Song of Seduction (15 page)

He watched, numb and shaking, as Mathilda drew away. She pressed her lower back against the solid mass of the pianoforte and gripped one lacquered wood leg. Her fingers turned white and bloodless under that cruel pressure. Her beautiful eyes had transformed into a study of agony and shame.

“Jürgen was exactly the sort of man I told Herr Seitz I wanted.” In a punishing, precise monotone, she revealed her long-repressed truth. Arie could merely listen. “He was dependable, logical, kind and very well regarded. But when he left the house to work…every day,
I was thankful.
I could breathe. I tried to tell myself the feelings would ease over time, but even three years did nothing to bend my will. Part of me wouldn’t relent to that life.”

Arie ached to take her into his embrace, to help erase the guilt that plagued her and kept her from him. Yet he feared even the necessity of breath, lest she shatter or wither or run.

“You fight yourself now,” he said. “Why?”

“I may as well have taken a hundred lovers for how truthful I was to Jürgen. And then he was killed.” She shook her head slowly. “The man deserved nothing but kindness and devotion, and he received a fraudulent marriage and an early grave. So why am I allowed to play music? To love you after fantasizing for so long? I’ve been behaving as irrationally as my parents ever did, and yet I’m rewarded with joy. How is that fair, to profit from my husband’s murder?”

Surprise rendered him speechless. Even had Arie been able to utter a thing—had his words been an eloquent balm to dissipate the last stains of remorse from her soul—she appeared beyond hearing. With an overcast stare turned inward, she continued.

“The women in my neighborhood believed me strong. I cried for him, but I wasn’t distraught. I cried out of guilt. God help me, part of me was relieved, as if I had received a pardon after a mistake I couldn’t even admit to myself.”

She huddled into herself as tears traced along her cheeks. The words came from her mouth, but her warbling voice sounded very different in defeat. “Even after he was buried and gone, I wouldn’t touch a violin. I knew he would be looking down at me, asking why I’d deceived him. These weeks have been idyllic for me, but I cannot imagine what he would think of how I’ve behaved.”

Silence carved an aching canyon through which Arie’s confusion flowed like a river. He swam amongst theories, images and the enlightenment of her explanation. Greedy, he clung to the buoyant words she had uttered. Idyllic. Joy. Fantasy.

Love.

He cleared his throat, trying to remain attentive to Mathilda and her need for absolution. Only then might he take her by the hand and revisit the emotions he hoped would survive their ordeal.

No, he could not wait. The need to touch her, to reassure them both with the simple, forgiving clinch of fingers, drove him to her side. She did not withdraw. The wrenching force of her admission had beaten her into stillness. He savored the feel of her skin, the delicate bend of each knuckle. For weeks, he had wanted nothing more than to speak with her again, perhaps to understand the reason for her distance. He stood poised on the verge of that understanding, and already his irresponsible body and his shameless mind wanted the tedious scene over and done—so that he might rediscover her.

Vast uncharted idiot. He knew better now.

“Despite what he did not know, did Jürgen have reason to complain about your marriage? You took care of him, yes?”

Mathilda nodded and dipped her chin to the floor. She sniffed.

“You hid your needs and tended to him?”

Again, she acquiesced.

“He was a content man?”

Another sniffle. “Yes, I believe so.”

“You gave three happy, peaceful years to him, I think.”

“No, you’re rationalizing on my behalf.” Beneath her weak protest, she did not appear to notice how the fingers of her left hand wiggled impatiently, purposefully. Arie wondered what melody she played within her unconscious mind, even in the midst of her grief.

“I tell you the truth, Tilda. Do you know what heaven I would have for that much of your attention?” His honest, raw need left him unable to check his own confession. “Even if you hid another hundred guilty secrets, I would want you. I am greedy for whatever you give. I cannot believe Jürgen thought differently.”

“He wasn’t the same sort of man you are.”

“No, but what man does not have a heart to mend or guilt to ease? What man does not seek a remedy to loneliness? He married you, and he must have had his own reasons.”

“His reasons were very practical,” she said.

“Reasons he gave to you?”

“Yes.”

“But what did you know of him, truly? If you held your passions so deeply buried, what could you know about his inner mind?” He rubbed an agitated hand across his mouth. “You hide behind your guilt, Tilda. You found safety with him, a way to hide from scandal. Now you find safety in his death. In your widow’s gown, you hide from chances…and from me.”

At last, she met his eyes, but Arie could find none of the sparkle and vigor he had come to love. She remained defeated, and he despaired of ever being able to bring his lovely muse into the light. “You ask too much of me. I’m not strong enough.”

“You are. You must be.” He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “Tilda,” he said gently, “let him go.”

The clouds of her sorrow had been building for weeks—for months—and at his gentle, forgiving command, Mathilda’s grief opened wide. As a torrent of anguished tears fell toward the wood floor, she sagged into Arie’s welcoming arms. Her body shook against his in great, wrenching sobs, but he held her tightly. The strength of her despair and the intensity of her sad release touched him in a place without words or thought.

His momentary flash of selfish desire had vanished. Even within Mathilda’s vulnerable embrace, with her arms clutching helplessly at his shoulders and her chest crushing into his, he indulged only in the need to comfort and protect her from her own terrible will. Whereas another woman might have grown bitter and withdrawn following a childhood bathed in salacious talk, Mathilda had worked to become respected. Another woman, upon discovering such prodigious talents, would have sought fame or retribution against her tormentors. Moreover, any other woman—liberated by the whim of a higher power, provided with the opportunity to thrust a mistake into the past—would have run willingly into the world, seeking long-denied pleasure.

Yet Mathilda, driven by her honor and an orphan’s intangible fears, had proved an uncommon woman.

The tremors of her despair began to subside. She stayed in his supportive embrace, which eased the tension in Arie’s chest. Although she remained still, her irrepressible fingers tapped and pressed along the ridge of his shoulder blade.

“
Verdomme,
Tilda,” he murmured again her hairline. “How did you think you will give this up?”

She stiffened a little. “Give up what?”

He smiled, pressing his lips to the silken skin of her cheek. “Not me, although I wonder on that too. Your music,
mijn liefde.
” Pulling away and bringing her face into focus, he tapped both of her temples with his forefingers. “What do you hear in your head now? What melody?”

“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “I haven’t heard it before.”

He drew her hands from around his body and kissed her fingers, one by one. “Play it for me?”

Arie planted her on a stool, paying no heed to her tired, indistinct sounds of opposition. Even if her mind objected, she took the violin and bow he offered. A melody followed quickly thereafter. Sad and defiant, awed and frightened, her sudden composition became an elegant, moving encore to the storm of emotions she had survived.

He should have expected as much, but surprise shivered along his backbone all the same. A lifetime of experience suggested she would merely hack at the strings in a performance akin to her artless sobs. But Mathilda remained a special case. More than a study in the physical process of overcoming grief, her composition painted a graceful portrait of turbulent intelligence and deeply rooted insecurities. The spontaneous piece left Arie joyful, alive with awe, and a shade of envious green.

Hastily, he wet a quill with ink and sat behind his worktable. He became her scribe, receiving the notes like a parade of gifts and accounting for each along successive staves. His right hand flew in a reckless attempt to keep pace with her manic creation, succeeding in capturing its bare essence. The muscles of his shoulders and upper back burned, but the discomfort did not deter his attempt to record her song.

Dispensing with his selfish compulsions proved more difficult. Experience had long taught him to grab inspiration from dreams, streets, storms and his deep, limitless memories—anywhere. Defensive instincts, cloaked in a miserly selfishness, hungered for her genius. He wanted to take it and bend it and use it to end the torture of completing his symphony. The temptation itched like a half-healed burn.

Minutes later, the outburst of her composition ended without warning. He watched Mathilda, gray-faced and listing, carefully lower the instrument to its case.

Then she fainted.

She stilled. She did not hear hopefulness, but a pianoforte—its tones blurred by the closed door.

Arie.

Confused by the slanting light of late afternoon, she quickly assessed her surroundings. Furnished with a washstand and the narrow bed Mathilda occupied, the room’s bare wooden floors and faded walls created an uninviting feel. She was in his bedroom?

Panic surged. She remembered their argument, her tears. But the panicked feeling receded as the gentle peace of forgiveness followed. She had confessed—to Arie at least.

Now he played a most exquisite serenade, a song meant for her alone. The intimacy of his private performance resonated within her as no music ever had.

She sat upright on the bed and gingerly unwound the tangled folds of her gown. An aching tension had woven into her muscles, a physical reminder of her anguish. She approached the door and held fast to its frame, basking in Arie’s music. Gently drawn by the irresistible need to be near him again, she peered into the studio.

Illuminated by fading sunshine, Arie sat tall on the piano bench. His wild thatch of sand-colored hair stood in a most endearing disarray, accentuating the firm angles of his cheekbones and jaw. Eyes closed, he wore an expression forged of equal parts peace, desperation and longing. His features shifted in concert with the music he created. Like a man stroking a lover—at once haunted and relieved by his place in her life—he caressed the black and white keys.

On silent feet, Mathilda stepped into the web of his magic, picking up the violin as she crossed the room. His untroubled face registered no surprise when she joined his performance, but neither did he open his eyes. Instead, at the sound of her shy introduction, he eased his performance into an accompanying role. Hesitantly at first, she joined him along a wave of harmony and melody. Out of a gentle adagio, they moved with rhythmic purpose and built the performance in a crescendo. Echoes coiled around the studio, off its windows and walls, adding depth to their instruments.

At last, Arie opened his eyes to tackle the finale. Mathilda swayed and pulsed with every sweeping movement of her bow. Their gracious awareness of one another fashioned a forceful poem of sound. The duet grew louder than the spring rains and powerful enough to bring renewed tears, when she had thought herself incapable of crying ever again.

When the last note became another marker in their shared history, she finally acknowledged the sense of self she had long denied. So near Arie, holding her violin, she belonged wholly in the present. To deny either longing was to deny the truth of her identity and her most intimate, powerful desires. A lash of wind and their exhausted breathing resonated through the studio.

Unable to place the familiar origins of their shared serenade, she dared to break the spell. “What did we play?”

Arie answered with a frown. “Tilda, it is yours.”

Her body leaned closer, like iron to a magnet. Breathing him in, reveling in their connection, she grew drunk on his nearness. “I’m flattered, Arie. Thank you.”

“No, no, you misunderstand.” He stood and walked to within inches, intensifying the drunken play of her senses. “You wrote that.”

Now the frown was Mathilda’s to wear. “When?”

“An hour ago, before you fainted.” He touched the back of his hand to her forehead, like a parent checking for a fever. “Are you well? Do you recall playing violin after you cried?”

“I hadn’t thought, really. I was…mourning.”

Arie shuffled her to the chair behind his worktable, the only padded seat in his studio. At the top of a broad parchment sheet, he had written “Mathilda’s Movement.” And underlined it. Indecipherable symbols littered the paper, barely contained by the staves, but she could not understand what she saw. Sight-reading remained a challenge for her, and the dense fog of his handwriting made the task impossible.

“This…this is yours,” he said. “I wrote while you performed.”

“Wrote? Maybe scribbled?”

He shook his head with an impatient huff. Humming the melody line beneath his breath, he traced a finger along the top stave. “Do you hear it? What came from you?”

Mathilda smiled at his toneless attempt to jog her memory. “You cannot sing, either.”

Absentmindedly, she kissed his firm, warm shoulder through his shirt. When Arie inhaled with a jagged start, an unadulterated feeling of entitlement flooded her brain, amplifying her desire. Was she free to want this man? To have him now?

Even though he remained intent on the topic of her composition, her maestro sounded pained. “Tell me, how did you do this?”

She might tell him more easily how her heart continued beating through the recess of sleep. She understood music, its countless complexities and endless variations, but her knowledge was as ungovernable as the movements of the sun and moon.

With new tenderness and confidence, Mathilda rested her burdensome skull on the hard muscle of his upper arm, relying on his solid presence. “Do you remember the Octave of the Epiphany? That night in Domplatz?”

Arie mumbled an affirmative, his stare fastened to the scribbled sheet music.

“Before I saw you, I looked up at the stars and the snowflakes dancing together. I saw a beautiful night sky above a crowd of happy bundled heads, and I experienced such a feeling of…smallness.” She straightened and met indigo eyes darkened by shadows. “When I played earlier, I felt small. I imagined that night.”

“I am…” He shook his head and stood away. “Words are lacking. Even in Dutch, I cannot explain you,
mijn liefde.
”

She tipped her head, experiencing a curious distress at his withdrawal. What must he have endured these weeks, understanding none of her motives? “You said that before,
‘mijn liefde.’
What does it mean?”

He grinned through his blush. “It means ‘my love’ in Dutch.”

“Oh.” Breath and blood conspired against thought. His stare tested her determination. She repeated his words, experimenting with their power.
“Mijn liefde.”

The tiny wrinkles radiating to his temples tightened. “Do not say what you do not feel.”

But she did feel, more than she ever believed she had a right to.
“Mijn liefde,”
she repeated.

He was kissing her before she had formed the final syllable, a passionate welcome. Hands, mouths, sighs and moans mingled into an embrace of energy and renewal.

Since that haunting afternoon, Mathilda had dreamed of him, consistently and at such length, but the renewed feel of his mouth left her dazed. No fantasy, no matter how detailed, could contend with the wonder of returning to his body: the texture of his hair beneath her fingertips, the scent of his skin, the press and pull of his endless kiss. The rightness of
them.

“How I missed you,” he whispered against her lips. “You cannot know.”

“Forgive me.”

Arie stiffened faintly. A shadow slid across his expression. “I would forgive you anything, Tilda.”

His sudden, serious manner gave her pause, but Mathilda set aside her reservations. Denying her need for him had proven exhausting. She grew tired of the senseless battle, seeking only to be happy. She wanted to hold him without the guilt that had plagued her.

Tell me, Arie.

But she did nothing to push those words into being. No, she simply kissed him again.