Song of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  To mean something to her. To anyone.

  Arie wanted irrational privileges. He wanted to share his wonder of music, the maddening pursuit he had yet to master. He wanted to touch her, to feel the weight of her mesmerizing curves across his body, without the barriers of clothing and hostility between them. Most of all, he wanted to be someone other than the lonely, crass fiend he had permitted himself to become.

  Yet the beautiful widow grieved for the man she lost. Arie could offer nothing worthwhile in the late doctor’s stead. Her husband’s passing wounded her still. If anything, she might crave the sweet, smooth words of a practiced lover to make her forget her sorrow, not the barbs and base sexual overtures of an unpracticed recluse.

  Ashamed of his inability to live up to the heroic status she so obviously wanted to afford him, so too did he resent the hideous fall from that unrealistic height. He never asked to be her hero, but neither did he need to conjure another woe for her to endure.

  “When I have nerves, my German is not as good as I like.” He gauged Mathilda’s reaction to his words with a hesitant glance. Staring into the middle distance, she sat clenching the unbound pendant in her fist. “Sometimes I speak in error. However, I talked of your necklace knowing well what I said—an unkind jest to your memories of marriage.”

  She declined to use his pause as an opportunity to talk or look up. He cleared his throat quietly. Shifting his weight where he sat on the unyielding floor, he did not want to stand for fear she might vanish.

  But she stayed. It was a start.

  “Mathilda?”

  She raised her head with a sharp jerk, sending disarranged curls across her brow. She scowled at him with mute frustration and confusion.

  “You amuse me,” he said, “but I mean no ridicule in saying so. You are unique in ways you cannot know, especially when you hold a violin.” He smiled tightly, a reproachful gesture aimed at his thick tongue and addled brain. “I would sooner envy you than mock your gifts.”

  “Envy?” She pushed a quick exhale through her nose. “Pity, more like. No wonder you goad me.”

  Arie shook his head to protest the wounded cynicism shading her voice. “I said nothing of pity.”

  “You would not be unique if you had.”

  “I have behaved reproachfully,” he said, his spine pulling taut. “But I do not deserve to be accused of words I did not say and do not think.”

  “You’re like the others.” She continued to hide her eyes from his. The unaccustomed echo of defeat in her voice made him cringe.

  “Other instructors?”

  She nodded.

  “I am a vast and uncharted idiot,” he muttered. “Woman, I do not pity you. I said I envy you. Believe me, my self-respect does not make such an admission lightly.”

  “You have self-respect?”

  “In adequate amounts.” He shrugged, trying without success to ignore the barb. She found his vulnerabilities with a steady, calm aim. Intuition? Spite? After a parade of years spent successfully pretending, he did not think of himself as transparent. Her accuracy unnerved him.

  “I admire your talent, but I am jealous of your newness. You are on the brink of knowing music, really knowing it from the inside.” The flustered truth of his declaration quickened his breath. “I abuse music, take it for granted. I try to earn money selling it. You play because you want to. I envy that.”

  Mathilda brushed away tears. “Then why? Why did you say I amuse you? Is this still about…do you still think I am here to become another conquest?”

  He laughed, dispelling the tension coiling in his chest with that sharp noise. “Because I have many conquests to my name.”

  “You have a certain reputation, sir.”

  Deceit made her wary. Even the humor aimed directly at his own failings set her on edge. Arie wondered if his memory would record enough of his mistakes to learn from them in the future. Probably not. Instead, he would flail himself with shortcomings, especially once Mathilda decided she never cared to see him again.

  But later. He would not give up just yet.

  “Are we honest, Mathilda?”

  “Certainly, Arie.”

  “I am a recluse because I cannot stand crowds. Strangers agitate me. I make no attempt to begin conversations, even when I am, on rare occasions, in the company of friends.” He found a pale scuff on the bare wooden floor, outlining its boundaries with his gaze. “And my conquests, as you call them, are regrettably few.”

  “Why?”

  “Why am I peculiar? Why does meeting new people send me to panics?” Fluency became a slippery fish. “I tell you about my students to draw a picture of my life. They grind my appreciation of music. Once or twice a month, I am allowed privileges to conduct. Maybe I complete a composition or perform. Those are the successes that power my life.”

  Godallemachtig, what a wretch he had become.

  “You have no friends in Salzburg?” she asked. “No family in the Netherlands?”

  Now who pities whom?

  Arie shook his head. “I have spoken to you more in the last weeks than to anyone else in the city, save Kapellmeister Haydn. I am lonely and bored, and I become unmannered in my isolation. I meet a young woman who diverts me, and yet I offend her.”

  He stood, shaking the numbness out of his thighs, and bent to retrieve the ruined silver chain. Two links, once joined, had severed.

  “A vast and uncharted idiot.” She shrugged, casually accepting his failings. “It fits.”

  “I will have this repaired,” he said quietly.

  She made no false protestations, nor did she deem his offer unnecessary. He tucked the fragile silver strand in a waistcoat pocket.

  “I only wanted the chance to play.” Her words resonated in the room, increasing his awareness of her. Fear marred her features, fear and some other opaque emotion. “I hoped I wouldn’t find jealousy and scorn.”

  “Or pity. You will find nothing of the kind here. But why did you think I was different, at the ball? I was…was—”

  “Drunk. And uncivil.”

  Her expression loosened faintly. Her lips did not smile and her eyes did not soften. But like the gentle shift of clouds signaling an anticipated break in a storm, Arie emerged from the danger of her certain departure. A reprieve, if not a full pardon.

  She regarded him with hard, unnerving candor. “That night, you gave no impression of demeaning yourself by accepting me as your student.”

  “You will endure incivility as long as you are respected?”

  “I’m still here, Maestro.”

  Yes, she was. Giddiness like champagne bubbles sped through his veins.

  But sobriety returned, smothering his cheerfulness. Even if she remained his student, she would do so under false pretenses. His reputation, his name—he had not earned success through hard work alone. He flicked a look at the painted cupboard where the score to Love and Freedom hid, taunting him like a tattletale.

  “You would be wise to knock me over again, Mathilda. Save the trouble of discovering my real faults.”

  She craned her neck to see the tiny mantel clock atop the piano. “We still have some time left, do we not?”

  He cringed and rejoiced, both, at her refusal to heed his warning.

  “Very well.” With an efficiency borne of seven years of studious and repetitive practice, Arie shoved his misgivings into a dark mental corner. “In these walls, we will play music. And I will not tease so much.”

  The left side of her mouth tugged upward. “Not so much? You cannot promise to banish the taunts completely?”

  “I am weak. And you are fun to provoke.” He glanced at the hands Mathilda still clenched around her pendant. “But I will choose my jests more responsibly in the future.”

  “You’re proposing that we simply…enjoy these afternoons?” She raised her eyebrows, an expression like an elegant companion to her questions. “Just playing music?”

  He nodded. “You are different, and I will be different for yo
u. I have much to teach you, even if you perform like an angel.” The snake of jealousy returned, spitting a venomous doubt, but Arie did not envy her situation. Her gift was miraculous enough to produce a twinge of resentment in even the most satisfied of hearts—a satisfaction he did not possess. “But on occasion, I will need to correct you or offer advice. I will do so constructively and prudently. I am your teacher, after all.”

  Mathilda cocked her head to the side, as if testing his sincerity. “Fair enough.”

  “And you will not muffle your strings here,” he said too loudly, invigorated by a boisterous spirit. “Play forcefully enough to annoy my hideous neighbors.”

  “Hideous?”

  “You may be right.” He settled beside her on his stool, closer than before. She did not shy. “Perhaps I have no patience for them. Perhaps I am hideous.”

  She squeezed the base of her neck, dispelling the last physical trace of her anger. “I’ve no desire to indulge your contempt, even when you deserve a reprimand. You belittle yourself, sometimes unfairly. I won’t be party to it.”

  Arie reached between their bodies, deliberately opening her fingers to reveal the Fraiskette. Amber and silver radiated warmth. The heady fragrance of snowflakes and skin and musk swirled his senses into a messy knot. Her mouth opened slightly, near enough to kiss.

  “Does this pendant give you magic powers?”

  She pulled away. “Of course not.”

  “But you read me too well.” Gravely clearing his throat, he retreated as well. He glanced at the violin case at their feet. “What will you play?”

  “Is that my choice?” She tucked the pendant in a pocket. Picking up the violin, she instinctively checked the strings for proper tune. “You are the maestro, after all.”

  Arie produced two sheets and placed them on the music stands. The pages fluttered in his fingers. One woman made him tremble more than conducting before thousands. “Try this.”

  “I cannot.”

  “It is not to your standards? Not to your taste, perhaps?” He flinched at the persistent mockery in his voice.

  “No.” She cradled the violin tenderly, almost protectively in her arms. Arie could not ignore the innocence and charm of her unintentionally sweet pose. “I cannot. I wasn’t trained to read music.”

  “What kind of misdirected education did you have, woman?”

  In rearranging her skirts, she wiggled in a way that threatened Arie’s concentration. “I have a name, sir, which you seem willing to use with such familiarity. And I never needed to learn to read music, not when I could already play by ear.”

  “Arrogant…”

  She braced her spine. “What?”

  “Did you refuse to learn to read because you already knew how to speak?” He shook his head. “No, it will not do. Without sheet music, you are limited to playing the pieces you hear. Your capacity is stunted.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Less defensive. A little contrite. Still as frustrating.

  But her tiny admission warmed him with a rush of satisfaction. Although Arie was the teacher, she had turned the tables. He wanted to reestablish their initial dynamic, to stand before this woman and provide her with unique skills—the falsehoods of his past be damned. Being of use to the prodigy equaled his need to hear her play or see the bloom of color on her cheeks.

  So he closed the lid on every inappropriate comment he had yet to utter. Mangled attempts at sexual innuendo had proven his lack of romantic sensibilities, and the art of seduction escaped him entirely. He abandoned the efforts altogether.

  Instead, he would be her teacher and maybe even the musical genius she imagined of him, because he wanted to impress her nearly as much as he wanted to kiss her.

  He exhaled and pointed to the topmost stave. “Perhaps we have something constructive to do with our time after all.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Weeks after receiving Lord Venner’s introduction to his widowed houseguest, Arie walked to meet Michael Haydn for their monthly dinner appointment.

  He strode past the Dom. The immense square appeared quite different, devoid of the Carnival throng. The plaza was nearly deserted save a few idle Fiakers—open carriages for hire—as well as a small group of burghers in conversation and the statue of the ever-watchful Virgin. On that breezy, clear day in early February, most Salzburg residents thought to seek the warmth of indoor spaces.

  Arie’s thoughts remained with Mathilda.

  She was a lovely woman. She inspired him. She put him at ease, helping him understand the value she placed on his compositions. And he liked her.

  Never before had he understood what his music could mean to an individual, an anonymous listener. From his perspective, contact with those faceless crowds ended when the applause stopped. She demonstrated how the notes he strung along a staff survived well after each performance, shaping ideas and lifting hearts. Not every listener fawned with false pretences. She existed as the proof. Her example provided him a new and more generous perspective, dragging him away from jaded opinions.

  Arie had taken her censure to heart. Although his emotions and thoughts centered on a particular young widow, he molded himself into a gentleman fit for the company of any respectable woman. He attired himself appropriately, especially to receive students such as his newest pupils, the Schindlers’ sons. In the wake of his successes, a new cantata for Mass had flowed from his quill like water in a spring stream—his first completed composition of any kind in months.

  That his new demeanor enhanced his career should have been enough to gratify him. But he also hoped Mathilda would appreciate the differences.

  Change made social interactions no less difficult, but he worked past the anxiety with energy and dedication. While conducting, he willfully kept from regarding his audience as adversaries. He played piano for more than his own enjoyment. What if Mathilda listened to his performance? Would his effort be worthy of her admiration?

  In that moment, liberated from the heavy weight of chronic cynicism, Arie was free.

  Yet his lie remained. As well as the unfinished symphony.

  He had not written a note for his grand composition since the evening hours following Mathilda’s initial lesson. Whereas he used to imagine a faceless, helpful muse, the captivating widow arrived in his dreams instead. He awoke gasping and breathless, the fantasy of her teeth on his skin hammering through his body.

  His dreams began to influence their lessons, or at least his reaction to her within the private confines of his studio. Deep inhales pushed her breasts against the restraints of her taunting black gown, threatening to throw him to his knees. An elegant twist of her waist was enough to tighten his groin. In her presence, the din of sexual awareness distracted him. Alone, it obliterated his creative impulse.

  He deliberately distracted himself from the grinding frustration of lust, continuing through the Dombogen arches to Kapitelplatz and walking to the southwest corner of the square. He turned left onto Festungsgasse and arrived at Haydn’s residence. Sankpetrischen Haus, one of several private flats the Benedictine monks let to various persons of note, had sheltered the aging Kapellmeister longer than some of the brothers had been alive.

  Shuddering in the cold, Arie rapped on the heavy oaken door. A pianoforte within those walls abruptly halted. A stout elderly man in a simple gray wig and dark suit appeared at the arched portal.

  “Guten Tag, sir.”

  “De Voss, how good to see you again,” replied the younger of the two famous Haydn brothers. He and Arie offered each other cordial bows. “Come into the parlor. This is a devil of an afternoon to be out.”

  “Fiakers cost too much,” Arie said gruffly. But economy was not his only motivation. The cab he had taken to the Venners’ ball allowed too much idle time to ponder the event he had dreaded. Walking in the cold offered a necessary diversion, especially in light of his increasingly erotic thoughts about Mathilda.

  “Come warm yourself.” The Kapellmeister guided Arie to a modes
t fire. “Although I must say we will be out in the cold again shortly. My cook is ill and the brothers have invited me to take meals in the Kloster until she recovers. Will you join me? Their interest in our occupation is keen.”

  The prospect of dining with monks seemed harmless enough, hardly aggravating Arie’s otherwise finicky tolerance for large gatherings. He nodded.

  “Gut, gut.” Haydn gestured to the pianoforte dominating the parlor. “I was just playing a piece my brother sent from Vienna.”

  “How is his health?”

  “Not well,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Years now and no improvement. He composes constantly, but he must dictate music to a student. He finds the process wearisome.”

  Thoughts of Joseph Haydn, bedridden and forced to rely so thoroughly on others, inspired a deep sympathy within Arie. For a man’s ideas to demand expression while his body refused—that dire thought intimidated him far more than did the prospect of lacking inspiration altogether.

  His mind flew across the eastern valleys to the little house he had shared with his own maestro, furiously scratching the composer’s ideas on sheaf after sheaf. The sweet stink of infection and the endless hours cramped in those rooms had choked him, all the while knowing his obligations held not a candle to his master’s endless anguish.

  With every rattling breath, Sándor Bolyai’s body had frustrated his vibrant musical mind. Even as his sickly condition had grown worse, his creative impulse remained stout and rich. Those last weeks had been an indescribable torture, but Bolyai persisted, perhaps prolonging his final days through a steadfast determination to see one last fateful piece completed.

  Arie shuddered and blinked, returning from those heartbreaking days along the Danube.

  “Your brother has my sympathies, sir.” Suddenly weary, he took the chair Haydn offered. “And you? Are you well?”

  “Physically, ja.” The older man smiled in that funny way of his. The lines between his eyes and at the sides of his mouth made him look like he wrinkled his nose against a foul odor. “Except I wrote to Joseph this morning that I should have accepted Emperor Franz’s offer of the second Kapellmeister position in Vienna.”