Nightingale

by Juliet Waldron

  About four o'clock Klara was awakened by a loud knock on the front door. Liese, quite agitated, appeared with a card in her hand.

  "There is a liveried footman at the door. His master is so lofty that he hasn't, so far, deigned to step out. A very big carriage it is, with a fancy coat of arms and lots of fine outriders, Fraulein."

  Klara stared at the card in astonishment. "Why, show them in! It is Prince Vehnsky!"

  "But you aren't dressed or made up. Quick! I'll bring you a wig!" Liese caught Klara's excitement at once.

  "No, you must show him in immediately. The morning gown will have to do." Klara glanced down to see if she'd spilled anything on it at breakfast, but one of the reasons she liked this wool burgundy, besides the way the color complimented, was the very practical reason that it gobbled up accidents. "It's far more impolite to keep him waiting. I am indisposed, after all."

  "Well, I'll to Herr Messer."

  "No, I'll speak to him. You just run to the door right now and bow them in. A Prince of the Blood must never be kept waiting."

  As Liese went trundling away, Klara picked up her cat and with his warm heavy body over her shoulder, she passed through the doors which linked parlor, bedroom and pantry to the kitchen.

  When she entered, she found Herr Messer slumped in the battered chair in front of the stove, feet on a stool, also taking a nap.

  "Messer!" She set Satz down. "I need your help right away."

  The cook toppled onto his feet, burly hands rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

  "Prince Vehnsky is come! Make tea. And bring down that tin of biscuits. The fancy ones the Count to us sent at Epiphany."

  Not waiting for a reply, she abandoned cat and kitchen and returned to the parlor. She could hear voices approaching, but the Prince had not arrived there yet. She stole a quick look into the mirror. There was her neat head, the generous auburn braid encircling it like a fabulous auburn crown. Fortunately, she'd let Liese spend some time on it this morning.

  As Klara pushed the pile of music under the divan, the door opened. A black and red liveried servant entered, then stood to one side. Klara swept a deep curtsy to the square, elegantly clad man who followed him into the room.

  "Pardon my disarray, Your Royal Highness."

  The hands that raised her were chilly within the gloves. Klara lifted her head to gaze at the prince, at his long, lined, sallow face and his dark eyes, all framed inside an elaborate gray wig. He wore a suit of heavy black broadcloth, heavily quilted with scarlet thread.

  "It seems that you are the one who should pardon me, Fraulein Silber. I am calling upon you unannounced, and, I confess, upon caprice. Please sit down at once," he said with a gracious gesture. "You are the invalid, and I the importunate visitor."

  "I am greatly honored, sir." Klara subsided onto the sofa as he’d indicated.

  Six more servants had followed their Prince into the room. Two of them quickly moved the large wing chair into a place adjacent to the couch. Klara was startled to see a familiar face among the ramrod group on either side of the closed door. Without any bodily action which would mark him out, his eyes had somehow drawn hers.

  Akos! It would be hard now to maintain her focus upon his Master, but Klara knew that she must.

  "I received your note, Fraulein Silber. I am sorry to hear that you are ill and that you do not dare to use your instrument for some time. However, as I shall be in Vienna until Easter, I hope to again be transported by the sound of your voice before I return home again."

  "And I am transported by your generous praise, Your Highness! I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your understanding. It is unwise to deny a Prince, but in my present state, I would only bring dishonor upon your house and upon myself."

  Vehnsky waved a jeweled covered glove. "The custodian of such a gift as yours is dutybound to care for it. I have delighted in your singing since you burst upon the Viennese stage four winters ago. I must say, however, that your performance at the Feast of the Epiphany of Kapellmeister Gluck's Eurydice was an experience which verged upon the divine. Kapellmeister Haydn, whose ear is attuned to beauty, has upon many occasions expressed his pleasure in hearing you."

  "I’m so greatly honored, Your Highness. How excessively kind of you to relate this!" Klara was well trained in the art of making speeches to the nobility, but to learn that Herr Haydn, who wasn’t often at Court, had given her such praise was quite breath-taking. Besides, the old aristocrat now sitting beside her was not only a nobleman of the highest rank, but a well-known connoisseur. She sensed that his words were not the usual hyperbole. She knew how much his praise would have pleased her patron, too.

  What pleased that wicked man should not make her happy, not under any circumstance!

  At once she tried to smother the thought.

  "I shall not intrude any longer, my dear, but shall, with your permission, leave behind one of my servants, who, I trust, will be able to continue to assist your recovery." The Prince lifted his hand. "Come, Almassy."

  Stepping from among the others, Akos made a graceful bow. He was an exact replica of his companions today, in black and red, even wearing the requisite wig.

  When their eyes met, his so serious, Klara lowered hers. It was a long time since she'd blushed. Maximilian imagined he had ‘cured’ her of that childishness. Nevertheless, she could feel her cheeks glow. Just the ghost of a smile seemed to hover upon the Prince’s mouth as his gaze traveled between the two of them.

  "I am informed that you have some acquaintance with Herr Almassy, not only in his capacity as Concertmaster, but as his grandfather's heir. It really has been a trial to decide exactly how he ought to serve me. In my experience, a man who has one great talent he can call his own is a rarity, even more so a man who has many. Herr Almassy's grandmother sang for my parents, and his grandfather is such a skillful healer that peasants come for miles to bring their ailments to him. Both gifts are commingled in Akos. He has the healing touch, but he is also, as you have already seen, Fraulein, an able servant of the Muse of Song. My late wife used to say when she had a headache that she couldn't ever tell whether it would heal her more quickly to hear Almassy play or to have him brew her a potion. So, Fraulein Silber, if it pleases you, avail yourself of either of his talents for as long as your indisposition lasts. For years his good grandfather has kept the fine singers attached to my household in health and in tune."

  "I humbly thank Your Royal Highness." Klara inclined her shining head. "Though this morning I remain indisposed, after yesterday's treatment, I already feel my feet set upon the road which leads to recovery."

  ***

  The Prince and his entourage withdrew almost as quickly as they had come, the Prince refusing Klara's offer of refreshment. When he had taken the notion to stop and see her, he had been on his way to an English tea at the winter residence of Prince Galitzen. After they had gone, withdrawing in a procession down the front stairs, Klara set her now thoroughly agitated servants to the task of producing an early supper. This done, she found herself delightfully alone with Akos.

  "I am glad that you are a little better today, Fraulein Silber. You were very ill yesterday. I really have no idea how you managed to sing at all."

  Klara noted his formality. Perhaps it was because today his clothes so clearly marked him out as a man in service.

  "Actually, neither do I. I kept fighting with every trick I knew, praying that I wouldn't surrender to it, but the wretched catarrh overcame me anyway."

  "Sometimes the body chooses to be ill." There was a moment's hesitation and then, with a penetrating look, he added, "Is something more upsetting you, making you unhappy? I only ask this because my grandfather would. It is often the case with this sort of illness."

  "I can't think of anything." Klara feared returning to the confessional mood of yesterday.

  Akos' hazel eyes turned sorrowful. Of course, he knew she wanted to reestablish distance between them, but the knowledge hurt him. Klara didn’t want to talk
anymore about Oettingen, though. She was frightened of the decision she had made. And any day now her master might arrive in Vienna.

  After quelling the Polish insurrection, Max had been delayed, first by some unspecified indisposition of his own and then by two enormous winter storms. Usually he arrived in Vienna at Christmas, but it was almost Carnival now and still he hadn't come. During his prolonged absence, Klara had imagined that she could stiffen her resolve and leave Vienna, from the scene of those fairy tale successes which had made her the toast of the Imperial Court. As petrifying and ultimately depressing as the notion was, she knew it would be the only way she could escape.

  The last years had witnessed several attempts at rebellion, followed by demeaning surrenders to his jaded voluptuary's tastes. Submission was always followed by a time of luxury, and, yes, to a time of lust. There was a surfeit of physical pleasure, wonderful presents, stellar parties and dances, evenings when she sang for his friends and was everywhere worshipped like a goddess. Every material delight was provided when she acquiesced. Max was truly a formidable opponent. Besides his power to command, he engaged her mind. He could talk authoritatively to Klara about all sorts of things, from politics, to the history of the warring Habsburg Empire, to the aesthetics of his magnificent collection of paintings, or about the plays, ballets and operas which they saw together. Sometimes, though, with no warning, Max swung from lover/teacher to lecturing father. Even worse than that were his occasional moods of cruelty, in which he let Klara know that he considered her little more than a pretty pet.

  As soon as Max went away, going to one of his country estates or away again upon the Empresses' business, Klara would be wracked by guilt. She'd say hundreds of rosaries, light candles, and go heavily veiled to confession at churches on the outskirts of town, the poor ones, like Saint Mark's. It was unbearable to think that any priest whom she might know socially would be one to whom she had confessed. Ever since the delirium with Giovanni, when she'd learned that Max viewed himself as her keeper, her sensitive heart grieved ever more deeply for the sins she continued to commit.

  "He doesn't keep his women all penned up together like a Turk, but he's a damned wicked Pasha all the same." She’d wept those words to Liese after Max had gone away last spring. "I'm to be all his, but he'll never be mine. I'm just a toy with which he diverts himself when he's in town. He could throw me away next week if he fancied debauching another young singer, and he’s cold enough to do it. Damn his black heart!"

  "Oh, mistress! Debauch? No! Hush. Don't talk like that! Count Oettingen adores you." Liese loved Klara, but she was also the Count's servant, and she always sprang to his defense. "He'd never do such a thing. Why, darling, look at the pearls he brought you, at how he's taking such good care of your pretty white ponies. As for the rest, well, don't forget, love, you'll always be twenty-five years younger than he is."

  Klara had sighed as she impatiently pushed her servant's plump, enclosing arms away. It was true, but no matter what privation she suffered as a result, she couldn't much longer endure living in this gilded box Max had built for her.

  And now here came Herr Almassy, with his wise and beguiling eyes, with his tender, mesmerizing touch, who somehow seemed to understand everything. Her evasion just now had hurt him. Yes, it had. And why? Because he cared about her, because (God protect him!) he seemed to be in love!

  From all these complicated and distressing thoughts, Klara took refuge behind a prima donna's imperial manner.

  "Do take off that damned wig, sir."

  Almassy's eyes remained grave, but he obeyed. One shapely hand swept the white curls away. Then, with almost childish feeling, he furiously rubbed his head to loosen his own flattened raven hair.

  "Ah," Klara said, watching him with a smile, "that's so much better."

  He removed the black bow from the queue of the wig and used it to tie his own shoulder length hair back.

  "Have you brought me more medicine, sir?"

  "Yes, I have." He reached into his pocket and produced another paper cone. "I forgot to ask Liese to get it steeped."

  "Will it make me sleep again?"

  "No, it’s not like the other. You don’t need that again, especially if you slept after I left." When she nodded, he observed, "The fact is, you allowed yourself to sleep. You needed to do that very badly."

  "Yes. That’s true. I've been having trouble sleeping."

  "Why don't you tell me about it?"

  "Do you mind your Prince so arbitrarily setting you a new task?" She ignored his question. Today she would keep control of the situation!

  "No, Fraulien. The conductor Herr Novotna has risen from his bed today. He is determined, like an old but not very wise dog, to serve his master to his last breath. This humble Assistant Concertmaster has returned to playing violin in the Prince’s Orchestra again."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. You did such a wonderful job rehearsing us."

  "Thank you, Fraulein Silber, but being even temporarily in your service is a welcome task."

  As bold as his words were, those beautiful hazel eyes were bolder. Much to her annoyance, Klara felt herself blush again.

  "Will you do the other part of the cure again?” A renegade shiver ran through her, one incited by the memory of the touch of his hands.

  "Yes, but with a difference. Today, with your permission, I shall massage your head and neck. We shall go straight to where the problem is."

  "My – my – neck?"

  "Yes. If it makes you uncomfortable, Liese can sit right there and watch."

  "Well, yes. I suppose she had better." Klara sighed at the idea of those dragon eyes watching them. "And what will that do?"

  "It will make you blow your nose, spit and cough. I doubt that even Frau Liese will be able to see it as a prelude to an amour." Akos smiled.

  Klara felt her color rise higher. How did he make her feel this way? She was, after all, the prima donna, the Count's mistress, the one in charge here!

  She rang the bell, a little more briskly than was necessary, and summoned Marie, her housemaid, to take the cone of herbs to Herr Messer in the kitchen, so that he could make it into a tea. While this was done, Akos warmed his hands by the fire. Then, taking a stance behind the divan, he laid those same artful hands upon Klara's neck, pausing occasionally to sweep the soft, escaping tendrils out of the way away. His first grazing touches made Klara shiver.

  "You just watch what you are doing, young sir!" Summoned by Marie, Liese delivered a caution even as she came through the door.

  "Hush, Liese."

  "Yes, please, Frau Liese. You must be silent and allow your mistress to relax, or this treatment will not help her."

  "But, good heavens, Fraulein!"

  "One more word and I shall ask you to leave!"

  Liese clamped her jaw shut. Unable to endure that dogged, disapproving stare, Klara closed her eyes.

  "Now, let us all take a deep breath and feel peaceful," Almassy said, beginning again.

  His hands felt so good! Once her eyes were closed, Klara had little trouble relaxing, even with the continued sensation of Liese's boring gaze. Whenever he found a spot which felt cool or knotted, he'd linger upon it. Waves of tranquility washed through her body. Klara sighed.

  Interruption came when the newly brewed tea was carried in by Herr Messer. Akos poured it out with a muscular hand that looked more suited to the hilt of a sword than to the precise gestures of service.

  "I am supposed to go to my singing lesson tomorrow." Klara sat up to sip the hot, spicy liquid.

  "Not a good idea. You won't feel well enough, and using your voice now would be a mistake, as I’m sure Signor Manzoli will agree. Besides, the cold makes a journey out of doors a hazard. You will be in a fragile state for at least another week. It would be best to send and explain. Why, if I may ask, didn’t he send you to Kapellmeister Salieri, of whom the Emperor is so fond?”

  “Count Oettingen believed Salieri did not have enough experience. Manzoli is a brill
iant teacher.”

  "Well, the proof's in the pudding. Do you suppose," Akos said after a moment, "that Signor Manzoli could come to you?"

  "Oh, he never goes out to pupils! He rarely leaves his apartment, except to go to the opera or the ballet. He would consider it an insult if I asked."

  "Twenty years past his glory and the fellow dares to dictate to a reigning prima donna?" Akos shook his head. "Nevertheless, Fraulein Silber, as you are undoubtedly his most important student, you must explain the situation. I'm sure he will at least send good advice. His own career lasted for years, so he must have a store of knowledge about preserving the voice. I'm far from being all knowing, but my grandfather says that it's most important that only a little talking and no singing, not even scales, be done until the infection is past."

  "Yes, I know."

  "Good. Now, Fraulein Silber, if you please, we will speak no more." Akos took command. "Just close your eyes and relax, or this treatment will not work as well as it should."

  After a time in which Klara luxuriated in the good ache which Akos' hands created, there came a hesitant tap at the door. When Liese popped up to open it, Messer stuck his head in.

  "Herr Doctor, did you need anything else?"

  "Ah, thank you! Perhaps you could warm this.” Akos paused to remove a small brown bottle from a pocket. “After it is warm, drench some clean rags and make a pack which Liese can apply to your lady's chest. You'll see this is better than mustard to bring up congestion."

  "Better than mustard?" Messer was disbelieving.

  “Never you mind, Herr Messer! Go and tend your kitchen! No one called you!” As Messer, discomfited, closed the door, Liese turned her annoyance upon Akos. “Such tasks are not his! I shall take care of my lady.” Snatching the bottle from Almassy’s hand she hurried to the door.

  "Thank God." Klara sighed when it closed. "She means well, but there are times when she might as well call herself a jailor."

  “Hush,” said Akos. “You are talking too much, although it’s my fault.”

  The gentle massage began again, now moving from her neck to her shoulders. In spite of the arousal she'd imagined she would feel at his intimacy, Klara found herself slipping into a dreamy state.