Song of Seduction (5 page)

That last thought stunned him. He embraced the quiet seclusion of his profession. His studio reflected as much, independent of the creature comforts some worked tirelessly to secure. He needed money, patrons and students to support his work. Only justifying himself to the private crime of his past mattered. Why would one woman evoke in him an inexplicable need for something else, something more?

The question would have terrified him, had he any intention of dwelling on an emotion so maudlin. After stopping at the cupboard for a drink, Arie stalked back to his desk. The whole encounter had distracted him from his work. Unforgivable.

Scratching a pen against parchment, he filled his studio with the sounds of a man wrenching music from his soul. His mind drifted along a melody to relive the fleeting moments of Frau Heidel’s lesson. She had been the teacher, if it had been a lesson at all.

Verdomme,
she was a talent. And a menace to his mental well-being. Arie had hoped for an amusing afternoon of pleasure with a bored, curious young widow. Instead, he was burdened by countless questions and distracting passions.

Two fruitless hours and several drinks later, Arie had completed nothing. Every note sounded sour, refusing to flow with the possessed ease he had known at daybreak. He blamed Frau Heidel. She had utterly shattered his concentration.

Angrily, he tossed a pair of scribbled and maimed sheets into the kitchen fire. The delicate papers withered to black ash. Never had he done such a thing. Ever practical, he understood his mortal lack of inspiration and saved even the most embarrassing attempts. Portions, at least, grew more acceptable in time. Revisions and new material helped salvage much of the work he initially thought to discard.

But this…

The last of the parchment crinkled into dust. He could never salvage those efforts.

“Foolish man.”

Muttering to himself in Dutch, Arie turned away from his reckless decision and caught sight of the violin Frau Heidel had used. Its glossy surface glimmered in candlelight, beckoning to him. He stalked to the silent instrument, intending to play something angry and spiteful. He tucked the violin under his chin—and inspiration dawned.

Wayward to start, and then more distinctly, a melody emerged from the strings, leading him down a path of creation he had not thought to travel. Tense, heartrending echoes of buried feelings poured forth, transporting him to the puzzling place where art is born.

Moments later, he sat furiously writing at his worktable. He had stopped playing the violin, yes, but the music resonated in his mind and in his solitary heart, as if the instrument was still casting its spell. His quill flew over countless sheets.

When is her next lesson? Next week.

Just before dawn, Arie collapsed into an exhausted sleep over the completed second movement of his newest symphony. His muse, when he caught sight of her through the lassitude of dream, watched him with wide, adoring hazel eyes.

“Tilda, you are impossible,” Ingrid said. “This is the Octave of the Epiphany! The duke will be there!” She slumped onto the mattress, her shift twisting around bare legs. Klara stood before a wardrobe arranging frocks and waited for her mistress to stand still long enough to dress.

Mathilda could not help but smile at her friend’s theatrics, which was, of course, her intention. “But there will be a dozen more occasions for revelry between now and Lent.”

“And if you planned to attend any of them, I might consider relenting,” Ingrid said. “As a member of the Council of State, Christoph must attend. And he wants us to be there too.”

“You, perhaps.”

Ingrid sat up, shoving unbound chestnut hair out of her eyes. “All right, I’ll tempt you with court secrets.”

“I am not Oliver. Court secrets don’t tempt me.”

“Oh, hush,” Ingrid said, poking her lower lip into a pout. “When Ferdinand became grand duke last year, he was upset to have arrived in April. Our renowned festivities are
that
disappointing to miss. Tonight, he intends to make up for the lost opportunity. Except for
Fasnacht,
there will be no grander celebration this year. The whole city will take to the streets.”

“Because tremendous gatherings suit me well.”

Ingrid jabbed a finger. “You complain when gatherings are too small, when people scrutinize and whisper. Tonight, they will scrutinize and whisper about the duke. They won’t pay you a whit of mind.”

Rocking once on bare heels, Mathilda eyed the cream plaster ceiling. “You’ll be happy to know I find a certain logic in that.”

Giggling, Ingrid finally stood and submitted to Klara’s attentions. “Christoph says that about me all the time, that I am eminently logical.”

Klara snorted. At her embarrassed flush, the three women dissolved into hysterics.

Ingrid wasted no time in turning the lighthearted moment to her advantage. She campaigned using round, pleading eyes. “Please, dearest. Don’t stay here by yourself.”

“All right. You win.” Mathilda flicked the ends of her heavy woolen shawl. “What do you think? Black for tonight?”

“Oh, Tilda!” Ingrid launched into her arms, her green velvet dress gaping open at the back. Klara huffed a silent protest. “Your timely decision will save your pride, too.”

“How so?”

“Well, when I mention that Herr De Voss will be there tonight—conducting some ode or another for the duke—you’ll not have to embarrass yourself by suddenly agreeing to attend.”

An hour later, with the Venners and their retinue of guests and servants, Mathilda walked east along Herrengasse. Although snow clung to roofs and window mantels, boots and hooves had thoroughly trodden the gray cobblestones. Hardy a flake remained on the ground.

In the irregularly shaped Kapitelplatz, a thousand torches glowed as brightly as midday. The light banished winter shadows and anointed every face with a peaceful glow. Elbow to elbow, citizens milled in all three of the Altstadt’s central squares, eagerly arriving to rejoice with their new leader. Those gathered bodies dispersed the chill of evening.

Despite her pique, Mathilda could not ignore the scene. Giant fire-filled cauldrons further illuminated the square and transformed familiar structures into mystic curiosities. The Dom, the towering two-hundred-year-old cathedral at the city center, had been constructed from off-white marble mined from the nearby mountain of Untersberg. Flames bathed those pale walls in illusory shades of gold and amber. Deep shadows accentuated the architectural flourishes of its soaring matched towers and elegant copper cupolas.

Ingrid squealed and clung to Mathilda’s arm. “Look!”

At baiting pens, eager men placed wagers and shouted redundant encouragements to the confined hares, badgers and foxes. Fighting to the death, the animals endured an accelerated masque of their daily struggle for survival. Mathilda grimaced but could not look away.

Past the pens, a septet of foreign youths in colorful exotic costumes performed an elaborate routine of swordplay. The smallest of the seven acrobats, a slight girl of no more than ten or twelve years, balanced a rapier along the bridge of her nose with practiced ease. Mathilda and Ingrid applauded the group’s skill.

Venner approached when the performance reached its fantastic conclusion. “
Meine Liebe,
we must continue now.”

The party walked through the
Dombogen,
the two-story marble archways connecting Kapitelplatz to the wide square in front of the Dom. The massive arches loomed above a row of carriages. After a fond goodbye, Ingrid and her husband moved to join other political dignitaries. Oliver and two footmen stood near Mathilda and the Venners’ guests, all facing the Dom.

Dwarfed by the
Dombogen,
lost in the crowds, and humbled by the awe-inspiring architecture, a curious sense of peace absorbed her. If she could compose music, she would select that particular feeling of happy insignificance for her theme.

She smiled without reserve and gazed skyward. The impressive statue of the Virgin Mary stood on a lofty pedestal. Angels lingered at her feet, ready to adorn her with a crown. Mathilda stretched her thoughts toward Mary’s serene face, and that same tingling impression of smallness returned, infusing her imagination and heightening her senses.

She dragged her stare from the heavens. Arie De Voss stood not ten feet away.

No hint of emotion registered on his jagged features as they caught sight of one another, but a sizzle of lightning flashed between them, arching around and over the people barring the path to his side.

Mathilda’s pulse rushed, beating hard against her ribs. Impatient breaths fought for passage in and out of her lungs. She was unnerved by her body’s reaction to the sight of him, an uncommon man standing isolated among thousands of reveling citizens.

A sudden apprehension skittered across her heart. She hoped he would refrain from dragging down her high opinion of him any further. Monotony beckoned, and she could not endure a future of ennui without retaining a little piece of fantasy.

That pathetic thought finally pulled her out of a stunned trance. Disgusted, she wondered when she had become unable to live outside of two equally hopeless worlds. Everyday tasks and obligations comprised her colorless widowhood, while unattainable fantasies painted wild dreams of make-believe. She had flitted from one to another for a year, trying to sew together a little happiness. But neither satisfied her.

“I shall speak to Herr De Voss,” she said to Oliver.

“
Ja,
Frau Heidel.” Disapproval flickered in his dark eyes. “Shall I accompany you?”

She smiled at his protective air. He took the task of guarding her seriously—or, likely, Venner had charged him to do so. “No need, Oliver. I won’t leave your sight.”

Walking away was like stepping off a rocky cliff atop Mönchsberg. But memories of their dueling game of follow-the-leader—De Voss on cello and Mathilda on violin—thrummed through her blood. She yearned to return to his studio, to play the violin unfettered by her persistent dread of attention.

Refusing to be ruffled again, she reassured herself that his brusqueness could no longer shock her. He drew his powers of intimidation from two sources: an ill-mannered disposition and incredible talent. She could counter both. After all, the city’s finest etiquette tutors had provided her with the ability to behave decorously, even in the face of indecorous conduct. And her violin performance had humbled him.

Like a knight preparing for a joust, she drew faith from her strengths and made them a part of her being, like breathing—a task the maestro made maddeningly difficult.

Dressed in the same slightly worn but well-tailored suit he had worn at the ball, he looked dreadfully elegant. Missing was the half-wild artiste she had chastised. In his place awaited a black-clad gentleman of refinement, bearing and neatly combed hair.

Perhaps they would be able to conduct an ordinary conversation in keeping with their manner of acquaintance. She wanted to know if he would agree to more lessons, as well as the behavior she might reasonably expect should she return.

Assuming a cheerful demeanor, she said, “Herr De Voss, how good to see you again.”

“That makes a change, Frau Heidel. The last I recall of you is a remark on my wardrobe and a fussy departure.”

Mathilda clenched her back teeth. Her hope for a simple, cordial conversation dissipated. More disappointed than angry, her hopes sank into the ground. Social interaction ill suited him, and she did not possess the patience to be civil to a man who held no appreciation of common courtesy. Any further conversation with the man would only spoil what happy memories of him she yet retained.

“You are a tyrant, sir. Good night.”

She turned, but he caught her arm in an unexpectedly firm grip. Her instincts demanded a struggle, but her reluctance to cause a scene stilled her haste. Heat from his hand seeped through her clothes and awoke a startling awareness of flesh, his and hers. Mathilda shook her brain away from that hungry thought.

Determined, she confronted her tormentor and discovered an altered version of the maestro. He had fixed his features into the most becoming, benign expression of politeness. No vestige of his irascible greeting remained—except for his hand.

She flicked her eyes to where their bodies connected. He released her.

“And you, Frau Heidel, how lovely to see you again. You are well, I trust?” He used formal German, carefully articulating each syllable. His face insisted that her addled mind had created those unpleasant opening seconds of their encounter.

“Tolerably,” she said, mimicking his charade of calm. “And yourself?”

“I am quite recovered from our last meeting.” Now smooth and warm, his voice promised safety, blunting her wits.

“Ingrid—Lady Venner, I mean—said you would conduct tonight. Is that true?”

“I arrived in hope of seeing you.”

She blinked. “You do me compliment, sir.”

De Voss grinned as if to acknowledge her quiet mockery. He tilted his head slightly, freeing a lock of hair to dangle across his forehead. “If I apologize, Frau Heidel, my pride will never recover.”

A smile nearly loosened the grim set of her mouth, but she refused to free the gentling expression. “But if you do not, I’ll be forced to hasten another fussy departure.”

“Forgive me.”

“Not yet.”

“Suit yourself.” He straightened, ignoring her attempt at stern censure. “Yes, I will conduct after the duke’s speech. And I admit to curiosities about this bizarre ordeal. Perhaps you will explain for me.”

Reluctantly, Mathilda sympathized with his confusion. She could not imagine enduring the strange customs of another culture, so far from home. “Which aspect?
Fasching
in general or the duke’s address in particular?”

“Both, if you please.” He looked at the Dom. The light and shadow haloed his features in profile. She traced the line of his nose with her gaze.

“I suppose you don’t celebrate Carnival in your homeland,” she said softly.

De Voss shook his head. “The Catholic minority hides the practice or ignores it altogether. I hardly took Mass in my youth for fear of hounding, let alone participating in an open papist festival.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “You are Catholic, sir?”

“Yes,” he said in a hush. “The Papenhoek of Delft harbors no small population of faithful.”

“What is that word?”

“Papenhoek? It means Papist’s Corner. I was born there.”

“I hadn’t realized. Well, here in Salzburg, we don’t limit Carnival to the week before Lent. Perhaps you will enjoy our festivities.”

Briefly, she forgot his personality—so thoroughly had he seduced her with easy manners and amiable conversation. His cynical smirk, however, called attention to her error. She could not imagine De Voss enjoying anything but his work, and a word as meek as
enjoy
fell short of describing his passion.

She expected a snide remark or baiting insult, but De Voss surprised her. “Your politeness flatters me and does credit to your upbringing. I deserve none of it.”

An apology. Almost. But because contrition threatened to soften her toward him, she ignored the comment.

“As for our interest in the duke,” she said, “he is brother to the Holy Roman Emperor. And after centuries of Church leadership, he is novel. His administration promises a brief sanguinity, at least, no matter the sort of leader he proves.”

He raised an eyebrow. The left one. “Sanguinity?”

Mathilda almost laughed. Just in time, she trapped the sound bubbling behind her sternum. “Of course you are unfamiliar with the word, Herr de Voss. It means cheerfulness.”

The composer smiled—a wide and expressive gesture to acknowledge both his amusement and her victory. Night shadows accentuated the lines around his mouth and the hollows beneath his high cheekbones. The flickering torches at once illuminated and obscured every sharp feature, but his smile lent an unexpected friendliness…friendliness like an invitation.