Song of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  Another unaccustomed shade of darkness glanced across Ingrid’s face.

  Mathilda frowned. “Dearest, what is it? Was Venner displeased?”

  “No, no. He was joyful.”

  “But?”

  “But the moment I told him, he looked…tired. He spends countless hours at the Residenz, always with Oliver in tow. He works tirelessly for the city. I simply hope he takes a moment to breathe once the baby is born.”

  “He loves you, Ingrid, and this baby will melt his heart just as you did.” Mathilda clasped their hands together. “We’ll simply add this to the list of things about which you are relentlessly optimistic.”

  At the sound of a distant bell, the young mother-to-be delicately cocked her head. She glanced at a mantel clock. “Ah, that must be the Kapellmeister, and just in time. So pale, dearest.” She pinched Mathilda’s cheeks, attempting to heighten their color. “Do try not to look so fretful.”

  “I cannot help it.”

  “You can. You will.” Where Ingrid pushed her worries and doubts Mathilda had yet to discover, but her efficiency proved a marvel. “I’ll send Klara to fetch you after he and I have tired of small talk. Five minutes at the very most.”

  When Ingrid closed the door, the room’s light and hopefulness vanished with her. Despite the Venners’ support of the city’s musical community, Kapellmeister Haydn had never called at their home. He piqued Mathilda’s curiosity. She could only make worthless guesses at the elderly gentleman’s intentions.

  A sick shadow of grief resurfaced. Although revived by coffee, the strong beverage set her nerves on edge. She fidgeted with the silver chain around her neck. A dozen times a day she thought to remove that stubborn reminder, but a deep cavern in her heart refused to admit defeat. Taking the chain from her neck would mean acknowledging that the love she only just allowed to thrive had already exhausted its fire.

  Klara’s gentle knock rescued her from that worry. “Kapellmeister Haydn wishes to see you, Frau Heidel.”

  Down in the parlor, she greeted Haydn. Ingrid stood to leave, but Mathilda grabbed her hand, insisting with a wordless look that she remain. The trio exchanged brief pleasantries before the Kapellmeister turned the conversation with a pointed question.

  “Frau Heidel, when did you last see Herr De Voss?”

  “I’ve not seen him since the evening of Frau Schlick’s recital.”

  “And how was his temperament?” His deeply set black eyes indicated the grave nature of his inquiry.

  “How do you mean, sir?”

  The Kapellmeister frowned. “My dear, I don’t wish to force an indiscretion, but I must be more specific. Did you quarrel?”

  Quarrel. The word sounded banal. Mathilda wanted to scream the truth of that night, no matter who might hear, no matter the consequences. We loved. We fought.

  He sent me away.

  “We had…a disagreement. I’ve not seen him since.” As her stomach shrank into a sour ball, she wished she had not abandoned the dark safety of her bedroom. “Please, sir, has something happened?”

  Painfully, Haydn’s expression reminded Mathilda of those few moments she had endured before learning of Jürgen’s murder. The room became tighter, warmer. She shook her head to clear the dizziness of memory.

  “You look ill, dearest,” Ingrid whispered. “Do you need a glass of wine?”

  Her fright amplified, holding Ingrid’s concern at bay. “Has something happened to Arie?”

  “I know not,” Haydn replied. “He came to my house on the Monday morning following Frau Schlick’s concert. He gave me the key to his studio and a few florins, asking me to settle the rent at the end of the month—if he did not return to do so himself.”

  “He’s gone? Where?” Her panic flowered full and bright. Dimly, she heard Ingrid ring the bell for refreshments.

  “Again, I know not.” The Kapellmeister cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with his role as a messenger bearing bad news. “I made careful inquires to the usual sources and learned that he hasn’t asked for letters of reference or credit. If that bears out, then he won’t have the means to travel far.” He shrugged, a helpless and resigned gesture. “But when he failed to keep scheduled appointments at the university, I became concerned.”

  “He’s gone,” she whispered to herself.

  Ingrid pressed a wineglass into her hands. Dazed and lost, Mathilda drank indelicately. The crystal pulled at the tendons of her wrist. Her strength had fled with Arie.

  “Sir, do you have an idea of where he may have gone?” Ingrid asked. “Friends, perhaps? Family?”

  Haydn denied any such knowledge, and Mathilda shook her head. “He has no one,” she said.

  Nobody but me.

  He should be here.

  A streak of fear crisscrossed her heart, flooding her with a dreaded sensation of loss. Mathilda’s mother, Elisabet Roth, had been despondent. Her family had turned her away. An infant girl depended on her, but not even the tender anchor of a child’s need had proven strong enough to help her mother navigate the sorrow. Could Arie be as lost and desperate?

  “How did he look, sir?” she asked.

  Haydn sighed, toying with a tail of his coat. “Not well. Thin, paler than ever I’ve seen him. I offered the services of my valet, but he refused.”

  Mathilda stared into her empty wineglass. The alcohol did little to steady her nerves but lifted a searing acid into her throat. She raised her face to meet Ingrid’s calm, warm gaze. “Help me,” she said, almost mouthing the words rather than saying them aloud. “I am adrift.”

  Ingrid returned the wineglasses to the silver beverage service. “You have been adrift for years. And your partner of choice maintains less of a footing in this world than you do.”

  Terror nestled in her brain like a tick. “He will hurt himself.”

  “Think logically, Tilda,” she said. “If he had a mind to do the worst, he would not pack his things and set out for parts unknown. Go to the studio. When you find it vacant, you’ll know he simply left Salzburg. We won’t know why, but we can find him.”

  “But where to begin?”

  “Luckily, you have me…and I have Christoph.” She rang the bell again, and Klara returned to the parlor. “Please find Oliver and ask him to bring Lord Venner. The matter is urgent.”

  Despite Venner’s occupation as a man of politics, he defined himself through his loyalties. He adored his wife, and because his wife loved Mathilda, his hand in locating Arie De Voss was a foregone enterprise. He could not discuss the difference between a rondo and a minuet, but no one could dispute the influence engendered by his title and character.

  Mathilda marveled at his success. Within an hour of Ingrid’s summons, he had tactfully identified the landlord of Arie’s studio, plying the unsuspecting businessman with florins enough to ensure both cooperation and silence. In that way, the Venners worked as a time-tested team despite their young marriage. He maneuvered, providing influence and contacts, while she provided money and a gently prodding will.

  When Mathilda and the Kapellmeister arrived at Getreidegasse 26, Oliver waited for them at street level. He did not stand guard so much as…watch—intently, and at Venner’s insistence. Speculation could damage Arie’s career no matter his destination or his motives for leaving.

  With shaking hands, Mathilda used the key that Arie had given the Kapellmeister. The door swung open on rusted hinges to reveal a barren, lifeless space. Haydn gently moved Mathilda to the side, leaving her immobile in the doorway as he searched the tiny rooms.

  “No, he’s not here,” Haydn said, his voice shaded with relief. “And most of his possessions are gone.”

  Mathilda shared his relief, granting permission for the balm to wash through her, easing the most immediate of her fears. Arie had left, but he had not abandoned her as thoroughly, as irrevocably, as had her mother.

  But questions remained, crowding her brain with an insistent pressure. Her pulse rushed and leaped. Why? Why had he gone?


  She shivered, searching for anything to reveal Arie’s whereabouts. Too many shadows teased her with the past. Silent and damp, the studio represented a pale reminder of emotion that had heated its small space. The pianoforte remained, as did the cello and the music stands. A faint layer of dust already coated those essential tools of his trade. But he had taken the violin and his meager collection of clothing. The dull surface of the worktable was bare.

  Mathilda walked to the painted cupboard and opened doors left ajar. At the bottom of the hollow and otherwise empty cabinet, she found a portfolio half-stuffed with parchment sheets.

  At her shoulder, Haydn asked, “Anything?”

  “Papers. Compositions, I believe.”

  “Perhaps I should go downstairs? Bring fire for a candle?”

  “Never mind, sir.”

  She pulled the portfolio from the cupboard and laid its contents atop the silent piano. By the window overlooking the narrow cobblestone lane, Mathilda used the last light of late afternoon to see which compositions Arie had abandoned.

  Love and Freedom.

  She examined the handwriting, noting the tight, clear script. Each note sported a flag standing perpendicular to its staff. Studiously neat, the writing belonged to an individual charged with the reverential care of another’s work. A careful copy. By contrast, Arie’s original creations always emerged in manic scribbles as his hand struggled to keep pace with inspiration.

  Conscious of the Kapellmeister’s curious gaze, Mathilda shuffled the incriminating score to the bottom of the portfolio and searched for more. Her eyes caught on the sight of her own name. “Mathilda’s Movement.” Her heart jumped. A cry formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down, choking on his rejection.

  He had abandoned their composition, just as he had abandoned her.

  “What do you see? I fear my eyes aren’t up to the task of reading in this light. The works are his?” Maybe Mathilda hesitated too long. Maybe Haydn had been waiting for the right opportunity to broach the subject. No matter the impetus, he nodded in the silence. “Love and Freedom, then?”

  She jerked free of her name scrawled by Arie’s hand. Like trying to see through thick smoke, her eyes stung. Her voice emerged as a hoarse croak. “You knew?”

  “Ja, and I’ve handled the whole situation none too well. It really does me no credit.” In vain, he searched the room as if for a comfortable seat before leaning heavily against the piano. “I did not invite De Voss to come to Salzburg because of that symphony. I prefer his sacred works, but such is my preference overall. And his skill at the piano is truly exceptional. I thought—ah, I thought to leave the past to the past. But that has proven easier said than done.”

  “He…when I last saw him, his crime devastated him,” Mathilda said, briefly outlining the suitable details of their argument.

  Haydn surprised her by laughing in disbelief. “And he understands so little of this business?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “My dear woman, your friend Lord Venner—would he care if De Voss or Beethoven or even one of the famous Haydn brothers had written Love and Freedom? Or some late unknown Hungarian, for that matter?”

  Mathilda smiled. The thought of Venner noticing, let alone genuinely caring about such a matter, amused her despite the tension. “Of course not.”

  “And neither would the majority of Europe. De Voss claimed the Hungarian’s work as his own, which was dishonest. But the music survived. That man’s last pupil and his final musical project, both have flourished.” He returned her smile, an expression mixed from equal parts sentimentality and cynicism. “I wouldn’t necessarily be displeased by such a circumstance, unless someone attributed my work to my brother by mistake.”

  The venerated composer’s easy acceptance of Arie’s theft stunned her. “Is that what you would have told him?”

  “Ja, and I should have.” He removed his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes, smoothing his spiky eyebrows when he finished. “My mother was a cook and my father was a wheelwright. Joseph, my brother—he sang as we imagine angels would sing. I don’t know what my musical career would have been without the luck of his early successes. Your Dutchman found a little luck, too.”

  “The trouble will be convincing him.”

  “If you cannot convince him, Frau Heidel, then I no longer want to know the man.” He turned back to the jumble of music sheets. “May I see the other piece?”

  Mathilda silently relinquished the parchment clenched in her hands, her heart in shreds.

  Haydn stared at the score, concentrating deeply. “Yours?”

  “The motif, yes.”

  “He held back to accommodate it,” he said with a fond smile. “I don’t think any of us knows what he’s truly capable of—least of all him.”

  A knock at the door made both musicians jump. Oliver identified himself before opening the door. “Frau Heidel, Kapellmeister Haydn, the landlord stopped by to provide these letters. He had been holding them for Herr De Voss.”

  Mathilda received the small bundle of correspondence with hands that refused to be steady. “Thank you, Oliver.” She opened the twine binding and spread a dozen notices atop the composition sheets. “Maas, Perger, Schrattenbach—do you recognize these names, sir?”

  “Students of his, I believe.”

  She read one. “Dear Sir, we desire to understand your absence from Anton’s lesson on Tuesday last.” And another. “Dear Herr De Voss, your failure to keep the appointment for our son’s piano instruction is highly irregular and requires explanation.”

  The contents of each letter echoed similar sentiments. In the handful of days since leaving Salzburg, Arie had disappointed a great many families.

  “But nothing from the Schindlers,” she said, sliding letter over letter in her search. “Sir, was he still teaching the Schindlers’ boys?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Mathilda took breakfast with Ingrid and Venner. She nibbled at spring berries but sorely lacked an appetite. The basic task of eating had transformed into an odious chore. Sleeping, too, had become impossible. She dozed fitfully through each night, beset by too many dark thoughts.

  Haydn had promised to write when he unearthed any details. Waiting wore her to a frazzle. Days lapsed, each pulling her nerves into thinner shreds and tossing her between sadness, concern and anger.

  Why did he leave?

  God, keep him safe.

  Idiot man!

  His rejection stung less and less with the passing of hours, or so she worked hard to believe. Arie De Voss could boast a long and storied history of his own idiocy, the capacity for which had long since outpaced her imagination. She would find the man. And then what, exactly?

  Hit him.

  That was first on her list. She would proceed to haranguing, berating, scolding and kissing, while the order for those tasks remained subject to circumstance. Beneath the dining table, Mathilda balled her hands into fists like rocks. Anger nourished her resolve and held other, more frightening emotions at bay.

  Reluctantly she wondered how much inspiration he had drawn from her theatrics. Turnabout was fair play, after all. She had abandoned him for weeks without explanation. Granted, she had stayed in the city, but Arie must have experienced a similar sense of doubt and anxiety over her wordless refusal of his love. She would have to apologize again, to ask his forgiveness and understanding.

  Sometime after the hitting and the kissing.

  Ingrid buttered a piece of dark bread and regarded her with an almost maternal look of concern. “Tilda, you must eat.”

  She smiled inwardly at how much Ingrid appeared to enjoy their apparent role reversal. Rarely had the younger woman found herself in the position to dote. Or maybe, while awaiting the birth of her own child, she wished to make the most of any opportunity to hone her skills.

  But despite her friend’s best intentions, Mathilda no longer wanted sympathy. That she needed to request even more assistance from the Venners, no matter thei
r willingness to help, galled her. She simply wanted to vent the mean temper building and pulsing within her. Ingrid’s well-meaning words of concern and her bright optimism only served to remind her that the situation might not end well. Klaus and Elisabet Roth had loved each other fiercely, but their love had not afforded a happy life.

  Idiot man, she thought again. Be angry.

  “Dearest?”

  “If I were hungry, Ingrid, I would eat.”

  Her wounded look made Mathilda reconsider. Be angry at Arie. “Forgive me,” she said softly.

  “Of course.” But the luster of Ingrid’s cheerfulness had dimmed.

  Venner sipped his coffee. “De Voss has demonstrated a capricious nature, as if he is merely playing the part of an artist. I wonder what sort of man he is in truth.”

  He dropped his gaze, returning to his morning examination of trade ledgers and correspondences. Mathilda stared in surprise. Ingrid, regarding her husband as she would some rare species of insect, dissected his unexpected contribution with a tiny scowl.

  “Christoph may be right,” she said with a dainty shrug. A hint of a smile tilted the corners of her lips, indicating a return to her good humor. “Once you get him back and curb this temperamental streak of his, he may be useless as a composer.”

  A footman entered the dining room and bowed. “Frau Heidel, a correspondence for you.”

  Mathilda fairly tore open the missive and read Haydn’s single sentence. “De Voss is with the Schindlers in Henndorf.”

  An hour later, Mathilda departed Salzburg for the first time.

  As Oliver navigated the smaller of the Venners’ two carriages through narrow streets, she sat beside him on the driver’s bench. When the matched team stepped onto the Staatsbrücke, she clenched her eyes tightly. Nothing escaped her nervous fingers, alternately gripping the handholds and fingering her silver chain.

  “A lovely sight, Frau Heidel, is it not?”

  At the sound of Oliver’s innocent, awed voice, she could not help but look. And she sat a little taller on the bench.

  The Salzach flowed tranquilly below them. Barriers of marble and stone lined both of its rocky banks as citizens worked and walked along the waters, forging varied lives. Gentle mountains topped with grassy summits blended into the horizon, obscuring the green-hued river’s sharp northward bend. Beyond the horses’ ears, the sharp mount known as Kapuzinerberg bloomed with beech trees and bristled with remnants of crumbled centuries-old fortifications. The yellow-beige bricks of the Kapuzinerkloster, the Capuchin monastery, poked out from the lush canvass of foliage.