"Fraulein Silber!" A loud shout came from behind them. "Is that you, Mistress?"
"Hermann! It's about time! Where have you been?" Klara whirled around to face her servant, who was trying not to let a stupid grin at their predicament overwhelm his bearish face. Even in the strong wind, she could smell alcohol.
"Hurry, damn you!" Almassy stepped up and shook Hermann’s shoulder. "Singerin Silber must get warm immediately!"
Chapter 13
Hermann and the ordinarily reliable coachman were drunk, for the two of them had been taking turns getting something beyond comfortable in the tavern. It had been Rolf the Coachman's turn to watch and he had seen Klara come out, but, he hadn’t been able to move the coach through the crush to the prearranged meeting place.
Drenched, frozen and miserable, as much as Klara wanted to scold, it seemed best simply to get home as quickly as possible. Almassy offered to drive for the inebriated Rolf, but the coachman said, "The horses know their way home." Opera to apartment and then to their warm stable was a routine on winter nights, so he went to huddle and shiver in the coach beside Klara.
"At least I have an excuse to hold you." Klara clung silently to his hard body, but she was too cold and wet to get much pleasure, even so close against his chest.
Liese was shocked when they came in. Klara's beautiful dress and fur-trimmed cape were drenched and stained.
"Oh, Liese! Look at me!" Klara had been evolving a plan as they'd driven home, one which required that she enter the apartment playing at high distress. "Herr Muller! Herr Muller! Get up! Make hot water! I'm like to freeze where I stand! Get a fire going in the parlor and build up the one in my bedroom. Oh, and my yellow dress! My beautiful wig! Ruined! All ruined!"
Liese, adding her cries for Herr Muller to those of her mistress, moved like a whirlwind. Later, Klara and Almassy sat before a roaring parlor fire, sipping hot milk and brandy. Klara was now wrapped in her familiar burgundy gown. Akos wore a long black banyan which the Count kept here, for although Max had yet to stay over at her apartment, he wasn't the kind to leave anything to chance. When Klara had protested, saying the assumption the servants would make was embarrassing, Max had simply pinched her cheek and told her that she'd have to put up with it.
"It's good military practice to leave a cache of supplies concealed in any territory you wish to hold."
"Max, you know it will lead to servant's tittle tattle."
"Put it in a trunk, then. Perhaps when I return, I shall initiate the practice of visiting you in this maidenly bourgeois bower of yours. I hate the idea that there is a place on earth where you are safe from me."
Oh, he’d said it playfully, a caress accompanying the words, but she had recoiled, recognizing a threat when she heard one. Exactly as Max divined, Klara treasured the privacy of her bedroom, a sanctuary never yet violated, a room unstained by shame.
After returning from a night with Max, spent in the sumptuous hidden room of his townhouse, beneath a ceiling decorated with nymphs and fauns all nakedly disporting, the simple white and pink floral embroidery of the curtains which shielded the alcove in which she slept made Klara feel as if she had returned to reality from some wanton dream world. She would sit, knees up, in a small tub and wash carefully, head to toe, using lavish amounts of water. She would brush out her shining hair, rub her skin with a salve of rose petals, a country good wife's beauty recipe she'd learned to make at Saint Cecilia's.
After drying herself with a large, fresh towel, she'd light a votive before the carved wooden shrine of the Blessed Mother that hung upon the wall and say many, many rosaries. As she did so, Klara prayed to be purified, to become the innocent convent girl she once had been.
Now, thinking of all this, it was unsettling to see Almassy in Max's robe, but not as disturbing as she might have imagined, for it suited him. With his black hair down and in the sable robe, he looked more than ever like some legendary Magyar hero.
As they warmed themselves before the fire, Liese bustled back and forth, steadily clucking. "Are you sure you are not still chilled, my Liebchen? And your lovely dress! I fear 'tis ruined, and your best wig full of leaves and dirty water!"
"Well, I shall miss the dress." Klara was genuinely rueful. "Perhaps enough can be saved to piece together a jacket."
The yellow silk was hopelessly stained by dirty water. Akos, who had been standing further out in the street, had fared better. One side of his heavy traveling cloak had taken most of the punishment. With sponging and drying, the clothes he'd worn underneath would be good as before.
"The Count will be furious when he finds out what Hermann and Rolf did."
"I think it's best not to tell him, don't you?" Klara wondered if such forbearance might encourage these two relentless spies to relax their vigilance a little.
Muttering imprecations at the well-known thoughtlessness of men, Liese settled in to brush Klara's hair. It wasn't long before she had a new complaint.
"It cannot be proper for the Herr Concertmaster to see you in undress." Her thick hand momentarily stopped moving upon the loose ruddy locks.
"He saw me this way for the first three weeks we knew each other. You act as if I were bare-breasted."
"Fraulein Silber! And Concertmaster Almassy is is – oh, goodness – undressed, too!" Liese flushed.
"Spare us, Liese," Klara said, waving her hand. "Go and see if the chamomile is ready. And while you're in the kitchen, make sure that Muller hasn't hung the Concertmaster's cloak too close to the stove."
When the door closed on her agitated form, Akos moved onto the sofa beside Klara, where they shared a lingering kiss. "And shall this regrettable accident end in my staying the night?"
"Of course," Klara replied, her lips deliciously close to his, so close that they could breathe the intoxicating scent of the other. "You will sleep here, and Liese will insist upon locking us in, but I have a way around it."
Akos smiled, a charming, bad boy smile, and kissed her again. "I appreciate your naughty plan with all my heart, but Nightingale, is it prudent?"
"Not really, but I think we’ll be safe. Liese thinks she has the only key, but I've had a master made. I wasn't going to tolerate Max locking me in whenever the mood took him."
"Does he do that?"
"Yes, damn his black heart. Two years ago, he kept me locked up in the country and then here for most of the winter season. I went between the opera house and his townhouse." Klara shook her head, attempting to rid herself of crowding memories, sinister, debauched – and yet undeniably erotic. "I got busy as soon as he went away. It took me months of planning, but I managed to steal her key and secretly make a copy. He'll never lock me up again."
***
After they had drunk their tea, just as Klara predicted, Liese insisted upon locking the Concertmaster into the parlor. Almassy submitted meekly, accepting the blankets and pillow offered. Then Liese herded Klara before her, into the bedroom. Behind them, Akos began settling for sleep upon the sofa.
Klara, however, didn't mince words as Liese prepared to lock her door.
"You were just born to be a jailor, weren't you?"
"Mistress! You know the rules."
"Ah, the Count! And how much extra does he give you for keeping me like his harem girl? Wicked, wicked creature!"
Klara snatched a fan from a table and made as if to throw it. Liese, who had been assailed by her mostly docile mistress several times during the last two stressful years, made a dash for the entrance.
"You had better lock them all!" Klara shouted scornfully. She slammed the bedroom door shut, then, tossing her mane back with one hand, she regarded the door with a scowl. "Why that awful Hungarian could sneak past Hermann in the entry, around the back, up the alley stairs, then past Muller snoring in the kitchen and past you too and climb right into my bed!"
Then she smiled, listening to Liese fumble with the keys. A bolt had been put on the inside of Klara's bedroom door as well, ostensibly for her privacy. More likely, she'd t
hought at the time, because the Count had been thinking about his.
"Don't say such cruel things, Mistress," Liese spoke beyond the door. "I only do what is best for my Klara, to keep her safe. You know that’s true."
For a reply, Klara shot the bolt on her side of the door with a vengeance.
"Oh, Mistress Klara, don't do that! I shall have to knock and wake you in order to bring your tea. You know how cross that makes you."
"Well, then, don't knock too early!"
Klara wandered across the room and stared out her bedroom window. This was possible, because her apartment was at the corner of the building. In the blackness there was little to be seen, just a glow here and there from the long four story apartment across the street.
She knew Muller would be settling in the kitchen, banking down the fire. She could hear Liese plodding about in her neighboring chamber. Klara went to a bureau, set the candle on top, and carefully, quietly, opened the bottom drawer. Here, from among a stack of handkerchiefs, fichus and gloves, she withdrew a plain flannel pocket. Within this lay a tangle of trinkets and necklaces, all presents from admirers, some valuable, most not. From among the snaking mass, she selected a cheap-looking thing of gold plate, a key strung on a chain. It had been hiding in plain sight for the last year, and Liese, who went through her things regularly, had never marked it out as anything special. Klara had had a religious medal attached for a finger hold. The one she'd chosen, not without bitter humor, was the seal of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. For a time Klara sat in the candlelight, smiling wryly and rubbing her fingers thoughtfully upon the medal.
"Forgive me yet another sin of the flesh, Blessed Mother," she whispered. "At least this time it is caused by true love, a love which has descended straight from heaven to salve my wounded heart."
Then she went to lie upon her bed, and stroke Satz who was already ensconced there, his smoky head resting upon her pillow, and wait. When, after what seemed an eternity, the first dull rattle of a snore passed the walls, an all too familiar sound, Klara arose. Walking to the door that led to the parlor, she held the key in one hand and the now guttering candle in the other. Her shadow rose behind her onto the ceiling, the long sleeves of her bed gown like wings. The key, as she lifted it, glinted.
She had tested it before, but suddenly began to tremble with the notion that, tonight of all nights, she'd find the locks changed. Drawing a deep breath and with barely a sound, she turned the golden key in the well-oiled lock.
Slowly, with a slight squeak, the door opened. Then she and curious Satz, his bushy tail erect, went through. There, in the flickering fire light, she saw Akos asleep, stretched out upon the sofa with all the easy grace of a sleeping lion. Ever so quietly, she set the candle down on a table.
His head, surrounded by a pool of shoulder length black hair, was propped upon a pillow. His eyes were closed, the long lashes lowered against his faintly flushed cheeks. Quietly, she approached. In another mood she might have been crossafter all, should he not be eagerly waiting for her? Then she remembered that he'd been complaining of weariness, brought on, perhaps, by his brush with her illness.
How severe and beautiful he was – her dark angel!
Kneeling beside him, she caressed his cheek. His eyes opened. A slow smile began, as he reached to stroke her arms. After a gentle time of touching, his gaze overflowing with love, he murmured, "Come, sweetheart. Lie with me."
He lifted the blanket. Boldly, in a mood of teasing, Klara didn't get in beside him, but climbed astride. His grin broadened, and he responded by drawing the blanket over her.
Then he slipped one hand around the back of her neck and drew her down to him. Her hair, the red highlights glinting in the firelight, cascaded onto the pillow to mingle with his. Klara trembled at the warm touch of his lips, at the wine sweet taste of him, the good healthy scent of his body. His eyes, golden lights burning, focused upon hers as the kiss ended.
"You must pardon me for sleeping," he whispered, "but I wanted to gather my strength." A white grin flashed. Smiling, he pulled the string that closed the neck of her shift. Klara, in a wave of desire, sat up tall as he tugged it down over her shoulders, exposing her high breasts.
"You have no right to sing like an angel and look like one, too." Taking her arms in his strong hands, he drew her down, until her breasts touched his face. "Now, angel," he murmured, "be a woman for me."
Slowly he began to move his head so that his mouth brushed her flesh all over, with final and special attention to the sensitive tips. Next, an all over tasting began. Only when she was throbbing with desire, did he take one budded nipple into his mouth and begin to suckle, tenderly and then harder. Klara was held in those strong hands, leaning over him and sighing with wave after wave of pleasure. Oh, it was hard to be silent, not to allow those gasps of pleasure to escape, but spies slept on every side. Beyond the parlor wall was Hermann, whose drunken snores were rattling the doors of his cupboard bed.
Her body soon found a way to express delight in spite of this strict frustration of silence. Her hips began to move, almost inadvertently, pressing down upon his. The sofa gave a few soft creaks in response to her rhythm and instantly she felt the hot hard rise. He was in exactly the right spot, pressed against the sensitive, humming center. Pulling her arms from his grasp, she tried to tug the banyan open.
"Not so fast." Smiling like the devil, he tumbled her, so that she slipped from her seat onto the Turkish carpet. He followed and stripped off her shift. "Lie still!" was his sotto voce command.
When she did, his muscular body arched over hers and meticulously began the same progression as before. When he slowly moved downwards, she lay obediently still, though it was not easy, every limb trembling. Kisses, lavish and loitering, descended across the soft mound of her belly to the end of satin, into the curls, straight into coral. Klara tossed and sighed with pleasure, drew up one lovely leg so that he could get all he wanted. In order not to cry out, she set even teeth into her fist. In all things French, Klara had been well educated.
What he did was insistent, urgent. Just as in the cabinet, there was a miraculous gush. Klara arched against his lips and hands. Flesh glowed in a ruby rush of joy.
"Oh, now, my love." Kneeling between her legs he teased. Time and again, he began, only to withdraw. Klara doubled, catching his hand. "Please." She couldn't restrain a sob when he buried himself, hard and hot, deep against the eager mouth of her womb.
The sight of his youthful, muscular body, the firelight rippling across it, the black hair streaming down his back as he knelt, filled her with a deep contentment. At last, he picked her up and carried her back into her room, where he laid her in her own bed. Because she'd clung to him, he'd got in with her.
"You can't go away," she'd whispered. "I need to go on touching you."
"And I need to go on touching you. But we must be very careful, love.”
Later, in the blue twilight before dawn, he had to wake her so that she could relock the door between the parlor and her bedroom and conceal the key again.
***
"You look tired, Concertmaster," said Herr Muller innocently, as he across the room with a load of wood. Akos and Klara sat together in the parlor. Before them a low table was laid with breakfast.
"The divan and I were incompatible. After I gave up and took to the floor I did better." He spoke to Muller, but offered just the flicker of a wink to Klara.
He’d washed and redressed in the clothes he'd worn last night. Klara had washed, perfumed and had her hair curled, but remained in her morning gown.
They calmly ate breakfast under Liese's disapproving eyes. As she and Hermann went in and out, they stole kisses, and once Akos slipped his long fingers inside her morning gown to caress her breasts, the ripe flesh now hidden beneath a fine fresh shift.
Akos had steeled himself to depart when a commotion began downstairs. First, they heard servants dashing around and babbling nervously. Satz, who had been draped luxuriously across Klara's lap, made
a frantic leap without the least regard for his claws. As if shot from a cannon, he disappeared into a cat hole in the baseboard.
"Dear God!" Klara’s face went white. "It's Max."
Her fingers rushed to check the closure of the morning gown. Almassy’s eyes widened, but he didn't have a chance to say another thing, for the door flung open and Count Maximillian von Oettingen came striding through it.
He was very grand this morning, in full uniform, wearing a crisp white wig and black boots and carrying a long crop. As was required, Akos and Klara stood, he to bow, she to curtsy. Max returned their salutes with an icy sneer. One bushy gray brow lifted.
"An almost domestic scene." He flicked the crop restlessly.
"Mein Herr Count, Concertmaster Almassy accompanied me to the opera last night. A gutter emptied upon us while we were looking for the carriage. I wasn't about to send him off in cold and wet all the way to Prince Vehnsky’s. Why, his palace is half way up the Kallenberg." Klara took a tactful step forward, between the two men.
The Count lifted Klara's hand to his lips. When the salute was complete, he turned his cold blue eyes upon Almassy and said, "Are you in the habit of allowing women to defend you, Concertmaster?"
Akos flushed. "This is Fraulein Silber's home, sir. I assumed that you would be addressing the lady of the house, rather than a guest."
The Count's pale eyes flashed. "Impertinent, but, I must confess, Concertmaster, there is propriety in your observation. Today I shall do you the honor of accepting a rebuke. I take comfort in the notion that an opportunity will soon arrive in which it will be no less proper for me to instruct you."
There was a moment in which the eyes of the men locked and flared.
"Now, sir, good morning!" The Count aimed a brusque gesture at the door. "No doubt your prince awaits your attendance."
Almassy bowed, to the Count and then to Klara. His salute was graceful, such as one gentleman might make to another. There was no submission in it.
Nightingale Page 17