by Carrie Lofty
With a renewed, distracted energy, he wished Love and Freedom had been his creation—not for the fame or renown, and not even to salve the stab of his conscience. He yearned for that fruitless wish in order to deserve Mathilda’s humbling regard.
“Play something,” she said. The acoustics of the hall carried her words to him. “I will be your audience.”
Arie smiled at the intimacy of her demand, the sound of which shattered his hopeless wish. No matter how much he wanted to, he could not reshape the past. But perhaps he had acquired skills enough to earn her esteem. Properly, this time.
“What shall I play?”
“Love and Freedom.”
Struck in the gut, he tensed. He could almost see the cogs of her mind working, poking at his refusal. Arie fought the impulse to look away. “No. Another choice.”
Her shoulders tense, she crossed one hand over the other. “Then the fourth movement of your new symphony.”
“Mathilda, I have no fourth movement.”
“You do. We played it together on Sunday afternoon.”
“You wrote the motif.”
“I did, but you built it into a movement. Without you, it would have remained some wild rant.” She paused. “Besides, Herr Stüderl mentioned something about preparing to perform your symphony. You know it’s ready.”
“I know no such thing.”
“Give me tonight,” she said, echoing his earlier request. “I will convince you that your symphony is complete.”
Arie shook his head against the temptation to accept her offer, dreading its cycling return. The first movement described a lost man. The second told the story of that same man discovering his muse. A particular, unforgettable afternoon in February had inspired the rampant sexuality of the rhythms in the third movement. What could be more fitting than concluding his tale with a creation they had forged together?
Writing the blasted thing myself.
Stüderl had reserved Carabinierisaal on Arie’s behalf for a May debut. He had mere weeks to complete the work, but he would not accept Mathilda’s assistance.
“The second movement,” he said. “I will play that for you.”
He settled atop the bench and limbered his fingers, unable to recall a more conspicuous moment in front of a piano. In the studio, with Mathilda his only companion, she had held an instrument as well. Now he would perform in honor of his most important admirer, for her alone, and Arie wanted to offer nothing but his most sincere effort.
Playing, he delivered every note with the intense yearning and care it deserved. He reserved none of his passion or mastery of the medium, yet he did not rush. He allowed his mind to become utterly absorbed.
Until—
He stopped mid-bar.
As if she had been holding her breath throughout his performance, Mathilda gasped into the yawning silence. Her sound of surprise replaced the piano’s exquisite tones.
Arie did not enjoy petty infighting between musicians or the nervous anxieties that beset him, without fail, among wealthy patrons. More often than not, his students drove him mad with repetition and tedium. He barely trusted his own worth. But at least he understood the small universe of the piano, its rewards and toils.
Now doubt invaded the hall. Not even in those early months, barely nineteen and conducting another man’s symphony for the first time, had he felt this disoriented, this nervous. Vertigo rolled him from floor to ceiling. No longer limited to the realm of composition, his weaknesses threatened to consume the gift he had always trusted: his skill at the piano. Never had he experienced such defeat.
But the solution revealed itself, both wonderful and obvious. Dangerous.
“I cannot continue.” He made room for her on the piano bench and turned to meet her bewildered stare. “Will you come here? Alstublieft?”
Since Mathilda’s arrival into his life—or he into hers, for he could not determine whose influence had been stronger—nothing worthwhile existed without her. She set his good sense alight, leaving ash in its place and allowing the phoenix of his music to rise high.
Her expression still revealed her uncertainty, but she walked toward the pianoforte in a shimmering cloud of watercolor-purple silk. He wanted to pet the curving slope of her nape, to feel the wisps of fine hair there, but he settled for skimming its length with his gaze.
“I cannot do this without you,” he said huskily.
Her brow furrowed and hazel eyes searched for any hint of his intent. He did not object to her fearless appraisal because he wanted her to see how desperate he had become.
“Arie, I don’t understand. Why did you stop playing?”
Her bravery promised to soothe his doubts. Would she refuse him anything? But her generosity frightened him because of his own history of taking more than he had a right to.
“I have a proposition,” he said. “Perform with the court orchestra for the debut of my symphony.”
Mathilda stared, her mouth agape. He watched his appeal reverberate inside her head as she weighed each word for candor and feasibility. Quick as ever, she replied without a hint of hesitation. “Impossible.”
But Arie had witnessed hope in her eyes, a hope begging him to prove her wrong. He obliged. Taking her soft, clever hands in his own, he loosed his acid thoughts and asinine hopes.
“You are the most infuriating, enjoyable part of my life. For months that has not changed.” He locked his gaze with hers in a war of wills, one they both seemed eager for Arie to win. “Your violin echoes in my mind long after you go.”
“I’m glad to be of assistance. You should know that.”
He spoke in a rush, fearing her rejection. “But here, just now, I realized how much I depend on your opinions and abilities. I cannot imagine debuting my symphony without you. I must have you with me on stage.”
“But I cannot.” She worked her lips, pressing them tight and chewed with fretful bites. “The nuns at Nonnberg perform in their symphony, sometimes even for the duke, but a woman performer? On her own? It would never be allowed.”
Arie grinned then, fully. The tight band of fear loosened around his heart. “Is that your sole reservation?”
She nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Then tonight will be as I hoped.” From a pocket in his waistcoat, he removed a tiny pouch of charcoal-colored velvet. “I brought this for you.”
That same unrelenting curiosity crumpled her brow. When Mathilda opened the little purse, a delicate silver chain fell into her hands. “My necklace?”
“I promised to fix it. Have you the pendant?”
She shook her head. “I have not needed it—not since…”
“Since when, Tilda?” A riotous blush stormed across the rounded tops of her cheeks. Her sudden awkwardness revealed everything to Arie. He prompted, feigning innocence. “Since our first kiss?”
Mathilda laughed in reply. The glorious sound of her embarrassed joy filled the expansive hall. “Yes,” she said, both beaming and blushing. “Since our first kiss.”
Her laugh invited revelry and peace. But Arie could not indulge her summons when the sparking memory of stage fright ripped through his skin.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Arie’s mood was so hard to discern that Mathilda was nearly glad when Ingrid returned at a quarter to nine, escorted by a footman. The foursome then proceeded to Kaisersaal, where the noise of dozens of mannered conversations raised goose bumps along Mathilda’s bare upper arms. She could no longer tell where excitement ended and fear began…but that had been the story of her past few months.
Just out of view of the gathered guests, Arie pulled her aside. “No need for nerves, Tilda.”
“There most certainly is.”
“They are curious of me. Maybe they will want your identity—nothing more.”
She shifted from one foot to the other. And back again. “How will that convince me to restrain my nerves?”
“Pretend. Pretend until it is real.”
“I cannot understan
d you tonight.”
He regarded her with a tender expression. “I am content now, no matter these fools.”
“What has changed?”
His smile flared with a sudden fervor bordering on mania, threatening to banish his unfamiliar nonchalance in favor of the unpredictable, passionate man she knew. He leaned closer, finding the privacy of her ears. “I feared your rejection earlier. But what I said of our secret kiss…and how it ended—you did not hit me.”
His whisper lit a fire along her skin. Mathilda almost giggled, restraining her giddy anticipation out of habit alone. He was making just the sort of private promises that she wanted desperately to hear.
But then his face was all business. He was the one to smooth his hair this time. After two quick tugs on his lapels, he picked a few last miniscule flecks of fluff from his coat sleeves. “Here we go.”
Arie stepped into the hall, and Mathilda followed.
A dozen various nobles and patrons gathered nearby, ignoring her as they jostled for a place at his side. She stepped back, listening in curious wonder as eager admirers inundated him with questions and introductions. They babbled in a frenetic excess, discussing particular compositions and performances.
Mathilda tried to content herself with absorbing the beauty of that splendid space. Bright colors and a mass of guests in fine costumes glared in contrast to Rittersaal’s quiet, gilded elegance. Orange, red and floral crown moldings adorned the white walls, and ornate frescoes with filigree edges covered the entire ceiling. Red-and-blue hangings bordered the arched windows. Chandeliers and mirrors created artificial depth, and brass chairs stretched by rows to the back of the space.
Not that she could see the rear of the hall. Body after ornamented body filled it entirely. Only at Arie’s Salzburg debut and the Venners’ wedding had she borne witness to such an elaborate, wealthy gathering.
Touching the unadorned chain of silver around her neck, she imagined every eye watching her impertinence. But the habit no longer relieved her anxieties. And no one was watching her.
Her attention strolled back to Arie. Twice before, she had witnessed his unrehearsed behavior among a mass of people: at the Venners’ ball and throughout the piano competition. His behavior at the ball had bordered on indecent, tainted by an excess of self-pity and drink. By contrast, he had proven respectable but introverted at the Stadttrinkstube.
Neither experience explained his unusually jaunty mood that evening, nor his apparent resolve to master his shyness. His flawless appearance and exquisite, authoritative manners left her speechless. Despite an underlying, sometimes debilitating reticence, he seemed capable of affecting a cool façade when the occasion demanded.
Mathilda’s head spun at the reminder of his public face. She had come to know him within the privacy of his tiny studio, at times wholly forgetting his renown. With no more knowledge of his character than a single performance, she had worshipped him ever since. That other admirers regarded him with a similar impersonal adoration set her on poor footing. In the midst of those excited, prying enthusiasts, her claim to his affection dissipated. Neither Arie’s wife nor his betrothed, she was merely a pupil.
Ingrid touched her arm. “You look like a girl who wants her doll back.”
“Don’t tease.”
“I must. This is dreadfully dull.” Looking impeccably fine in a empire waist gown of vibrant yellow silks, Ingrid’s gaze drifted across the assembly. “Why we arrive hours early to stand and talk I cannot understand.”
“But you love to talk, Ingrid.”
She grinned and added a silly flounce. “About myself, ja. And in my own home.”
“A pity to be an old woman at such a young age.” Mathilda glanced at the nobles and guests but recognized no one. “Where is Venner?”
“I know not,” she said, shrugging. “If Duke Ferdinand had not promised to attend, I would have said he returned home.”
“Is Frau Kleinmayrn here?”
“No, but her sister is.”
“Have these women nothing better to do?”
“No.”
Arie’s resonant laugh caught Mathilda’s attention once again. She admired the deep hollows of his cheeks, the stern angle of his nose, the chin thrusting defiantly away from the carved beauty of his mouth. His lone suit of black evening clothes and a midnight blue waistcoat concealed lean musculature. Sapphire eyes turned down, he appeared in deep concentration despite the excess of enthusiasts angling for his attention.
Handsome. Adored. Hers?
Hers.
She wanted to eat him alive. She wanted his mouth on her again in that same shocking, unforgettable, irredeemable way. But most of all, she wanted help to scale the wall separating them from the passion they had once indulged. Where, when, how to begin again?
While in awe of the opulent surroundings and curious about the concert to come, she wondered what he would say if she asked to return to his studio. No questions. No doubts. No more waiting.
Although the choice might prove foolhardy, Mathilda had grown tired of running from fears—fears that dictated the course of her life. Like a child willing to believe in a nursery tale, she pushed her suspicions and questions into a corner. Jürgen rested in peace within her mind and heart, and her unknown future beckoned. For one night, she would give herself to the excitement of her passion.
When morning came…
No, she wanted recklessness. Everything else would wait. She let the worry walk through her until only anticipation remained.
“You’ll give yourself away.”
She pulled her thoughts back to Ingrid. “Everyone else looks at him. Why can’t I?”
“The people in this room watch him with curiosity, or even disapproval.” Ingrid sipped from the wine glass she held at a delicate angle. “They desire an introduction, or they admire his music. Some young woman might even fancy herself in love without ever having met him.”
Mathilda squished her face. “Imagine that.”
“But you’re the only person who looks ready to devour him,” she whispered. “Be careful, dearest.” Ingrid kissed her cheek, then slipped into the crowd.
Mathilda briefly dropped her gaze to the cream-colored marble floor. Breathing deeply, she worked to clear her face of both distress and desire.
“Willkommen, good Frau Heidel.”
“Kapellmeister.” She greeted the older musician with a strained smile. “How are you tonight?”
“All the better for seeing you here,” Haydn said with jovial enthusiasm. The solemnity of his mood within the holy space of the Dom became a mere memory. After more than four decades as the city’s highest-ranking musician, he appeared infinitely comfortable within those lush environs. “Come, now, where is Herr De Voss?”
“We’re playing a game,” she said, threading an arm through his. “Dodge the gossips.”
An expression of merriment teased along his mouth. “Ah. May I play too?”
“Of course.”
“Then allow me to introduce you to a wonderful young composer by the name of Arie De Voss. He’s Dutch, you know.”
“I thank you, sir.”
He waved a hand, feigning to push the preening crowds away. “Do not, Frau Heidel. I’ve seen these same faces for decades. Any diversion save open violence is a welcome one.”
The pair reached Arie where he stood next to an elegant woman in her early forties. She wore an exquisite gown of ice-blue silk and ivory lace trim. Gray-streaked black hair arranged in an elaborate coiffure of spirals and curls accentuated the graceful lines of her neck and slender face. Magnetic black eyes shone from beneath heavy dark lashes. An oblong bruise along her left jaw marred her otherwise flawless olive skin.
Mathilda had never seen such an arresting woman.
“De Voss, there you are,” Haydn said.
“Gute Abend, Kapellmeister. And Frau Heidel. Lovely to see you.” Arie bowed deeply, his air bright and amused. He turned to present the elegant woman. “Allow me to present Fr
au Regina Schlick.”
“I am honored to meet you both,” the woman said. Her lilting Italian accent created melody out of plain speech. “Herr De Voss has told me you perform exquisitely.”
“Thank you.” She smiled broadly at the unexpected compliment. That he would speak of her in glowing terms to this exotic woman warmed Mathilda from top to toes. “The maestro flatters me.”
“Nonsense. He recognizes talent almost as well as he composes.” She turned and touched his arm. Mathilda fought an urge to slap her hand away. “Sir, your violin concerti remain among the most thrilling I know. I must have one of my own. You have promised for years.”
“Quality requires patience, my dear.” His smooth response convinced even Mathilda of his sincerity. He sounded perfectly gracious and even…charming?
Watching the exchange, her uncertainty increased. She never could have imitated the mysterious woman’s air of unquestioned authority, holding the rapt attention of every man within earshot. Arie smiled warmly and with an expression of genuine interest. Despondently, Mathilda wondered if he and the stylish woman had been intimate.
But no—he remained poised and cool, ignoring the fawning guests. Surely a public reunion with a former lover would throw her reticent Dutchman into bashful fits.
Before she could learn more about the beauty and her capacity to captivate everyone, matched trumpeters announced the arrival of Duke Ferdinand and his entourage. Heads turned and dropped in conspicuous bows before Salzburg’s monarch.
Through lowered lashes, she glimpsed the gaunt Florentine’s cleft chin, down-turned mouth and large eyes ringed by puffy lower lids. At only thirty-five years old, he had already suffered the loss of his noble inheritance—the Tuscan kingdom of his birth—as well as his wife and three of his six children. The sorrows of his life etched his handsome face, refusing to hide behind the majesty of his titles and possessions.
As everyone emerged from deep bows and curtsies, Haydn whisked the intriguing Frau Schlick to the front of Kaisersaal. Mathilda turned to her Dutch compass for direction. “Arie, who is she?”