by Carrie Lofty
Roughly twenty musicians milled around the sparse furnishings, every man as varied as the instruments he played. Old, young, thin, heavy…their compulsion to stare at Mathilda provided the diverse professionals with their single common trait.
The word only drummed at her temples. Only woman. Only newcomer. Only the composer’s lover. Her neck and ears grew hot. Having endeavored to make her life unremarkable, she now intended to stand among veteran performers, asking to belong. What had she been thinking, agreeing to Arie’s mad scheme?
Despite weeks of schooling her nerves to accept unfamiliar exposure and criticism, her lifetime of fears threatened to overwhelm any joy she might have found. None of her anxieties were mirrored in those assessing eyes, their expressions ranging from intrigued to disdainful. The musicians, secure in their place within the court orchestra, stood with surefooted arrogance, when she would turn and run at the first chance. Born of long association, their solidarity united them against her unexplained arrival.
But another only offered reprieve. It’s only music.
Glancing at Stüderl, she breathed easier.
And she took comfort in what she knew—the things they could not yet imagine. She knew Arie, and after a week of intense practice, she knew his symphony. Insistent repetition had filled her remarkable memory with countless melodies and audacious, untried harmonies. His composition tested boundaries and broke new ground. These men, for all their confidence and haughty unanimity, knew nothing of what he would require.
But where was he?
Arie, like a man beckoned by her flashes of dread, strode across the long expanse of marble. Another dozen men carrying assorted pieces of musical equipment followed him, the sight of which drew more questioning stares than had Mathilda’s unexpected arrival.
At least until after the concert, she and Arie had agreed to keep their engagement a secret. The sight of her maestro, however, captivated Mathilda. She made no effort to hide her admiration. There, inside the man who worshiped her, lived a self-possessed, almost haughty conductor. An exotic creature. Well-dressed and fanatically groomed, he radiated strength of purpose. He had banished familiar aspects of his personality—confusion, loneliness, mockery—to create a new male animal forged of equal parts determination and passion.
She had seen his passion. She had been tugged by its irresistible draw. But at that moment, Arie reserved his intensity for his newest creation, the task of bringing it into being. Far from jealous, Mathilda allowed the spell of his magnetism to envelop and fortify her. In the hall, in front of those musicians, he was a leader and an innovator. A man without equal. Without peer. And she could not deny the need to watch.
His heart-stopping blue eyes met hers. Paired with that teasing, arched eyebrow, the smallest possible smile invited her into his world. Irresistible melodies and frustrating doubts swirled to nothingness. He dared her to recall how they occupied the hours they did not devote to music. Kisses, touches, eager bodies—they had learned each other as thoroughly as she had learned his new composition. Together they had reveled in the steady, unshakable comfort of their love.
And in front of an audience of forty, she thought that keeping their secret might prove nearly as arousing as acting on their passion.
With what appeared to be the reluctance Mathilda shared, Arie emerged from their private realm. He stopped beside the conductor’s stand, and the other musicians fanned behind him.
“Guten Tag.” His distinctive accent pulsed through the hall. He gestured for the court musicians to take their seats, but another dozen chairs remained empty. “From your scores, you will see that this symphony requires more performers.”
Dozens of hands rifled through sheaves at their stands. Perplexed frowns repeated across every face. Inwardly, Mathilda smiled with no small satisfaction. If they were confused now…
Arie gestured to the men gathered behind him. “I hired these men to satisfy the remaining elements. Please make room and introduce yourselves.”
She had known that he intended to hire extra performers, but she knew nothing of where he had discovered them. Maybe university students? Church musicians? Filling the remaining seats, they appeared far less refined and proud than their courtly counterparts.
Mathilda surveyed the orchestra. To her left sat the violinists with eight musicians for each of the first and second parts. A pianoforte occupied the space to their rear. As Konzertmeister, Stüderl settled into the chair nearest the conductor’s stand. Four cellists and two bassists sat on the right, behind the six-man viola section. Woodwinds and brass comprised the center of the assembly where a pair of musicians represented each of six instruments. Because symphonies generally required only a single performer for those parts, the paired musicians eyed each other with thinly concealed suspicion. A single timpanist stood, surrounded by four drums, at the back of the ensemble.
A total of forty musicians.
At the conductor’s stand, Arie immersed himself in arranging his massive score. Mathilda waited, standing. When the musicians tired of staring at their conductor, they returned questioning stares to her. Next to Stüderl, only one chair remained empty.
“Herr De Voss?”
Pulled from his reverie, he offered his private smile again. Her breath labored and slowed. She wanted to ruffle the hair he had arranged to such meticulous neatness. “And me?” she asked.
“Ah, yes, Frau Heidel. What to do with you?”
He stepped from the platform and bowed. No trace of familiarity or intimacy colored his physical behavior, but his voice taunted her with unsaid promises and delicious threats. Arie turned to the orchestra and made a last introduction.
“This is Frau Heidel. We musicians like to talk, so doubtless you have heard rumors of her talent. Believe all of it.” His open praise shot a flame of pride down to Mathilda’s toes. “Herr Stüderl retains his place as Konzertmeister and first violin, but Frau Heidel will perform the cadenzas.”
Cadenzas served to display the improvisational talents of a virtuoso. Within the court musical establishment, only the first chair violinist filled those musical voids. Arie’s unusual announcement set off a flurry of whispered speculations. Knowing glances flew from Mathilda’s face to his.
Their intention to maintain a secret engagement might be for naught.
Perhaps to surprise the gossips, or perhaps because he could not stand at her side without indulging himself, Arie placed a possessive hand at Mathilda’s lower back. As a proper gentleman, he escorted her to the vacant chair beside Stüderl.
And then it was time to work.
Little by little, each musician acquainted himself with the score, learning his part and absorbing the scope of Arie’s creation. For her part, Mathilda worked to sight-read in reverse. She practiced matching the notes ringing in her head and radiating from her fingertips to the sheet music. The black mash of scrawls on parchment scorned her efforts, but the beauty she heard and created urged her to keep pace.
Grumbling at her flailing struggle, she became aware of a harrowing noise arising from her colleagues. Snatches of melody and familiar rhythms skittered through the hall. Dissonant, random crashes of sound mingled with the jabber of ideas and questions, frustration and laughter. They had not yet congealed into anything of substance or splendor, but the elements existed, waiting for Arie to pull them close. The process captivated her.
Mathilda had never seen Arie perform instruments other than the piano and cello. All morning he flitted between sections to demonstrate various passages. She watched without concealing her interest. Only at the timpani did he prove unskilled, articulating his intentions by pounding the drums with bare hands. His aptitude for oboe, flute and the brass impressed her, and even the experienced veterans wore expressions of grudging approval.
But more than his proficiency with each instrument, Arie impressed her with his leadership. Everything from his posture to the clear, authoritative sound of his voice indicated his utter control over the proceedings. The
men did as he asked and more.
She smiled at the contrast between this commanding individual and the leering, drunken composer she had encountered in January. He would balk at her idolization, but there, in the world he fashioned out of resolve and talent, Arie De Voss was the hero she had imagined.
He arrived to instruct the violins. The sight of her instrument of choice in his hands charmed her. Although highly skilled with regard to technique, he played with a cursory lack of passion. She recognized little of the adoration and attention he dedicated to his piano performances.
Arie must have recognized her assessment. He returned the violin to her hands, tossing her an expression like a shrug. “Now you know why I play piano.”
Following those preliminary hours of practice and dissemination, the orchestra departed for a midday meal. Upon their return, Arie resumed his position on the conductor’s stand. He tapped his baton against the wooden lectern and nodded to the Konzertmeister.
Stüderl pulled his bow across the strings of his violin, sounding a long, steady A. The remaining string musicians tuned their instruments against that note. At the center rear of the semicircle of musicians, the first clarinetist did the same for the woodwinds and brass. That single note droned until the pitch became a consistent pulse across the entire orchestra, bringing them together.
Arie tapped his baton again and nodded to Mathilda.
The melody began as quietly as a spring rain, the sound of melting snow mingling with the dripping, pattering drops of an unpredictable sky. Crocuses in bloom. Early morning. Spring, when the possibilities of a new season rise like mist over a lake. Clean. Honest. Renewing.
But too soon, clouds pulled close and built into a storm.
Forty other instrumental voices joined Mathilda’s violin as Arie navigated the musicians through a furious eruption of sound. Notes amassed with the fury of a sudden tumult. As the creation descended into anger, confusion and doubt, Mathilda’s left hand flew across the fingerboard. Where there had been flowers and light, only sadness remained. Losing the impression of springtime made the ensuing despair intolerable.
Overwhelming minutes later, a glimmer of light returned. The hopeful melody repeated as a timid reflection of itself. The journey into night, into anguish, created indelible shadows of regret around what had been an optimistic beginning. Arie urged his ensemble to narrate the musical chronicle of innocence lost, betrayal and a hesitant reawakening. The melody revisited the light it had known but with trepidation and a reluctant spirit.
The first movement finished like a question.
The heady power of her experience beat through Mathilda, sensitizing the tips of her fingers and leaving her out of breath. All around, musicians smiled and chattered. Enthusiasm for the striving new music had replaced every look of doubt and confusion. Arie’s composition taxed their skills and challenged conventional techniques. No trite minuet or quiet concerto, his symphony would never serve as background music at a wealthy dinner party. He dared them to be bold.
At the conductor’s stand, Arie shared none of the musicians’ affable appreciation. He simply nodded his head. “And again.”
Late that night, Arie held her in the darkened intimacy of his bedroom. Mathilda clung to him, serene and drowsy in the aftermath of their passion.
Arie, however, could not rest.
The surprising success of rehearsals did little to quell the doubts abrading his peace. He feared that an audience would only hear a collection of attempts and insecurities—or worse yet, his abiding guilt.
“You’re not sleeping.” Mathilda’s lethargic voice rumbled in her throat like a purr. “I must have done something wrong. You should be as exhausted as I am.”
“You exhausted me greatly.”
But she was right, despite his protest. No matter the oblivion he sought in her arms, within the paradise of her body, his anxieties refused to dispel. The orchestra fared well with the first movement, and they would undertake the remaining three movements over the subsequent week. The concert loomed, a matter of mere days.
“I think I understand them now,” she said.
“Who?”
“My parents.”
Arie roused, wanting to see her. “You did not before?”
She shook her head softly. Her dark hair splayed along the pillow, contrasting with the white linens. “I had no means of empathizing because I hadn’t been in love. I was just a lonely girl.”
“What did you think of them?”
Her face lustrous and pale, she frowned. “Because I was not raised a Jew, I imagined the worst of my father. I thought he must have been some sort of villain, or that he kidnapped or seduced my mother.”
He laughed gently. “Probably the latter.”
She smiled against his chest before sobering again. “But no matter what I imagined, I couldn’t deny the outcome. My mother took her own life. She knew that no one remained to care for me. I had no guardians, no income. And yet she followed him in death—just as she had followed him from Brunswick.”
“How did you come to be with Lady Venner’s family?”
“Frau Seitz, Ingrid’s late mother, was born Johanna Hoyer. She’d been my mother’s personal maid when they lived in Helmstedt, and she accompanied my parents when they settled here.” Her expression drifted like an unmoored boat. “When my mother’s family refused me, Frau Seitz convinced her new husband to take me in. He was new to money and not pretentious in the least. I…Oh, God, I was lucky.”
“And Lady Venner was born later?” At Mathilda’s answering nod, he said, “I can understand your shared affection, then.” He kissed the arch along her slender, bare neck, but melancholy wedged between them. “Your mother…she loved your father.”
“Yes. She loved him enough to turn away from her family, enough to marry a man outside her religion and deny her inheritance. I thought maybe her life at home had been intolerable, or that she’d been mistreated.”
“No.”
“No. You’re right.” She exhaled with a laugh. “But I sympathize with the poor woman. I wonder how long she denied them both. How terrified she must have been!”
“Not just her, I think.” He pulled her flush to his body, kissing her nose and her cheeks. “He was a Jewish musician, yes? Pursuing a Catholic nobleman’s daughter? Reserve a little sympathy for your poor father.”
“Maybe not. Maybe he was an idiot who tortured her with his insecurities.”
“I am not insecure.”
She feigned a blameless look. “I said nothing of you.”
“You mean to imply my handling of our affair.”
“All I meant is that I understand the source of my limitless patience. Mother must have had an ample share.”
“Taunt me more, woman, and you’ll get no sleep tonight.” He dipped his head to kiss her again, then tucked her head into the crook of his shoulder. “You did well today, Tilda.”
“Playing with an ensemble is vastly different than a solo or duet,” she said. “I found it difficult to focus on my own work while listening to what we created.”
Arie shook his head against her hesitations. She had performed with aplomb and poise enough to amaze him yet again. And her steady presence had kept his wobbly courage from faltering. “I witnessed no such difficulties, Tilda. You were as proficient in your bearing as any of your peers.”
She smiled, idly petting his chest. “You witnessed me quite a bit. If you keep staring at me as you did, our engagement won’t be secret for much longer. We will have to reveal it or risk a scandal.”
“The way everyone stared at you by the end of the day, I have no more desire to conceal my claim.”
“How did you convince Stüderl to let me play the cadenzas? He is Konzertmeister and first violin—performing the cadenzas is his privilege.”
“We struck a bargain. In exchange for this favor, I will write for him a concerto.”
The smile she wore dropped at the corners. “You bought my seat?”
&nbs
p; “No, no, of course not. You will not be seated for the performance.” He drew a square in the air. “I bought a little space for you to stand next to me.”
She mashed her lips together. “Arie, I know I’m inexperienced when playing with an ensemble. But next time, I should like to have a proper audition.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “You want to prove yourself just like every other musician.”
“Yes.”
“But this time…”
“Yes, this time is different.” She sagged into his arms, snuggling beneath the quilt. Arie tucked her head beneath his chin and relished the possessive way she slid a knee across his legs. Against his chest, she said, “All will be concluded soon enough, my maestro. Sleep now.”
Her breathing grew deep and even. Her body relaxed in perfect unconsciousness. Distracted, he stroked the length of her arm, the curve beneath her breast. And he made his decision.
Days before, in her attempt to discern Arie’s intentions and perhaps even his character, Lady Venner had asked the wrong question. The choice between Mathilda and his career was simple, for he would forever choose the woman he loved so dearly.
The choice between his fiancée and the truth—that was the test. Ironically, before falling in love with her, he would have found a way to shrug from under his crippling misgivings. He would have packed his guilt into an isolated corner of his mind, justifying his actions as he always did. Only the pure wonder of Mathilda’s regard had awakened his latent sense of justice, setting his future at odds with the lies upon which his career was based.
More than his next breath, he craved a life with Mathilda Heidel, but he wanted that life rinsed clean of his crime. As to the cost, she had said it plainly in April: You admit your mistake and stand ready for the consequences.
Arie embraced her more tightly, deflecting an unknown future in which she might not be his to hold.
All will be concluded soon enough.
Yes. All of it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mathilda wiped her mouth with a cloth. The room tilted awkwardly. Her ears buzzed. She refused to retch again, no matter the nausea swelling within her stomach. Swallow. Breathe. Swallow again. She paced her respiration and willed her heart to slow, even as her knees trembled with the effort of standing. Hours separated her from the concert. Klara was to arrive in a half hour to help prepare her for the evening performance.