Nightingale

by Juliet Waldron

  Here he paused, obviously much pleased by this part of his story. “'Wolfgang Mozart of Salzburg?' asks he, and so I bowed and said that I was eternally at his service."

  "He is a great connoisseur," Klara said. "He has sometimes spoken of hearing you play for the old Empress when you were a little boy."

  "Lucky for you, little Kapellmeister," Florian said. "He might have cut your throat and asked questions later."

  "When I looked into his eyes, I had the same notion. At any rate, your Count didn't speak again right away. I could almost see his mind working. Finally he said, 'I am the lady's patron. I feared that she might come to some harm at such a rag-tag brawl.' He even said that he looked forward to the music and that he hoped I would live up to my reputation and provide Fraulein Silber with something worthy of her talent. He advised me to get home to my father before I got into further trouble; he even had one of his men accompany me here to Swan. I managed all that without Papa knowing, at least until this morning when he got up before I did, saw Fraulein Silber's costume, and demanded a full explanation."

  "I suppose your worthy Papa had a few choice words to say then." Florian shook his great head with a grin.

  "I caught hell. After I told him it was in service of Prima Donna Silber, he calmed down, but only a little. I, uh, well, I wasn’t supposed to be out last night."

  "And, Fraulein? Did we get away with it?"

  With a shiver, Klara remembered how it had gone. Florian had seen her into the apartment. Together they had made the explanation to Liese, who seemed inclined to believe them. Klara had called for hot water as she always did before going to bed. She had bathed while Liese fussed about the risk she'd run going to such a terrible place and about how cross the Count had been when he'd come earlier and found her out. She’d just been pulling the warm flannel long gown, her usual nightwear, over her head when she'd heard the loud knocking.

  "This will be him now, I'm sure." Liese hurried off, anxious to greet her master.

  Klara mentally girded herself while quickly emptying the basin into the bucket under the washstand. She knew there'd be questions, and perhaps more than that, which she'd have to fend off.

  She had just thrown the burgundy morning gown over the flannel, when her bedroom door opened, and Count Oettingen swept in wearing his masquerade black velvet and billowing cape.

  Fluffy Satz, who had been comfortably ensconced upon Klara's pillow, instantly disappeared into the shadows beneath her bed. Just the sound of those unmistakable footsteps struck terror into his heart.

  The Count stood, twitching a riding crop against one high boot, while Klara curtsied deeply. His aristocratic features were as cold as the winter night out of which he'd come.

  "I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, sir." She spoke humbly. It was easy, because now, in his presence again after all this time, she was terrified.

  He looked around, taking in the tableaux, the slender woman, the turned down bed, the pitcher on the wash stand. The black boots came closer and a big hand, cold from outdoors, reached down for hers.Keeping her eyes lowered, Klara took it. She was immediately lifted to her feet.

  "You have made a fool of me, Fraulein." Cold finger tips lodged beneath her chin and tilted it up. "Just what did you think you were doing, going to that meat market at the Mehlgrube?" His hawk's eyes glared.

  "It was said that Prince Josef would be there. It is also said that our gracious Empress may soon die. I shall need another highly placed friend at Court."

  After a moment's examination of her face, the Count released her. "Ah, Maria Klara," he said, sighing. "None of it, my dear, is much like you. Neither seeking out the Crown Prince, nor going for amusement into such a riot."

  Klara called upon all her stagecraft and kept her voice low and level. "As you always say, sir, I have been responsible for little except music. In your absence, shouldn't I look after my career?"

  Oettingen smiled slightly. "And who was the man that young Herr Mozart said you were avoiding?"

  "Um, no one, Sir, at least no one I know, or would ever wish to. I fear that the Mehlgrube ball was not at all as I imagined it." She lowered her lashes demurely and sent up a prayer.

  "It seems that I have returned to Vienna not a moment too soon, Maria Klara." Cold fingers gathered hers again and this time carried them to his lips. After another long pause, he asked, "Are you glad to see me?"

  "Yes, of course, so delighted, my dear Herr Count." A tremor shot through Klara, one she couldn't suppress. Her fear grew as she met his questioning eyes. For what seemed an endless age he stared down at her. Then he said, "You look very pale, Maria Klara. Why did you go out in this terrible weather when you have been so ill? Hmm?"

  "Well, I have been so horribly bored, sir, confined here for so long."

  "Well, my incautious Fraulein, I think you should go straight to bed now, for it is very late and you have not been well. I shall come to visit you in your parlor tomorrow, about five. We shall speak more then."

  "Yes, my Lord." She curtsied deeply.

  "Is that how it is, Maria Klara?" The cold mask drew close again.

  "Sir?"

  The Count impatiently sighed. He was clearly displeased by her formality and twitched the crop against his high boot.

  The sound held a memory, one of shame and arousal….

  ***

  Klara ended her story well before this, though, well aware that every eye in the parlor was upon her. She could not speak of what had happened next, how Max's free hand had come to take possession. He'd tilted her face towards his, bent and kissed her. Klara had accepted it like a statue.

  "You must tell me about this odd cure Liese says you have taken. I shall be most curious to learn about it. Guten Abend, Maria Klara. Until tomorrow." His final words held a note of resignation. However, to her intense relief, he didn't press further, simply turned and went out.

  There was a look in Herr Almassy’s face which indicated that he knew perfectly well there was omission in this story. He hid his concern by lifting her fingers again and tenderly kissing them.

  Wolfgang was the only one present who appeared to take Klara's tale at face value.

  They were so close to Shrove Tuesday and to The Nightingale! Count Oettingen's presence here and now was a possible complication which everyone had begun to discount, but here he was, along with all he represented. The gathering grew solemn. Olympia finally broke the silence.

  "We must not waste time worrying about what can't be helped. Klara is to serve the Count tea at five, so she must go soon."

  "Madame Adamberger is right. Come, Herr Mozart, let us take a look at those words you don't like and see what we can do. Will you assist us?”

  Olympia accepted an untidy sheaf of music, took it to the harpsichord and began to lay it out along the narrow surface. While Wolfgang shuffled through the remaining libretto, searching for the trouble spot, Almassy drew Klara away to the window.

  "Oh, my angel! I can't bear to think of him touching you."

  "I pray he will not." She felt weak, knowing this was not the time or the place for more.

  His lion's eyes flashed doubt and concern. "Klara…?"

  "Please sir, don't question me. I cannot bear it."

  "I don't wish to upset you, but if you feel that his presence puts you in danger, we should leave now, go at once to Prince Vehnsky."

  "No. I can't just run away. I can't risk that he might do some terrible thing to you. But, oh, Akos! Grosse Gott! Be on your guard from now on, for he is both cruel and dangerous."

  "We are not without resources. If Prince Vehnsky will not help, then we can flee to Prussia. I have some money and between your voice and my playing, we should not starve, even if we have to scrape."

  "We might try the Elector of Mannheim." Klara added a suggestion, all the while hoping to control her growing anxiety. Each passing moment carried her closer to five o’clock. "The Elector was very complimentary last year when he was in Vienna."

  Flo
rian, Olympia and Mozart continued talking, bent over the libretto. Akos dropped a brief kiss upon Klara's check.

  Burning in their minds was a memory of the quick, urgent consummation of the night before, so fast, so full of fire, the kind which only leaves lovers aching for more.

  "Will he force you?"

  "No, his tastes – are – more…." Abruptly, Klara turned away. "When warm weather comes, if he is not campaigning, he will want to take me to his country house." She fixed her gaze upon the group at the harpsichord. "If I find out that he intends to go before Shrove Tuesday, we will have to run at once."

  As she spoke, Klara recalled the sound of the crop as it twitched against the riding boot, a sound which was inextricably mixed with the last summer’s visit to Max's estate. Could she ever tell Akos about what she'd seen and done, the things which entertained Max? Could she ever confide the pleasures her patron had taken with her – and with others – when he was surfeited with hours of orchestrating perversity?

  No, never! Even a man who worshipped must think the worst of a woman who had been party to such acts! She was irrevocably stained by Max's singular expressions of sexuality, as much as if she'd been one of the players he paid to act his fantasies.

  Wearily, she leaned her auburn head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. "Just hold me," she whispered. "Make me brave."

  "Don't be afraid, but please be careful," Akos whispered. "I believe young Mozart's opera yet may be our salvation, if we can only get time to put on the finishing touches."

  Gazing deep into his eyes, Klara nodded.

  "Now, if you are certain that you're safe, we will wait. But, dear Nightingale, do not take the risk. If he ever hurts you again, I shall not rest until either I kill himor he kills me."

  "No! You mustn't ever say…."

  His fingers came to swiftly press against her lips. "Hush."

  "Maria Klara!" Florian deep voice firmly interrupted. "Please come and tell us what you think. Mozart and I can't agree upon some words."

  "Yes, please, Fraulein!" Wolfgang agreed. "And I shall only give up my preference if the prima donna casts her vote against me."

  With a last soft squeeze, Akos released her hand. Klara moved towards the harpsichord where her friends and the young genius sat. For once she was glad to have time with her dark angel come to an end.

  Her lover was close – too close – to her darkest secrets.

  Chapter 12

  Max never appeared that afternoon and sent no word. Klara, who had spent hours of increasing terror anticipating his visit, had ended by going to bed early with a headache. A few days later, Max arrived and took her to the palace to sing for Prince Joseph and the Queen, but he had not detained her.

  And it had been so long since the night in the cabinet! Five days now felt like an eternity.

  "Klara, I heard that he took you home from the palace last night."

  "I thank my lucky stars that was all he did. He seems entirely preoccupied." Klara had never seen Max like this, not seizing the moment. She thought that last night he'd looked every one of his fifty years.

  "He isn't saying much, but I gather there is trouble in Silesia, trouble that is going to get worse."

  "It has been the same there for the last five hundred years."

  "Yes, but I have a feeling we'll soon be actively at war with Prussia over it. The Count and Prince Josef will dine together again tonight."

  "I know that Prince Esterhaza and Prince Vehnsky will attend as well. There can be little doubt if the Prince wants a private talk with his minister of war and his Hungarian Princes. We will doubtless have the honor of supplying most of the blood and money for another Habsburg war."

  "Well," Klara said, soothing him with a caress, "perhaps Max will be so involved with all that, he will not care much about me."

  "Wishful thinking, darling. How could possessing Silesia be more important than possessing you?" In the next moment he'd drawn her close again, had begun kissing her, now in a ravenous hurry, for their carriage would soon reach its destination. Passing through the darkened streets, they fell hungrily upon each other, sharing hot wild kisses. His mouth explored deeply, before coming to a luxurious meditation upon the bare flesh of her bosom above the stays.

  All too soon, they reached the theater and were let out to make their way inside. Hermann and the footman drove the carriage away, down a side street. Here they would blanket the horses and then hunker down to wait in company with many, many other servants like themselves.

  The crush in the parterre was tremendous. Ladies created almost impassable conditions as they stood, pannier to pannier, chatting about children, lovers and pets. In small groups, men cordially offered each other snuff, and caught the sneezes in their handkerchiefs. The mingled smell of bodies and perfume arose in an uneasy cloud.

  Klara was careful when Akos removed her cloak, to make sure the fichu stayed close around her shoulders. Beneath this, her nipples were tell-tale hard from kissing, still pressed against the stays. She wore a yellow silk polonaise gown embroidered with tiny green leaves. This was worn over a petticoat whose yellow ribbons and matching green floral embroidery were to obscure the fact that it was a quilted for warmth. The polonaise, a puffing at the back of the gown was achieved by tapes inside. It had been, as always, a nuisance to get all of that through the carriage door. They had had to pause in the windy cold, while Akos, his black three-corner hat jammed down firmly, had assisted in extracting her.

  Their progress to the stairway which led to the boxes was further slowed by her admirers, who came in happy throngs to congratulate her upon her recovery. All were eager to know when she would sing for the public again.

  Akos escorted her, quite content to simply have her upon his arm. Klara wore a wig whose silver curls trailed over one shoulder. Complete with fan and a tiny, star-shaped beauty patch on one rouged cheek (a daring bow to a fashion which the Count abhorred as “disfigurement”), Klara was absolutely pleased, not only with her appearance, but by the warm welcome she was receiving.

  After removing her fur-trimmed cape, Akos removed his gray wool traveling cloak, revealing a black jacket, richly woven through with gold thread. A black waistcoat and pants, black stockings and shoes with golden buckles completed the picture. Dressed like this, he was simply accepted, during his progress through the throng, for a young nobleman – perhaps an officer – tonight, out of uniform. Klara wanted to inquire how a poor concertmaster had acquired such fine clothes, but she did not. Perhaps Prince Vehnsky, or the now deceased second wife, the one to whom Akos and his father so often played, had indulged her problematic grandson?

  Akos had not entirely bowed to German fashion, for he wore his magnificent black hair loose over his shoulders, accentuating the severe beauty of his features. The gold thread, shining inside the weave of the jacket, enhanced the topaz brilliance of his eyes.

  Reaching the stairs at last, they went up. Inside, in the spacious auditorium, the chandeliers, carrying many candles, were being slowly, carefully, lifted. Soon, although it was winter, the boxes upstairs would become hot. A combination of body heat from the audience below, huge stoves set in the corners of the room and all those candles would at last banish winter.

  The opera tonight was one of Signor Broschi's, a 'tragic spectacle' called Lucrezia, the title role sung by Klara's operatic arch enemy, the youthful blonde Signorina Amelli. The Crown Prince was absent, and tonight there was a ball at the notorious Count Gasparini's, but in spite of that, the audience held an impressive selection of the rich and famous.

  Klara had received an invitation to sit in the box of another star, Josef Lange, an actor. He and Klara had found success during the same winter, five seasons ago and formed a friendship. Lange was classically tall, dark and handsome, seven or eight years older than Klara. Though vain and charming like most actors, he also had a scholarly side. His last Viennese triumph had come in the unlikely vehicle of a philosophical tragedy called Hamlet, written by a long dead E
nglishman. Even Max, who disdained socializing with actors, maintained a gracious stance towards this cerebral new theatrical star.

  The Lange's box was often crowded with friends and hangers-on, but not tonight. For this, there were two reasons. One was the ball at Gasparini's, where many of the regular members of the Langes' set (leading figuranti from the ballet, as well as actors and singers) would be. The other reason was that tonight's opera was at the end of a six week run and played out.

  "Ah, Fraulein Prima Donna Silber. Wunderbar!" Lange and his statuesque red-haired wife, Anna, were welcoming. As Lange stood to greet them, Klara said, "My dear friends, I would like you to meet Concertmaster Akos Almassy, who is in service to Prince Vehnsky.”

  "Charmed." The gentlemen bowed to each other. Klara was gratified to see approval in Lange's bright eye as he studied Akos.

  "An honor, Frau Lange." Akos moved to gracefully bow over Caroline's long and faintly freckled fingers. She was in the last stages of pregnancy, extended upon a divan, supported by a sumptuous pile of embroidered pillows.

  "We were beginning to think we had made a mistake in coming," Lange remarked. "We were certain it would be less boring than staying in, but there is no truly interesting company to be had till this moment!" He bowed with a flourish over Klara's hand. "I think this opera needs to be replaced."

  "Yes, 'tis a dramatic work, but musically thin." Anna Lange appeared somewhat unwell, but this was clearly a pragmatic woman who understood that keeping other women away from her handsome and successful husband was a full-time job.

  "Of course, our friend Adamberger makes a marvelous villain. I believe he's more of a draw than the tenor," her husband said.

  "And the tenor is?"

  "Antonio Savioli."

  There was general agreement on the mediocrity of this gentleman. Meanwhile, on stage, the curtain rose, revealing a Roman temple scene. A chorus of priestesses dressed in long white robes began to sing.

  "Still," Anna said with an arch lift of a russet brow, "it is always amusing to watch Signora Graziani and her daughter play rivals. I hear that at home they share Graf von Wallerstein quite amicably."