by Carrie Lofty
The four servants deposited the unconscious nobleman onto a wide bed before hastening from the room. Oliver stood at Mathilda’s side. “Tell us what to do,” he said.
“Klara, fetch boiling water—a great deal. Have Cook help you.” She stepped around the bed, angling the candelabra to better see her patient. Venner’s waxy skin looked as Jürgen’s had on that long night spent preparing his body for burial.
“Tilda?”
Ingrid’s plea yanked her from the past. “Get these wet clothes off.”
The pair complied, removing layer upon frigid layer of sopping wool. Snow-encrusted garments littered the floor, slicking the hardwoods with burgeoning puddles. Ingrid covered her husband’s nude body in blankets as Mathilda checked his weak but steady pulse. His torso was warm, almost hot, while his extremities were icy. She detected no overt signs of frostbite. Upon twisting a toe with a sharp tug, his jerking response lifted her hopes higher.
Klara and the cook arrived, their hands wrapped in towels and each carrying a vat of water just off the boil.
“Sponge his limbs with the water,” Mathilda said. “We must get him warm. Cook, if you could—soup, broth. Anything.” She administered a small dose of a pungent restorative tonic by dribbling tiny drops of the liquid along his motionless lips. “Oliver, what happened?”
Sight turned inward, he did not look at Mathilda. “The cobblestones are like wet glass. His mare broke her leg on the road to Nonnberg. She must’ve slipped. We found him in the snow, just short of the convent.”
Ingrid paused in her duties, a wet cloth poised above Venner’s exposed arm. She whispered his name. A look of nausea twisted her mouth. “Oliver, I cannot thank you—”
Her voice cracked. She sagged. Oliver moved to catch her but she did not fall. Ingrid righted her trembling body without his aid, holding him at bay with a wobbly hand. She hunched her back, inhaled and lifted a young face flooded with determination.
She cleared her throat. “Oliver, I cannot thank you enough. You have done Venner a tremendous service.”
Mathilda flashed a quizzical glance to Oliver, but he appeared equally taken aback by Ingrid’s hard-fought resolve.
When the clock tolled eleven times, Venner briefly regained consciousness, groggy and sore from the damage winter had wrought on his body. Through the night, his fever flared and then broke. He even managed reassuring mumbles of protest as Ingrid spoon-fed him broth.
Mathilda peeked into the guest room. On top of the bureau, a half-consumed bowl of soup awaited its return to the kitchen. Pale candlelight suffused the scene with hues of gold, obscuring the edges of the room and bringing focus to its paired occupants. Ingrid was reading aloud from The Divine Comedy. Venner’s slack eyelids suggested that he had drifted back to the realm of slumber, floating on the cadence of his wife’s singsong Italian.
Ingrid looked up, finding Mathilda in the doorway. “Please, dearest. Sit with me.”
By habit, Mathilda checked Venner’s forehead and wrist. Normal temperature. Steady pulse. She pulled a chair nearer to Ingrid. “How are you faring?”
“Will he be all right now?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“If Oliver hadn’t led the search, he would’ve died only a few hundred yards from his home. No.” Ingrid shook her head sharply. “Oliver did search. I will not think of that other.” A bruise discolored the crest of her right cheek, angry and deepening purple. Her gaze sharpened, finding a home in Mathilda. “Dearest, I want you to tell me all that you know about the contents of your medical bag.”
“Pardon?”
“When Mother died, and then again when you married Jürgen—twice now I’ve had to endure the upheaval of losing the head of my household. Father was a mess both times, remember?”
“Yes,” Mathilda said, confused.
“Oh, but you were across the Salzach with Jürgen when he promoted Frau Genzinger to head housekeeper.” She giggled, a sound tinged with fatigue and the gentlest hysteria. “She stole money from him. Did I tell you? He was so embarrassed by his mistake in judgment—you know how much stock he puts in his ability to read people—that he simply dismissed her. Never brought charges.”
Mathilda chewed her bottom lip. “Ingrid, what is this about?”
“One day, you’ll leave me again.” She raised a hand against Mathilda’s reflexive dispute. “Wait. Hear me, please. No matter your protests, you’ll have your own house, your own life again. And when that time comes, I wish to be prepared. I want to be mistress of this house.”
“But you are.”
She smiled, wincing and touching the bruise. “With considerable assistance, Tilda. But because you are determined that I shall have plenty of time, I will make use of it. Show me your medical bag. Show me all of the things you do that I never see.”
Her calm and tenacity still impressed Mathilda. Whereas some young women might have inadvertently made the misfortune more trying by fainting or intruding with questions best saved for calmer moments, Ingrid had provided quiet, dependable help when Venner needed her. That ever-increasing maturity swelled Mathilda’s heart with pride, even as she recognized a flare of unexpected jealousy.
Uncomplicated, Ingrid’s response to her husband’s safety had been right. She had been so very joyous and relieved. Now, the younger woman gladly basked in the contentment of their good fortune. Mathilda could not deny the envy twisting inside when she thought of Ingrid’s peaceful existence, the love that gave her such joy.
But another instinct fought for attention: fear.
They had been as close as sisters throughout their lives. She never meant to weigh on the newlyweds’ happiness, but the confusion and sudden freedom of widowhood had made her desperate for her friend’s calm buoyancy. And Ingrid, two years her junior, still depended on Mathilda’s guidance. But not for much longer.
She sighed, hoping to dispel the sudden clutch of greedy dread. She would have gladly forestalled any more changes to her previously tidy life. But she would because Ingrid had asked.
No—by the look in her eye, she insisted.
“Would you like to start tonight?”
Smiling, Ingrid took her husband’s slack hand. “No, not tonight.”
“Until tomorrow, then.”
On quiet slippered feet, Mathilda returned to her room. Her rumbling stomach reminded her that the hour for supper had passed, but she had no craving for seared veal, the thick smell of which still wafted from kitchen.
With her back pressed against the inside of her bedroom door, she surveyed the small space and her only possessions.
Is your life better or worse now?
Although the hazardous blizzard had imperiled Venner, the necessity of focusing on someone else’s emergency had provided Mathilda a welcome relief. As night fell, her isolation returned—as did thoughts of De Voss.
Once, three sentinels had held her firm. Jürgen and her parents had been stalwart boundaries. The mere thought of those ghosts had been enough to subdue her, instilling the need to be docile, still, unobtrusive. She had focused her restless energy on assisting Jürgen’s practice, tending their home and making him happy. Winter, especially, revived memories of her late husband, of a warm fire and companionship, even if one unpleasant truth spoiled those memories. She had submerged most of her dreams to make those years possible.
Despite mourning restrictions, without a husband, children or chastity to consider, her freedom exceeded that of most women. Instead she waited for a future she was not strong enough to imagine, let alone seek.
Fleeting encounters with De Voss only intensified her unease. His music had reawakened a love she had denied for too long. Only with music did she find a soothing balm for her impatience. Melodies drowned the confusion. In seeking that pleasure, she rushed past signs of danger, disregarding her parents’ examples and enjoying the freedom of her solitary widowhood.
No, that was a lie. She did not enjoy solitude or, necessarily, her life without Jürgen. But she di
d relish every moment she spent with the Dutchman. Despite her intention to disregard the composer—that surly wretch who stood at odds with her heroic image of Arie De Voss—she longed to see him. Her fascination increased, expanding and exploding at a frantic pace.
Staring vacantly at her empty suite, finding no resolution to the labyrinth of her imagination, she floated on a familiar melody. She recognized the piece as De Voss’s composition for the duke. She found Ingrid’s long-abandoned violin, the instrument Mathilda had once used to practice. Only by tucking the lacquered wood beneath her chin did she find peace.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“You returned, Frau Heidel.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Enter, alstublieft. Please.”
Mathilda walked into the studio and noticed a change in the maestro almost at once. Although his distracting intensity remained, De Voss seemed like a young boy eager to share a secret. He wore a cravat and waistcoat, both smartly fashioned.
So, the infuriating man could be swayed. She rejoiced at her victory.
After poking his head out to the landing, he closed the door. “No bodyguard today?”
“He had an errand and will return in an hour.”
Oliver had surprised her when, after delivering her to De Voss’s building, he departed. She would need to talk to Ingrid about her servant’s negligence, or else thank her for being so considerate.
De Voss began to free her limbs from an encumbering winter pelisse. Mathilda stood in mute, still fascination. Surprise leapt in her chest. Snow fell in little clumps around her feet. She focused on the scuffed plank floor, anything but the nearness of his body and the awkward play of his hands on her clothes.
Silence blanketed the room. An exotic force borne of sensation claimed the right to govern her will. Instinct? Intuition? Certainly not thought, because thought—rational, calm, self-preserving logic—had abandoned her.
“I apologize, sir, for missing our lesson last week. The blizzard…”
“Frau Heidel, I wish to explain something to you, if you humor me.”
Rediscovering her mental balance, she swallowed. “Of course.”
“If you would?”
He motioned for her to resume her place on the cellist stool she had used previously. The violin waited in its open case. Its shining marbled surface enticed her with the need to play.
However, De Voss’s strange behavior competed for her attention and won. She eyed him cautiously, waiting for him to speak, to reveal a trick or snide comment. Her regard for his music—and the years she had invested in fantasies about his personality and character—left her vulnerable to disappointment.
He sat across from her and rested his forearms on his thighs. He remained quiet and focused on her eyes. When he spoke, he did so with surprising directness.
“I instruct two classes of students. Young or old, some arrive under impressions they should learn music. Perhaps they want to please others.” He jerked a wrist dismissively, like brushing away a spider. “No matter. Their motivation is external and fleeting, and I cannot develop their talent—if they possess any at all. Pulling them through lessons is like dragging a carriage up Mönchsberg.”
Although confused by the direction of his monologue, Mathilda savored his sibilant accent. And they had yet to exchange a foul word. Encouraging.
“And the second class?” she asked.
“The others are musicians who wish to develop their craft. Some search for employment with an orchestra or ensemble, perhaps with a patron. They approach lessons as a part of their chores.” He grinned. “Or worse, they try to gather information about my next composition.”
“Truly?” Belatedly, she wondered if her surprise sounded naïve.
De Voss shrugged, but she noticed an unfamiliar tightness in his shoulders. “I hide my sheaves from many pupils.”
She recalled the scattered pages of music on his scarred worktable. “Not from me.”
“I underestimated you last week.”
Unflinching, he dared her to search the studio for signs of his work. When she accepted his challenge and recognized sprawling sheets of parchment littering his desk, Mathilda did not know what to assume. Did he think so little of her abilities? Did he trust her with the secrets of his work? Which answer would be more frightening?
She could not depend on the steadiness of her voice. “Why?”
“You are not comfortable performing. Why, I cannot say.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted, ducking his eyes like a guilty child. “You have not the confidence to pass one of my compositions as your own.”
“All of this sounds tedious.”
“Quite.”
“No wonder you’re surly.”
“Indeed.”
His scrutiny unnerved Mathilda, leaving her vastly ill at ease. She remembered their conversation in the arcade above the Venners’ garden, when he had been incapable of maintaining eye contact. Now his command of German was much improved and he behaved more aggressively. Within the walls of his refuge, he seemed different, more adept, like a man who had come to an important decision. The contrast both exasperated and captivated her.
“Why do you teach, then?”
“Money.” He ran a hand through his hair with telltale nervousness. Mathilda smiled at the small, reassuring nod to his frailties. “I told you in the square. I instruct students, but I seek more. Compositions are for renown. They recommend musicians for tenured positions, but they pay nothing at the outset.”
De Voss stood and relit a candle. Beneath conservative garments, the muscle and bone of his back flowed with supple movements. He could almost pass for a proper gentleman.
“In which category of student do I belong?”
“You may require a third way,” he said, facing her. “You have yet to be what I expect.”
“I know what you expected, sir.” She recalled his darkened eyes on her skin and shivered with an unnamable emotion. “I was quite happy to discomfit you.”
“When you say such things, Frau Heidel, you make me want to retaliate.” He returned to her stool and knelt, balancing on the balls of his feet. He took her Fraiskette between the thumb and forefinger, grinning. Heat built between them like flames spreading across dry kindling. Mathilda tensed, awaiting his words like the prospect of bad news. “Your Morgengabe. A strange word.”
“You asked about it?”
He nodded. “A gift from your husband because you were an innocent on your wedding night.”
Her lungs shunned breath. “Yes.”
“A pity,” he whispered. “I should have liked to give it to you instead.”
She slapped his hand. The reflexive motion toppled his balance, landing De Voss on his back. The fine chain snapped. Her pendant rolled across the floor, coming to a stop under the composer’s worktable. Mathilda stepped around the sprawled maestro and retrieved the bit of amber and silver.
Standing with her back turned, she struggled to recover her composure. The shock of his suggestion settled between her legs. As if she had never worked toward control and good sense, she wanted to do more than slap the man—she wanted to agree with him. On that panicky night, in the dark of their wedding bed, Jürgen’s hands had explored her. His body had initiated hers.
And all the while, she had imagined Arie De Voss.
Shame and arousal crashed through her body in nauseating waves. Joints stiff with tension and embarrassment ached, at her knees, hips, vertebrae.
The Dutchman draped his hands over his knees, sitting on the floor as if he had chosen that spot purposefully. Idly, he picked at a fingernail. “You told me to ask about the word. I did. In the future, you will not challenge me unless you recognize the consequences.”
“You’re a beast.”
“Is that an improvement from bully or tyrant?” He smirked, evidently satisfied with his ability to raise her ire. “I said you are different from my other students, and I meant it. I appreciate your capacity for diversion.”
Mathilda returned to the stool. A flush of embarrassed heat invaded every inch of her skin. She had sought tutelage from the composer whose music inspired her soul with passion and enchantment, and he had accepted her request for lessons. But he possessed no interest in refining her talent. He played games at her expense, making sexual innuendoes for the sport of seeing her squirm under his uncomfortable attention.
A sick sort of sadness welled in her throat. “I amuse you?”
“Yes.”
A rush of blood engulfed her hearing, drowning all sensation and thought save one. Despite her fantasies to the contrary, he was hardly better than the casually destructive teachers Johanna Seitz had hired. Rude and condescending, Arie De Voss held no regard for her abilities. Where she had assumed admiration, or at least a grudging interest, he offered scorn.
Perhaps he envied her, as had her first instructor. Or maybe, like her second tutor, he pitied her, believing her gifts freakish and inappropriate for a young lady.
No matter. Mockery from her musical idol slammed Mathilda with the profound force of disillusionment.
And her own hypocrisy outstripped all. She wanted him to consider her talented, even special, but temptation ridiculed her aspirations. That she desired De Voss despite his mockery—wishing, too, that he had been the man to share her wedding night—only amplified a feeling akin to grief, the strongest she had ever known.
Arie’s self-satisfied smirk died on his lips. She looked ready to cry. At the sight of the tears she struggled to hide, his buoyant mood borne of good-natured rivalry and frank sexual interest faded.
He was an ass. A blundering, thoughtless ass.
His only real talent, other than taking credit for music he had not composed, was forcing this amazing woman to despise him. In teasing about the necklace, he spoiled the intimate gift her late husband had bestowed to honor their union and to protect her from harm. She relied upon the pendant when her restless, gifted fingers sought refuge from fretfulness. And he had barged between Mathilda and the significance of her charm, wanting only to ingratiate himself in that special realm.