Song of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  But Arie’s lax pose and his idle contentment concealed his remaining doubts.

  From the lake, she crossed the wide pasture and knelt next to her fiancé. “Are you ready to walk down for supper?”

  Arie opened his eyes. “I am full from lunch still.”

  “And I’m indifferent to your excuses,” she said. “You’ll not be able to conduct if you are lightheaded from lack of sustenance.”

  “I survived last night just fine, wielding a much larger baton.”

  She shrieked, landing atop him in a fit of laughter. “Terrible!”

  Arie kissed her soundly. “You will forgive me. I am the foreign man and know not the words to say.”

  “Fiend! I’ll be appalled if your knowledge of my language expands to include bawdy puns.” She sat away from him and arranged her skirts over crossed knees. Arie tried to snake a hand beneath her gown, but she swatted him away. “And to think I was going to ask you loving questions of concern and offer my unwavering support.”

  “And now?”

  Mathilda sighed, regarding him thoughtfully. “Is it time to go home?”

  He said nothing. A look of panic flashed across his sharp features.

  “I know that expression, Maestro.”

  “What?”

  “Where you dwell on your inadequacies and think less of yourself.”

  Arie laughed. He drew closer and stroked the necklace hanging from her neck. “Maybe your pendant does not give you magic, witch. It is this chain.”

  “Don’t tease,” she said. “I still have much to confess without adding the charge of witchcraft to my sins.”

  “Be content in the knowledge that, in saving your soul, you will also give some hapless priest a most memorable hour.”

  “You are insolent, sir!”

  Throughout the days and nights she had shared with Arie since her arrival, she learned to shake free of the reflexive embarrassment fostered by his suggestive teasing. They taught each other to be permissive and experimental, and she refused to relinquish that freedom and excitement. With Arie, together, she would never need to.

  Yet, he still faltered.

  She took his hands. “Let us rehearse the symphony tonight. Maybe it will ease your apprehension to have my support.”

  “I thought your support was unwavering.”

  “It was, until you started with the nasty puns. Come, Arie, you know I’m curious. Share it with me.” She scowled when he offered nothing but a grimace. “Oh, I know that look, too.”

  “Now what?”

  “You wear that same expression whenever you perform a new piece for me. You look…expectant, hesitant.” She pointed her forefinger and made little circles. “And a bit annoyed around the eyes because you dislike your uncertainty.”

  “You know my face so well?”

  “Of course. I know that look because I anticipated it every week. I felt important when you performed a new piece, a work no one else had heard. You needed me.”

  “I do,” he said, reaching for her.

  Mathilda shook her head in protest. “Our situations did not equate. You were my teacher. Any criticism or encouragement from you determined the rest of my week, ill or fine. More than just my music became yours to direct and shape.”

  “Whereas I wrote my symphony because that was all I could manage. I sat in my frozen flat for months, burning alive for you. My symphony…I was biding time.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I do not exaggerate,” he said. “I had nowhere to direct my frustrations. That is why you remain my muse.”

  “Fine,” she said, smiling. “I will be your muse, and you will be my idol. If we can make room for two in that tiny bed of yours, surely we can share a pedestal.”

  At the piano, he waited. The echoes of music faded. Anticipation ran excruciating circuits through his veins, hammering in his heart.

  Mathilda’s eyes shone with formidable emotions. She humbled him with her admiration and pride.

  She loves me.

  And with a clearer certainty than any he had known, Arie believed. He believed that she returned his love with the same ardor and devotion. Not even their nights of passion and promises had convinced him so absolutely.

  But still he waited. He wanted to hear the words that would sustain him through the ordeal he had yet to bear.

  “Breathtaking, mijn liefde.”

  Arie exhaled in abject relief. “Then, yes. It is time to go home.”

  PART THREE

  …Ah, it seemed impossible to leave the world until I had produced all that I felt called upon me to produce, and so I endured this wretched existence…

  Ludwig van Beethoven, “The Heiligenstadt Testament”

  Written to his brothers, October 1802

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Arie shifted on the settee and fought the urge to yank free of his cravat. Across the room, Lady Ingrid Venner regarded him with as much affection as she would an ice storm. Unwavering, her gaze locked with his. The flowering young noblewoman he met in January had transformed into marble.

  No, marble could not glare with such withering precision.

  “Frau Heidel has related the details of your…excursion to Henndorf,” she said. “However, I understand that you would like to relate matters of concern to Lord Venner?”

  Arie stifled an ungracious snort. Adjacent to the young woman, seated behind his massive oak desk, the esteemed Lord Venner perked briefly at the mention of his name. Then he returned to his papers. Known throughout Salzburg as a man of will and vision, Venner presented a different picture within the private walls of his town home. With regard to the arts in general, and Mathilda specifically, Lady Venner held absolute sway.

  This is going to be excruciating.

  But Mathilda sat beside him. Although he would not take her hand, her nearness bolstered him against her best friend’s protective wrath.

  He cleared the rough scrape of tension from his throat. “Before gossip has a chance to make a case against me, I wish to speak with Lord Venner and offer the truth.”

  Again, the nobleman lifted his head. “Can you stop, both of you? We all know Ingrid is responsible for matters of patronage.”

  Lady Venner glanced at Mathilda with an amused smirk before returning her cool green eyes to Arie. “Continue, sir. Bitte.”

  She had married into the aristocracy little more than a year before, but her ability to transform the word please into a command demonstrated titled perfection. Mathilda glared at their hostess.

  “My lady, information regarding my early musical career will come to light before long.” Arie surveyed every word for grammatical accuracy, hoping to appear especially refined and capable. “Your family’s patronage is very important to me. My intention is to acquaint you with the details before they are known to the public.”

  At this provocative introduction, even Venner cocked his head. Arie took another deep breath before relating, briefly, the history of his association with Sándor Bolyai.

  Lady Venner’s eyes widened and sparked between him and Mathilda. “You did not compose Love and Freedom?”

  He sighed, his chest tight. “I did not. However, as Frau Heidel and Kapellmeister Haydn can both attest, the remaining catalogue of my work is my own.”

  “Is this correct, Frau Heidel?”

  On Lady Venner’s face, beneath her words, he read another question. Why didn’t you tell me?

  Mathilda’s answering expression was unflappable and serious, even if her exaggerated decorum was not. “Yes, Lady Venner. He tells the truth.”

  “Oh stop it, Tilda.” She abruptly dropped her starched formality. “You…you’re reconciled to this?”

  “Herr De Voss made a mistake in his youth for which he is willing to publicly atone. That is good enough for me.”

  Lady Venner narrowed a sharp stare at both of them. “And despite your admission, sir, you wish to retain our patronage?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Arie said. “I have much to
prove. My symphony is ready to debut, and I will be grateful for your assistance.”

  As Lady Venner considered the situation, a smothering stillness crept into the room. Arie waited. Mathilda nearly squirmed.

  “Give him our assurances, Ingrid.”

  All heads turned toward Lord Venner and his quiet command.

  Arie shivered in recognition. In his dealings with the Venners, he had often seen the nobleman display impatience and a slight awkwardness. The topic of music did not suit him. But when their discussion of the arts transformed into a matter of business, Venner’s shrewdness reigned. His magnetism and soft-spoken power explained much of his success among the principality’s political elite.

  Only a simpleton would mistake the chilling authority in his voice, and Lady Venner had always struck Arie as particularly clever.

  “Of course, my lord.” The acquiescence, without sarcasm or teasing, sounded peculiar coming from such an assertive young woman.

  “And you, De Voss,” the nobleman said, “you will not breathe a word of your secret outside this room.”

  Puzzled glances mirrored across the room. A reflex of indignation surged in Arie’s chest. “My lord, with all respect—”

  Venner ignored him, watching his wife. “You want to ask why, yes, Ingrid?”

  She nodded.

  “In my own home,” he muttered. “Explaining myself to women and to staff. What would my father make of this lack of authority?” Only Venner’s amused glance toward Mathilda eased the sting of his dour complaint. “Because speculation about his sudden flight from town will increase his prominence, no matter the quality of his latest work. And Mathilda’s debut will amplify that interest.” He assessed Arie, reducing the composer to the strength and assurance of a fatherless six-year-old lad. “Will you marry her, De Voss?”

  Lady Venner’s unsophisticated expression of surprise was worth every uncomfortable moment. Arie could not suppress the little smile creeping along his lips. “I have asked Frau Heidel to marry me, and she has accepted. We have only to discuss the date with Father Holtz.”

  His wife squeaked, but Venner only nodded. “Congratulations. And all the better to foster your reputation.”

  “My lord, I take offense at the notion that I will marry to garner publicity.”

  “Don’t mistake me, De Voss. I understand your motives perfectly. Frau Heidel is lovely, and I wish you both joy. But the fact remains that your union to a prodigy—a former student, as well—will be an object of gossip. A little scandal will not harm your career in the end, and interest in your symphony will increase accordingly.”

  Arie’s face stiffened at the man’s clinical assessment. “And what of your request regarding Love and Freedom?”

  “That was no request. That was a condition of employment.”

  Mathilda watched him, he knew, but he would not look at her. Venner held his full attention, although due to the ire he inspired or because of the forbidden hope flaring at the man’s words, Arie could not say. “Explain yourself, please, my lord.”

  “Ingrid and Mathilda, both, are convinced of your worth. We supported you accordingly. Your symphony is the product of our conviction. What will come of our investment if you cast doubt on your work?” He stood from his desk and sat on the arm of the chair Lady Venner occupied, a position that permitted him to look down at his companions—intentionally, no doubt. “Pay no mind,” he said. “That was rhetorical. Your career would be forfeit.”

  Arie had never heard him speak at such length. Both women gaped, with matching expressions of bewildered surprise creasing their brows.

  “If I studied music for a century,” Venner said, “I would remain unable to discern your compositions from those of the Kapellmeister. When I see a conductor standing before an orchestra, I assume the work is his. I don’t ask questions. But if you open this door of doubt to the public…”

  Arie clung to his indignation, lest Venner’s cool authority excuse and extend his fraud. “You are asking me to continue lying?”

  “De Voss, they will never regard you with integrity again. Your career will be ruined before it rightly begins.” He trained a sad smile on Mathilda. “Marriage will become a rather precarious enterprise without an income.”

  Grinding his teeth, Arie sought his touchstone. Mathilda watched him with inquisitive patience, although her face obscured any opinion regarding Venner’s orders. Her hazel eyes offered nothing but an ambiguous confidence in his decision, one she refused to make on his behalf.

  A desperate part of him wanted to accept the seductive entreaty, but…to continue the charade? He did not know if he could perpetrate the pretense he had lived for years, not after setting his mind toward honesty. How could he continue to benefit from Maestro Bolyai’s work, even when admitting to his crime entailed such ominous consequences?

  “Consider your silence the extent of your earthly punishment,” Venner said, as if reading Arie’s thoughts. “And as for penance, you will find a way to make right your mistakes.”

  Of the many aristocrats Arie had known, from patrons to the nobles who had brought about the destruction of his family, Venner alone demonstrated a singular candor. Arie had once believed the man’s candor to be the mechanizations of a highly skilled politician. But a longer acquaintance belied his initial suspicions. Venner’s strength stemmed from business, but his humanity stemmed from his family. Arie had hoped to keep from disappointing him, not necessarily because of his influence and wealth, but because Venner appealed to him as a true man of character.

  But could the nobleman be right?

  Three sets of eyes scrutinized him with varying degrees of concern. Resigned, he decided to accept Venner’s stipulations and hold his tongue, no matter how galling. But he would determine a way to atone for his mistake.

  He struggled for the right posture of dignity and contrition. “Thank you, Lord Venner. I appreciate your support.”

  “Good. I’ll be pleased when you take this lovely Frau off our hands,” he said, angling his head toward Mathilda. “Perhaps then I’ll regain a place as my wife’s favorite companion.”

  “Hardly.” But the flirtatious tilt of Lady Venner’s lips belied her retort.

  Even as he returned his wife’s ardent gaze, briefly opening a window to the contentment they shared, Venner returned his thoughts to business. “Enough. Out. All of you. I have less dramatic work to which I must attend, or else there will be no income for food—let alone patronage.”

  Arie and Mathilda stood to leave. As Lady Venner escorted them to the parlor door, she said, “Herr De Voss, a last question.”

  He raised his eyebrows, tense and wary.

  “Lord Venner gave you the choice between complete honesty and your future in music. You made a practical decision.” Forearms crossed, she tapped her elbow with a pair of fingers. “But if he had the power to make you choose between Frau Heidel and your career, what would your answer be?”

  Mathilda stiffened, her face a horror of indignation. “Ingrid! You have no right.”

  “He wants our family’s money, Tilda. I have the right to ask questions.”

  “But I would never ask or issue such an ultimatum,” Mathilda said. “And neither has Venner the power to do so.”

  “You do not have to ask, dearest, when you have me.”

  “Small favors.”

  “Answer if you please, Herr De Voss.”

  Despite Mathilda’s obvious irritation, Arie found no displeasure. Coping with the consequences of his mistakes, finding the humility to ask for patronage—those topics invaded his nightmares. Admitting to his love for Mathilda, however, was like breathing. Effortless.

  “I will compose music for the rest of my life,” he said, “no matter the extent of my professional career. But my life without Mathilda will be short and miserable. I will accept no further questions on the subject, Lady Venner, not even from my patrons.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Mathilda stood at the foot of the stair
s leading to Carabinierisaal, where she would perform in less than ten days. Her heart knocked an uneven beat. Excitement and nauseated nerves alternated with a slow-burning dread, but at that moment, stubborn fear paralyzed her legs. Sweating palms slipped when she gripped the handle of the case containing Arie’s beautiful violin, his gift to her to mark her debut.

  Up those stairs, more than two dozen musicians awaited the first rehearsal of her maestro’s new composition, and each of those musicians was a man. She questioned her aspirations because, staring at the mountain of stairs and contemplating the determination she required, the strain appeared too great.

  “You’re deep in thought, Frau Heidel.”

  Stüderl walked to her side with shuffling steps, divested of his formal wig. Sunlight through massive windowpanes glared off his bald head. He radiated an excitement Mathilda could not share.

  “Guten Tag, Konzertmeister.”

  He bowed and glanced up the stairs her legs refused to climb. “Considering a change of profession so soon?”

  Mathilda smiled weakly. She liked Stüderl, valuing his long experience. “How do you remain calm?”

  He beamed, his face crinkling into good-natured wrinkles. “My mentor once told me a secret. It’s only music.”

  “I wish someone had told me before.”

  “In the future, when you’re Konzertmeister for some fortunate establishment, remember that.”

  She shook her head to dispute his prediction. “You do me compliment, sir.”

  “Certainly.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  Cavernous Carabinierisaal loomed at the top of the stairs, replete with the gilt trimmings and lavish décor Mathilda recalled from the night of Frau Schlick’s performance. Thick velvet hangings absorbed the sound of their feet striking the marble floor, a feature to limit distracting echoes during musical performances. Only musicians’ chairs and music stands bunched at the far end. She tried to imagine how the room would appear on the night of the concert, packed with row after row of seats, but the thought seized her throat.