Song of Seduction (3 page)

Ingrid arrived minutes later, stepping into Mathilda’s narrow room on the top floor of the mansion. She dismissed the maid and whirled on her friend. “You volunteered for violin lessons with Arie De Voss?”

At the dressing table, Mathilda stilled. “How did you know?”

Blithely, she waved her hands. “Christoph. Probably through Oliver. You know how they are, playing at espionage.” She pulled Mathilda to her feet. “Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“I’m proud of you for taking such a chance!”

“Don’t remind me,” Mathilda said. “I shock myself.”

“But why? It was a marvelous idea.” She peered at Mathilda with a disturbing sense of clarity, her green eyes intent. “What was he like? Privately?”

A hundred attempts had failed to make sense of Mathilda’s half-formed impressions. No key existed to decipher whether she should think upon their conversation with fondness or trepidation. Too many dark corners remained, dominating her thoughts and corrupting her enjoyment of those new memories.

“He was withdrawn and awkward, hardly polite enough to maintain a conversation,” Mathilda said softly. “He’s a marvelous composer, but little else recommends him to society.”

“You managed nicely.”

“I had little choice. He followed me to the arcade after his performance.”

Ingrid beamed. “You make it sound like a tedious experience, Tilda, when I know otherwise. But explain it to me. At the start of the night, you were opposed to playing the violin again.”

“Yes.”

The word affirmed a return to good sense. Mathilda found her mental footing for the first time since Lord Venner had first mentioned the Dutchman. She agreed with the wise woman she had once been, the woman who kept in perspective thoughts of violins and maestros and compositions.

But De Voss’s sonata looped like a restless echo through the channels of her ear. Brought to life by his swift and accurate fingers, each note had wiggled into the place where she imagined her soul was lodged. She wanted that…him…
something
with a strong determination.

Mathilda owed much to the Venners—this woman who was like a sister and her noble husband. Their camaraderie had bolstered her flagging spirits when melancholy loomed like a dark shadow. She had worked to make their Carnival ball a success, but not just to demonstrate her gratitude. She had done so as a distraction from an unexpectedly aimless life.

Those responsibilities had helped her endure months of shock and abrupt change. Charging at her duties like a child running downhill, she had worked herself into such a state of exhaustion that sleep always beckoned come nightfall. The bliss of swift unconsciousness defended against the chance of lying alone in the dark, beset by the past.

“Yes,” she repeated. Said a second time, the word became an overture to protest. “But now that the gala is concluded, I’ll miss having a pursuit to call my own.”

Unease and emotion stopped her words. Unable to say more, she only hoped her young friend might glean a measure of understanding from the explanation. She simply could not renounce her newfound purpose.

Ingrid took her hand. “You dwell on the uncertainties when you shouldn’t. You’ll have your lessons—but we know the man cannot teach you anything about the violin you don’t already know. And then you will be happy. I know it.”

When she could think of no other reason to delay, she bundled into her woolen winter pelisse, shawl and bonnet. She declined the offer of a carriage, needing to walk away her nerves, but Ingrid would not permit her to journey alone. With Oliver as her companion, she set off for De Voss’s studio in the Feierviertel—the Festival Quarter.

Strengthening winds descended from the mountain peaks. Mild winter temperatures had been a mere reprieve, and the glittering daylight did little to abate the return of an intense cold. Pale winter sunshine coated the yellow-and-pink stuccoed façade and petite spire of Michaelskirche. The six-story Glockenspiel, the bell tower looming over the massive royal guest residences, formed the southern border of the wide, airy square.

Cutting across Waagplatz, they walked through the neighborhood that had been an enclave for Jews before their expulsion from the city hundreds of years before. Melancholy threatened Mathilda’s apprehensive excitement. She shivered in the cold while her mind conjured images from infamous histories: tearful families evacuated, a synagogue burned to the ground, businesses looted and a Christian populace eager to secure vacated accommodations.

She wondered when her father’s people had found the courage to return to Salzburg, braving the ghosts and the condemnation once official edicts lost their potency.

At the top of Judengasse, she glanced to the right and caught sight of the river. She had not crossed the Salzach since retreating to the security of the Venners’ manor a year earlier. She disliked its lazy northward current and ghastly color, sheeted in thin ice and tinted green by minerals from the Kitzbühler Alps. The scenic river revived only morbid memories. Jürgen’s body had been discovered along the Salzach’s north bank. And her mother had chosen to step off its southern shore when she took her own life. Those unhappy histories kept Mathilda in the Altstadt—the Old Town—pressed close to the stately shelter of Mönchsberg.

Disturbing thoughts had haunted every step of her brief journey, and she needed no great insight to understand the flow of her thoughts. She wanted to play the violin again. In doing so, she would deny any lesson offered by her parents’ deaths and invalidate three years of marriage.

I should have walked another way.

She hurried on before losing her nerve. With Oliver keeping pace, she passed the golden-beige town hall known as the Rathaus. A bell in its square belfry rang to mark the hour. She pulled De Voss’s card from her reticule, although she had memorized the address: Third Floor, Getreidegasse 26.

Upon entering the building’s pedestrian door, they climbed two creaking wooden flights. A frosty wind swirled up the staircase. She hoped De Voss kept a fire burning, for she wondered at her ability to perform if her fingers shook from the cold.

Not only should she have taken a different route through the city, she should have made use of the Venners’ carriage after all.

Hands shaking, Mathilda knocked at the door.

De Voss answered at once and offered a stiff bow. “Come in.”

She walked through the portal and twisted the ribbons of her bonnet. When Oliver followed her inside, De Voss frowned and shut the door.

Again lacking a cravat and coat, his smart oxblood waistcoat did little to drag his manner of dress back toward propriety. He eyed Oliver with a look as chilling as the swirling winds. “The kitchen is warm,” he said.

Oliver pulled a slim leather-bound book from his coat and offered Mathilda the barest smile. “The kitchen it is, then.”

De Voss turned to face a wide, well-used table hewn from some nondescript hardwood. Dozens of composition sheets covered with indecipherable scratches of ink lay scattered over its surface. Disregarding both guests, he sat and took pen in hand.

Oliver assisted Mathilda with her outerwear before removing his own winter garments. Free of the livery wig worn for special functions, his dark brown curls accentuated a boyish handsomeness. His equally dark eyes, however, were mature and wary.

He glanced at De Voss. His stern expression belied his usual relaxed detachment. “Will you be all right?”

“I will.”

Oliver hesitated before nodding and retiring to the kitchen. Mathilda surreptitiously arranged her hair and sat on a squat wooden stool.

Minutes passed. She waited.

De Voss’s pen flew over a page, a merciless grating of quill along parchment. Mathilda smiled at the irritating noise, knowing each new scrape served to reveal his next masterpiece. She longed to listen to the magic he heard at that moment, but she had to settle for what she could imagine. As usual.

Her eyes wandered. Other than the table, a garishly painted freestanding cupboard was the only piece of furniture in the room. Four shoulder-height iron candlesticks loomed behind De Voss. The tools of his trade—several music stands, a cello, two violin cases—lay strewn around like toys in a nursery. A Viennese pianoforte dominated the far corner.

She had imaged a much different residence for her favorite composer: a cozy, dark space replete with thick carpets from exotic lands, candles, a roaring fire. And De Voss hunched over his latest composition. That part, at least, she had pictured correctly. Work absorbed him. He set about rolling the sleeves of his white shirt, then spiked the light brown mess of hair along his temples.

Mathilda could not recall a man more indifferent to his physical appearance, especially in the presence of a guest. Perhaps Oliver had been correct in his caution. She could not decide whether to be offended, repulsed or intrigued.

Her patience neared its limit until, at last, De Voss set aside his quill. He stood without haste and sat across from her on the other wooden stool. “What history with music have you?”

The abrupt shift surprised her. One minute, he could have been alone in the studio for how little mind he paid Mathilda. The next, he stared at her with such intensity as to blow her thoughts like leaves from a tree.

“I received voice lessons for just over a year when I was twelve.”

“Why did you stop?”

Although she shrugged, her heart was galloping. “I cannot sing.”

“A frank admission. I admire it.”

“I didn’t say it to impress you. I cannot carry a tune.”

“Charming.” De Voss leaned forward, boldly roaming an assessing glance over her body. His cobalt-blue eyes darkened. He regarded her with the disconcerting physical interest he had revealed at the Venners’ ball. “Why are you here, really? Do you wish some intimacy with me?”

His startling words exploded in her brain like the delayed concussion of cannon fire. Provoked and offended in equal measure, her blood burned. He did not believe she had come for a music lesson, but for a romp—even though Venner’s servant sat silently in the kitchen. No wonder he had eyed Oliver unkindly. Had he expected her to follow him into the bedroom?

Where
is
the bedroom?

A heated blush flared along her bare neck. Speech stuck in her throat for brief, embarrassing seconds until indignation loosened her tongue. “I imagine you receive the attention of a number of women awed by your talent.”

She expected a cocky smile or boastful affirmation. Instead, De Voss’s gaze slumped to the floor. “On occasion.”

His uneasiness puzzled her.

“Herr De Voss, I assure you—I arrived with music in mind.”

Your music.

“I seem to make mistakes with you, Frau Heidel. More than usual.” A semblance of cordial neutrality returned to his features, as if he had extinguished the blaze of his interest. “Pray continue.”

Mathilda, however, could not abandon his inquiry like some bad idea. She tugged at the restraints of an unnamed tension. The chilly little room grew warmer and unbearably cramped. When had she thought it cold?

Reeling in the wake of the maestro’s frank regard, her tongue and brain reluctantly cooperated to produce speech. “I proved much better suited to the violin.”

“But again you stopped?”

“Well, after…” Mathilda shifted on the hard stool.

“Go on.”

“After the death of Frau Seitz—Lady Venner’s mother—I couldn’t continue. She adored music, and I found it impossible to continue my studies without her encouragement.”

“No one else supported your studies?”

Mathilda shook her head faintly. “Without Frau Seitz to manage the household duties, Ingrid and her father relied on me.”

“Why seek lessons now?”

His plain, logical questions picked at her motives. But she fought him. She fought reason. She fought the commonplace existence she endured for years—the one threatening to drown her.

Her answer was simple and selfish. Liberating. “Because I want to.”

The little tufts standing out at his temples threatened to drive her mad with the need to smooth his hair. At last he said, “I want you to play for me. Anything. Play what you remember from other instruction. I wish to be familiar with your aptitude.”

Mathilda’s stomach heaved in an attack of nerves. Talking was one thing, but the act of playing the violin for De Voss—what had she been thinking? Under his attentive stare, when she doubted even her ability to breathe, how could she make her fingers perform their delicate tasks? And which piece to choose?

De Voss reached between them to retrieve a leather violin case from the floor. As he pulled the case to rest on his lap, his bare forearm brushed the black silk of her skirts. She pretended not to notice, despite the snap of heat sizzling beneath her skin. He produced a remarkable violin with a lustrous patina. A tiny tremor claimed her hands when she reached to receive the beautiful instrument.

“No need to be nervous,” he said, watching her unsteady fingers. “This is only the beginning.”

Mathilda inhaled those words, finding inspiration in a deeper meaning she could hardly trust. She stood, ready to begin.