Song of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  Seven and a quarter hours later, his right hand ink-stained and cramping, Arie finished his symphony’s third movement.

  He enjoyed thinking of Mathilda as his muse because he was a lonely man who found amusement in idealizing the technical aspects of his profession. Even after years of experience, he still had no notion as to how he composed. As such, he might as well embody inspiration in a pleasing female form. His adorable minx of a student had invaded the deepest realm of his fantasies. Sifting through recollections of pleasure and the disappointing confusion of Mathilda’s departure, his brain had been hard at work, writing the music to accompany their sad, comic, unexpected intimacy.

  Opening the movement, he heard echoes of the heavy, trouncing scherzo they pounded into life on that same afternoon. A submerged, unforgettable current of playfulness—the teasing banter threading through even their most heated debates—outshined the darkness, dragging the melody into the light. The dreamed motif foretold passion and abandonment. The thundering rhythm of wild sexual fervor concluded with Arie’s renewed sense of isolation, feeling more alone than he had in those waning hours of Fasnacht.

  Upon scratching the final note into place, his foremost thought frustrated him, but it did not surprise him. What will she make of it? Would Mathilda hear the parallels to their brief hours together? He longed to know how his composition would sound emerging from her tender manipulation of a violin.

  Frankly, he longed to know any blasted thing about her.

  Social functions and random walks to the Alter Markt, the Old Market, at all hours produced not a single glimpse of her face. On Ash Wednesday, he had seen her not at all—not at any of the six churches he visited on that restless day of reflection and too much walking. He had since conducted and played organ at various houses of worship, assuming a few of the Kapellmeister’s many responsibilities in the hopes of seeing her somewhere among the faithful. He recalled the chance meetings peppering the initial weeks of their acquaintance. She must be working hard to avoid him.

  But Arie would not believe their story had concluded, so suddenly and with countless questions darkening their fine time. Her wordless rejection twisted him in a coil of disappointment and useless frustration, bruising his ego. What kind of woman was she, truly, if she could inflict such torture?

  Verdomme, but he was tired of being caged, dwelling on a moment of pleasure made sour by the sordid finale. Even the encouraging surprise of finishing this, the third of his symphony’s four movements, taunted him with a hollow victory. Never had he worried less about success for the mere sake of success.

  Arie was greedy for her nearness. He wanted to hear the melody of her voice, so different from the Dutch intonations of his youth. He wanted to spar with her, to watch her defensive temper rise and then to soothe it into nothingness. He wanted to learn her body rather than settle for the rough, primitive way he had taken her.

  Most of all, Arie wanted time—time to create more than one glaring memory.

  Doubt had stayed his hand for weeks. He deserved her scorn, he knew, even if her reasons remained opaque and his crime stayed concealed. But his declaration threatened to become reality. I could fall in love or go mad from wanting you.

  He tossed a pinch of drying powder across the wet ink and arranged the completed composition into a tidy stack. He scribbled a brief message on a sheet of writing paper and ventured into the fading light of a beautiful early spring evening. On his way to see Haydn, he posted the letter.

  Mathilda awoke from sensuous dreams that ended too soon.

  As Klara helped her dress, she mused aimlessly. Should she die that morning, she would welcome the respite from the constant affliction of her memories—if only she made confession first. She had yet to utter a word of her misdeeds to a priest. Guilt smothered her at the thought of giving voice to what had taken place in Arie’s studio.

  Upon his satisfied collapse on top of her, Mathilda had kissed his hair with a remarkable feeling of contentment. She had looked down the length of their bodies, marveling at the extraordinary pleasure of their tryst, when the stark, unforgiving black of her gown shocked her to the point of nausea.

  She had not spoken to him since. She had not touched him, despite the ache of longing that flared in her blood every time she recalled the wanton, delicious way he had loved her. But she had seen his face. She had listened to his music, both in her mind and in concerts throughout the city, every time trying to believe that the music alone called to her.

  Yet the sight of his face in deep, commanding concentration struck her anew every time. Melancholy encased her in a tight blanket. If joy had been a corporal being tugging at her arm, she would not have felt its touch.

  Hours after waking, she stared at a book without comprehension. Ingrid sat beside her, casually gazing at a magazine Christoph had brought from his recent travels in the north. For weeks, Mathilda had behaved like the worst sort of confidant, denying a lifetime of friendship by keeping her secrets close. She refused to provide Ingrid an explanation as to her sudden decision not to attend additional music lessons, and she recognized her friend’s quiet hurt. Wednesdays came and went, yet Mathilda did not leave the manor. The unspoken argument rested heavily between them.

  A footman knocked and presented Mathilda with an envelope. She accepted the letter, immediately recognizing the hand that had scrawled her name.

  “From Herr De Voss?”

  Ingrid’s happy enthusiasm broke her heart. She wanted to scream and rail, to make her understand that her optimism had no place.

  “Yes.”

  “Open it.”

  “No.”

  “Oh do, Tilda. I know you want to.” She flipped another page. With an insincere lightness she said, “I promise not to watch your face for clues.”

  Despite her crippling curiosity, Mathilda resisted the temptation. He had said he loved her. She had left without a word. What possible topic would compel him to write after weeks of silence?

  “No, I shall wait. The maestro has nothing of importance to say to me.”

  She cringed at the bitter sound of her lie. Most likely, he had a great deal to say, none of which would be complimentary.

  “He probably wanted to remind you that today is Wednesday.” When Mathilda said nothing, Ingrid muttered, “Spite yourself.”

  “What was that?”

  “Suit yourself, dearest. Now, come have a look at this gown.”

  In the afternoon quiet of her room, Mathilda opened the letter at last. Her imagination authored no small number of themes, from passionate declarations of longing to bitter, resentful diatribes against her callousness. After hours of speculation, two lines surprised her with their stark simplicity.

  Come to the orchestra balcony of the Dom after Mass next Sunday. Kapellmeister Haydn wishes to meet you.

  A blot of ink trailed the last sentence—a thought he had penned before attempting to obscure it. She shifted the paper into an angle of sunlight to examine the scribble more carefully.

  Please.

  He had written please before thinking better of the word.

  Across the span of their acquaintance, a measure of months that had seen them progress from strangers to lovers and back, she had come to understand many of his traits. He was impetuous, diffident, inspired, passionate and even amusing. Now she could add proud to her mental catalog.

  He refused to beg for her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “De Voss, the Venners’ party has arrived.”

  Arie turned toward Stüderl’s private announcement and nodded absently. His heart rate accelerated while he concluded preparations for the Mass. The agonizing wait for Sunday had exacted a heavy toll on his health. He had neither eaten nor slept, anxious to see Mathilda and plagued by the grisly notion that she would refuse his entreaty. What would he do if she refused? Barge into the Venner town home and plead? Shake her witless?

  By the time his musicians assumed their places in the orchestra balcony, Arie had but a
few moments to inspect the gathering below.

  Salzburg’s most influential citizens and leaders packed the cathedral for the weekly ritual that served as backdrop to an opportunity to socialize. Duke Ferdinand and his myriad retainers, members of the Council of State, outlying nobles who spent their winter within the safe confines of the city, and every manner of parishioner down to the lowest maid—all gathered to sing and pray, to see and be seen.

  He looked to no avail among the lace head coverings worn by every woman to Mass. He searched mourning gowns but, during that respite from war, black garments crowded the cathedral. Finally he found the woman he loved. She sat on a pew halfway back from the breathtaking gold-and-black altarpiece, behaving with less spirit and animation than a marble statue.

  She saw him.

  She looked away.

  And Arie had work to do.

  Interminable hours later, Haydn approached him in the deserted musicians’ balcony. The parishioners had long since returned to quiet Sunday homes, and the musicians had hurried to their next performances at any of Salzburg’s many houses of worship. Save Haydn, who had played organ, Arie was alone.

  “Did she attend?” Sympathy laced Haydn’s voice.

  Unnaturally intent on the sheet music he arranged at the lectern, Arie nodded.

  “Will you give her up?”

  “I cannot say.”

  Haydn sighed and settled onto a nearby chair. “De Voss, since that night at the Stadttrinkstube, I remembered something to add light to your situation. May I?”

  Arie turned his attention to the aging composer, curious despite his gathering despair. “Alstublieft. Please.”

  “Her father was a cellist named Klaus Fuhrman Roth, and her mother was the youngest daughter of Oskar, Marques of Linschoten.”

  “Roth?”

  “Ja, a Jew,” Haydn said. “He was the first chair court cellist under Colloredo for, oh, nearly ten years. Everyone found him immensely likeable. He was popular and handsome. Of course, I was Kapellmeister even then, but I recalled his name only recently.”

  Arie sat beside Haydn. “Go on.”

  “When on tour in Brunswick, Roth married Elisabet Linschoten against the wishes of her parents. He brought her to his home in Salzburg amidst quite a scandal, if you can imagine.” Wearisome memories creased his face in an introspective frown. “Frau Heidel was born in their first year of marriage. Roth died of pneumonia when she was but a babe. Marques Linschoten refused Frau Roth permission to return to her family estate in Brunswick, and she committed suicide shortly thereafter.”

  Arie swallowed hard, clenching his hands into a tight ball of sick frustration. An ache of affinity bloomed in his chest. He empathized with the trials she must have endured, abandoned and outcast by her only remaining family.

  Tilda.

  At the Kapellmeister’s revelations, his impression of the past realigned. While Arie dreaded crowds and strangers, Mathilda was tormented by gossip. She had not been upset because he compelled her to perform, but because of the talk her debut produced. Even he had heard the whispers and speculation. As the half-Jewish daughter of a suicide, scandal and rumors must have marred even her earliest childhood memories.

  “And Herr Seitz raised her? Why?”

  “I know not.” Sadness tightened the lines around his mouth. “I was a much younger man, I’m afraid, and in my obligations…I maintained little contact with Frau Roth after Klaus passed. Nor did I follow the fate of the babe she left behind.” He shook his head. “Klaus Roth was a marvelous cellist, truly gifted. She must take after him a great deal.”

  The unexceptional sound of an opening door interrupted Arie’s heartsick reflections. Mathilda entered.

  Relief and surprise made his skin prickle. He absorbed every detail: the stab of her angular cheekbones, the full curve of her lips, and those unforgettable, fatigued hazel eyes—all surrounded by a crown of nondescript brown hair. She had worn the same black gown trimmed in silvery gray on the evening of their duet at the Stadttrinkstube. Mere weeks ago. A lifetime ago.

  On that remarkable night, he had not yet kissed her. Now he recalled her warm feminine taste, wanting her all over again. Arie vowed that the next time he made love to Frau Heidel, he would have her nude, eager and content to remain in his arms forever.

  Both men bowed and Arie stepped forward to make the introductions. “Kapellmeister, this is Frau Heidel. My student.”

  “Guten Tag,” Haydn said. “Herr De Voss has told me much about you.”

  Mathilda kept that bewitching gaze averted, shyly greeting the man. “Guten Tag, Kapellmeister. I am honored to meet you, sir.”

  “Don’t hold me too highly, my dear,” Haydn said. “I’m an old man who struggles to keep up with young stallions such as our friend here. I would need a third ear to fully appreciate some of the beautiful harmonics he unleashes on the world.”

  Arie smiled, embarrassed by the pleasure of the composer’s praise. He dared not look at Mathilda for fear of reading less complimentary sentiments on her face. “You flatter me, sir.”

  “Certainly, for you deserve it.” The elderly man turned his sharp assessment to Mathilda. “And you, my dear. I witnessed your performance at the Stadttrinkstube. Remarkable, truly.”

  “Danke, sir,” Mathilda said. “I didn’t know you were in attendance.”

  Haydn nodded his affirmation. “I watch Stüderl manage those affairs because he enjoys the spectacle. After too many years of performance, I prefer to remain in the audience. You both made for a most entertaining evening.” He regarded Mathilda with gentleness and affectionately patted her on the shoulder. “I hope you’ll join us in this world of music. The city needs fresh, eager performers to take the place of dotty old codgers like myself.”

  She smiled, seemingly reluctant to accept his goodwill.

  “I must be off. I play organ at Peterskirche this afternoon.” Haydn bowed his adieu. “When you are ready, Frau Heidel, we will find a place for you.”

  Arie and Mathilda stood alone in the musicians’ balcony. Far, far below the vaulted arches of the frescoed ceiling, altar boys swept between the pews. They worked steadily and proficiently, but an occasional giggling whisper drifted nearer the vaulted ceiling. Dust motes floated along the colorful sunbeams flooding through stained glass.

  “Kapellmeister Haydn knew your father,” Arie said carefully. “He told me of your childhood, what he remembered. I did not intend prying.” He took a step toward her, close enough to take her hands. But he did not. “Mathilda, I am sorry. If I knew—”

  “You would have treated me differently.”

  “You cannot know that.”

  He released a shaky breath and ran a daft hand through his hair. She watched the gesture with an expression akin to pain, though he could not understand why. The shadows and sunlight chasing across the balcony accentuated the contrast between her wan skin and the oppressive black of her mourning gown. She said nothing, raising the level of Arie’s desperation.

  “Why did you go? Is this about your husband?”

  “He is not your concern,” she said, her voice calm.

  “I am a lover to you, but no, it is not my concern.”

  He wanted to riot against her unexplained detachment, but weeks of rejection stole his will to fight. The fatigue of trying to understand her wore too many holes in his determination and pride.

  He lowered heavy lids to expunge the world, motionless and awaiting the bleak finality of her escape. Any moment, he would hear the sound of that same unexceptional door closing on his happiness—a happiness he did not deserve.

  Mathilda opened the door from the orchestra alcove to the Dom’s arcade and there she waited. Arie remained motionless, his head bowed. Anguish stretched taut every angle of his body.

  What manner of man stood resigned to defeat? And what kind of monster deliberately hurt the man who had declared his love? Even her fierce if erratic need to protect herself would not allow her to abandon him a second time witho
ut explanation.

  “I will say nothing here,” she heard herself say. Although loath to return to his studio, it would provide the privacy they needed. Then she could be done with this anguish.

  The March sky loomed misty and pale, but the city bustled and moved, its populace emerging from the rigorous isolation of winter. Mathilda noticed little of their journey across the Altstadt other than Arie’s presence at her side.

  They climbed the steps to his rooms in wordless expectation. He lit a fire, but the squat stone kitchen stove did little to disperse the slinking chill—or the cold desolation in his eyes.

  Their last moments in that enclosed space flooded Mathilda’s senses, tangling into the rhythm of her pulse. She steeled herself against the trauma of explaining her rejection, all the while defying the desire to touch him after their long separation.

  Arie spoke before she could find any traction among her snarled emotions. “Did you choose him?”

  Her throat seized. “Herr Seitz, Ingrid’s father—he secured our match. We each benefited from the arrangement.”

  “You had no obligation to marry?”

  “No.”

  His blue eyes flared at each revelation as a barrier solidified between them. He stood in the middle of the room, but he may as well have been miles distant. “How did you benefit by marrying a man you did not love?”

  Mathilda’s heart leaped with a painful start at the mention of love. Nothing could erase from her mind the devastating avowal Arie had made, nor could she permit any return to the madness of that fervent, dreamlike afternoon. “Jürgen was a good man.”

  “You did not answer my question.”

  His voice, toneless and merciless, harkened to their first lesson when they had been strangers, even adversaries. Until that moment, she had not fully understood how expressive he had become during their time together. Upon the return of the chilly demeanor he reserved for others, he revoked the unique gift of his trust and regard.