Song of Seduction (28 page)

Nerves, yes. And fear…but not for herself.

Arie had been hurting, suffering an ailment she had not been able to identify. Now she understood his dilemma, and his behavior over the previous weeks aligned, making sense. To him, the truth had become more important than any consideration of fame or his career. Her heart fluttered with equal parts pride and trepidation. For the sake of his confession, he stood to lose everything.

Everything except her.

She took her place between the
Konzertmeister
’s chair and the conductor’s platform, nodding to Stüderl. Arie was fine. She hoped.

Stüderl stood and bowed deeply to their awaiting prince. Graciously, he received the applause due his high rank within the court’s musical establishment.

“Thank you for attending tonight’s symphony by Arie De Voss, our resident maestro from Delft. This is De Voss’s
Symphony No. 2 in A minor, Metamorphosis.
”

Stüderl turned to indicate the orchestra as a whole, for which the audience demonstrated polite approval. When the applause dimmed, the
Konzertmeister
cleared his throat. “And making her debut tonight is a new talent among Salzburg’s finest musicians, Frau Mathilda Heidel.”

She curtsied deeply, amazed at her ability to stay standing, let alone greet the monarch of her birthplace. Surprising even herself, she presented the assemblage with a bright smile of gratification. Her anxieties ebbed. She belonged there, on stage, as surely as she belonged in Arie’s arms. The experience humbled her as happiness filled her heart.

She tossed her eyes skyward, her thoughts suddenly with Jürgen.

Thank you.

The antechamber door opened. Every head turned to watch the figure emerging from the shadows. Arie De Voss, the man who had won Mathilda’s heart long before they shared a single conversation, the man who had conquered her doubts and overcome each reason for hiding, walked with sure steps. He assumed that special place between the orchestra and the audience, apart from each yet holding the attention of every individual.

Mathilda met his eye and smiled. He would not—or could not—return her optimism, but he nodded. His face was pinched into a tight grimace. She searched his body for a sign of his intention. Vast bunches of worry changed the shape of his shoulders, and he had bothered his hair into its customary mess. Fitting. She would smooth it to rights when she held him again.

Arie turned from her and faced his public. He cast his voice to reach the very last row of gilded chairs. “You assemble here tonight under false pretenses. This is not my second symphony.” He paused. Exhaled. “It is my first.”

A wave of disbelieving whispers slipped through the crowd. Eagerness for the new symphony transformed into questions and suspicion. The sound of Mathilda’s heartbeat challenged her awareness of sound, even as her visual perception intensified. Her eyes accommodated ever more detail: the stiff muscles of Arie’s upper back, the relatively unaffected expression on Venner’s face and Ingrid’s calm patience beside him, the immense frescoes in which Alexander the Great conquered his every opponent.

Then she focused on a single man. Duke Ferdinand.

“Herr De Voss, what is this about?” With the rich timbre of a cello, the duke spoke as one born to authority, not necessarily through his royal birthright, but because of a natural penchant for leadership.

Much as he had with Venner, Arie returned the sovereign’s probing gaze with a mixture of dignity and deference. He exuded certainty, but without any offending arrogance. “Your Grace, I did not write the symphony entitled
Love and Freedom.
”

“Who did?”

“My mentor. He was a composer from Budapest named Sándor Bolyai. After he died, I claimed his unpublished work as my own.”

Duke Ferdinand appeared taken aback by Arie’s blunt words. The audience swirled in doubt. Even their monarch found no response to such an incriminating admission. Should he be allowed to proceed? Should they stand and leave him there, his symphony unheard? Should he be punished for…for
something?

Mathilda watched the thoughts bounce from head to head, spinning Arie’s fate—the fate she would share—like a wheel of chance at Carnival. No one, not even the duke, offered the words that would break the insufferable tension.

Into the friction of that silence came an impatient shout. “God’s teeth,
Holländer!
Did you write
this
one?”

The man responsible stood. With a screech of metal against marble, he skidded his chair backward. A rumpled outdated coat fit him poorly. Grimy black hair covered his broad skull in an unkempt snarl. Above a broad nose and pockmarks visible even from Mathilda’s vantage, heavy brows hooded dark eyes. Short and slightly stooped, he stabbed at Arie with a fierce glare.

Mathilda did not recognize the heckler, but Arie seemed to. He bowed slightly. “I did, sir.”

“Then get on with it, man! None of us are here for confession.”

Whereas the impatient stranger surprised many with his scruffy insolence, Haydn epitomized refinement and grace. Next to Duke Ferdinand in the front row, he spoke in a theatric whisper to his sovereign. “Your Excellency, I agree with Herr Beethoven.”

At the mention of Ludwig van Beethoven’s name, the whispers and chatter amplified. Beethoven resumed his seat, fading into a crowd sparked to life by his outburst. Mathilda could have hugged him, churlish disposition and all. The composer’s eccentric presence and goading demands nearly eclipsed Arie’s disclosure.

When Duke Ferdinand spoke, the decision had already been made on his behalf. “Proceed, De Voss. Your audience awaits.”

Arie bowed to the duke and nodded meaningfully toward Beethoven. Turning with stiff movements on the conductor’s stand, he would not look at Mathilda. His restraint was for the best, really, because she would have shattered into a thousand pieces. She would have flown into his arms, kissing and smiling and finally breathing again.

He tapped his baton. She raised her bow. The orchestra, that collection of individuals made whole through his direction, inhaled.

And the symphony would go unperformed.

Respecting the chance he had been given, honoring the long days the musicians had dedicated to his creation, Arie could not allow that to happen.

And Mathilda. She had stood with him, sharing the alternating moments of terror and ecstasy. Her dedication healed him. Her presence reassured him, helping him tether his soaring emotions and concentrate on his task. His prize.

Clenching the baton with a numb hand, Arie called the orchestra to attention.

They began.

In her opening cadenza, Mathilda sang to him with her violin. She began the first movement and carried the orchestra through difficult paces, through the spring rain and the dark reawakening. Midway through the second movement, as Arie narrated the story of his muse and her crashing arrival into his life, sensation returned to his fingers. He regained confidence in his body’s ability to sustain him through the awaiting rigors, a prospect that had been in doubt when standing before the duke, awaiting his fate.

Only with the third movement did Arie sneak a glance at Mathilda. She stood mere feet from his elevation, swaying with the instrument that seemed a natural extension of her graceful limbs. He had composed the segment during the long, desolate aftermath of their startling winter afternoon. Now, he conducted in the Residenz. With Mathilda at his side, they pulled their tender, passionate episode out of the secluded candlelight of his studio and shared it with an audience of hundreds.

With the finale, the fourth movement, Arie turned his attention to the cellists. They fashioned a seemingly random introduction of dark sixteenth notes, flitting around in hesitant confusion, until the violins sprang forth to create a sparkling, playful theme. The bridge to a second motif, equally dainty and dancing, became a series of descending scales to mirror the celli’s floundering introduction. Bassoons and basses complemented the flirty motifs with sturdy arpeggios, while the brass section added spiky syncopations.

Arie remembered love. He remembered the exploratory and teasing moments he had shared with Mathilda in his bed. Their hesitation was the cello. Her joy was the violin—oh, the joy they gave each other—while the brass beat with shocks of pleasure.

But then he had abandoned her, fleeing to the countryside in a fit of uncertainty and doubt. The orchestra pulled him through those stark, lonely weeks. Vehement strings competed with a rumbling dissonance from the oboes and clarinets, until the entire symphony developed the theme in a series of massive, ascending scales.

Mathilda’s violin returned, assuring a life of love and fidelity. When Arie had penned the final moments of his symphony, their happy ending was a mere vision, a dream written out in inky scrawls. That vision had become a promise strong enough to echo across the Residenz.

Before him, forty-one dedicated musicians animated his dream. Through technical prowess, heart and an irresistible power, they pushed the symphony toward its close. Fanfares of chirping woodwinds echoed over a series of uplifting scales from the brass. The timpani thundered and the strings soared, building and ringing through the hall in an expressive ode to a love Arie had never believed until Mathilda.

With a grand flourish, the symphony concluded.

Applause followed immediately, rivaling the orchestra in its exuberance and volume. Across Carabinierisaal, people joined to celebrate Arie’s triumph. Turning on the platform, head bowed, his body shook from the exertion and release of his accomplishment. He wanted to fall to the ground. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted Mathilda in his arms, the hard pressure of her embrace making the tumultuous moment real.

Repentance. Vindication. Freedom.

Raising his head, Arie witnessed the crowd standing in a spontaneous ovation. He turned, bringing Stüderl forward for his well-earned regards. And then he took Mathilda’s hand. For the first time since assuming his place on the conductor’s platform, he met her eyes. The approval and pride he saw there was all he had hoped, all he had expected to find. He kissed the back of her hand and presented her to the cheering assembly.

For her alone he said, “I believe you have found your calling.”

“You too.”

After an endless balm of heady applause, the audience began to stand, mill and adjourn. Duke Ferdinand found the pair and offered his congratulations. From all sides, Arie received words of admiration and acclaim, all of which served to erase the anxiety and misery of too many long years. He had given Sándor Bolyai his due, while rightfully claiming his own place in the world of music.

The Venners approached. Lady Venner beamed and embraced them both.

Arie forced himself to look at the stern nobleman. “My lord, I apologize. I understand—”

“De Voss, we’ve already established that I know very little about your profession.” A disparaging grin swiped across his hard face. “Congratulations.”

Arie gladly shook his proffered hand, inordinately pleased. He had not realized how much the aristocrat’s hard-earned approval would mean to him.

Michael Haydn joined the group, affectionately clapping Arie on the shoulder. “Well done, my boy. Excellent work.”

The air in Arie’s lungs left in a quick rush. “Sir, what happened here? I feel as if Herr Beethoven pulled me from under a guillotine’s blade.”

The aged
Kapellmeister
smiled tightly and shook his head. “Not just Beethoven, my friend. Napoleon.”

Arie raised an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”

“Bonaparte has declared himself Emperor of France. Our good prince fears the resumption of hostilities.”

Beside Arie, the women exchanged hasty looks before pinning Venner beneath the might of their combined stare. Lady Venner dragged her husband away, with Mathilda close behind.

Haydn nodded toward Duke Ferdinand where he milled with two other noblemen. “His interest in the workings of our profession is at a low ebb, which makes you a lucky man.”

A buzz of questions and fears swarmed in Arie’s brain, slowly circling, slowly quieting. His reprieve seemed a miracle, a dream—a dream he very much wanted to be true. “This is astonishing.”

“No, your symphony is astonishing.” He stepped back and bowed deeply. “I finally feel that I know something of who you are.”

“Thank you, sir. I cannot—”

“Enough now, Arie.”

The use of his given name stopped him.

“You have a second chance,” Haydn said. “Find Frau Heidel and make the most of these days.”

Eager for their turn at offering congratulations, an endless crush of well-wishers and admirers spun the pair apart. Arie remained gracious and calm, but he wanted nothing more than to have his fiancée beside him.

An exhausting half-hour later, he found his love. She stood outside the hall, pressing her back to the wall of an alcove. Holding the violin case in front of her with both hands, she appeared youthful and far too innocent. The look in her eyes, however, told tales of homecoming and anticipation. They embraced with the fierce happiness he had imagined only an hour earlier.

“Arie, I’m so proud of you.”

“And I of you, Tilda. You were—”

He sagged against her. His knees weakened as the rush of accomplishment dropped away. Once, he had believed being in love meant living in a state of turmoil, the very antithesis of calm. But in that alcove, together, he understood love to be a complex harmony of peace and need, growing together with such strength until he could not discern one element from the other.

“Very good, De Voss,” said a gruff voice.

Arie and Mathilda separated with less haste than they should have managed, but Beethoven did not seem to mind. He sneered in what appeared to be good-natured congratulations—about the symphony and their embrace.

“Thank you, sir.” Arie offered the composer a curt bow, but Beethoven did not return the gesture. “You did me a great service, and I am obliged.”

The strange, stout man grinned and spat toward Carabinierisaal. “They will have forgotten all of this in a week. They care not at all for the music—just the talk. We shut them up for a moment, though!”

“Yes, sir.”

Once, Arie would have agreed with Beethoven whole-heartedly, convinced that audiences filled with preening sycophants cared nothing for the music he adored. Mathilda had proven him wrong.

“And you, Frau Heidel, very impressive.” Beethoven’s dark glower flicked across her face. He leaned close. “If your maestro ever disappoints you, come find me.”

“Sir, if that is the requirement for our future acquaintance, I am afraid I’ll never see you again.”

Beethoven threw back his head and cackled. His robust laughter drew considerable stares from patrons exiting the music hall, but he would not abate. Mathilda and Arie glanced at each other, offering mirrored shrugs.

At last Beethoven calmed. “Vienna, then. I will premiere my new symphony. Consider yourselves invited.” He offered Arie’s most captivating student a last, assessing look. “And
you
should audition.”