Song of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  “On the Staatsbrücke,” she said, frowning. “I thought you were afraid of the river.”

  “I was—am. But I wanted to visit Sebastiankirche.”

  A sparkle of understanding and relief crossed Ingrid’s fragile features. “Jürgen?”

  Mathilda nodded.

  “I am glad for you, dearest.”

  Her friend’s powers of perception had multiplied, but with regard to this topic, Mathilda was thankful. She did not want to explain that tumultuous night.

  As if fighting for breath within an eclipsing wave of water, she lifted her face toward the ceiling. “But what do I do now? If Frau Kleinmayrn talks about us, she’ll make our names a scandal—no matter the truth.”

  Unhurried, Ingrid arose and crossed to a table. From an etched silver card tray she picked up an envelope. “Especially when Herr De Voss keeps writing to you.”

  Taking the letter, Mathilda opened the paper and discovered dear, familiar scrawls. She glanced over the contents. Breathlessly, she said, “He has invited me to join him for a concert at the Residenz.”

  “How wonderful!”

  She exhaled heavily. “No. If Frau Kleinmayrn is concerned about a little walk…”

  Ingrid knelt, setting the letter aside and claiming her full attention. “Is that all?”

  “I cannot attend, surely—not an event that public.”

  “Will you still see him? In secret?”

  When she could not lock distress and raw feelings away, Mathilda grasped at that possibility. “If I must.”

  “Tell me what troubles you, dearest,” Ingrid said, her face a picture of sympathetic hurt. “Tell someone before you melt from the inside out.”

  A shift had taken place in Mathilda’s heart. Thundering eagerness replaced sound warnings. When had she completely lowered her guard, opening her arms to the violence of a storm instead of making her way safely home? Perhaps she had been running toward these tumultuous days since the night she watched Arie summon magic from dozens of strings and reeds, interlacing their music to form the path to his side.

  She would run to Arie until all means of reaching him were barred forever.

  “I love him.”

  The words hovered between the women, shining with promise and fluid tension. No matter the certainty of her feelings, Mathilda heard a question masked beneath her bold declaration. So much remained in doubt.

  Standing, Ingrid wore a sad expression. She crossed the parlor, back to the card tray. Slender fingers tapped the lacquered surface of the table, impatient and terse. “Tilda, I’m afraid you cannot accept his invitation.”

  Although Mathilda had said as much, accepting the social necessity of restraint and modesty, her spirits withered. The happy energy she had enjoyed only an hour before soured like old milk. She glared at the black gown she wore, at the white lace cuffs.

  Exhaling, she pushed the air and her resignation into the parlor. “You’re right. Mourning will last another few weeks. Months, at most. We can wait.”

  “Or you can be our guest.” Ingrid picked up another envelope and twirled her skirts, a girlish and impromptu gesture. The royal seal marked the folded parchment. “Duke Ferdinand invited Christoph and me to the same concert. You can accompany us and meet Herr De Voss at the Residenz.”

  Mathilda blinked, speechless and in awe of her friend’s endless surprises. But sheer frustration—a building panic of wanting Arie, wanting a life with him, and fearing the end to her dreams—gave her voice teeth. “And you’ve teased me this whole time?”

  Ingrid raised a placating hand. “Only just now, since you read the invitation. I did not open your mail, Tilda.”

  “How mean!”

  That sweet smile had returned, but instead of condescension, Mathilda recognized traces of sly humor. “No, the proper reply is ‘Thank you, Ingrid.’”

  “Thank you, Ingrid,” Mathilda replied in a childish mimic.

  “I cannot help it. You’re proving such fun sport.” She stepped closer and squeezed their hands together, a tight knot of keen, animated fingers. “I’m so happy for you, as is Christoph.”

  “Christoph merely wants me out of the house.”

  “Of course, but in the nicest way. To see you settled and happy.”

  “Certainly.”

  Ingrid stuck her tongue out. “Now, what will you wear?”

  Mathilda tilted her head, the gesture a question in itself. “Why do you ask? I have my mourning gowns.”

  “You went to Sebastiankirche to visit Jürgen, ja? We both know your mourning is done, dearest, and has been for some time.” She gave Mathilda’s fingers a final squeeze. “Christoph has requested an audience with Father Holtz to request a formal end to your mourning. You will not go to the Residenz wearing black.”

  After a deceptively quiet supper, during which no one mentioned invitations, priests or busybodies, Mathilda climbed to her bedchamber. Heavy carpets silenced steps already made light by her buoyant mood, and she fought the urge to hum. Soon enough, she would be alone in her room, where her violin awaited.

  She loved Arie—not a musical genius, not a figment, not an idol. She loved the man.

  And she wanted to express her emotions in the way that had come to dominate her life. Through music. Words and thoughts failed to fly, falling short of the miraculous language she had discovered. Passive listening, no matter how engaged she became in hearing a composition, only made her yearn for that spark of creation. Arie had taken her heart and put in its place an unending need to perform.

  With the door closed behind her, Mathilda glanced across her room. She had left Jürgen’s medical bag at the foot of her bed, and its familiar black leather shape reached her like a touch. But the touch was gentle, tolerant of her frailties. She smiled, surprised but gratified by her placid reaction to his memory.

  Leaving the bag where it sat, she found the violin case and opened the latches. The cloth she used to muffle the strings draped across the instrument. She tossed it to the floor. Nothing would silence her this evening, not doubt or gossip or manners. She wanted her violin to announce what her heart sang and sang, an endless chorus.

  Tuning the instrument, finding her stance, Mathilda inhaled.

  Beginning with the sonata Arie had played at the Venners’ ball, she gave voice to all she imagined, sought, desired. Another piece followed without pause, then another. Arie’s improvisation at the piano competition. The cantata for Duke Ferdinand. The movement she had helped compose. And finally, Love and Freedom.

  A frivolous grin spread her mouth wide as she revisited that landmark symphony for the first time since their inaugural lesson. Even alone, there in her room, she could not hide the flush of embarrassment as she recalled the girlish fantasies she had fostered about her maestro. Never had a woman known less about a very complicated man.

  But joy banished her embarrassment. She performed Love and Freedom with happy gusto, glorying in the wonder. She followed the notes, chasing a musical bird across the aching blue of a bright summer sky, swooping and twirling with the force of a steady wind on her face. Restive fingers quieted the noise in her head and in her heart…until she heard something altogether different.

  She played it again. And again. She studied and parsed and dissected. And somewhere in the third movement, she heard the truth.

  Arie did not write this.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dressed in a new gown of pale lavender silks and a midnight blue pelisse, Mathilda trailed the Venners through the busy streets of the Altstadt. She pushed into the spaces between bodies and animals while citizens concluded their business in the waning hours of the evening. Above the city, the golden brightness of a beautiful April day would dim within the hour.

  She had not seen Arie since they walked home from Sebastiankirche.

  She had not seen him since making her discovery.

  Mere days had passed, but her anxiety at the thought of seeing him again, especially in a public setting, stirred Mathilda’s sto
mach to a restless nausea.

  Upon arriving at Residenzplatz, they strolled to the main entrance of the duke’s palace. The grand bulk of the Dom and its high towers faded into shadow, while the lofty Glockenspiel loomed behind them, tolling the early evening hour. The palace’s wide double doors opened opposite the Hofbrunnen, a fifty-foot fountain featuring carved horses emerging from a diamond-shaped pool. Water would not shoot from those motionless mouths for another few weeks, when the threat of freezing temperatures had safely passed.

  Two ornately uniformed footmen bowed in precise unison. “Welcome, Lord Venner,” said one man. “The Konzertmeister is expecting you. This way, please.”

  Stüderl appeared within moments, dressed in the resplendent formal costume of his courtly station. The midnight blue frock coat with red piping bore Salzburg’s black eagle coat of arms, the garish colors of which made him appear wan and aged.

  “Lord Venner!” Emerging from such a distinguished face, his incompatible high-pitched voice distracted Mathilda. He inclined his wigged head. “So glad you could attend tonight, my lord.”

  “Lady Venner informed me that I could not refuse.”

  Stüderl bowed to Ingrid. “Good evening, Lady Venner. And Frau Heidel, how wonderful! I’m pleased to see you again, of course. Willkommen!”

  The Konzertmeister ushered them deeper into the palace, through the marble portal bearing the coats of arms from four ancient prince-archbishops. Up the stairs and through a long arcaded hall on the second floor, Mathilda indulged in the breathtaking splendor of the Residenz. Massive scarlet draperies and Venetian mirrors lined one wall. Above their heads, illuminated by substantial crystal chandeliers, frescoes depicted the history of Alexander the Great.

  “This is Carabinierisaal,” Stüderl said over a shoulder. He waved a hand at the cavernous length they traversed.

  Mathilda pulled her gaze from the ceiling. “What does that name mean, sir?”

  “‘Carabineer’ was the name of the personal cadre of bodyguards Wolf Dietrich imported from Italy. This was their hall for lodging and meals,” Stüderl said. “Herr De Voss will perform his new symphony here in May.”

  They continued until they reached the entrance to another grandiose hall, also devoid of people. Ingrid gently shoved her toward the doorway before whispering, “The concert will begin at nine. I’ll come for you before then.”

  Mathilda frowned. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I’m leaving you here.”

  “By myself?”

  “Good evening, Frau Heidel.” As handsome as a daydream, Arie appeared.

  Ingrid turned away with a grin and continued on with Venner and Stüderl. So that had been her game. Mathilda knew she should thank her friend for arranging this private interlude, but the surprise of her Dutch maestro’s entrance diminished every thought but one. Oh, Arie, why did you do it?

  He offered his arm like an invitation, the gesture momentarily brushing aside her question. She simply luxuriated in the way his gaze flowed over her face, her body…her lilac dress. His expression turned comical.

  “You…you—” He pinched his eyes closed with a sound of impatience. When he opened them again, he stared with a staggering expression of need and nameless hunger. Quietly, solemnly, he said, “This is not a mourning gown.”

  “Colorful, isn’t it?” She offered a small smile, almost embarrassed by his riveting scrutiny. “Venner discussed my circumstances with Father Holtz.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “And?”

  “He released me from my mourning.”

  Arie drew closer, cupping a free hand at the back of her neck. He gently kissed her cheek, his breath feathering across her skin. “No, Tilda, you did that already.”

  An unexpected shyness overcame her. No longer as beholden to the past, she remained daunted by the emotions she wished to express more fully. The freedom to love him intimidated her still, even as questions—terrible doubts—threatened to steal that opportunity. She wanted nothing other than to sink into his arms, but she stood quietly by, connected to him through interwoven fingers.

  Arie urged her through the doorway and she stopped short. They stood in Rittersaal—Knight’s Hall—where, six years earlier, she had seen him conduct Love and Freedom.

  His performance had transformed her. Marvels of art, fashion and architecture that should have proven fascinating became mere distractions. The span of her attention had been for Arie alone. Every aching note had amplified her attraction, thrilling her with one person’s capacity to capture the restless need in her soul. That such beauty existed in the world had been frightening and liberating.

  Even at that moment, standing alone with him in Rittersaal, Mathilda could not say which had affected her more, the man or his music. The combination had ignited an embarrassing passion that strayed toward irrationality. She could not forget his composition, nor images of the maestro coaxing his magic to life.

  But what if he had deceived everyone?

  She floated into the vacant room, her eyes running to find every secret. Rittersaal contained two hundred gilded chairs lined in tidy rows. The rich golden parquetry stretched between snow-white walls in a diagonal pattern that amplified the hall’s open, airy feel. More gilding decorated the borders of the ceiling frescoes and chandeliers. A modest elevated stage sat at the base of a half-dozen floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking one of the Residenz’s three courtyards.

  Opulence. Luxury. Dreamland.

  Tallying the room’s magnificent features against her own attributes, she suffered the spiraling return of her former hesitance. Despite the excitement that heightened her senses, a chill of the unfamiliar urged her to flee. Anyone would recognize her as a pretender, a woman reaching beyond her station toward a distant, exclusive perch that only the most privileged ever graced. The Residenz was no place for Mathilda Heidel, no matter her natural abilities.

  She should have told Arie no somewhere, sometime along their foolhardy path. She should have stopped herself.

  His arms surrounded her. Mathilda flinched. Although alone, the public setting of his unexpected embrace yanked her back into the world. Fear left her lightheaded. No longer an anonymous widow, neither did she belong in that place. And her buoy, her maestro, could not be trusted.

  He looked the same, felt the same, but Mathilda’s infatuation wavered after six unshakable years. She had labored for days to find fault with her suspicions and rationalize her discovery. But the possibility that he had defrauded the world, abusing her misplaced esteem, pressed and goaded. Solid ground beneath her feet was threatening to dissolve.

  She whispered against his neck. “What are we doing here?”

  “A concert.”

  “But who is performing? Why here?”

  “You do not know?”

  “No,” she said. “Because you revealed nothing about the concert in your invitation, Ingrid decided to keep it a secret.”

  He drew back to look at her face, grinning like a good-natured maniac. “I like that. I will follow her example.”

  “Arie!”

  He offered a quick squeeze and freed her. “In time, Mathilda. You will not be disappointed.”

  She looked at him sideways, crossing gloved arms across her middle. “I’m unconcerned with disappointments, but I would like a little more forewarning than you permitted at the Stadttrinkstube.”

  “You wound me with your suspicions, mijn schatje.”

  My treasure.

  “In German, it is mein Schatz. Quite similar.”

  He grinned. “My treasure teases me.”

  A familiar surge of heady joy flared at his possessive intimacy. He certainly knew how to reach her. She returned his smile, but questions sat on her tongue. She was not a suspicious person by nature. That Arie gave her cause to doubt made her wary and frustrated.

  “I read your mind, Tilda.” His low murmur caressed her. “You do belong here.”

  What had she told Jürgen? That she was brave now? She dipped her
head, angry at her cowardice and concealing the true direction of her thoughts. For now.

  “I do not,” she said.

  “Not among princes and bishops, granted. But certainly on stage.”

  “The Stadttrinkstube is one matter, but this…”

  “This is merely a different stage.” Arie abandoned her to her amorphous fears, seeking the conductor’s platform. His sonorous voice carried across the distance like the bass notes of a piano, resonating beneath her breastbone. “Give me tonight, Tilda. I will show you that.”

  Seemingly struck by a sudden impulse, Mathilda hastened to a seat in the second row, just right of the stage. She laughed.

  Arie turned on the conductor’s platform and looked at her, a tiny figure in the vacant concert hall. “What is this?” he asked.

  She shone like a lantern at midnight, lit from within by the thrill of a secret game. “I sat in this spot for your Salzburg debut, here in Rittersaal. You conducted Love and Freedom.”

  “Six years ago.”

  “I was sixteen. It was my first experience with concert music outside church.” She smiled softly, laughed a little. Her expression revealed much of what she had experienced that evening. “You wrote every note in my memory. I was unconscious of the process, but I memorized the entire score. I had only wanted to take in as much of the experience as I could, not realizing the extent to which I was successful.”

  “And like that? You took it home with you?”

  “I played into the night, alone in the attic.”

  The weight of her words burdened Arie with too much meaning. Even months on from their introduction, the extent of Mathilda’s capabilities shocked him into awed contemplation. However, more than the familiar tug of envy and disbelief that often accompanied his realizations, he could hardly believe his long-past performance echoed into the present.

  Through Mathilda.

  He turned to face the musicians’ empty chairs and glanced to the right, catching sight of her out of the corner of his eye. A single face in the crowd. She had sat in that chair, developing her marvelous gifts. He imagined how she must have appeared, eager and watching him like a worshiper before her most treasured idol, because she looked at him that way now.