The Brahms Deception (31 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

BOOK: The Brahms Deception
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Nuncia was in the doorway, holding out a napkin-covered basket. Frederica pushed past her, and she had to fall back a step. Frederica ignored the basket in her haste to get out into the garden.
“Wait, Clara!” Brahms called. “Nuncia has something for us.”
Frederica didn't stop. Nuncia stood staring after her, open-mouthed. The basket sagged in her hands, nearly forgotten in her bewilderment. Brahms said again, “Clara!” and followed her out into the sunshine.
Kristian, his heart in his throat, moved as swiftly as he could, trying to keep up with them. He was still shaken. He couldn't move as easily as he had before, when a mere thought propelled him to where he wanted to be. He tried, slipping past the cook, out the door, down the little walk past the painted bench and the olive tree.
He wasn't in time. Before he could reach her, Frederica had stepped through the scrolled gate. Brahms was at her heels, remonstrating with her, but keeping pace. They both turned left, toward the cart waiting just where the road met the cobbled street of the village. Claudio stood at his donkey's head. When he saw Frederica approaching, he stepped forward to give her a hand up into the cart.
Kristian, collecting himself as best he could, leaped after them, but just outside the gate he stopped. He had no choice. He felt that electric shiver, and he knew. He could have shouted with frustration. He had reached the limit of the zone, and she, with a swish of her wide plaid skirts, was already climbing up into the donkey cart. She had escaped him.
 
Claudio handed Frederica up into the carriage. She took the step carefully. She was still trembling, but it was as much from excitement as from the shock of nearly tumbling headlong down the stairs. With a little laugh, she managed to seat herself and arrange her skirts. As she tried to smooth the bent straw of her bonnet, Hannes touched her arm and looked up into her face with concern.
“That could have been a terrible fall.” There was a crease between his brows she was sure she had not seen before. It made her feel just a little bit sad, that he should look that way.
It would be all right. She would soon restore him to his old ebullience. She just needed a bit of time—and now she had time, as much as she wanted. There was nothing—
nothing!
—to stand in her way.
She feared her eyes must blaze with triumph. She passed her hand over them to hide it, and took a trembling breath. “Oh, yes, dearest, I'm all right. It was just—goodness, just so foolish to almost fall down the stairs that way. Like a careless child!
Mein Gott,
it is a good thing you were there, Hannes!” She gave up on the hat and laid it on the wooden bench beside her.
He settled his valise behind the bench. She held out her hand to him, but he turned away.
She said, “Hannes?”
“Nuncia has a lunch for you. I'm going back for it.”
“Hannes, no! I don't need it. There will be something—a dining car. We can eat there. Let's go, or we'll miss our train.”
He looked up at her, unsmiling, an odd expression on his face. She feared it was a look of doubt. Or—though she hated to admit it—of disappointment. “Nuncia has worked hard to make it for you, Clara,” he said. “Why hurt her feelings? Why would we not take it?”
She busied herself with her bonnet, hiding her face from him. “Of course you're right, dearest. I don't know what came over me. Of course we must take it.”
He regarded her with slightly narrowed eyes for a moment before he turned and walked back toward the house. Frederica watched him, twisting the ribbons of the crushed straw hat in her hands. Impatience had made her reckless. She must be more careful. She was just so eager to be on her way, to be gone from Castagno, and Casa Agosto—and the memory of Clara Schumann, of how it had felt to pinch out that last spark, to put an end to her spirit. She was eager to be on the train, to be safely on her way to Hamburg, and her future with Hannes.
His coat flapped around his long legs as he turned into the gate of Casa Agosto. His fair hair shone like gold in the sun as he covered the distance in three strides. Nuncia smiled now, stepping forward, the basket held out in her two hands.
Frederica caught a breath. She could see the hazy image that was Kristian North, hovering just at Nuncia's shoulder. He moved with Nuncia as she extended her hands to give Hannes the basket. He floated past her as she said something, nodding, folding her hands in her apron. Hannes, who couldn't understand a word she said, nor make himself understood, made a small, elegant bow of thanks. He took the basket, and tucked it under his arm.
Kristian moved toward Hannes.
“Oh, my God,” Frederica breathed. “Oh, no.”
Hannes was strolling, no longer hurrying now that he thought they were on their way. He looked up into the clear sky, then turned to tip his hat to Nuncia and take a last, lingering look at Casa Agosto.
“Hurry, Hannes, hurry!” Frederica moaned. “Hannes, come!”
Hannes turned, with agonizing deliberation, and walked back toward the gate. Kristian North was behind him. Then he was beside him, his image clearly visible to Frederica, his silhouette like a shadow at Hannes's shoulder. Hannes put his hand on the scrolled iron, pushed it open, began to step through.
“Hannes, hurry!” Frederica called. “For God's sake, hurry up!” He looked up at her, frowning, but it didn't matter what he thought now. It didn't matter that Claudio, at the donkey's head, turned in surprise at her shrillness. None of that was important. She had to get Hannes beyond Kristian's reach, and it was too late for her to jump down from the cart and run to him.
Almost as if he meant to torment her, he turned back to close the gate and push its latch into place. Panicked, she started to rise. She had to do something, to stop this disaster. She didn't know what action she could take, but she couldn't just sit here!
As she put her foot on the step, Hannes lifted his hand once more to Nuncia, pointed to the basket, nodded to her. She took one hand out of her apron to wave farewell.
Hannes, with Kristian at his side, turned away from the house. As he did, Kristian disappeared.
Hannes, in midstride, stiffened suddenly, horribly. His eyes widened, and his hands flew to his head as if some terrible pain had clutched his brain. It was as if someone had struck him. The basket fell to the cobblestones and rolled on its side.
Frederica's hands flew to her mouth. She knew all too well what Hannes's stricken look meant. Clara must have looked just like that when she . . . when she had—but that had been different! Her need had been different! This was not
fair
.
“Oh,
no!
” she cried. Her voice tore at her throat. “Hannes,
no!
”
18
There was something obscene about slipping into Brahms's body. Kristian was acutely aware that it was a violation. It was an insult to someone he wholly admired. He loathed doing it, but he had run out of options. It was a move of desperation.
Frederica was urging Brahms to hurry. Kristian was hovering at his shoulder, reluctant to take that final step. He was powerless to stop her, helpless to vanquish the glitter of triumph that shone in her eyes. She had almost won this final battle, almost triumphed despite everything.
He couldn't let it happen. His only weapon was the one she herself had shown him.
With a shiver of revulsion, he slid into the unsuspecting Brahms. He pushed him aside, forced him down as he forced down his own distaste for the act. He took command of what was not really his, and he felt his victim's jolt of surprise and fear. He had to hold on, hard, as Brahms resisted, fought for control of his own body, his own eyes, his own mind. It was demeaning to them both.
Kristian—an unlikely warrior in a bizarre conflict—persisted. He staggered as he tried to find balance in the unfamiliar body. Brahms's hands and arms were different, finer boned, less muscular, than his own. His legs were longer, his torso more slender. Kristian had endured a growth spurt in his early teens, when he grew six inches in eight months. He felt now as if he were that adolescent again, learning to deal with a body that had transformed, seemingly overnight, into that of a stranger. He gripped the curlicue of iron at the top of the garden gate with both hands, and pushed himself up with an effort. He was panting. Perspiration ran down his neck beneath the unfamiliar stiff collar. The heavy coat smelled of tobacco and sweat. Beneath it his shirt clung to his armpits and his back. His hat had fallen off, and he had dropped the cook's basket.
For a long moment he couldn't move. He stood leaning on the gate, trying to integrate himself with Brahms. He was stunned for a moment by the sensation of knowing things he had never known, that he couldn't know. He had Brahms's thoughts as well as his body, and it was more than he could process.
P dolce . . .
He heard Frederica cry, in Clara's voice, “Hannes,
no!
” and he thrust himself away from the gate. He bent to pick up the hat and the basket, though he had to grope for them, his hands refusing to obey his impulse. He turned left, toward the waiting cart, but he stumbled, one foot landing too hard on the cobblestones, the other sliding away, as rebellious as his hands. Was this how Erika felt, on her bad days? It was awful, and it was frightening.
But he had to hurry. He didn't think he could keep this up for long, not with Brahms flailing inside him, striving to regain himself.
Frederica was standing in the cart. He saw her eyes flash and her mouth twist. The driver, seeing Brahms weaving toward them, stepped forward, but Frederica said,
“No!”
He stopped, and looked up at her, mystified. In impressive Italian, she commanded,
“Andiamo! Il signore non viene!”
Claudio turned to Kristian.
“É vero, signore? Non viene?”
Kristian, blessing his crash course in Italian, said,
“No! No!”
It was all he could think of at the moment. Surely Brahms knew at least that much Italian. He lurched forward, one step, two, three.
Claudio came to meet him, asking something, reaching for the basket and his hat. Frederica shouted something more, something Kristian couldn't translate. He reached the cart, and hauled himself up to fall heavily onto the hard wooden seat opposite Frederica. Claudio handed him his hat. He refolded the napkin over the basket before he handed that up, too.
Frederica, with a wordless hiss like that of a furious cat, sank back onto her seat, and folded her arms. Claudio, having assured himself that both his passengers were in place, moved back to the donkey's head. He would walk, it seemed. No doubt two people were all the creature could be expected to pull. Claudio took hold of a rope attached to the donkey's bridle. He clucked to the beast, and the donkey began to move. The cart creaked and rolled forward, its iron wheels jouncing over the rutted road.
Kristian, still feeling awkward, gripped the edge of the seat with both hands, and turned his gaze to Frederica. She sat as far away from him as she could, her face suffused with fury. “Why can't you leave me alone?”
“Why do you think?” He felt Brahms resisting, testing his strength. How had Frederica managed this? Kristian thought it was the hardest thing he had ever done. He drew a slow breath through his nostrils. The air of Castagno was as rich with the scent of roses as he had thought it would be. He tried to send a reassuring thought to Brahms, begging for patience, even as he said, “You don't belong here, Frederica. You have to come home.”
“Home! Why should I want to go home?” she snapped. “There's nothing for me there!”
“Your parents,” he began, but gave it up. He had already tried that argument. The cart tilted as it turned out of the street and onto the road. Kristian seized the bench again, surprised by the roughness of the ride. The smell of roses gave way to the pungent smell of donkey. The cart rattled alarmingly, drowning the crisp sounds of the donkey's hooves. “Your career,” he said, raising his voice. “Now that you've done remote research—”
“Career!” she spat. “Do you think that would make me give up all of this?”
“All of this?” He forgot Brahms for the moment in the urgency of his need to persuade her. “All of this is—it's primitive! What if you get sick? What if you're injured?” As the cart rocked its slow way down the hill, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked into her face. “Frederica, listen to me.”
She turned her head away. “You can't persuade me.”
“I think I can,” he said, though the set of her mouth was forbidding. “The time line changed, Frederica. Clara Schumann—in this time line—will be dead in less than ten years, alone and forgotten.
You
will be dead. I have a Brahms biography, and it says—”
“No!” Her chin trembled for an instant, but it firmed again. She clenched her hands together in her lap. “No. If the time line changed once, it can change again. And—” She turned her head toward him, and he gasped. He no longer saw Clara Schumann's delicate, melancholy features, her soft, small mouth, her great dark eyes. He saw hard eyes, lips pressed thin, a jutting chin. It was Frederica Bannister's face, though she hid behind Clara's.
Her upper lip curled on one side, an expression he felt sure Clara's mouth had never made. “And now,” she finished softly, “you have warned me. I will take the greatest care to see that
I
am not dead at the age of fifty. And I will certainly not be alone.”
“You will. You will be abandoned. Destitute.”
“That won't happen. I will see that it doesn't.”
“Don't you feel any guilt?” he asked. “Any responsibility?”
A flicker of her eyelids was his answer, but it was quickly suppressed. She said, flatly, “No.”
“I don't believe you. You can't be so unfeeling.”
“Unfeeling?” She gave a bitter laugh just as the cart jolted over a stone and she had to brace herself against the side. “You have no idea what I feel.”
He inched forward on his seat. He would have, he knew, just one chance.
She saw the movement. She laughed again, and opened her arms. “Go ahead,” she said. “Try to force me! You will fail. I'm much stronger than you are, and I've been . . . like this . . . for a whole week.”
He hesitated, and she raised her eyebrows. “He's struggling inside you, isn't he?” she crowed. “Oh, yes, I remember what that's like. I know how much energy it takes to keep control. But I no longer have to fight that battle.” She dropped her arms, and folded them once more across her slender bosom. In a voice so low he could barely hear it over the clatter of the cart, she said, “I took care of it. Once and for all.”
He feared she was right. Even as he faced her in the noisy cart, he was aware of Brahms striving to break free. It made him sad, and it exhausted him.
She nodded. “You see,” she said, with grim satisfaction. “You can't do it. You're not as strong-minded as I am. It's not your fault.” She shrugged. “It's just the way I am, have always been. I get what I want, because I'm willing to do what's needed.”
“That doesn't make it right.”
“Please. Spare me your homilies.” She leaned forward a little, and the look she bent on him was one of loathing. “This is your lucky day, you know. All you have to do is release Hannes, and go back to your life. Your career will be better than you ever expected. Now
you
will be the premier Brahms scholar.”
He stiffened, and he felt certain that even with Brahms's unfamiliar face to work with, his look on her was no less one of loathing. “It was supposed to be me in the first place.”
Her smile was like ice. “So?”
“Your father bought you the transfer,” he said.
“Life's a competition. We use what we have. I used my father. If you expect to survive in academe, you'd better toughen up.”
He exhaled, and sat back, staring at her implacable expression. He could hardly bear thinking of what she had done to Clara Schumann. Perhaps he should give up. He had only to release his hold, allow Brahms to surface once again. He would open his eyes in the transfer clinic, and the time line would remain as he had left it. If it was too late for Clara, though it broke his heart to think so, perhaps he should concede. He shook his head, gazing at her.
“You think you can hurt me with your accusing looks,” she said. “You think because I was born into privilege, gifted, indulged, you think I should be happy. I can tell you, it's not enough.”
“It should be. Your mother loves you. Your father is willing to do whatever you want him to do. You have a bright future.”
“A lonely future,” she said. “You saw me—Frederica—in the transfer clinic, didn't you? What did you think of me?”
“There are far more important things than physical appearance.”
She snorted.
He had to drop his gaze, look away from her. He watched the village of San Felice as they jolted through it. It was considerably shrunken from the view of it he had had from the Fiat, more than a century and a half from now. Its houses were isolated, its broad fields empty. He watched until the cart had clattered past and onto the wider road, where other carriages and farm carts rolled toward Pistoia. He whispered to Brahms, clamoring within him, “Wait, sir. I'm very sorry, but . . . Please just wait a little longer.” To Frederica he said, “What you've done is immoral. More than that, it's criminal.”
She laughed. “Who will try me? No one has ever before done what I've done! And even when you go back to your happy life, Kristian North, even if someone believes your complaint against me, they could never find me. I am beyond their reach.”
Her coldness irritated him, and made his temper begin to flicker. “Your mother thinks better of you than this.”
“My mother is a fool. Clothes, jewelry—”
“Beauty?” he interrupted.
“It's so shallow,” she snapped, but she had the grace to look down at her hands.
“It's just what you're complaining of,” he said. “You think because you're plain, you have a right to steal someone else's beauty!”
“You don't know what it's like!” she said. She flicked a glance at him, then down again. “You were born good-looking. Talented. You have everything.”
His breathing quickened as his anger grew. “No one has everything. That's an ignorant thing to say.”
“Ignorant!”
“You don't like that word? I'll choose a different one. You're selfish. Unutterably, disgustingly selfish.” He found one hand folded into a fist, and he struck at the side of the cart with it. “There's no excuse for any of this!” he shouted.
Her voice rose, too. “I don't care what you say, and I certainly don't care what you think! Unless you plan to continue as you are, you can't touch me! And I don't think you have the stomach for it!”
Furious, he started to rise, to move toward her in one last, desperate attempt to disrupt her hold. A sudden lurch of the cart threw him back on the seat, and he saw that they had turned out of the road and were threading their way through city traffic. The arched roof of the train station loomed ahead. She would be out of the cart, off to wherever she had decided to go. And she was right, unless he committed the same offense she had, he couldn't go with her.
“I can't believe,” he said hotly, “that you would do this to a woman who never hurt you.”
“I told you, she's dead!” Frederica shrieked. “It's done, and I can't change it now, even if I wanted to!”

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