by Carrie Lofty
“You would leave Salzburg? You have been here for such a long time. You are respected and well-liked.”
“I have been Kapellmeister for forty-two years, but I would leave now if given the opportunity. Nothing has been right since that butcher charged through my city.” Anger flared the nostrils of his prominent nose and flattened his thin lips.
Michael Haydn upheld a reputation for geniality. He did not drink or gamble. His moderation extended to speaking, thinking and even judging other composers’ musical works. Citizens from nobles to commoners respected his opinion.
But those same citizens also knew Haydn’s intense hatred for Napoleon Bonaparte. Four years earlier, during the French general’s two-month siege of Salzburg, troops had ransacked the aged Kapellmeister’s personal property, confiscating an entire month’s salary. Rumors suggested that the composer had relied on funds donated by his ailing brother in order to survive the chaotic aftermath of the brief invasion.
The tale reminded Arie of the tenuous nature of success in their frivolous business. Decades of service, always prolific and inspired, had done little to guarantee the man a comfortable living.
“But that opportunity is past,” Haydn said. Like a flash of light in the sky, his vivid, unexpected anger dissipated. “I stayed here in the hopes that conditions might recover.”
“The wheels of change are slow.”
“Indeed.” Amusement enveloped his mood once again. “And what did you think of our new and esteemed leader?”
“He is nearly as timid before crowds as I am.”
Haydn laughed with gusto, slapping his knee. “My boy, many people are much worse.”
“Yes, but they do not stand in front of crowds as part of their profession.”
“Speaking of which, I heard your cantata at the Octave.” His dark eyes journeyed to Arie’s face, regarding him with a paternal sort of scrutiny. “I have never been so impressed with a composition of yours, nor with your skills as a conductor. I want you to understand how highly I hold your progress these last few months.”
Arie swallowed hard, his barbed conscience struggling to accept legitimate praise. But the work had been his, for good or ill. He deserved the praise. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re quite welcome. I believe my decision to invite you to Salzburg has proven a solid one.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Gut. Let us walk to the Kloster.”
After donning his cloak, hat and gloves again, Arie followed the Kapellmeister back down Festungsgasse. The pair passed through the iron gates of the Benedictine abbey.
“How goes your work?”
Arie marveled at the composer’s subtle, adept manners. Experience and leadership had taught him how to negotiate any number of personalities, even a jumbled recluse like him. “I am nearly finished with a second cantata,” he said. “I began a Mass for the Franziskanerkirche. And I have three new students.”
He wondered at the simplicity of including Mathilda in that number, so inconsequential. For all of her sudden impact on his life, she was only a student. For now.
“And the symphony?”
Arie winced, almost regretting his decision to reveal his grandest ambition. He did not like reminders about his stalled progress, nagged well enough by his own tick-tock impatience. But if one individual was most like a friend to him, Michael Haydn was that man. When the compulsion to write a symphony finally overcame his hesitations, he had needed to tell someone.
“I am through the second movement. Otherwise nothing.”
“Ah, it will come,” Haydn said. “The good ones take some time. Not to say your sacred compositions are lacking.”
“I know the difference you mean, sir.”
The men walked past the frozen stream at the abbey’s private mill and entered the silent, open-air Petersfriedhof, the ancient Christian burial ground. Snow and ice covered the raised graves and wrought-iron crosses, but the grounds were far from mournful. Monks tended the graveyard with meticulous care. Fresh fir boughs and candles adorned dozens of the small memorials and larger generational vaults.
Lining the sacred space, baroque arcades shielded chapels for the city’s oldest patrician families. More wrought iron in the form of elegant grilles enclosed the cemetery on three sides, and the petite spire of tiny ancient Margarethenkapelle poked from its center. High to their left, the steep rock face of Mönchsberg—where the region’s earliest Christians had carved catacombs and rock chapels—soared overhead.
Arie marveled at the passing of the centuries and the differences he could see with a simple sweep of his eyes. To the south, the still and silent Katakomben existed as reminders of a time when Christians had hidden within the belly of the mountain, surviving on the strength of their faith. To the north, the towering hulk of the Dom boasted opulence and majesty. Within those perilously high walls and arches, Arie had conducted his first Mass. Ten thousand worshipful parishioners and a few of the world’s wealthiest, most influential citizens had prayed together. They had offered glory and song to God without a hint of their forebears’ fear or stealth, without the oppression Arie and his family had known in Delft.
Into the silence, Haydn clapped his hands once. Woolen gloves muffled the sound. “Now, tell me about these new students. Any glimmers? Are they talented?”
“One in particular.”
“Who is he?”
“He is a she, to start.”
A gentle look of surprise transformed the Kapellmeister’s face. Dark eyes beneath heavy graying brows missed nothing. “Do I know her?”
“She is the widow of a doctor named Heidel. He died last year.”
“The doctor who was murdered?”
“Murdered?”
“I believe so. She wears white on her mourning gown, ja?”
Arie nodded. The calm gesture contradicted the escalating tension roiling his gut. Mathilda hid her talent from the world, muffling the strings of her violin and refusing to perform outside his studio. Did the repercussions of her husband’s murder inhibit her?
“I thought the lace unusual,” he said.
“Here, white adornments on mourning garb symbolize an unjust death.” Haydn frowned. “And she’s a student of yours?”
“Yes. She approached me for lessons. Sir, I wish you would meet her.”
Polite surprise registered on Haydn’s face for a second time. “Why? Do you expect to marry her?”
Arie nearly hiccupped. Spoken aloud, the idea of marrying Mathilda thrilled him with the shock of an unreal future. Impossible.
“Sir…she is a genius. A violin virtuoso. I never heard her like before. Her talent reminds me of your stories about Herr Mozart.”
“Really?” Haydn rubbed his chin and continued walking. The fatiguing cold robbed the cemetery of the delight it had afforded only moments before. “And she’s no charlatan?”
“I want you to meet her.” Although Mathilda had convinced him of her authenticity, he also knew that a less talented, more desperate soul—Arie de Voss—had fooled astute music aficionados since he was nineteen. “For four weeks now, I am trying every method I can devise. She astounds me. I am convinced her talent is a miraculous gift.”
Haydn nodded in silence. They crossed the worn cobblestones of the wide church courtyard, within which stood bare chestnut trees and a statue of St. Peter. Graying skies and a pale blanket of snow bleached the color from the cathedral’s green copper dome and the red-and-white Romanesque blocks of its façade.
The Kapellmeister stopped at the private entrance to the Kloster. “I’m curious, De Voss. Arrange an introduction at your next convenience. I will hear this widowed marvel for myself.”
“Maestro, I’m surprised to see you.”
Mathilda had yet to recover from the news. After sharing a quiet meal with Ingrid, and merely a day past her most recent lesson, she had not expected to spend time with Arie De Voss. Thinking of him, yes, and waiting for their next meeting—but not sitting with him in the parlor
, each on opposing fawn-colored settees.
He absently picked at the upholstery. “How is Lord Venner?”
“He is well,” she said with a smile. Ingrid complained that he was a little too recovered, missing supper for a second night in order to tend Council business at the Residenz. “Quite well, actually.”
“Goed. I am glad to hear it.”
He glanced about the room, absorbing the details and resisting her unspoken questions. The mantel clock ticked a persistent reminder of the silence lengthening between them. Mathilda had thought them past this uncomfortable mess.
With a glad heart, she had noticed a change in him. Gradually, over a few weeks of measured but consistent time together, he had started to smile—sometimes without hesitation. He dressed neatly and kept the studio warm for her weekly arrivals. They said little to each other, as twirling melodies and her stilted attempts to sight-read filled uneventful lessons. But their companionship had started to ease and broaden.
Friendly formality took the place of exhausting banter. Sidelong glances replaced overt appraisals. And a very polite gentleman, one who closely resembled the chivalrous idol she had imagined, masked the real man.
By repressing his surly arrogance, De Voss had transformed into a living version of her most intimate, embarrassing fantasies. Mathilda had yearned for his respect, and he offered it freely. But she had also wanted him to see her as an individual, not an anonymous admirer. She wanted to know him in return. His new graciousness smacked of something…ordinary.
Now he paid her a visit, apparently content to sit in a foul humor and unravel his genial progress.
Her patience wasted, and thinned, and finally snapped. “Maestro, why are you here? I don’t mean to be rude, but—”
“No, no. You are right. I am here unannounced. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I…you seem distressed.”
He inhaled. “I dined with Kapellmeister Haydn this evening. When he asked about my new students, I did tell him about you.”
Surprise tickled beneath her ribs, a fluttering sensation of importance that startled and excited her. “You mentioned me to the Kapellmeister?”
“I did.” A grin briefly escaped the dark confines of his mood, only to fall again. His blue eyes finally found hers. “And he recognized your husband’s name.”
Ice formed over her heart. “Oh?”
“Mathilda, was he killed?”
“He was.” Anger and fear overwhelmed her manners after only two syllables. She wanted to flee, but pacing proved the best compromise. She took to her feet and began marking anxious patterns across the carpeting. “Are you curious? Intent on prying? Would you have come here unannounced had you learned he died of a fever? Or a fall from his horse?”
He frowned. “Yes. To hear it from you. At Carnival, you were upset when I inquired to others about you.”
“And you want details.”
“If you wish.”
“And if I do not?”
His calm met her agitation, swirling the atmosphere in the room. Three unhurried steps brought him to her side. He took her hands, the only physical contact they had shared in weeks. “Then I will not trouble you further.”
Whether with his touch or his words, or perhaps by some combination, De Voss eased the turbulence. He was a mystery to her, but he was no stranger, no curiosity seeker. Her mind settled. And her knees began to shake.
He guided her. “Come. Sit.”
They settled onto a settee. He freed her hands before she was ready to let go.
Greedy to stare if she could not touch, Mathilda studied his wrists where they poked from the cuffs of his coat. Despite long, graceful fingers, his wrists appeared powerful. Sturdy. Masculine. Tendons, bones and muscle. Sandy hair fanned over his skin like wheat in a field.
And the words came.
“A blacksmith’s son discovered his remains along the north bank of the Salzach. He was stabbed in the chest during a brawl in an alehouse along Linzergasse. Witnesses said he’d been attempting to administer aid. He was left for dead for his trouble. Two men were hanged for the crime last summer.”
His voice rumbled like a muted peal of thunder. “How did you learn of it?”
“I was putting the wash up to dry,” she said. “Guardsmen and a colleague of Jürgen’s walked through the common courtyard. Their faces, their whispers—everything tilted to an odd angle. I knew something terrible had happened.”
Moments that had passed companionably within the walls of his studio stretched tense there in the parlor, weaving a steady pulse into Mathilda’s ears.
“I will go,” he said.
She jerked her head up. “You come here and ask questions, only to leave? What is this about?”
Roughly, with a return to old habits, he raked unsteady hands through his hair. “Do you want more of my bad humor that upsets you? More of my teasing? I cannot offer condolences for fear of making more mistakes. I do not know what to say to you, Mathilda.”
Arie intended to leave. The steps practically walked themselves, like the simplest of dances. Go to the door. Open it. Walk through.
Leaving was easier than doing battle against the helplessness he felt. He could offer no sweet words, and he certainly could not stand to the challenge of making right the wrong she had suffered. As a boy, he had endured a similar injustice, and no one’s words, no matter how wise or kind, had ever healed his pain.
But he did not leave, did not even move to stand. He leaned nearer.
Need and compassion blended, pulling him to her heat. Closer now. His hands and hers, together again. Two people sharing a capacity to injure, even with the best of intentions.
He had no reason to look at her for a few added heartbeats. He had no reason to notice the gentle disarray of her hair, where frazzled curls tangled around an earlobe. And he had no idea why that teasing glimpse of flesh snared him. To deny the need to taste was to deny air to a suffocating man.
He was suffocating.
During the frantic seconds when he thought to take her earlobe into his mouth, a hard stab of desire shot from his brain to his groin. A catalog of temptations teased him with possibility. Yes, the earlobe—to start. Then the hollow behind it. And her neck. Her mouth. At the touch of his lips to her flesh, she would greet him and share the impulsive taste of a first kiss.
Mathilda.
She should not have seemed willing, but she did. She breathed deeply through her nose, inhaling the tension flickering between their skins. The air vibrated. Eyes of dark moss and gold watched him—encouraging, rejecting—until a glint of adoration returned. Welcoming. Her soft expression turned hungry with shared need. Her mouth opened in a silent invitation.
Did she expect him to abuse her trust, her grieving vulnerability? Was she waiting for the moment he would cross an invisible barrier and disappoint her again?
Unbidden questions doused his passion. Certainty folded into hesitation. He pulled away, retreating from the scant inches separating his face from hers. Force of will did not compel him to release her hands; fear did. And greed.
A weak creature, he had no qualms with pushing his luck to the point of disaster. But he was selfish, too, and he wanted to see her again. He wanted more of the quiet companionship of their lessons—week after week, every week, until she could no longer bear the idea of being separated from him. Every week, until mere Wednesday afternoons became a terrible confinement from which togetherness would set them free.
Arie De Voss no longer wanted to be alone.
He gave up one kiss for the chance at future kisses. In the hopes of satisfying his passion more thoroughly, more completely, he relinquished a sweltering moment of lust.
She asked questions too. He had moved to kiss her and he had not, in fact, kissed her. Confusion, a provoking blend of relief and frustration, deepened the hue of her eyes.
But she banked her questions and pulled away. Arie felt a shift in the room as they each retreated to safe emoti
onal corners. “You’re right,” she whispered. “You should go.”
Blood fizzed in his ears and thudded along his rigid shaft. He shifted subtly on the settee and forced calm through his demanding body. His brain had made a decision, but his body still wanted release. He wanted Mathilda.
And he felt the bizarre need to apologize. He longed to reveal his thoughts and explain his strange behavior, to ask her forgiveness, but he had called that evening to talk about her husband. Even Arie would not be so crass as to further despoil the memory of her marriage. He had done damage enough.
Instead, he would wait. He needed time. And he would give her time.
With as much steadiness as he could summon, he said, “The Kapellmeister would like to meet you. Shall I arrange for our next lesson?”
She swallowed, her eyes turned aside. “Of course. But next week is Ash Wednesday.”
Verdomme.
He had forgotten about the impending holy day. He would have to forego seeing her for nearly two weeks. While their shared hours passed like the flash of a spark, menacing weeks of separation spoke of his increasing dependence on her company.
“He also invited me to play in a piano competition,” Arie said. “Will you come?” She looked ready to refuse, but he persisted. “I will very much like knowing you are there.”
She bit at a cuticle before tucking both hands into her lap. “I cannot attend by myself. If the Venners are willing to accompany me…then, yes. I will attend.”
CHAPTER NINE
Arie crossed the Altstadt through snow-encased streets to reach Waagplatz. On occasion Haydn, who enjoyed waxing nostalgic about his native city, had described the modest square as the center of medieval town life. Open-air justice courts and pillories had competed with a giant peddler’s scale for the interest of the Volk. In recent times, justice chambers on the square had been converted into the popular Stadttrinkstube, the City Drinking Rooms.
Inside the boisterous establishment, the press of bodies and a roaring fire made a hazy memory of the biting cold. Arie’s senses tottered under the rush of impressions. Candles and waxed-covered chandeliers cast a bright, inviting light over men playing cards, tables surrounded by feasting patrons, and an ensemble of wind musicians. Smoke created a wispy haze just below the ceiling.