"I am sorry if my speech disobliges you, Sir Count. I had no wish to offend, but respect for a lady must be maintained." He had ignored the end of Oettingen's speech, the part that subordinated. Dismissal, it was clear, he would take only from Klara.
"Guten Tag, Herr Concertmaster." Klara extended a hand. "I have not had the pleasure of Count Oettingen's company for months and we both very much wish a tête-à-tête. I shall look forward to the time of our collaboration."
Klara was afraid of Max in this constrained mood, but she knew, for her lover's sake, that she dared not show so much as a flicker of fear. After a small hesitation, his face a mask, Akos bowed over her hand, and then went out between the tall footmen who now stood on either side of the door.
Chapter 14
"Very domestic."
"If you will have it so." Klara turned away from him toward her breakfast. “Concertmaster Almassy is most agreeable company. I am quite certain, however, that Liese will tell you that she has, as always, done your bidding."
Behind her she could hear the tap of the crop upon his boot, a sound which sent her hackles up.
Two summers ago he’d used it on her, to give her "a lesson I have so far refrained from teaching, one in which you will learn how infinitesimally separate are pleasure and pain."
"Yes, Herr Marshall." Liese’s broad body suddenly appeared in the doorway. "Everything was secure."
"Your attention to duty is noted," said the Count with a thin smile. "Now go and find me more of this breakfast, Liese. Bring tea, eggs, bread, meat, if you have so much in this frugal house. And remember to knock before you come in."
Liese, clearly relieved at dismissal, curtsied deeply and then withdrew, closing the door with a click. Klara shuddered. The very idea of Max touching her after what had passed last night was horrible.
“Now, Klara," Max said, gesturing at his footman to go out into the hallway, "let's have a little talk, my dear. I hear you have been seeing quite a bit of this young man, that he is some kind of physician."
"He is and I have." Somehow she’d managed to keep her voice even. Seating herself, she arranged her morning gown and then gracefully lifted and sipped the last of her tea from a thin porcelain cup, one of a set made to look like rose petals.
"I have heard a few things about this cure that sound quite ordinary, but Liese also says that it involved touching. So, I spoke with Prince Vehnsky, for this is his servant, after all, and he tells me that the origin of the cure is perhaps Turkish, perhaps even older, a tradition come down from the Greeks. That, of course, I found a fascinating notion. Tell me, my dear Klara," he said, coming to take a seat beside her, "something about this aspect of your treatment."
The back of his large leathery hand grazed the side of her cheek. His touch, his closeness, and now his scent, sent a thrill of horror through Klara, but she knew she must accept his caresses with apparent pleasure.
"Touching is a very compelling business between a man and a woman." As Max spoke, his hand moved, a slow meditative appreciation of the satin of her cheek.
"It was a powerful part of the cure," Klara said, trying to keep the distress she felt out of her voice. "I don't think the herbal remedies alone ever worked so well."
"That I believe. You were sublime when you sang for Prince Josef the other evening, Nightingale. I was so proud of you, so delighted. I was so sorry that business kept me from taking you home." A powerful hand slipped around the back of her neck and began to massage. Klara received his attention stiff and still. She did not dare draw away, but it was almost unbearable to have this wicked sensualist so proprietarily caress her.
"Tell me what he did, Klara." The words were spoken softly, close to her paling cheek.
"He rubbed my feet and then he rubbed my hands, and then my neck and shoulders." The words came out fast; his menace was palpable. "He also prescribed tinctures to drink and medicinals for the steam which I breathed. You've no doubt heard it all from Liese. Why ask me?" Suddenly angry, Klara pushed the intrusive hand away and jumped to her feet.
Max, however, was just as quick. Following her up, he caught her arm.
"Let go!" Klara pushed at his broad chest.
"Now, now! Whatever is the matter, Maria Klara?"
"Your manhandling is the matter."
"All I've done is to ask you a few questions."
"You are insinuating, and you know it. Let me go."
She knew she had paltry skill as a liar, but she was cornered, desperate. She felt love and hate, gratitude and loathing, desire and shame, welling inside in a nauseating broth.
"I was not insinuating anything." He carefully studied her face. "I was merely curious about such an unusual method of cure for my precious prima donna."
"Oh, indeed?”
"Why are you so upset? Why can't you just talk nicely, hmm? Little wild bird…."
"Don't." This time she managed to jerk free of him. "Haven't your spies told you everything? Why bother asking me?"
"It was a simple question, Klara."
"Nonsense!" She moved to put the low table between herself and him. "You are bullying me."
"Perhaps I really should give up the army." Max gave an exaggerated sigh. He sat down upon the divan as if he'd never move off and extended his arm along the back.
"And why should you do that?"
"Because two winters ago I came back and found you debasing yourself with that greasy little knave of a tenor. Christ! All I had to do to straighten that mess out and now this year I come to Vienna quite exhausted, Klara, hoping for a little solace after that hell in Silesia, and I find this."
"This what?"
"This!" In a bound, Max was on his feet. The tea table, the china, the dregs of the tea and the few remaining hard rolls were sent flying with a kick of one booted foot. China shattered, rolls and tea slop flew, one slender table leg cracked.
Klara whirled to run, but Max's hands closed upon her shoulders, spun her around. In the next moment he'd yanked her off her feet, forced a bruising kiss. Klara, although terrified, began a frantic struggle to push him away, sobbing, clawing, every bit of muscle she had engaged.
Oh, he mustn't touch her as Akos had! She'd die!
"Mir reisst die Geduld!" Max roared. In the next instant he threw her away, so hard that she struck the wall and then fell. "I'm too old for this nonsense. I warn you, I'm not going to waste time courting you like I did before, you capricious, ungrateful little bitch." Raising the crop high, he struck her hard across her shoulders.
She fell and huddled against the wall, protecting her face while he beat her, gasping at the stinging pain. Her long hair spilled free from the cap and fell in an auburn cascade. She was hurting and frightened, but today there was also anger, a huge anger, surging within. When he stopped, she turned and screamed up at him.
"Are blows and insults your notion of how to be a lover? By God, sir, you had better remember that I am neither one of your little country heifers, nor your wife, either!"
There was a pause while Oettingen glared down through narrowed eyes. Then, suddenly, he threw back his white head and let out a harsh bark of laughter.
"So! This year, the transformation is complete! My meek convent lamb gives as good as she gets." Shaking his head and with a rueful smile, he took a step forward. An impeccably gloved hand was extended.
"The metamorphosis was inevitable. Pax, Fraulein Silber," he said formally. "You are quite correct. Please accept my apology. I have not behaved as a gentleman should."
Klara studied his hand coldly, but Max continued to patiently hold it out. Finally, she accepted. Inwardly, she was shaken and weak, but knew that she could not rise without his assistance. In the next moment, the contrite brush of his lips upon her fingers sent a new shudder coursing through her. Shaking his head again, his fierce pale gaze penetrated.
"Damn it, Klara! Will you tell me what is going on?"
Klara, feeling his grip intensifying, tried to jerk away, but he took her by the shoulders
again and marched her firmly backwards until they came to a stop against the wall. After a moment of staring into his clear gray eyes, Klara said, "The trouble is that I don't love you, Max. I never did. I never will, either, and you can't change that."
"I thought we had settled that last year.” He kept a firm grip on her shoulders. He was striving not to lose his temper again, and it was suddenly clear that he was hurt as well as angry. "I thought I went through a great deal of trouble to prove that you do, in fact, love me."
"You only did what you've always done, Herr Count. I believe it is called seduction."
He thumped her once against the wall, not nearly as hard as he doubtless wished to, and then released her. He didn't step away, though, just stayed where he was, keeping her in place with the intimidation of his body. "Which answer, of course, brings us back to my original supposition," he said, regarding her with ferocious satisfaction.
"Which is?"
"The danger of allowing a man to touch a susceptible young woman in less than formal ways. Touching is a pleasant and easy way to gain control, as any rake, or any horse trainer, will tell you." Max ran his index finger along the line of her jaw.
"You should know!" Klara pushed his hand away.
"Devil take you, woman! I've proved my devotion in a thousand…."
"Devil take you, sir! Herr Almassy is an admirer, who has been of the greatest service to me this winter. I believe that his care has made it possible for me to sing during what remains of Carnival." She found she could hold her voice level, despite their proximity and her own thundering heart. "I won't bother to deny I enjoy his company. He's educated, intelligent, genteel and a good musician. He's the finest accompanist with whom I've ever had the pleasure to sing."
"And a handsome young buck," Max interjected the sour conclusion. "I understand you are rehearsing with him for Prince Vehnsky's Shrove Tuesday party."
"Yes. The music is quite marvelous." Moving away from him now, she carefully negotiated the broken china, lifting the folds of her gown away from a brown puddle of tea. There had quite a few of these scenes last winter. It was regrettable about the pretty trompe l'oeil rosebud tea set. It had cost her a pretty penny, and had been, aside from the usual compliment of prima donna's costumes and clothes, one of the few indulgences she'd permitted herself last year.
"I hear you've got that impertinent child Mozart to set the piece." Max's voice pursued. "'Tis fortunate I didn't knock off his too wise little head right there at the Mehlgrube – another piece of your damned folly."
"Not half as foolish as what you did, Max. I only wanted to go dancing."
The Count's growl was audible, but he didn't pursue the argument. They both knew that the gossip, the day following his invasion of the cabinets, had been along the lines of "some jealous old fool of an aristo in search of his hot young mistress….”
"Is the brat's composition worth hearing?"
"'Tis perfection." Klara settled back on the divan and dabbed at tears with a handkerchief. Although her shoulders stung fiercely, she felt more secure now, for Max was, as often happened after an outburst of this magnitude, showing signs of remorse. "Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart is unbelievably talented."
"Signor Manzoli echoes you."
"Oh, you've been around to visit everyone, haven't you? What's the matter, Max? Don't you trust your regular spies anymore?"
"Damn it, Klara, do you want me to take you over my knee? Don't tempt me."
His threat, however, was interrupted by a tentative scratching at the door.
"Come in," Klara sang out.
One of the Count's footman, accompanied by Liese, peeped in nervously.
"Well, what is it?" Max roared at them.
"Um, sir, um, we wondered….” Liese, Klara noted, had arrived, broom in hand.
"I think in future you should wait until you're called for!" Max retrieved his crop from the floor and pointed it at them. "Well, stop cowering there like idiots! Since you're so impertinently here, get busy!"
The servants entered the room, bobbing anxiously to the Count, and then, crouching, they began to pick up pieces of china. Their eyes remained warily upon Max, clearly fearful that he would now take his temper out on them.
"Fraulein Silber," the Count said, drawing himself up to his full height. "Good day to you."
Obediently, Klara rose and curtsied deeply, inclining her head. As she did, one long lock of trailing mahogany dropped over one shoulder. "My Lord," she murmured, barely able, despite the pain she felt, to suppress a smile.
Somehow, she'd won this round! Oh, he suspected, he was no fool, but he knew nothing for certain….
"When may I expect you to honor me with your company again?"
The powerful hands came to gallantly raise her from the curtsy. In front of the servants, she meekly submitted to a kiss, one for each cheek, and then to a longer, harsher one, full on the lips.
As he let her go, he said, "Wouldn't you just like to know?" With a smile, he turned upon a booted heel and strode out, the riding crop in brisk motion. In the hallway beyond, Hermann could be seen rushing after with the Count's hat in hand, his cloak draped over his arm.
As the door closed, Klara sat down on the sofa and surveyed the wreckage. Liese was crawling around, still collecting china bits.
"Your lovely tea set, Fraulein!" Lines of worry marred the round face.
She really does care about me, Klara thought, in her own duplicitous servant's way.
"Never mind, Liese. He'll probably replace it, so keep the pieces in case he sends a servant over to see what make they are, or rather, were."
"You shouldn't provoke him so, Mistress. You shouldn't have insisted upon allowing that young man to stay."
"Should I have sent Herr Concertmaster Almassy, who has saved my voice, and therefore my life, out into a winter's night to catch his death? Only because the Count will be suspicious? Why, you yourself locked us in. Don't you believe your own eyes?"
"It was imprudent, Mistress. If the young Concertmaster cared a whit about your reputation, he would have gone on his way before Count Oettingen, your patron, came visiting."
"Neither of us knew that the Count was going to pick this morning to visit. He rarely goes out before eleven when he’s in town. Besides, I enjoy Herr Almassy's company very much." Liese shook her head, but Klara continued. "I told Marshall von Oettingen the same thing I now tell you. It is necessary for a musician to have the companionship of her own kind."
"You have the friendship of Herr and Frau Adamberger as well as the friendship of that dreadful unnatural creature of whom you think so highly."
"One of Concertmaster Almassy's many talents is accompaniment. I've never sung with such support. It's a wonderful experience. You may report to the Count that I intend to enjoy more of his company before this carnival season is over, and the Concertmaster returns to Hungary with his prince."
"He could have put up at the White Rose. It's just there on the next platz." Unlike Max, artistic musings were wasted on Liese.
"Be quiet, please, and help me get dressed. I'm going out."
"But, Mistress!"
"Just do as I say."
"Where are you going?"
"Oh, Hermann will report on that, never fear. Go get my blue brocade and send Hermann to the coachman. I intend to spend the day away from here."
"Oh, Mistress, no! Not after all the work Herr Muller's gone to this morning, over the Count's breakfast that he never called for. Now your luncheon, too, will go to waste."
"Tell Muller that I'm sorry. You are all welcome to the food."
"Fraulein Silber…."
Liese began to complain of Klara's fondness for spoiling the subordinate staff, but her mistress, impetuous prima donna manner on, interrupted.
"Could you manage to get this mess cleaned up and a new tea table before I come back? A nice one, like the old one, from that shop I like?" As Liese gaped, Klara added, "Now, come. Help me dress. I am not inclined to spend another
instant in a place which that wicked man has so profaned."
When she was alone for a few minutes in her room, Klara shrugged the gown from one shoulder and studied her reflection in the mirror. Several long thin red welts were already rising across her white back.
Chapter 15
Liese laid out a party dress. A woman from Oettingen's flounced around, working on Klara's hair, or rather upon her wig, which was a towering mass of silver ringlets, interwoven with ribbons and glittering silver chains and pearls. Klara's dark hair was twisted down flat in two braids which had been bound tightly around her head.
Powder was applied to her face and full bosom, making both ghostly. With a brush she'd painted her pretty mouth the dark red that was the fashion this year. Next, with a wool puff, she'd dabbed a bloom of rosy powder upon each cheek. From the mirror her reflection stared back, everything very elegant, the height of fashion. Her youthful face looked almost grim beneath all the paint and powder.
She would sing for Oettingen and his friends tonight, dine with them – and then? What if he summoned her to his bed? She knew that her voice aroused him powerfully. The very notion sent a shiver of disgust through her.
She had decided to tell him that she had female trouble, that she was indisposed. The excuse was good for few days, then Oettingen would do as he had done before and send his own physician to attend her. Two years ago, it seemed that he had been both fearful and furious as he'd begun to imagine that she might have contracted a disease from her "escapade with that Italian crow". Of course, the physician had pronounced her fit and not with child. Max had been, in that case, fairly understanding.
"I am a patient man, Klara, and I do have some knowledge of women. Rest assured, I can bide my time."
Of course, he had soon managed to have his way, just as he always did. He had taken her to his country house in Josephplatz. For a few days they'd entertained company with music, and he'd been quite content with that. They had ridden, taken walks inside the elegant gardens. Klara, suffering from a broken heart, slept heavily. This was the time, however, when Max took advantage. She hadn't known it, but there was a way for him to look into her bedroom. One afternoon when she had retired for a nap in the heat of the day, he availed himself of the pleasure of watching her. Her healthy young body had been crying out for relief, and she had weakened in the languorous heat of the day caressed herself. Just as ecstasy began, Max had joined her in her bed, seizing the moment of supreme vulnerability to claim her.
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