Song of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  “He took care of me.” She recited the list she had memorized across the days and nights of restless discontent. “I was in charge of my own household. He was respected—a good doctor with no higher aspirations.”

  “He was safe.”

  She pulled her arms into a protective shield around her body. Words became pained squeaks. “And you’ve never made a decision out of the innate need for safety?”

  His sneer remained despite a telltale flinch. “You were a coward, Tilda.”

  She hugged herself tighter, a shiver racing along bare forearms at the sound of her endearing nickname. I cannot win, Tilda. He had said that only moments before her descent into the pleasure and pain of their shattering kiss, the kiss that did not conclude until they sprawled panting on the floor.

  “You have no right to call me that,” she whispered.

  Arie cursed in Dutch, something sharp like a bee sting. “And you are a coward now.”

  “No wonder people speak ill of your personality. Your music is angelic, but you are a brute, a boor and a hypocrite.”

  “A hypocrite? I never hid in fear of my talent.”

  She was trying to defend herself, to explain the truth of her actions, but he insisted on bringing up her infernal gift. Again. Her every instinct waged a war, urging flight—or demanding the taste of his mouth. “Is that what this is about? My music?”

  “Or lack thereof,” he said. “Did you ever tell Jürgen you can play the violin?”

  “No.”

  “Did he know at all that you could play?”

  “No.”

  Arie gave a little snort of disgust. “You give me no surprises there. I wonder what you did reveal to him. Anything?”

  “He—”

  “That you are a good cook? Keep his home tidy? Stay faithful?”

  “Yes!”

  He appraised her, his stare barren of sympathy and understanding. “And that was the wife you became for him? Someone predictable and safe?”

  “I was his partner!”

  “You offered him an ordinary woman. You lied to him. You lied to yourself.” His accusations accelerated, relentless now. He stepped closer, intimidating her all the more because of the command and authority radiating from his body. “For shame, Tilda. Did you think you will be happy in such a prison?”

  “My marriage was no prison.” Habit and loyalty demanded that she defend her late husband and the marriage they had shared, no matter its deficiencies. But the words—even spoken aloud—could not transform a lie into truth. Her head throbbed.

  Arie took another step closer. She retreated. “You did not love him.”

  “I never said that I did.”

  “Then my opinion stands.” He shrugged, arrogantly marking an end to the matter. “You hid your talent like a bad secret because you do not like chances. People might criticize you.”

  “I knew exactly what I did,” she said. “I may have hidden the truth from Jürgen, but you’re wrong to think I lied to myself.”

  That stopped him. His all-knowing smirk melted. “Then…why?”

  “No.” She protested his look of vulnerability. “You want to judge. You stand ready to pounce on anything I say in my defense. You! You flit around Europe at your own behest, the artist who need never account to anyone.”

  “You are mad to think I live so freely. I bow and scrape to every burgher and prince, all for hopes of the smallest assignment.”

  “Yet the choice to become a musician, a composer—that was yours. You feel no obligation toward civility or propriety. You simply cater to your muse and the rest of the world be damned.” Her shouted words scattered across the studio. “The Kapellmeister told you about my parents. I married Jürgen to let them rest in peace, so that I could live without being judged by their mistakes.”

  “They fell in love.”

  From his mouth, with his delectable accent, the possibility seemed effortless.

  “No, they were impetuous and selfish.” She fought to deny the ease with which she might succumb to his eyes. Despite his accusations—accusations she had only ever heard within the confines of her mind—Arie remained watchful and attentive. She suspected he would take her into his arms without question or recrimination. If she relented.

  But she could not.

  “For as long as I can remember, the specter of my parents’ marriage and their demise clung to me. I was that girl. The talk died down with time, especially when I insisted on proving how calm and reliable I am—or was. I would not be like them.”

  She paused. A rush of recollections, coupled with the heady scent of Arie standing close enough to touch, threatened to engulf her. “When I discovered my skill for the violin,” she said, “I was twelve years old. I refused to touch the thing for years. I wouldn’t become a spectacle.”

  “But you played again. After attending my concert.”

  “Yes, for about a year,” she said. “Frau Seitz encouraged me. But after her death, I pushed everything away. I had no champion, no one to fend off the criticism and society’s long memories.”

  “And thus you made your reputation as a fine, upstanding woman by marriage with a fine, upstanding doctor.” He took her by the shoulders.

  “Let go of me.”

  “And you will run again?” Arie smiled coldly, reading her as easily as the sheaves of his compositions. “No, not this time. You cannot leave again. We are drawn together.”

  “To your music. Not you.”

  “Am I a channel? A vessel for God?”

  “You might as well be. You’re nothing like your compositions!”

  “No?”

  “You’re a heartless brute, intentionally misunderstanding everything I say.”

  “Heartless? I say I love you, but you ran from here.” His fingers tightened into the flesh of her arms.

  “You’re hurting me!”

  He brought his face lower, his questions and nearness becoming a rapid assault against good judgment. “You want rather that I give in to you? Expect nothing of you? Maybe that was your husband, but not me.”

  As Arie slashed and ripped the cloak of her defenses, panic climbed into her throat. “You would speak so callously of the dead?”

  “I did not know the man. I owe him nothing.” He shoved her shoulders, stepping away with a look of disgust. “You knew him. You were the one who married him. You—his wife—”

  “I know!”

  Her screech cleaved the room. She shrank to the floor, her heart punching her ribs. She pushed hard palms against her eyes, gouging her scalp with clenched fingers. Truth and shame and spite pressed back, forcing her words. But she would not look at Arie.

  “I was a fraud! I didn’t know you, but I thought of you constantly. Fantasies. Fictions. And when I dreamed…when I dreamed, I heard your music.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Arie slumped onto a stool.

  He watched, numb and shaking, as Mathilda drew away. She pressed her lower back against the solid mass of the pianoforte and gripped one lacquered wood leg. Her fingers turned white and bloodless under that cruel pressure. Her beautiful eyes had transformed into a study of agony and shame.

  “Jürgen was exactly the sort of man I told Herr Seitz I wanted.” In a punishing, precise monotone, she revealed her long-repressed truth. Arie could merely listen. “He was dependable, logical, kind and very well regarded. But when he left the house to work…every day, I was thankful. I could breathe. I tried to tell myself the feelings would ease over time, but even three years did nothing to bend my will. Part of me wouldn’t relent to that life.”

  Arie ached to take her into his embrace, to help erase the guilt that plagued her and kept her from him. Yet he feared even the necessity of breath, lest she shatter or wither or run.

  “You fight yourself now,” he said. “Why?”

  “I may as well have taken a hundred lovers for how truthful I was to Jürgen. And then he was killed.” She shook her head slowly. “The man deserved nothing but k
indness and devotion, and he received a fraudulent marriage and an early grave. So why am I allowed to play music? To love you after fantasizing for so long? I’ve been behaving as irrationally as my parents ever did, and yet I’m rewarded with joy. How is that fair, to profit from my husband’s murder?”

  Surprise rendered him speechless. Even had Arie been able to utter a thing—had his words been an eloquent balm to dissipate the last stains of remorse from her soul—she appeared beyond hearing. With an overcast stare turned inward, she continued.

  “The women in my neighborhood believed me strong. I cried for him, but I wasn’t distraught. I cried out of guilt. God help me, part of me was relieved, as if I had received a pardon after a mistake I couldn’t even admit to myself.”

  She huddled into herself as tears traced along her cheeks. The words came from her mouth, but her warbling voice sounded very different in defeat. “Even after he was buried and gone, I wouldn’t touch a violin. I knew he would be looking down at me, asking why I’d deceived him. These weeks have been idyllic for me, but I cannot imagine what he would think of how I’ve behaved.”

  Silence carved an aching canyon through which Arie’s confusion flowed like a river. He swam amongst theories, images and the enlightenment of her explanation. Greedy, he clung to the buoyant words she had uttered. Idyllic. Joy. Fantasy.

  Love.

  He cleared his throat, trying to remain attentive to Mathilda and her need for absolution. Only then might he take her by the hand and revisit the emotions he hoped would survive their ordeal.

  No, he could not wait. The need to touch her, to reassure them both with the simple, forgiving clinch of fingers, drove him to her side. She did not withdraw. The wrenching force of her admission had beaten her into stillness. He savored the feel of her skin, the delicate bend of each knuckle. For weeks, he had wanted nothing more than to speak with her again, perhaps to understand the reason for her distance. He stood poised on the verge of that understanding, and already his irresponsible body and his shameless mind wanted the tedious scene over and done—so that he might rediscover her.

  Vast uncharted idiot. He knew better now.

  “Despite what he did not know, did Jürgen have reason to complain about your marriage? You took care of him, yes?”

  Mathilda nodded and dipped her chin to the floor. She sniffed.

  “You hid your needs and tended to him?”

  Again, she acquiesced.

  “He was a content man?”

  Another sniffle. “Yes, I believe so.”

  “You gave three happy, peaceful years to him, I think.”

  “No, you’re rationalizing on my behalf.” Beneath her weak protest, she did not appear to notice how the fingers of her left hand wiggled impatiently, purposefully. Arie wondered what melody she played within her unconscious mind, even in the midst of her grief.

  “I tell you the truth, Tilda. Do you know what heaven I would have for that much of your attention?” His honest, raw need left him unable to check his own confession. “Even if you hid another hundred guilty secrets, I would want you. I am greedy for whatever you give. I cannot believe Jürgen thought differently.”

  “He wasn’t the same sort of man you are.”

  “No, but what man does not have a heart to mend or guilt to ease? What man does not seek a remedy to loneliness? He married you, and he must have had his own reasons.”

  “His reasons were very practical,” she said.

  “Reasons he gave to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what did you know of him, truly? If you held your passions so deeply buried, what could you know about his inner mind?” He rubbed an agitated hand across his mouth. “You hide behind your guilt, Tilda. You found safety with him, a way to hide from scandal. Now you find safety in his death. In your widow’s gown, you hide from chances…and from me.”

  At last, she met his eyes, but Arie could find none of the sparkle and vigor he had come to love. She remained defeated, and he despaired of ever being able to bring his lovely muse into the light. “You ask too much of me. I’m not strong enough.”

  “You are. You must be.” He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “Tilda,” he said gently, “let him go.”

  The clouds of her sorrow had been building for weeks—for months—and at his gentle, forgiving command, Mathilda’s grief opened wide. As a torrent of anguished tears fell toward the wood floor, she sagged into Arie’s welcoming arms. Her body shook against his in great, wrenching sobs, but he held her tightly. The strength of her despair and the intensity of her sad release touched him in a place without words or thought.

  His momentary flash of selfish desire had vanished. Even within Mathilda’s vulnerable embrace, with her arms clutching helplessly at his shoulders and her chest crushing into his, he indulged only in the need to comfort and protect her from her own terrible will. Whereas another woman might have grown bitter and withdrawn following a childhood bathed in salacious talk, Mathilda had worked to become respected. Another woman, upon discovering such prodigious talents, would have sought fame or retribution against her tormentors. Moreover, any other woman—liberated by the whim of a higher power, provided with the opportunity to thrust a mistake into the past—would have run willingly into the world, seeking long-denied pleasure.

  Yet Mathilda, driven by her honor and an orphan’s intangible fears, had proved an uncommon woman.

  The tremors of her despair began to subside. She stayed in his supportive embrace, which eased the tension in Arie’s chest. Although she remained still, her irrepressible fingers tapped and pressed along the ridge of his shoulder blade.

  “Verdomme, Tilda,” he murmured again her hairline. “How did you think you will give this up?”

  She stiffened a little. “Give up what?”

  He smiled, pressing his lips to the silken skin of her cheek. “Not me, although I wonder on that too. Your music, mijn liefde.” Pulling away and bringing her face into focus, he tapped both of her temples with his forefingers. “What do you hear in your head now? What melody?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “I haven’t heard it before.”

  He drew her hands from around his body and kissed her fingers, one by one. “Play it for me?”

  Arie planted her on a stool, paying no heed to her tired, indistinct sounds of opposition. Even if her mind objected, she took the violin and bow he offered. A melody followed quickly thereafter. Sad and defiant, awed and frightened, her sudden composition became an elegant, moving encore to the storm of emotions she had survived.

  He should have expected as much, but surprise shivered along his backbone all the same. A lifetime of experience suggested she would merely hack at the strings in a performance akin to her artless sobs. But Mathilda remained a special case. More than a study in the physical process of overcoming grief, her composition painted a graceful portrait of turbulent intelligence and deeply rooted insecurities. The spontaneous piece left Arie joyful, alive with awe, and a shade of envious green.

  Hastily, he wet a quill with ink and sat behind his worktable. He became her scribe, receiving the notes like a parade of gifts and accounting for each along successive staves. His right hand flew in a reckless attempt to keep pace with her manic creation, succeeding in capturing its bare essence. The muscles of his shoulders and upper back burned, but the discomfort did not deter his attempt to record her song.

  Dispensing with his selfish compulsions proved more difficult. Experience had long taught him to grab inspiration from dreams, streets, storms and his deep, limitless memories—anywhere. Defensive instincts, cloaked in a miserly selfishness, hungered for her genius. He wanted to take it and bend it and use it to end the torture of completing his symphony. The temptation itched like a half-healed burn.

  Minutes later, the outburst of her composition ended without warning. He watched Mathilda, gray-faced and listing, carefully lower the instrument to its case.

  Then she fainted.


  Mathilda awoke in shadows. Wind lashed at milky window glass, rattling and threatening with the force of an approaching rainstorm. Deliciously contented and refreshed, she hardly dared believe in the renewed sense of possibility. Yet a hopefulness blossomed that she could not recall ever having heard. She twisted languorously at the waist, pointing her toes.

  She stilled. She did not hear hopefulness, but a pianoforte—its tones blurred by the closed door.

  Arie.

  Confused by the slanting light of late afternoon, she quickly assessed her surroundings. Furnished with a washstand and the narrow bed Mathilda occupied, the room’s bare wooden floors and faded walls created an uninviting feel. She was in his bedroom?

  Panic surged. She remembered their argument, her tears. But the panicked feeling receded as the gentle peace of forgiveness followed. She had confessed—to Arie at least.

  Now he played a most exquisite serenade, a song meant for her alone. The intimacy of his private performance resonated within her as no music ever had.

  She sat upright on the bed and gingerly unwound the tangled folds of her gown. An aching tension had woven into her muscles, a physical reminder of her anguish. She approached the door and held fast to its frame, basking in Arie’s music. Gently drawn by the irresistible need to be near him again, she peered into the studio.

  Illuminated by fading sunshine, Arie sat tall on the piano bench. His wild thatch of sand-colored hair stood in a most endearing disarray, accentuating the firm angles of his cheekbones and jaw. Eyes closed, he wore an expression forged of equal parts peace, desperation and longing. His features shifted in concert with the music he created. Like a man stroking a lover—at once haunted and relieved by his place in her life—he caressed the black and white keys.

  On silent feet, Mathilda stepped into the web of his magic, picking up the violin as she crossed the room. His untroubled face registered no surprise when she joined his performance, but neither did he open his eyes. Instead, at the sound of her shy introduction, he eased his performance into an accompanying role. Hesitantly at first, she joined him along a wave of harmony and melody. Out of a gentle adagio, they moved with rhythmic purpose and built the performance in a crescendo. Echoes coiled around the studio, off its windows and walls, adding depth to their instruments.