Song of Seduction (26 page)

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.”

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.

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.