Song of Seduction (21 page)

“I would forgive you almost anything, Arie.” She stroked his face with a touch like absolution. “Even whatever compelled you to claim
Love and Freedom
as your own.”

Waking up alone had not surprised her. Their new physical passion fascinated her, and she had sought Arie, ready to draw him back to their private sanctuary. The magic and power of their union—the sheer glorious fun of it—left her greedy for more. She had been eager to prove to her doubting, wakeful mind that they could revive and duplicate those sensations at will. She wanted to fly apart once again, to recreate every glittering touch.

Her brief search in the near-darkness had revealed Arie at his pianoforte. But compared to the partner who had made such exquisite love to her, the man she discovered was a stranger.

She shuddered to recall the force of his kiss, when his maudlin mood had transformed into violence. Expressing his fears with clenching hands, his aggression had assumed a frightening edge of urgency. She had felt fear in the arms of Arie De Voss, her lover and mentor—her most esteemed hero.

Now he stood before her, as puzzled and hurting as she had ever seen. Shame obscured everything, even his love for her. He hated himself for more than one reckless outburst, and at that moment, Mathilda could no more leave him than she could shed her own skin.

“How?” A single rasped word.

“How? No, I will ask the questions,” she said. “Who wrote
Love and Freedom?
”

He dropped her hand. “Sándor Bolyai. My former maestro.”

“And you held your abilities in so little respect as to need to claim his work?”

“Are you surprised? You of all people understand that doubts can take precedence over talent.” Despite every physical indication otherwise—the tension in his neck, the perspiration on his brow—he sounded calm. “How did you know?”

She shrugged. “How do I understand all that I do with regard to music?”

“Then…when?”

“The other night, after receiving your invitation. I began to play whatever crossed my mind—the cantata you performed at the Dom, the sonata from the Venners’ ball. And
Love and Freedom.
I heard the differences.”

Arie frowned. “Tell me.”

“The tonal distance between the harmony and melody, the pattern of rests. Everything. I heard it as plainly as the difference between my voice and yours.”

“And you were angry.” His defeated statement broached no room for dissent.

“Angry? Perhaps. Disappointed, yes—curious. But I began to see events in a different light. You always became annoyed when I mentioned
Love and Freedom,
and you never select it for performances. Even last night, alone in Rittersaal, you refused to play it for me.”

“And now you know I am a fraud.”

“I know no such thing,” she snapped. “The improvisation at the Stadttrinkstube proved your talent, if nothing else.” Her anger flared like a bright flame. “Had you any intention of telling me?”

“The truth is complicated.”

“No, it’s not. You admit your mistake and stand ready for the consequences.”

Seconds piled on quiet seconds. Arie said nothing. Mathilda’s heart contracted with a disappointment far more painful than she had experienced upon learning of his deceit.

“When we met, your attention was a privilege.” Her unfaithful voice refused to remain strong. “Can you understand that? I held you in such awe…
such
awe. When you sought my company, the sun shone on me alone. But you didn’t intend to take me into your confidence, did you? I’m no more special than the public you deceive.”

His face flushed a sickened combination of white and splotchy pink. “I did not want to lose your regard. I knew how closely you relate that composition with me.”

Mathilda turned on him with the strength of her confusion. Her sense of rejection, of falling to earth after a wild surge skyward, tightened her throat. “You would rather lie to me, perhaps forever? Or all but assault me because you’re frightened and guilty?”

“And how different are you, really, from the people I trick?” He stooped to retrieve her discarded gown and forced her into the dress—a most spiteful and careless maid. “You should be outraged at my fraud, not follow me to bed. Yet you are hypnotized like any other eager widow.”

She slapped at stubborn, injured tears. “I want to think that this malice is your attempt to protect yourself. I did the same, staying away from you for all those weeks.”

“And if not?”

“Then I was deceived by more than a composition,” she said. “I had no notion your love was this small.”

He stood motionless and resolute. His gaze revealed nothing. Mathilda could find no hint of the man she had believed him to be.

She shook her head, staggered by the change in him. “How did we come to this?”

“Get your pelisse and get out.”

Mathilda stared, suddenly as angry as she had ever been. She ached with shame that the man she loved was sending her away, half-clad and humiliated. She drew herself up, all dignity and defiance.

“You’re a coward,” she said. Arie looked sideways at her, shaken from his smug footing. “Days ago you accused me of the same. You were right then, just as I am now. I’ve been trying to believe in you and your music,
in us,
but you make that impossible.”

Following at a cautious distance, he allowed the numbing winds to obliterate his thoughts. If he thought, he might call out to her. If he called her, she would take him back—without ever asking him to prove his worth. He could never accept her generosity, not knowing if he even deserved her admiration. Her love.

At the Venners’ manor, Mathilda rounded to the rear servants’ door. A footman permitted her entry. Arie watched her disappear into the massive structure.

“Forgive me, Mathilda.” The wind swallowed his words.

He stumbled like a sleepwalker back to his studio and collapsed on the sagging single mattress. Driven mad by the smell of her skin on the sheets, the smell of their spent passion, he slumped into his studio chair instead. The battered, ink-stained worktable served as his pillow.

He neither ate nor drank. He accepted no callers and saw no students. Two days later, he packed his meager belongings, said goodbye to Kapellmeister Haydn and departed Salzburg.

I don’t want to wake up.

“Mathilda, dearest.”

“I don’t want to wake up.”

“Nonsense,” Ingrid said. “Get up, Tilda. This is my house, and I will have you forced from it bodily if I must.”

“Does Venner know you call it
your
house?”

“I chose the wallpaper. It’s mine.” She stepped away from the bed and opened the drapes, ushering midday sunshine into the dolor of Mathilda’s room. “Now get up before someone sees us. They’ll mistake me for your lady’s maid, and my place in society will be ruined.”

“Your place in society is likely tenuous enough because of me.” Struggling against the lull of comfortable bedding, she sat up and leaned on the pillows Ingrid propped along the headboard. The smell of strong dark coffee barely brightened her mood.

“Again, nonsense.” Ingrid placed a demitasse on the nightstand and sat nearby with her own cup. “Wealth counters scandal quite nicely, or I never would’ve been accepted as Christoph’s wife.”

Mathilda sipped the hot brew. “Well then, you can afford to take any occupation that pleases you, including lady’s maid.”

Ingrid conjured a face of disappointment. “I would, dearest, but we have company set to call in an hour. Alas, I must maintain my dreadful position as mistress of the house, at least for the afternoon.”

“Who will call?”

“Kapellmeister Haydn.” She offered a good-natured grin. “I’ve called Klara already. She’ll be along shortly to make you presentable, for I know he’s not calling to speak with me—or Christoph, saints save us. Can you imagine them talking about, what, land holdings?”

Mathilda eyed her friend as Ingrid prattled with uncommon brightness. “Perish the thought,” she said distractedly. “Did he mention his purpose for calling?”

“No, and neither did he mention Herr De Voss. But we both know he’ll be a topic of conversation, if not the only one.”

“I didn’t mention him.”

“No, I did, saving you the trouble.” She drained the remainder of her coffee in the quick, girlish way she reserved for moments alone in Mathilda’s company. “Now get up.”

Klara arrived fifteen minutes later, and thirty minutes after that, the maid had worked her ever-improving magic. Despite the fact she had been awake only long enough to become nervous, Mathilda deemed herself presentable, even becoming. Her brown locks carefully arranged, her corset snug, and a navy gown neatly pressed, fastened and flattering, she appeared ready to meet even the most discriminating caller.

“You’re worlds apart from the woman who arrived at our door that morning,” Ingrid whispered. “A lucky thing, too, lest anyone recognize you.”

Oliver, ever subtle and dependable, had informed his mistress of Mathilda’s indecorous dawn homecoming, but no one else. Not even Venner. Tears, a hot bath and a lengthy conversation had consumed, Mathilda knew, most of Ingrid’s patience and the majority of the Saturday that followed.

Two weeks had done little to temper her humiliation. Although she could hardly be cross with Ingrid, neither could she view those events with any degree of optimism. Her expectations had fallen low, while Ingrid teased because she had yet to awaken to a day without hope.

Twisting an unruly ringlet, Mathilda said, “So I might better prepare myself, for how long will you insist on raising that specter?”

“Until the baby comes. By that time, I shall be too distracted to tease you.”

Mathilda formed a reflexive O with her mouth. “A baby?”

Pressing her lips together, tears forming in her green eyes, Ingrid nodded. “I told Christoph this morning.”

“Oh, I’m happy for you, dearest!” She enveloped her friend in a fierce hug. “I thought you were enjoying your new role as nursemaid a little much.”

“Of late, you’ve been needy enough to prove good practice.” Ingrid sniffed and offered a wobbly grin.

“What is it?”

“I’m a dreadful coward, Tilda,” she said, drawing away. “In truth, I’d hoped you would travel this path before me—how it’s always been for us. I am…scared.”

On occasion, as Jürgen’s nurse or assistant, Mathilda had witnessed gruesome events, not the least of which was the deadly trial of childbirth. She knew the immense difficulties some women experienced when bringing life into the world. Even as she mistrusted her own ability to conceive after three fruitless years of marriage, she had wondered what fate labor would hold.

Ingrid would face such a trial before year’s end, an event that brought Mathilda equal portions of joy and fright. But she forced reassurances to take the place of unease.

“You shouldn’t worry,” she said. “Venner will ensure that you have the very best care.”

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.”