Nightingale (3 page)

But Love involved risk, and Max never took risks. Klara was a rare object, one that gave him artistic and sensual delight, her flesh and blood only one among many treasures. Even the delight Max had ordered up for her at his country house, the passion so falsely expressed, could never, ever be again!

***

In the blinding, snow-swirling darkness, as Klara was handed to her door by the footman, she stumbled and nearly fell. The bright exultation of the Baron's party, the burning musical connection with the Concertmaster, had flown. She was empty now, drained.

At least, she thought, as she slowly made her way up the stairs, Max was not yet in Vienna. There would be some time to imagine freedom, a few more weeks before she would have to make the difficult choice over which she'd been hesitating.

Comforting herself with the idea that a new friendship could aid her in the terrible decision she'd been contemplating, Klara mastered herself. She would be rehearsing with handsome Akos Almassy daily. The command of Prince Vehnsky would be an adequate reason to seek his company.

After undressing and washing away powder and rouge, after sitting in her shift beside the stove while a thin young maid administered one hundred strokes to her thick ruddy hair, Klara was ready at last to subside into her narrow bed. Liese bustled, making sure that the stove was sufficiently stoked, that her mistress' fine green silk gown and the heavy quilted petticoat were carefully laid away.

Klara faced the curtained wall and thought of the Concertmaster, remembered the glorious music they'd made together, remembered the magical connection. At last alone in the dark, she lifted her hand, caught the faint enigmatic scent of a wild wood, one which fine Castile soap and hot water had somehow not quite washed away. Praying to escape, she prayed to dream of the golden eyes of Akos Almassy, gazing upon her, alight with a true and noble passion.

Chapter
2

As Klara entered the drafty theater inside Prince Vehnsky's palace, she saw the tall figure of the Concertmaster, today holding a violin easily. Wind players stood around him, and they seemed to be discussing some point of performance.

Had her imagination been running away with her? At once she felt hesitant. She recognized and feared the present tide of longing. The sympathetic, handsome and supremely musical Almassy was the spark, she the tinder.

Oh, if she dared to reach out, or was this, somehow, another of the Count's games? Would it only end with her face pressed against the bars of a cage from which she would never escape?

Around her gathered other singers and instrumentalists, all those engaged for Prince Vehnsky's fete. Klara resolved to be cautious. This was neither the time nor place to pursue the sensations of yesterday. A better opportunity would come in the milling aftermath of the Prince's party, a few days hence. The great Vehnsky palace was filled with hiding places. After the performance, she would take Herr Almassy boldly by the hand and they would slip away like two children and talk. If he tried to do as his eyes had proclaimed and kiss her, she would allow it, try to taste the truth in the way his beautiful mouth met hers.

Despite her resolves, when Herr Almassy's lips grazed the sensitive back of Klara's hand within the glove, a profound shiver struck her.

"Are you cold, Fraulein Silber?"

All this morning Klara had been suffering from a logy, heavy feeling. The carriage ride to Vehnskys’ palace had been frigid and uncomfortable.

"Yes, I am. This room is absolutely freezing."

Akos tenderly pressed her fingers. It seemed he could send concern as well as the stronger emotions. He nodded, but she could tell that he didn't share her opinion. An estimating glance followed.

Drawing a heavy shawl closer, she shivered again. The theater at the Vehnsky palace was big. In winter, without the body heat of an audience, it was difficult to heat properly. The warmth radiating from the corner stoves combined with the performers was not equal to today’s bitter weather.

"You must truly loathe a wig." She changed the subject as Akos, with graceful formality, led her toward a row of seats close by one of the corner stoves. Klara had again followed fashion, even though today the white curls only accentuated her pallor. "Does your Prince never complain?"

"That I am out of uniform?"

When she nodded, he said, "I have the honor to be a little indulged by my lord. When I entertain those who take offense at such omissions, I comply. I do not wish anyone to think me disrespectful of so good a master."

"Ah, then it was because the Empress was present at last winter's charity performance."

"Exactly." His eyes brightened. "I confess, however, I was so pleased that you would be present to hear me play that bending the knee to fashion made not a whit of difference."

"Me?"

"Yes, Fraulein Silber. Forgive my boldness, but that was an experience which fatally changed my life."

"Fatally? Heavens, Sir! I shall suspect you of trifling." This, she thought, was definitely flirtation!

"I never trifle, Fraulein." His exotic eyes levelly regarded her. "Perhaps when there is more time, some day, you will do me the honor to allow me to explain."

But this conversation, so tantalizingly begun, would have to wait. Klara could see a cello player approaching, score in hand, a question framed on his plump lips. Akos turned to attend to him and let her go with a regretful bow.

Today, Klara found singing hard. Akos, who seemed to understand, took her through some extra scales, but her chest remained tight, her throat dry. They agreed she would paraphrase some of the high notes to spare her. When she sang, there was a feeling of danger in the top, as if her voice might suddenly, disgracefully crack. It took every ounce of technique she possessed to get safely through the chosen pieces.

"Very precise," Akos said when she'd finished. "Thank you, Fraulein Silber. That is all for today. Do you think, however, that you will you be in voice sufficiently to sing cadenzas tomorrow? Prince Vehnsky will wish to attend our rehearsal."

Klara stared, suddenly offended. A mere Concertmaster didn't speak that way to a prima donna! And certainly not where other singers, a wolf pack constantly on the watch for any sign of weakness in the leader, could overhear!

"Let me be certain that I understand you, Herr Concertmaster. Do you imply I am not in voice, or that I have come unprepared?" She knew perfectly well the sound had not been up to her usual standard, but his unadorned mention of it made her cross.

A cold was certainly coming on, maybe a bad one, and to fall sick just before Carnival was awful luck! After she had worked so hard, had used every ounce of her technique to hide it, still, this Concertmaster had heard! The detection spoke volumes about his ear, but, how dare he?

The look in Herr Almassy's eyes told her that he might be a man who wore servant's livery, but he would not be cowed. Not even by a Viennese Diva for whom he was nourishing a passion. Klara felt herself deflate, knowing that this interchange, public or not, was going to be absolutely candid, musician to musician.

"As you know, Prince Vehnsky possesses perfect pitch."

At least, she thought unhappily, he has lowered his voice….

"I believe," Akos earnestly added, "that you have the beginnings of a severe catarrh. It would be wisest if you went home and began a cure."

As if she could admit weakness! Anything less than perfection led to someone else taking those bows before the nobility. From the corner of her eye, Klara could see Signorina Amelli, her chief rival, moving closer, straining to catch his words.

"I see no need to pull out all the stops at a rehearsal, especially when the room is so dreadfully cold."

"Fraulein Silber," Herr Almassy began again, "I think….

"Never think, Concertmaster! Just follow orders. Anything more leads to trouble, especially here in Vienna."

She'd spent the early morning breathing steam and drinking mallow tea. She had gargled, had stuck out her tongue a hundred times, had coughed and tried to bring up the weight in her chest.

This performance at Vehnsky's was terribly important, the festive gate which would lead to Carnival, now a mere four weeks away. Nobility from all over the Empire were already in town. She knew that the Italian Kapellmeisters, always in high favor at Court, were touting their countrywomen. Nevertheless, as much as Klara feared failing to perform, she could read the signs of her body and knew that now, approaching the critical weeks of Carnival, the busiest and most profitable time of the year, she was getting a horrible cold.

And why oh why did it have to happen now, just as she had stiffened her resolve to escape Max? To do so, I will need every florin I can earn….

"There might be a way I can assist you," Herr Almassy whispered softly, "with remedies."

"Thank you, Herr Almassy, but you are mistaken." Klara pitched her voice so that the entire room could hear. "And if that is all you need for today, I shall retire."

When he silently bowed, Klara, stifling another shiver, swept away, straight to gray haired Liese, now waiting at the door with other servants. She seized the heavy fox trimmed cloak held out for her. After wrapping herself with great care, she went directly to the frigid discomfort of the waiting carriage.

***

Later, Klara was in the kitchen of her apartment, but she wasn't relaxing the way she usually did, sitting with her beloved tabby cat sprawled in her lap like a big lazy baby. Instead, she was bending, red-faced, over a steaming pot set atop a stove, breathing in a vapor that rose from a roiling stew of pine needles and eucalyptus, desperately trying to loosen the lump of misery in her chest. Nearby, Herr Messer, the cook, was rolling out noodle dough upon a big wooden table.

Klara had moved to this respectable but unpretentious neighborhood after a horrible incident with Max’s wife. The Count had fussed, asking why she was suddenly so interested in economy, but he had permitted her to take this ordinary bourgeois apartment. Klara felt comfortable in the warm atmosphere of her new home, even though she now knew that the outwardly ordinary fellow tenants on the ground floor spied on her comings and goings.

At the sound of footsteps on the back stairs, she turned her head. Outside the kitchen window, on the narrow porch, the shadow of a man passed. Klara didn't think much about it, for peddlers of all sorts came up from the alley to sell sundries to the cook or to Liese.

Wiping flour onto his apron, the cook went out onto the porch to see what was being offered. Klara liked him far better than any of the women cooks she'd employed. Messer cooked plain food, with lots of pork, chicken, apples, kraut, noodles and gravy, but he didn't fuss about lugging his own water up stairs or splitting kindling.

After a short conversation outside, Messer admitted the man to the kitchen. As the door opened, her cat, who had been basking by the stove, made an acrobatic leap which carried him from the floor to the table, and from there onto a high shelf kept empty for him. Heat rising from the stove made it a prime kitty spot in winter.

"It's all right, Satzi," Klara soothed. "It's not Max. Don't be afraid,
Liebchen
."

The cat expressed a wait and see attitude. He sat, curling his fluffy tail neatly around his big feet. Green eyes stared curiously down.

"Good day, Fraulein Silber," said the visitor, bowing low. "I have come to make an apology."

A jolting thrill shot through Klara. Akos shed the hood of his long black cape.

"Here! Don't you come botherin' my mistress!" Herr Messer, plucked the intruder’s sleeve. "He said he was an apothecary, Fraulein!" The cook was aggrieved. His broad, pock marked face went a shade darker, for he'd begun to imagine he'd been tricked by another of Klara's crazy admirers, the kind who would do anything in order to meet her.

"Ah, but here is the mixture which will begin the cure of your mistress.” Herr Almassy whisked a small cone of brown paper from his pocket. "Would you steep this, please?" It was framed as a request, but the tone of command was unmistakable. "The famous Madame Wranitzsky swears by this mixture."

Herr Messer slewed his eyes toward Klara. She nodded.

"Do as the gentleman asks, Messer. I'll try anything in the state I'm in." She paused to clear her throat, which was growing by the minute ever more painful and sore. "This is Herr Almassy, Concertmaster to Prince Vehnsky, so mind your manners.”

Messer grunted and tugged a scant forelock. He hated to be made a fool of, and he was devoted to Klara.

He went at once for the small tea pot, rinsed it with hot water from a black iron kettle, and then added the contents of the paper cone. As the infusion began, a spicy odor flooded the room.

"I'm sorry to intrude upon you like this, Singerin," Almassy said, "but the strain in your voice was unmistakable. I sometimes forget how precarious position is at the Viennese Court, even for a supremely talented lady such as you. I apologize for expressing my concern so carelessly."

"You are bold to appear at my door after the way we parted."
In spite of a myriad aches, Klara smiled. "But you are correct. I'm not at all well, nor am I likely to be in good voice again any time soon."