Song of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  “Because tremendous gatherings suit me well.”

  Ingrid jabbed a finger. “You complain when gatherings are too small, when people scrutinize and whisper. Tonight, they will scrutinize and whisper about the duke. They won’t pay you a whit of mind.”

  Rocking once on bare heels, Mathilda eyed the cream plaster ceiling. “You’ll be happy to know I find a certain logic in that.”

  Giggling, Ingrid finally stood and submitted to Klara’s attentions. “Christoph says that about me all the time, that I am eminently logical.”

  Klara snorted. At her embarrassed flush, the three women dissolved into hysterics.

  Ingrid wasted no time in turning the lighthearted moment to her advantage. She campaigned using round, pleading eyes. “Please, dearest. Don’t stay here by yourself.”

  “All right. You win.” Mathilda flicked the ends of her heavy woolen shawl. “What do you think? Black for tonight?”

  “Oh, Tilda!” Ingrid launched into her arms, her green velvet dress gaping open at the back. Klara huffed a silent protest. “Your timely decision will save your pride, too.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, when I mention that Herr De Voss will be there tonight—conducting some ode or another for the duke—you’ll not have to embarrass yourself by suddenly agreeing to attend.”

  An hour later, with the Venners and their retinue of guests and servants, Mathilda walked east along Herrengasse. Although snow clung to roofs and window mantels, boots and hooves had thoroughly trodden the gray cobblestones. Hardy a flake remained on the ground.

  In the irregularly shaped Kapitelplatz, a thousand torches glowed as brightly as midday. The light banished winter shadows and anointed every face with a peaceful glow. Elbow to elbow, citizens milled in all three of the Altstadt’s central squares, eagerly arriving to rejoice with their new leader. Those gathered bodies dispersed the chill of evening.

  Despite her pique, Mathilda could not ignore the scene. Giant fire-filled cauldrons further illuminated the square and transformed familiar structures into mystic curiosities. The Dom, the towering two-hundred-year-old cathedral at the city center, had been constructed from off-white marble mined from the nearby mountain of Untersberg. Flames bathed those pale walls in illusory shades of gold and amber. Deep shadows accentuated the architectural flourishes of its soaring matched towers and elegant copper cupolas.

  Ingrid squealed and clung to Mathilda’s arm. “Look!”

  At baiting pens, eager men placed wagers and shouted redundant encouragements to the confined hares, badgers and foxes. Fighting to the death, the animals endured an accelerated masque of their daily struggle for survival. Mathilda grimaced but could not look away.

  Past the pens, a septet of foreign youths in colorful exotic costumes performed an elaborate routine of swordplay. The smallest of the seven acrobats, a slight girl of no more than ten or twelve years, balanced a rapier along the bridge of her nose with practiced ease. Mathilda and Ingrid applauded the group’s skill.

  Venner approached when the performance reached its fantastic conclusion. “Meine Liebe, we must continue now.”

  The party walked through the Dombogen, the two-story marble archways connecting Kapitelplatz to the wide square in front of the Dom. The massive arches loomed above a row of carriages. After a fond goodbye, Ingrid and her husband moved to join other political dignitaries. Oliver and two footmen stood near Mathilda and the Venners’ guests, all facing the Dom.

  Dwarfed by the Dombogen, lost in the crowds, and humbled by the awe-inspiring architecture, a curious sense of peace absorbed her. If she could compose music, she would select that particular feeling of happy insignificance for her theme.

  She smiled without reserve and gazed skyward. The impressive statue of the Virgin Mary stood on a lofty pedestal. Angels lingered at her feet, ready to adorn her with a crown. Mathilda stretched her thoughts toward Mary’s serene face, and that same tingling impression of smallness returned, infusing her imagination and heightening her senses.

  She dragged her stare from the heavens. Arie De Voss stood not ten feet away.

  No hint of emotion registered on his jagged features as they caught sight of one another, but a sizzle of lightning flashed between them, arching around and over the people barring the path to his side.

  Mathilda’s pulse rushed, beating hard against her ribs. Impatient breaths fought for passage in and out of her lungs. She was unnerved by her body’s reaction to the sight of him, an uncommon man standing isolated among thousands of reveling citizens.

  A sudden apprehension skittered across her heart. She hoped he would refrain from dragging down her high opinion of him any further. Monotony beckoned, and she could not endure a future of ennui without retaining a little piece of fantasy.

  That pathetic thought finally pulled her out of a stunned trance. Disgusted, she wondered when she had become unable to live outside of two equally hopeless worlds. Everyday tasks and obligations comprised her colorless widowhood, while unattainable fantasies painted wild dreams of make-believe. She had flitted from one to another for a year, trying to sew together a little happiness. But neither satisfied her.

  “I shall speak to Herr De Voss,” she said to Oliver.

  “Ja, Frau Heidel.” Disapproval flickered in his dark eyes. “Shall I accompany you?”

  She smiled at his protective air. He took the task of guarding her seriously—or, likely, Venner had charged him to do so. “No need, Oliver. I won’t leave your sight.”

  Walking away was like stepping off a rocky cliff atop Mönchsberg. But memories of their dueling game of follow-the-leader—De Voss on cello and Mathilda on violin—thrummed through her blood. She yearned to return to his studio, to play the violin unfettered by her persistent dread of attention.

  Refusing to be ruffled again, she reassured herself that his brusqueness could no longer shock her. He drew his powers of intimidation from two sources: an ill-mannered disposition and incredible talent. She could counter both. After all, the city’s finest etiquette tutors had provided her with the ability to behave decorously, even in the face of indecorous conduct. And her violin performance had humbled him.

  Like a knight preparing for a joust, she drew faith from her strengths and made them a part of her being, like breathing—a task the maestro made maddeningly difficult.

  Dressed in the same slightly worn but well-tailored suit he had worn at the ball, he looked dreadfully elegant. Missing was the half-wild artiste she had chastised. In his place awaited a black-clad gentleman of refinement, bearing and neatly combed hair.

  Perhaps they would be able to conduct an ordinary conversation in keeping with their manner of acquaintance. She wanted to know if he would agree to more lessons, as well as the behavior she might reasonably expect should she return.

  Assuming a cheerful demeanor, she said, “Herr De Voss, how good to see you again.”

  “That makes a change, Frau Heidel. The last I recall of you is a remark on my wardrobe and a fussy departure.”

  Mathilda clenched her back teeth. Her hope for a simple, cordial conversation dissipated. More disappointed than angry, her hopes sank into the ground. Social interaction ill suited him, and she did not possess the patience to be civil to a man who held no appreciation of common courtesy. Any further conversation with the man would only spoil what happy memories of him she yet retained.

  “You are a tyrant, sir. Good night.”

  She turned, but he caught her arm in an unexpectedly firm grip. Her instincts demanded a struggle, but her reluctance to cause a scene stilled her haste. Heat from his hand seeped through her clothes and awoke a startling awareness of flesh, his and hers. Mathilda shook her brain away from that hungry thought.

  Determined, she confronted her tormentor and discovered an altered version of the maestro. He had fixed his features into the most becoming, benign expression of politeness. No vestige of his irascible greeting remained—except for his hand.

  She flicked her
eyes to where their bodies connected. He released her.

  “And you, Frau Heidel, how lovely to see you again. You are well, I trust?” He used formal German, carefully articulating each syllable. His face insisted that her addled mind had created those unpleasant opening seconds of their encounter.

  “Tolerably,” she said, mimicking his charade of calm. “And yourself?”

  “I am quite recovered from our last meeting.” Now smooth and warm, his voice promised safety, blunting her wits.

  “Ingrid—Lady Venner, I mean—said you would conduct tonight. Is that true?”

  “I arrived in hope of seeing you.”

  She blinked. “You do me compliment, sir.”

  De Voss grinned as if to acknowledge her quiet mockery. He tilted his head slightly, freeing a lock of hair to dangle across his forehead. “If I apologize, Frau Heidel, my pride will never recover.”

  A smile nearly loosened the grim set of her mouth, but she refused to free the gentling expression. “But if you do not, I’ll be forced to hasten another fussy departure.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Suit yourself.” He straightened, ignoring her attempt at stern censure. “Yes, I will conduct after the duke’s speech. And I admit to curiosities about this bizarre ordeal. Perhaps you will explain for me.”

  Reluctantly, Mathilda sympathized with his confusion. She could not imagine enduring the strange customs of another culture, so far from home. “Which aspect? Fasching in general or the duke’s address in particular?”

  “Both, if you please.” He looked at the Dom. The light and shadow haloed his features in profile. She traced the line of his nose with her gaze.

  “I suppose you don’t celebrate Carnival in your homeland,” she said softly.

  De Voss shook his head. “The Catholic minority hides the practice or ignores it altogether. I hardly took Mass in my youth for fear of hounding, let alone participating in an open papist festival.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “You are Catholic, sir?”

  “Yes,” he said in a hush. “The Papenhoek of Delft harbors no small population of faithful.”

  “What is that word?”

  “Papenhoek? It means Papist’s Corner. I was born there.”

  “I hadn’t realized. Well, here in Salzburg, we don’t limit Carnival to the week before Lent. Perhaps you will enjoy our festivities.”

  Briefly, she forgot his personality—so thoroughly had he seduced her with easy manners and amiable conversation. His cynical smirk, however, called attention to her error. She could not imagine De Voss enjoying anything but his work, and a word as meek as enjoy fell short of describing his passion.

  She expected a snide remark or baiting insult, but De Voss surprised her. “Your politeness flatters me and does credit to your upbringing. I deserve none of it.”

  An apology. Almost. But because contrition threatened to soften her toward him, she ignored the comment.

  “As for our interest in the duke,” she said, “he is brother to the Holy Roman Emperor. And after centuries of Church leadership, he is novel. His administration promises a brief sanguinity, at least, no matter the sort of leader he proves.”

  He raised an eyebrow. The left one. “Sanguinity?”

  Mathilda almost laughed. Just in time, she trapped the sound bubbling behind her sternum. “Of course you are unfamiliar with the word, Herr de Voss. It means cheerfulness.”

  The composer smiled—a wide and expressive gesture to acknowledge both his amusement and her victory. Night shadows accentuated the lines around his mouth and the hollows beneath his high cheekbones. The flickering torches at once illuminated and obscured every sharp feature, but his smile lent an unexpected friendliness…friendliness like an invitation.

  Blood ran to her face. Compulsively, she tried to find another object to divert her attention. But no, she could not look away from his smile. It transformed his austere face into a handsome masterpiece. Each trait entrusted a deeper, more genuine part of him to her keeping.

  Those little wrinkles at the corners of eyes shadowed black in the torchlight? Yes.

  The line on his right cheek that was almost a dimple? Ruthless.

  The persistent twin furrows between his brows? In remission.

  And Mathilda’s errant heart beating well above a healthful speed? As better judgment dwindled to naught, she would have been surprised to find it otherwise.

  Eager and full of spirited energy, the boisterous crowd continued to jam into Domplatz. A father ambled in front of Arie, trailing a small army of children. Wrapped in layers of winter wear, the toddler he toted on his shoulders was devoid of any discernable gender. An elderly woman carrying a petite dog elicited shrieks of delight from the little ones.

  And Arie wanted to flee the unruly scene. His sole question was whether he wished to flee with or from the captivating Frau Heidel.

  With.

  To catch another glimpse of the divine, Arie wanted her to return to his studio. He had not lied; he arrived on the off chance of seeing her again. But in a city of thousands, his hopes resembled a useless daydream strolling across his wakeful mind. Instead, he had expected Carnival distractions to banish endless thoughts of their encounters.

  He had been entranced by the marvelous statue of the Virgin Mary, a statue that would have been banned in the Netherlands, when her voice reached him. A light in the darkness.

  And he had welcomed her with less affection than a bitter enemy could expect.

  Arie had always been able to rely on his aptitude for the piano, even when the guilt of his deception threatened to cripple him. But his aptitude for social graces remained a work in progress. Frau Heidel’s innate skill underscored his inadequacies. Some resentful part of him had lashed out, venting his shortfalls at her expense.

  That he needed her back rankled his pride and threatened the safety of his isolation.

  Since the widow’s departure from his studio, Arie’s muse had remained as silent as the marble Virgin. A cold shiver of lonely dread racked his shoulders when he recalled the ridiculous scribbles and half-finished ideas littering the floor of his studio. The ridiculous ease of composition in those hours following her lesson existed as some fever dream. Each occasion of pen to parchment produced horrifying results. Gaudy, lifeless, overreaching—he had thrown more sheets into the fire than he cared to recall.

  He craved her nearness, her capacity to reawaken his creativity. But how did a man address a respectable woman and persuade her to his aim? Arie wished he could draw on a past success for inspiration. His smile seemed to have had a positive effect, prompting her blush. But he only smiled with ample cause, and such occasions rarely arose.

  He glanced at Frau Heidel and abruptly broke their awkward silence. “Do you know of families in need of a music tutor?” he asked.

  Having already accepted two additional pupils, he deemed his appearance at the Venners’ gala a successful one. He had few hours in the day to accommodate many more, but a conversation about students sounded harmless enough. Arie no longer trusted his tongue.

  “Does the family need to be of any particular rank?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged, her expression direct. “Some musicians might be reluctant to accept students who are not members of the nobility, perhaps to create an exclusive clientele.”

  Arie groped for his understanding of her language. Her explanation seemed to hold another, deeper meaning. Did she think him shallow? Contempt shrouded her words, but not for him. She had proven adept at revealing his shortcomings and had yet to veil criticism aimed in his direction.

  So why the artifice?

  She picked at the amulet dangling from her neck. In an instant of clarity, he understood. She was nervous.

  Let me know your decision, Maestro.

  Arie craved her return beyond good sense, but his silence left her hesitant. He had wondered how to persuade the obscenely talented woman to come back.r />
  Asking…that was a start.

  “Frau Heidel, if I held reservations about the class of students I teach, I would not continue our association.”

  “I left that to your discretion.”

  Tremulous, like a harmony, the note of resignation in her voice told Arie he had guessed correctly. Of all people, she was nervous—she, a woman in possession of a heavenly gift.

  “I have no such scruples, Frau Heidel.” He tossed in a half-hearted grin for good measure. “I will tutor hounds to play pianoforte if their masters rewarded me for the effort.”

  The widow giggled and clapped gloved hands across her sweet, expressive mouth. Amusing Arie to no end, she struggled to compose her features. He smiled wider when she refused to do so.

  “Sir, I would pay to see such an exhibition,” she said.

  “Performing for wealthy patrons feels little different.”

  He winced at the bitterness that smothered his brief levity. In haste, he swallowed the sentiment, but not before the perceptive young woman asked a silent question with her expression. Tension hovered in the winter air.

  “You should inquire with the Schindlers,” she said. “Markus Schindler has two school-aged sons and has been seeking a tutor. He’s well regarded and earns a good living.”

  “They live in the city?”

  “During the winter months, yes,” she said. “They keep a town house on Steingasse, across the Salzach.”

  Arie nodded to receive the information, hoarding those details with attentive concentration. Nothing exacerbated his awkwardness more than asking the locals to repeat unusual phrases and place names. Frau Heidel might not mind the inconvenience but, to his aggravation, he wanted to appear especially competent for her.

  “I thank you. You know much about the city, I gather. Were you born here?”

  “Yes.”