those are not things about which she could have lied? If anything, knowing her past ought to make those things all the more remarkable. That God entrusted such a talent to a girl who, by rights, ought not to have had any means of exploring it. Who ought never to have even held a violin in her hands. Do you not ask why He did so? What plan He has for her?”
“I do not doubt the Lord has something in store. And I do not hold any grudge against her for lying to me.” How could he, in the face of Belgium? She’d nearly given her life for them, to save his family. “But she is not the type to forgive so easily, mon ami.”
He’d long since known that if he could convince her to love him, she’d do so with her whole being.
Unfortunately, that no doubt meant she’d hate him just as fully for being the one to bring all this upon her.
Twenty-Nine
Willa hadn’t expected to actually like Gwen and Daisy Davies, it was true. But when she walked into the pretty little parlor of Peter Holstein’s house in Hammersmith, which she’d called home for the last week, joy flooded her at seeing the woman who was, somehow, a friend standing there and rubbing absently at her too-sensitive fingers. Willa rushed forward and pulled Gwen into a tight embrace.
Perhaps it wasn’t what one did in society. But Gwen hugged her back. “Oh, Willa! You look as though you’ve been through the very thick of it. Are you well?”
Her side still hurt. She couldn’t sleep without nightmares rising—running through unfamiliar streets, someone chasing her. That terrible feeling of thirst. Being trapped in a dark, empty room. But when she awoke, it was with a sister by her side and brothers downstairs and the sure knowledge that no matter how lost she got, they’d come for her.
She wasn’t alone.
She smiled as she pulled away. “Quite well. And so glad to see you. Please, sit. Can I get you anything? Tea?”
Gwen waved that away and pulled Willa down beside her on the couch. “I am in need of nothing, I assure you. Only to see you again. I must apologize, Willa. I took your violin to a luthier, but—”
“He could not fix damage that severe. I know.” That, too, filled her dreams.
But it was only a thing. She’d always known not to put too much value on things. Not when they could so easily be stolen or destroyed.
It was just a thing. And she’d have another—someday. She’d put back five pounds from what Mr. V had paid her. She’d put back another five after the next job, whatever it might be—Barclay had already announced to the family that they’d be working no more jobs outside of what V gave them. Legitimate ones, more or less, and Willa couldn’t bring herself to regret it. Not anymore. She’d work for him, for her country, and she’d earn her keep. She’d save like the honest blokes did, until she could afford to buy herself whatever violin she decided on. She’d earn it—perhaps that would make it even more special.
“He couldn’t, no. So I took it instead to a woodworker I know. He used the wood, at least, to make something new.” Gwen reached down to a box sitting beside the couch and pulled out something flat and rectangular and covered with a scrap of muslin.
“Gwen. You needn’t have.” But curiosity overtook her, and she unwrapped the offering. Then couldn’t quite breathe.
The wood had been arranged in a patchwork, creating a picture frame. She never would have thought that a frame could be so beautiful when made of ill-fitting pieces of scarred wood, but it was. She ran her fingers along it, wondering at how the craftsman had found enough good wood left to create anything new at all.
Then her gaze settled on the photograph cradled by her violin. The reason for her sudden lack of breath. “When was this taken?”
“At that concert in Cardiff, before the theft. We had a photographer there, did you not see him?” Gwen scooted close and looked at the photograph along with her. “You are a handsome couple. Look how he looks at you.”
She touched a finger to the black-and-grey face of Lukas De Wilde. He looked down at the grey-and-white face of Willa with an expression she couldn’t quite believe, even as she saw it.
He really had loved her. And she had ruined it. “Thank you, Gwen. It’s . . . it’s the best gift anyone could have given.” Love, framed by music.
“Then you don’t want my other gift?”
Willa looked up at the teasing note in her friend’s voice. Saw the veritable blaze of a gleam in her eyes. “What other gift could you possibly give?”
“Well.” This time Gwen stood and moved to the back of the couch. The sound of something large sliding across the wood preceded the appearance of a case whose distinctive shape could not be mistaken.
Willa stood, fingers itching even as she said, “You needn’t give me a violin! I am saving. I will buy one myself.”
Gwen lifted it, though, and held it out. “Please. It just sits there, never being played. It isn’t right. I want you to keep it as long as you need—you can return it after you purchase one of your own, of course. But in the meantime, can’t you bring it to life again? It wants it.”
Her hands shook as she reached out. It was a fine case—no surprise for Gwen Davies. She set it on the cushions they had abandoned and flipped the latches. Then drew in that breath she’d lost. “Is that . . . ?” The wood was so beautiful, so gleaming. The wood grain impossibly tight.
Gwen chuckled. “Why do you think Mr. De Wilde brought his Stradivarius for me to see that first night, Willa? He knew I had one of my own to which I’d want to compare it.”
“But . . .” She’d hoped to buy one for a hundred pounds or so—a solid, good instrument. But it would be nothing like this. She could never, in a lifetime, afford anything like this. “It is too dear. I cannot. If something were to happen to it—”
“Then at least it will have spent time in the hands of a master again beforehand. Please, Willa.” Gwen reached in when Willa didn’t and lifted the precious instrument out. Placed it in Willa’s hands. “Give it life. I never could do so as well as you.”
Tears dampened her eyes, but she hadn’t the hands to brush them away. Not now. One held the violin and the other the bow that Gwen also pressed against her fingers.
She closed her eyes. Raised the instrument. And played.
The vibrato moved from instrument to chin and straight down to her core. Its sound was as rich and full as Lukas’s, of course. But today she didn’t play one of the songs he’d pulled out for her. Nor one of the many she had heard over the years as she eavesdropped on orchestras.
She played her own. The one God had filled h
er spirit with in that prison cell. The one that spoke of beginnings and loss and a full, bright life despite it all.
When she lowered her bow and opened her eyes, Gwen wasn’t the only one in the room. Rosie stood there too, a few of the little ones behind her. She had tears in her eyes—and a stack of papers clutched in her hands. “Beautiful. Did you write it?”
Willa’s lips pulled up. “I think it wrote me.”
“Well.” Rosemary stepped closer, offering Gwen a smile but not asking for an introduction. Instead, she held out the papers. “Regardless. It looks like this arrived just in time.”
Staff paper, Willa saw. With elegant lines stretching across the pages, all blank. Waiting for her to fill them. She set down the bow and reached for the stack. “Rosie! It’s perfect.” She had done nothing to deserve such friends, such family. Nothing. But she’d thank the Lord for them.
“So you can win that bet.” Rosie winked and stepped back again.
Willa shook her head with a laugh. “That would be cheating.”
“Oh, come now. What do you think Retta intended when she issued it? You were always your greatest obstacle, Will—we all knew it was yourself you’d have to find a way to get the music from.”
They did? But how did they know?
Regardless. She would do it right, now. She would write down the song and play it at Pauly’s that night, on the only stage she’d ever stood on—the only stage she needed. She’d win the bet and she’d issue another and she’d be with her family. And life would be good.
She made the introductions then and visited with Gwen for another hour before her friend had to leave. Then she climbed Rosie’s steps back up to the room she was sharing with Ellie and little Olivia.
Elinor had moved all of Willa’s things here while she was in Wales and they had decided without her input to let their flats go. The old cigar box stuffed with slips of paper with names of composers and their work that she’d wanted to look up sat on the bureau. Her clothes, stitched so aptly by Rosemary, filled the little closet.
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