Nightingale (2 page)

After all, who would dare to challenge Maximilian, the man who owned her, the man whose perverse desire had pierced her, a butterfly struggling on the jeweled pin of his passion?

Herr Almassy's long elegant hands arranged the next score. A few moments later, after the applause had died, he’d begun, with a business
-like nod of his head, to embroider the prelude to the next piece. When he cued her, Klara lifted her voice again.

Sweet bird,

Enchantress of the woodland,

Heal my broken heart,

Return me to delight
….

A long set of birdsong cadenzas ornamented the bridges between each verse. Under the best circumstances, the song was difficult. This afternoon, although she was famous both for her range and vocal agility, Klara had to force the top notes.

At the end once more she thanked a rapturous audience, but this time she gestured for a servant to bring her a mixture she favored, made of lemon, wine and water. She drank deeply and then turned away from the audience to clear her throat and spit into a handkerchief. She usually loved performing for the Baron and his friends. They knew music; their applause mattered. She drew strength from their regard, but today she just didn’t feel well, and this new accompanist…well, simply his presence had put her off-stride.

One song followed another. Klara was happy the chosen pieces were so familiar and that Herr Almassy was proving to be a perfect support. She knew, however, she was not at her best.

Perhaps on this occasion, craft may masquerade as art…
.

Anticipating the end of her performance, she called again for the mixture. Then she asked the handsome gentleman to take up the last piece, a passionate love song. Klara pursed her lips, considering. In her present odd mood, she thought, this would not be the easiest route to a finale! Still, it must be sung. Her friend, the kind and generous Baron, simply adored it.

Your eyes blaze and

Through them

Your soul leaps to mine.

In the taste of your mouth,

I embrace delirium.

Oh Beloved,

I can only surrender.

The sound came, smooth at last, pouring from her throat like cream and chocolate. Akos' amber eyes burned and Klara felt herself falling again, spiraling into their ravishing light.

Together they were making glorious music, music which was like Love's breathless clasping and twining….

***

Klara swayed, leaned against the narrow top of harpsichord. She couldn't look at her audience, who had caught her fire and were now returning her offering in tumultuous applause. She certainly couldn't look at Akos.

God of Love!

He didn't touch her, but when she opened her eyes, he was watching her, his expression nothing less than pure joy. A shining bolt of mingled delight and pain struck her, square in the chest.

Quickly Klara turned away, curtsied to the audience, and, with her usual simplicity, said, "Thank you, my dearest patrons, both ladies and gentlemen.You are all too kind to your most obedient servant."

She made a wide gesture to include Akos in the applause. He stood, and then bowed once more over her hand.

His warm breath, the soft touch of his lips upon her flesh! Her head was on fire; her heart thundered. There was a sweet longing, deep, deep, where she most feared
….

Desire! Love! Did she dare to let even these words trip by?

Akos stepped back, made way for the audience, now flocking toward her, a sea of lace and satin, the swish of layers of clothing and the strong and conflicting scent of many perfumes, as lords and their ladies came to offer her compliments.

Klara curtsied and smiled and presented her hands and cheeks for kisses, but tonight the aristocratic admirers appeared before her as little more than a moving cloud of white, blue and silver. She went through the motions woodenly, still blindingly aware of Herr Almassy. He was not far away, now receiving praise and thanks from the Baron.

***

It seemed an eternity later, but finally a line of servants issued from a gilt door carrying trays of cheeses, sweets and wines toward a long table set on the far side of the room. As the guests drifted after, Klara turned and ventured to do what any prima donna might. Boldly extending her hand, she summoned her accompanist.

"Thank you, Herr Concertmaster Almassy, for such an inspired performance at short notice. You were most helpful."

"It was an honor, Fraulein Silber." He stepped forward to capture her delicate fingers. "And, I confess, a dream of mine ever since last year. I will set what I have heard today beside the miracle of last winter's Eurydice."

Klara felt herself flush as she gazed into the warm sincerity of Herr Almassy's lion's eyes.

"I am happy you think I did some justice to Chevalier Gluck and Herr Handel, but I am not in exactly perfect voice. I'm sure my Maestro, Signor Manzoli, would criticize. And he always says that praise is like a feast of sugarplums, liable to sicken if one devours every piece that is offered. Still," she ended with a delighted smile, "I cannot resist accepting a compliment from such a talented fellow musician."

Herr Almassy made a depreciating gesture. "To accompany you was my inspiration, but I'm afraid that exactly as my grandfather often says, I'm one of those people who are Jack-of-all-Trades-and-Master-of-None."

"Don't be humble. You were excellent." Klara felt easier now, with the strain of performance and the mysterious high drama of their musical collaboration now safely behind her.
"Tell your Grandpapa that I, Singerin Maria Klara Silber, have declared that the Genius of Music most certainly guides you."

"Oh, but that is what he most fears." Her companion’s smile developed a rueful edge.

"How can he not value your gift?"

"My Grandfather Almassy is apothecary to Prince Vehnsky. As a child, I helped in his garden and went with him into the woods to gather simples. He believes the life of a healer is a far more important calling than that of a mere musician."

"If you are not a musician born," Klara asked, now a little puzzled, "how did you acquire such skill?"

"The high nobility of Hungary adhere to the old practice of teaching all their servants music so that they may summon a well-trained orchestra whenever they wish."

"And it early became apparent to your teachers that you were especially gifted." Klara found herself relishing their similarity. The talent she'd witnessed him display had earned this grandson of a herbalist a better station in life, just as it had done for an orphan convent girl.

"Well," Almassy replied softly, "music transports me from our less than perfect world. I have studied and I have a certain skill in my hands, but really that's all. Composers are the ones who carry fire from the gods."

Admiring his assurance, his musicianship and his sentiments about equally, Klara wondered what Akos' other ‘trades’ might be. "I believe as you do about composers. Without them, what would there be for those of us who can only perform? Nevertheless, I take pride in being a good instrument, in giving my best to what some genius has composed."

The conversation was what Maximilian condescendingly called
‘musician’s babble’, but Klara didn't care. Max was not here, thank the Blessed Mother! She was perfectly happy to go on talking about anything with this striking gentleman.

"But where is old Concertmaster Novotna, who used to travel with your Prince? Has he passed away?"

"He is ill. My Grandfather says the apoplexy stalks him, for his color is high and his wind is short. Sometimes now he faints and then awakens confused and lethargic."

"Ah, poor man! Still, his passage to heaven will mean a promotion for you."

"Yes, but it's not pleasant to know that my fortune comes by his death. Herr Novotna has always been kind to me."

"Merit alone, as I am frequently reminded, is not a completely reliable support." Klara spoke with feeling. "In this world, extraordinary luck or patronage decides the fate of people like us. Rarely does talent alone tip the scales."

She was, of course, thinking of her own situation. Her powerful patron had spared her many of the rebuffs and delays the careers of other less well-protected singers suffered. Whenever Max wanted to humble her, he’d point this out.

"But to anyone with half an ear, your talent is supreme, Fraulein Silber. Why, your range, your tone…
."

“Is perfection itself." A commanding voice interrupted them.

Klara and Akos started, then lowered their heads, puppets on the same string. They had been so engaged that they hadn't noticed the approach of Prince Vehnsky.

"We have been intending an entertainment to celebrate the opening of our winter residence in Vienna, Fraulein Silber." Herr Almassy’s master was an old man, well over sixty, and apparently in the habit of coming straight to the point. "It would please us if you would honor the opening of our winter season with your talent." The Prince appropriated her hand, and Klara felt his within the glove, knotted with age.

Why, the Prince himself was asking for her services, had not delegated to a chamberlain the task of speaking to a mere performer!

"The honor would be all mine, most noble and serene Prince." She only rose from the deep curtsy she’d made when he lifted her up. Deeply gratified, Klara gazed into the Prince's black eyes. Though set in a hawkish, weathered face, they were lively, and still held a sparkle of youth.

"If you will only sing half as beautifully at our residence as you have done tonight, Fraulein, we shall be delighted. However, like our friend the Baron, we have some particular rarities which we would like you to perform for us. Concertmaster Almassy will bring you the music and shall be at your disposal for whatever rehearsal as you might require."

A servant passed with a huge candelabrum. Light struck a nearby mirror and illuminated a flock of fat gilt and plaster cherubs, fluttering a delirious ascent up the column toward the painted ceiling. Klara felt as if she ascended with them.

"I am entirely at the service of my Prince, and Prima Donna Silber," Akos said. His eyes touched hers and a shiver shot through her. It was if she'd been kissed.

***

Stop this!
An inner voice scolded as Klara sat shivering beside Liese in the carriage. The party was over, and singer and servant traveled through a snow-filled winter night.

Remember how it was with Giovanni. His love, all his promises, all were lies! The madness you felt tonight was only because you are so lonely, because you have foolishly learned to have these sinful desires. You must never again – never again…!

Klara thought that Max's twisted kind of love must suffice. Anything else was too dangerous. Hadn't he taught her about illusion? About what it was like to see a love she’d imaged to be real die in a mire of deceit and betrayal? She would never love any man again, not after Giovanni, not after what he and Max had done!

Remembering, Klara shivered and then shivered again.

"What's wrong,
Liebchen
?" Liese, beside her, was all attention.

Klara had been thirteen when the Count had sent Liese to be watchdog and nursemaid to his
‘Little Nightingale’. She still performed the task with a fierce devotion.

"Can't you fools hurry?" Liese pounded her fist on the roof of the coach. "Fraulein Silber is cold!"

Klara covered her face with both hands and huddled back into the cold leather. Suddenly, she felt as she couldn't breathe.

After meeting Concertmaster Almassy, after experiencing this sudden, violent attraction, it was absolutely clear what she felt about Max's imminent return. Sheer, soul
-shriveling dread!

From her palm came a scent which allowed Klara to conjure an image of the tall, dark Concertmaster, his broad, straight shoulders, the adoration she'd seen in his mysterious topaz eyes. Immediately, the counter image arose: Maximilian, elegant, graying
– her sensual, cruel Master!

A bolt of pain shot pierced her forehead. Klara began to cry in long, drawn out sobs.

"Klara! Stop that!" Liese seized her shoulders and shook. What the Court physician had diagnosed as ‘hysteria’, had been a fact of life since ‘that business’ with Giovanni.

"You will injure your voice." Liese began here, with this most terrible consequence of tears. "Stop at once, Klara, or I'll call for the tincture of poppy as soon as we get home."

Klara, knowing Liese was in earnest, and loathing the shadowy half-world in which the drug enveloped her, tried to choke back her tears. She slumped against the cushions, hugged herself and shivered ever harder

Oh, she had loved Maximilian von Oettingen once, as only an innocent and guileless girl can! In the miracle he'd worked upon her life, she'd imagined him the good magician of a thousand fairy tales.