Whisper on the Wind (11 page)

Something jingled, then clopped. Edward pressed back into the shadows, though he could still see the house he watched. Not even a careless milk cart would be so bold with noise.

Horses pulling a wagon laden with a half-dozen soldiers came into view, and neither passengers nor driver made any attempt to quiet the ruckus. Once the wagon stopped, soldiers clanked and pounced to the pavement, pulling rifles from their shoulders and bounding up the cement steps on hobnail boots. They pounded on the door.

Edward’s fists clenched at his sides. They wouldn’t find Tomsk, but they would find his parents, who would no doubt be carted off in that wagon, for questioning at the very least. If Tomsk had followed instructions, they would have nothing to say. But the fear they must face with such an ordeal . . .

Edward slipped down the alleyway, beyond the shadow of the house that had hidden him these past hours. His heart thudded nearly as loudly as those German boots at the Tomsk front door a moment ago. He battled the urge to run. Not only was curfew still in place, but any sudden movement was easy to spot.

Careful. Careful.

Sweat pricked his neck and underarms. He slunk from shadow to shadow, heading not to the church and safety but somewhere else. He had to know.

Seven blocks. He’d counted them before; there was no need this time. Six of those seven blocks were as still as this side of dawn should be, but when Edward reached the last, he slipped into the shadows again, as far into the darkness as an arcade shop alcove would allow.

There they were again . . . soldiers crawling along the line of shops like ants on honey, with the main dollop none other than the news shop Edward frequented, one that secretly doubled as a main supplier of
La Libre Belgique
.

His eyes burned again, this time from tears he wouldn’t let fall. He made not a sound, not even when bolder rays of sun pushed away the shadows surrounding him. He crouched to the ground, knowing he should leave, get as far away as he could. But his limbs refused to move.

He knew where he mustn’t go: Rosalie’s. It was one of the dangers in having an address; one could be raided. Undoubtedly it was too late to warn her anyway, this being another example of simultaneous German raids. It was lucky they’d delivered the most recent issue, because even if her home was raided, they would find nothing.

He should go to the church as he’d planned. It was safe there. Maybe.

But instead, making sure he wasn’t followed, Edward eventually found his way to the back of the Lassone mansion, a place he’d once convinced himself he’d never see again, at least not from any closer than the street.

He would visit one last time and never come again.

Edward let himself in. A rack for hats and hooks for shawls were just inside the door, hidden from view of the rest of the kitchen by a wall with an arched entryway. For a moment he stood quietly, looking back outside through the glass embedded in the center of the door. He’d taken pains to be sure he was safe but didn’t want to take further chances.

Despite the early hour, low voices and the gentle clattering of dishes drew him the rest of the way into the kitchen. It was an ample room with vast work spaces, a sink with indoor plumbing beneath a window overlooking the garden, and many shelves—a room topped with open beams where he remembered copper pots had once hung. Those hooks were empty now.

And there, at the smallest of the tables, sat his mother and Isa. He saw they weren’t dressed like peasants anymore. They fit this house . . . perhaps not the kitchen, but the rest of the mansion.

Seeing them, safe and together, brought him the calm he craved. “Let me see. Something is wrong. Two mistresses of a grand home, quite at home in the
servants’
quarters?”

“Edward!” Isa sprang to her feet, but when he put a finger over his lips, she stopped both sound and movement.

“You have Germans in this house,” he said. “How many?”

“Just one. Upstairs. He isn’t likely to hear us.”

“And why is that? Has he no ears?”

She laughed. “No, silly. I was going to say he cannot be lurking nearby. He doesn’t often manage the stairs because he has a foot missing from the war. He hasn’t left his room for the two days we’ve been here.”

“And servants? Has he any of his own?”

“Only Clara and Henri are here, and they were with my family before. Belgians as true as any other.”

Edward let his gaze travel the length of her then, unable to help himself. She was all Lassone again. “Well, you’re looking quite your old self, aren’t you?”

He didn’t expect her frown, especially not when he had to fight to keep himself from staring at her.

“My old self? You mean, the way I looked before I left Brussels, before the war? I haven’t . . . changed?”

He shook his head, wondering why she looked with distress toward his mother. He tried to salvage his remark. “You know, quite the Upper Town attire and all. You too, Mother.”

“Sit down, Edward,” his mother said, and he had the distinct feeling he was missing something between the two of them. “Clara has managed to maintain a connection with one of the farmers from the country. She has a rather steady supply of eggs, thanks to the funds Mr. Lassone left for her. She’s made an egg pie that’ll bring you right back to the days before the war. Sit and eat.”

“I cannot stay, Mother. I came only to urge you one last time to take advantage of what Isa has done and leave Brussels. I can make the arrangements immediately, and you can be in Holland by tomorrow morning.”

But his mother wasn’t listening to him, not a single word. She was already on her feet, dishing out the eggs.

“Surely you can stay long enough to eat a little? Real food for once, and not from the food lines?”

With the plate in front of him and the smell so enticing, he could barely hang on to his refusal. He must go, find out if anyone else he could trust remained free. He shouldn’t have come here at all, except that he’d wanted to see his mother and Jonah, even Isa, as much as he wanted—no, needed—them to go.

He swallowed hard, his mouth watering.

“Sit, Edward.”

And then he did because the eggs were just beneath his nose now, and he knew he could do nothing for anyone else. He would eat, he would convince his mother and Isa to leave, and then he would find out who was left.

To his own shame he enjoyed the eggs more than he should have allowed. He’d forgotten when food stopped being something to look forward to but rather something to be endured in order to keep going. Meatless broth, dark bread, or hard cheese, and no variety. When the committee for relief did have shipments—soup or real flour for better bread—Edward, unwilling to have his false identity scrutinized too closely, rarely took advantage of what they had to offer. Instead he relied on the generosity of the church, the affection of Rosalie, or benefactors surrounding
La Libre Belgique
.

But the taste of the food couldn’t quite overcome his shame; he was free while others were in danger. . . .

He swallowed hard, but just then Isa smiled at him and everything else, even the taste of the eggs, faded away. She looked so like the portrait he’d once seen of her in this very mansion, done when she’d turned thirteen by Frans van Holder, who painted all the rich, upcoming debutantes in Belgium. At the time, Edward thought the artist had made her look too old, too grown-up. But now he saw what the artist must have seen. Isa had grown into the promise of that portrait.

He’d always thought her lovely. Now her light hair was gathered back in an informal braid, and despite the shawl she wore to keep away the early morning chill, he could see the curve of her neck and shadows along the rest of her that hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen her dressed to her station in life, things only hinted at in the portrait.

He wanted that beauty to disappear, the blue glow of her eyes to dull, that welcoming smile to dim, the tilt of her chin to look proud instead of happy, the gold in her hair and the redefined lines of her body to be forgotten.

Imagining her as she used to be, always above him, with parents and a brother who lived as if the world had been created solely for them, always above even the clientele of his father’s elite inn, Edward was reminded of all the resentment.

“You’ll be staying here with us, won’t you, Edward?” Isa asked. “There’s plenty of room, and the Major told Clara he doesn’t want to see us any more than we want to see him. There is so much more space here than with Viole, and I think perhaps Albert might welcome it if you didn’t come around.”

“You should stay,” his mother put in.

But he was already shaking his head, pushing away the eggs altogether, what little was left. He wouldn’t eat another thing until they agreed to go. “Neither of you listened to what I came here to tell you. You must leave, both of you and Jonah, at once. I can make the arrangements and—”

“Why should we leave now, when I’ve been given back my home? And I have legitimate papers, too, that match my passport.”

His mother, next to him, put her hand over his. “You could easily stay here, Edward.”

“As what? Your fifty-year-old son, when you’re not yet forty-five? You know I can’t.”

“Perhaps as my brother, then.”

“No, Mother. This disguise only works because I’ve never been taken note of by anyone who matters, never looked at too closely. I can’t live under the same roof as a German who might get a good look at me. Day after day.”

“Then perhaps you should come up with some other identity,” Isa suggested. “Someone your own age, but unfit for service.”

“I suppose I could sport a fair rendition of the village idiot without much trouble.”

“Perfect! You could live here and no one would pay you any attention whatsoever.”

“I was anything but serious, Isa. I cannot stay, and I don’t have the money or the time to build another identity.”

“What do you mean? All any of us have is time. And I have the money.”

“She’s right about that,” his mother said. “Why don’t you give it some thought?”

For the barest moment he was tempted to tell them just how dangerous it was for him, for them, to remain. Tell them what had happened that very morning, that even as he’d enjoyed those eggs, the parents of one of his coconspirators were being interrogated at the Kommandantur. Perhaps held as hostages until the Germans were convinced Tomsk was not in hiding but in fact over the border, beyond their grasp. They could, at this very moment, be subjected to who knew what by an army capable of nearly anything if they thought it might serve their purpose.

But that would mean breaking the one rule he’d vowed always to keep. Never giving those he loved any information for which they might be questioned.

He needed to leave, and right away. Pushing himself from the table, he stood. He had only one argument left, one he’d wanted to use from the moment he’d first become involved with
La Libre Belgique
, only his mother had still needed him too much. Now she had Isa. “If you stay, then all I can do to make you safe is to sever all ties. Starting at once.”

“Edward!” Now his mother was standing as well.

Isa grabbed his forearm. “You can’t do this to—to your mother. Or to Jonah. Isn’t life hard enough for them without you withdrawing?”

“I’ll do what is best for all of us.” Edward stepped back, beyond Isa’s touch, heading for the door.

“Edward, wait,” she said, following him. “Curfew is over for this morning. Can I walk with you a bit?”

“I don’t want you on the streets, Isa,” he said. He glanced at the way her dress fit her so well. “Even less so now.”

“In my vast experience as a woman—” she spoke with a twinkle in her eye—“I’ve noticed men are far more respectful of someone dressed the way I am than of a peasant.”

In spite of the naiveté he knew she still possessed, she was right.

“Yes, talk to Isa,” his mother said. “She’ll convince you not to stay away, won’t you, Isa?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Edward wanted to refuse her company; he wanted to tell her to stay put. Instead he said, “Wear a hat.”

She found a scarf on a hook near the door and wrapped it over her hair, pulling her shawl tighter. Hardly enough to hide that she was no longer a child. At least her hair was out of sight.

Outside, he led her around to the front by way of the
porte cochère
that extended from the house over the lane to the carriage houses behind. The sun shone and the air was cool but dry. They walked down the pavement away from the house, heading toward the edge of Quartier Léopold.

“I have a confession, Edward.” She looked somber, almost afraid. He’d seen her face a half-dozen guards at checkpoint stations, totally unruffled even though they carried contraband. What could
she
be afraid of? “I know why you want us to leave, why you think it’s dangerous for those around you. I know about your involvement with
La Libre Belgique
.”

10

And so we must remain united as we await the day of liberation from the FOREIGNERS in our land. Time is but temporarily on the side of these FOREIGNERS so long as we remember we are Belgians, all, and they shall never have the best of us because of that.

La Libre Belgique

Edward’s expression quickened Isa’s breathing. It wasn’t suspicion; it couldn’t be. Her heartbeat went wild, especially when he started to turn away as if to leave her alone on the street.

But he turned back and took her arm, entwining it firmly with his and steering her away from her home. “You’re mistaken, Isa. I’ve heard of the paper, of course—who hasn’t? But I’m not involved with it. I do wonder, though, where you heard such a story. Care to enlighten me?”

She stopped. “I can’t. I’ve promised not to. And it doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is that I can help.”

“Spoken like a true patriot . . . or a spy trying for a confession.”

His tone remained light yet the words were incredible. He couldn’t believe her a spy, trying to beguile something out of him, to be used against him?
For
the Germans? It was too absurd to imagine. Not after she’d brought in those letters and newsprint, which was no doubt to be used in the very paper he worked on.