Song of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

“Do you travel far beyond?”

  The widow raised her chin in a defiant challenge, accelerating his heartbeat. “Not at all. I have never left the city.” She paused and looked down. “You ask too many questions, sir.”

  Arie clenched his hands. Cold invaded his fingertips with obstinate persistence, even through the warmth of his fur-lined gloves. A sane composer would be in his studio, huddling over the stove and plotting the structure of his symphony’s third movement. But he could name only two rational composers, both of whom shared the surname of Haydn. Most were mad as bats, nurturing more eccentricities than ideas. As for Arie, rationality escaped him, especially when he imagined Frau Heidel’s warm flesh draped across his chilled skin.

  “I must ask questions of you,” he said. “People refuse to share information about you. They only say what a fine woman you are, what a fine wife you were to your husband.”

  The delicate bloom of color on her cheeks drained away. “You’ve been asking about me?”

  The winter air was nothing to her chill timbre. But what did she have to hide? He had only asked whether she traveled beyond the city.

  He grinned despite her unspoken warnings, endeavoring to lose his most vital student only moments after seeking her return. A deep, intimidated part of him wanted to even the score, so thoroughly did she trouble him.

  “Of course you intrigue me,” he said. “My inquiries are for naught, though—not useful in the least. Please tell me you are not as good as your reputation. I cannot bear such piety.”

  Her quick exhale created little puffs of frozen moisture. “And I cannot tell you otherwise.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Arie leaned closer, feeling the heat of her breath against the exposed skin of his face. “Perhaps opinions of you would be more accurate if anyone knew of your talent.”

  Her nostrils flared. “You speak inappropriately, sir. Others believe you do so because you are foreign. I think you know exactly what you say. I have seen you behave with decorum, but you ignore such niceties in my presence.”

  Stubbornly ignoring the criticism, he took her hand—the hand she clenched around the silver amulet. “What is this you play with?”

  “Release it, bitte.”

  “Tell me.”

  Frau Heidel yanked free of his grasp, glancing at the pendant. “My Fraiskette. It is to protect against cramps and wasting diseases.”

  He eyed the charm suspiciously. “Is it pagan?”

  “I know not,” she said, frowning as if she had never considered the idea. “The sisters at Nonnberg wear theirs openly. The custom is centuries old. I have not been sick since donning it.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “You and your questions, sir.” Arie held his breath, awaiting a caustic remark, but her irritation receded. Softness infused her voice. “My husband gave it to me. It is my Morgengabe.”

  Arie winced. Since his crass drunkenness at the Venner ball, he had been reluctant to revisit the topic of her late spouse. “Will you make me ask the meaning of yet another word?”

  “No.” A faint smile curved her lips. “You must ask someone else, because I won’t explain it.”

  The woman. Her mysteries. Those infernal glimpses she provided into her genuine character. Arie hoarded them all.

  “Then who shall I ask?”

  A wave of raucous applause arose as Duke Ferdinand’s musical heralds lined the platform at the base of the Dom’s front steps. With coronets and trumpets, the uniformed men blasted a rousing welcome to Salzburg’s newest leader. Their shrill introduction seized the attention of the entire assembly.

  Heads bobbed to catch a glimpse of the new monarch. A couple dressed in fur and brocade craned their necks for a better view alongside a humble family of laborers standing on tiptoe. A throb of human excitement filled Domplatz and echoed off the walls and arches, penetrating Arie’s brain like a spike of ice.

  Frau Heidel leaned close enough to make her words heard. “You seem a resourceful enough man. You’ll think of something.”

  He resisted the urge to seize the back of her neck and draw her closer still. He wanted only to succumb to a combination of desperation and intolerable lust, both of which frightened him for their startling hold over his imagination. She stood nearly at eye level, watching him. Reading him. Only a slight flare of her nostrils, as if catching the scent of his manic fantasies, indicated her response.

  Then she straightened—unsmiling, retreating. “If I recall another family where your services will be appreciated, I’ll let you know. I wouldn’t want a lack of patronage to limit your stay in Salzburg. Good evening, sir.”

  Despite mostly frustrating results, Arie’s careful inquiries had revealed one valuable, enchanting fact about the new widow: her given name.

  “Mathilda?”

  She would not hear his voice over the trumpets and cheers, surely. She would keep walking.

  But she stopped. And turned.

  Motion, sound and time stilled, breathing between them in a shared moment. A panicky flare of questions brightened her eyes, but she did not blush. Already, he enjoyed her most when she forgot to be bashful.

  “Yes, Maestro?”

  “I await the chance to continue your instruction. Please come to your lesson on Wednesday.”

  Gentle snowflakes fell from the dark winter sky, dusting the top of her sturdy bonnet and melting as they landed on her cheeks. The air in Arie’s lungs burned as he anticipated her reply.

  “Yes,” she said.

  His knees wobbled with relief even as he slung a hundred chastisements at his foolishness. He wanted to say her name again, to see her acknowledge his familiarity. But as the duke took to the stage, the woman called Mathilda Heidel slipped away.

  Once, he had mistakenly believed her a bored, amorous widow. Now, Arie’s fascination extended beyond a physical attraction—even as that attraction goaded him with wild urges.

  Beauty. Talent. Muse. He wanted all of her.

  Was she the most important thing to happen to him in years, or the most devastating? The possibilities stood side by side, waiting.

  On the platform below the Dom, His Imperial and Royal Highness Ferdinando III Giuseppe Giovanni Baptista, the Duke of Salzburg, waited with his dignitaries. Three dozen mounted harquebusiers surrounded the assemblage, sporting ceremonial metal body armor and holding antiquated muskets.

  But with his hair in wild clumps, poised to lead the court orchestra, Arie De Voss was the man who held the entire city’s attention. He led the musicians with calm, authoritative focus. Into the yawning, impossibly large space of Domplatz, his inspired music offered the voice of the divine. While more conservative than most of his works, relying on familiar harmonics, his cantata for Duke Ferdinand proved down-to-earth, boisterous and unexpectedly celebratory.

  From her vantage, Mathilda fought the wrenching sensation of being pulled by his magnetism. She reminded herself that the bigger-than-life conductor held little in common with the awkward, bullying musician she knew him to be.

  Yet she watched, hypnotized. Every movement of his slim baton, actions at once frenetic and precise, expunged her unique knowledge. She forgot his abrasive manners. She ignored his awkward hesitations. And she disregarded his peculiar inability to settle on the right tone in any conversation.

  A single face among thousands, she watched and listened and yearned.

  Wednesday. She would see him again on Wednesday.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The winds of a harsh Alpine storm screamed down from Mönchsberg and assailed the city with a ghastly blizzard. Winter threatened to punish all who refused to heed its flamboyant warnings. Rescue parties formed at once to search for unlucky citizens trapped by the sudden onslaught.

  Lord Venner was among the missing.

  A bluster of chaos and worry filled the grand townhouse when he failed to return from a journey to Hallein. Runners to countless business establishments and private homes r
evealed no news of him within the city. Beside herself with worry, Ingrid proved nearly useless as Mathilda hastily organized a house in confusion and disarray.

  And what ridiculous thought nagged her overoccupied mind? It was Wednesday. She would miss her lesson.

  Guilt over her selfishness, even if in thought alone, made Mathilda work harder. The pattern proved familiar, reminding her of time spent working alongside Jürgen.

  “How goes the repair, Herr Bruegel?” she asked.

  The beefy, genial man in charge of maintaining the town home spoke past the tiny wooden pegs clenched in his teeth. “Shortly, Frau Heidel. Nailing the casement will make it sound again.”

  Through the window, broad streaks of angry snow clouds painted every inch of blanched sky. She offered Bruegel her brisk approval. “Cook insists that something is blocking proper airflow in the kitchen chimney. Can you see to it when you finish here?”

  At the servant’s answering nod, Mathilda left him to continue the hasty repairs and climbed to the second-floor kitchen. The wind shrieked, echoing up the stairwell as if no protective walls separated frail human bodies from the storm. She lifted a hasty prayer for Venner’s safe return. After talking to the cook, she went to find Ingrid.

  Another flight up, in the ballroom, half a dozen men from the Venners’ retinue surrounded Oliver. They were busily outfitting themselves with enough supplies to search for their missing master. Torches, ropes, heavy outerwear, and wooden whistles would help protect the volunteers from becoming lost or stranded themselves. The swarming tempest of snow and ice obscured everything outside, and the search would be dangerous.

  The alternative, however—leaving Venner to the mercy of the blizzard—was beyond contemplation.

  The men dispersed, but Mathilda stalled Oliver’s departure. “Still no word?”

  Shaking his head in silent dejection, he cast a glance at the marvelous grandfather clock at the far end of the ballroom. “He was supposed to return this morning.”

  “He might not have reached the city boundary yet.”

  Oliver yanked a solid knot into a guideline. Dark curls covered the tops of his ears and shook across his forehead. “I should’ve been with him.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” she said. “The trip is simple, one night gone and back again. He asked you to stay, to look after the household.”

  “Ja, because he believes he is invincible.”

  Mathilda drew back. She had never seen Oliver angered. That he spoke about Venner with such harsh censure surprised her to silence.

  “My apologies, Frau Heidel. My frustrations—”

  She shook her head, interrupting an explanation that would only embarrass him later. “Where is Lady Venner?”

  “I haven’t seen her on this level.”

  “Good luck to you, Oliver. And be careful.”

  Mathilda tackled two more flights and worked to dispel her fruitless anxieties. She quietly knocked at her friend’s door.

  Ingrid reclined on a mountain of pillows, her eyes closed. She had drawn the drapes against the winds and rattling windowpanes. Several candles decorated the room with flickers of gold.

  Sitting gingerly on the bed, Mathilda took cold hands into hers. Emotion roughened her voice. “What can I do?”

  Ingrid opened luminous green eyes and offered a wan smile. “You’ll miss your lesson, dearest. I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing could be farther from my mind at this moment.” She happily realized that she spoke the truth. Finally. Ingrid’s distress over her husband’s safety overwhelmed every other consideration. “Moments ago, Oliver led a search party into the streets.”

  “You must think me a silly goose,” she said. “Everyone else bands together while I sit here moping and fretting.”

  “But you mope and fret very artfully. Talk to me, if it helps.”

  “You are needed downstairs, no?”

  “Venner would be most displeased if I attended to the house and your highly capable staff before comforting you.”

  Ingrid placed trembling hands on either side of her gown and hoisted herself into a sitting position. “I grew into adulthood knowing Father would help choose a husband on my behalf. A beneficial marriage was my privilege as much as my obligation. But I worried about my future. Do you remember those months?”

  “I remember.”

  “I wondered what would I feel or do when I finally met him, whoever he was.” She sighed. “When Father introduced me to Christoph, he solved my mystery. I had a face and a name and a voice to complete the picture of my future.”

  Smiling, Mathilda clung to the chance to relive happier moments. In the midst of searching for a mere entrée into the highest classes of European society, Ingrid had found Venner. Formal, unblinking and considered far too proper for the likes of an unequal marriage, he had been more intimidating than the fight to win society’s approval. For all of his political talent and good standing, however, Venner had proven a lonely and kindhearted gentleman. Ingrid’s entrée into good society had stolen her heart.

  “But now…” Her voice trailed away, somber and terrified. “How did you cope when Jürgen was killed?”

  A twist of sympathy loosened Mathilda’s tongue. “Although you didn’t agree with my choice, I married him with an open heart. When I learned of his death, I found myself bereft of more than just a husband. An entire way of living was stolen from me.”

  Ingrid leaned closer, her expression intent. “For you, Tilda—is your life better or worse now?”

  Like a skittish foal, she shied from Ingrid’s startlingly perceptive eyes and probing question. The answer should have been simple. After all, she was a widow one year removed from her husband’s murder. Almost every aspect of her existence had changed in the span of a single day. Jürgen Heidel had died. She was alone. Her protection from the world—from scandal and the history of her parents’ love affair—had vanished.

  She should have been able to answer Ingrid with any number of harsh replies.

  Of course, my life is worse today.

  How dare you ask such a question of me?

  My life ended with his death.

  Any would have sufficed, but her tongue refused to form those lies. They stuck in her throat like carriage wheels lodged in the mud of a rutted springtime road.

  To answer Ingrid’s question honestly would profane her husband’s death and the life Mathilda had tried to make with him. But neither could she deny the truth of her actions. Mere days after Jürgen’s funeral, she abandoned the home she had tended for three years. The idea of spending another day, another night—taking another breath—within those stultifying rooms had threatened her sanity. A quiet, long-suffering voice demanded she escape.

  That same voice would have remained bound and silenced for the breadth of her life had Jürgen lived, had Mathilda continued building a partnership with him. She might have been able to keep her hands busy, attending the chores of a doctor’s wife and studiously disregarding her soul’s occasional yelp of protest.

  Instead, and at the first opportunity to escape her fate, she had solicited Ingrid and her father, ostensibly seeking refuge from her grief by helping to prepare for Ingrid’s nuptials. The truth, that the unexpected freedom of her widowhood liberated her with an almost painful, directionless freedom, was too selfish to admit. Dangerous paths she had intentionally barricaded became clear to traverse, and Mathilda feared losing her way without the familiar, imprisoning safety of those obstructions. Guilt and an ingrained fear of whispered rumors had driven her blind with the need for protection.

  “Life isn’t better or worse,” she said at last. Even that grudging degree of honesty sickened her like the iron aftertaste of blood. “It is merely…different, and must be endured.”

  “You have your music now.”

  Mathilda smiled at her friend’s attempt to offer consolation in the midst of her own anxiety. “Yes.”

  But at what cost?

  With Ingrid dozing sporadically,
Mathilda sat beside her friend and tossed around useless questions. Evening darkened the room as her thoughts transformed, becoming melodies. She lost track of the long hours creeping by, following music through tunnels and mysteries, diligently ignoring the shadowed corners of mind.

  Shouts and the raucous barking of dogs echoed from the street and throughout the lower levels of the house. An anonymous male voice announced the news. “The search party located Lord Venner!”

  Ingrid jerked upright on the bed, but Mathilda was already at the bedchamber door. “Is he well?” she called.

  Oliver’s hard command climbed the vast stairwells. “Bring Ingrid and your medical bag!”

  “I’ll be right there.” She turned and smashed into Ingrid. Feminine skulls bounced off one another, sending them both reeling. Starry lights danced behind Mathilda’s clenched eyes. She rubbed the lump forming on her forehead. “Did you hear?”

  Ingrid’s hands splayed across the pad of skin encasing her right cheekbone. “I heard.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I will be.” The younger woman staggered to the stairs.

  Mathilda retrieved the bag from under her bed, its heavy weight quickly washing her with memories. Each evening she had taken the bag from Jürgen’s hands upon his homecoming. As an apt and curious student, she had learned many uses for its contents. Eventually, even her husband admitted that she was an astute and clever physician’s assistant.

  Since taking residence with the Venners, she was the one to tend members of their household. Anyone who made mention of the heavy leather case referred to it as “Frau Heidel’s bag.” Its contents and a tiny fraction of Jürgen’s medical knowledge constituted her marital inheritance.

  Both hands clasping the carved wooden handles, she followed Ingrid to the fourth-floor guest suite, a room that doubled as a makeshift sick room. Bundled and frosty servants climbed from below, gingerly hauling the prostrate body of Lord Venner between them. Ingrid led the procession, her face ashen, and Oliver took up the rear with a candelabra raised high. Those wavering flames tossed disconcerting shadows along the damasked walls of the stairwell.