Nightingale (5 page)

His eyes locked with hers, but she saw no judgment, no revulsion, nothing but – love!

***

Maria Klara Silber had been born somewhere in Germany, but she didn't know where or remember her parents. As a very small child she had been left in the Church of St. Cecelia, in the Bishopric of Passau. For about fifty years, ever since a music-loving Italian Hapsburg Prince had ruled there, it had been ordered that the nuns of Saint Cecelia keep an orphanage of a most particular kind. The abandoned children accepted at this church dedicated to the patron saint of music were to be the unwanted children of musicians and actors. The children were educated, and, according to their talents, dispatched into the orchestras of the electorates and princedoms of which Germany consisted. Some were apprenticed to organists, some to instrument makers. Some of the more gifted singers, especially the prettiest girls, found their way into the world in less conventional ways.

Aged twelve, Klara, already acknowledged as the finest female singer the convent had had in twenty years, sang a solo in a high holy Mass attended by the Prince Archbishop and some members of his family, among them, his cousin, Count Oettingen, Councilor of War to the Empress Maria Theresa. The story had begun like a fairy tale, when the tall elegant Count had taken her the very next day into his entourage.

At first, their relationship had been entirely proper. The Count had kept Klara in a house he owned in Vienna where she was tended by an army of servants, among them the motherly and attentive Liese. There was no more of the sewing and cookery which, among other things, had filled Klara's days at the convent. Everything came to her, for now she was to study music and languages full time. She had music masters for her voice and to instruct her upon the harpsichord and violin. There were teachers who taught her to write a graceful letter and dancing masters. She learned a smattering of history and geography, and a great deal of French and Italian, in short, the education routinely given to any privileged female. When she was fifteen, she also began to spend days at the opera, singing in the chorus and seeing a little of the theater life.

At seventeen, the Count had obtained for her a small trouser role in a court opera. At once, her creamy mezzo voice made a tremendous success.

"Hereafter," he'd said one night soon after her debut, "you shall be able to make your way as a singer upon your merits alone. So many young talents never enjoy the good fortune which a good patron may bestow."

"Yes, My Lord." Klara's made a dutiful reply and dropped a graceful curtsy. The strict upbringing in the nunnery had not, even in four pampered years in a Viennese townhouse, worn off. To her Oettingen was a demanding, kindly god, someone high above her, whose wishes were enforced by teachers and, of course, by the attentive Liese. Sometimes, now that she knew a little more about the ways of the world, Klara fantasized that this rich, graying aristocrat might actually be her father, that she was an illegitimate child he'd chosen to claim because of the talent she'd displayed at the Convent.

As if he'd suddenly decided to acknowledge her inner musings, the Count's next words were "Have you never wondered, Maria Klara, why I chose you from among all the others?"

"I thought, Herr Count, ah
….” She had begun her reply with hesitation, blushing and wondering if her imaginings were about to be confirmed. She sensed a disturbing purpose in tonight’s inquiry. "Ah, sir, I thought it was because I was the best singer at Saint Cecelia’s, but I, um, wouldn't presume….”

As Klara gazed into his intense and penetrating gray eyes, the coldly precise mask her patron had always worn seemed to mellow in a way which made her deeply uneasy. Although she was physically innocent, she was no longer unsophisticated. No one had had the temerity to approach her at the opera house, but during the last two years she'd had ample opportunity to observe divas at the game of love, playing off husbands, noble patrons, and lovers.

In the next moment her benefactor had seized her hand, and, in a gallant rush, kissed it. What a strange feeling swept through her, as, for the first time ever, that silver head lowered itself humbly. It was as if the world had suddenly turned upside down! How many times in the last five years had she gone to her knees before him to kiss the rings upon that extended, powerful hand? How many times had she thanked him from the bottom of her heart for all his generosity?

"It was partly your most beautiful voice, Nightingale," Maximilian said. The words were soft; the salutation intimate. “And partly…
." A muscular arm came to enclose her slender waist, to draw her close, "because I have for years been wishing to experiment with the notion that the most satisfactory mistress of all will be a young woman who has been tenderly raised for the position."

He pulled her into his lap and kissed her, on the lips, and man to woman. She had not resisted, had not known how to resist, what speedily followed. The Count was vastly experienced, and although the hair beneath his elegant wig had was cropped short and gray, his body, hard and trim with long bouts of real soldiering, pressed against her young body with ardor.

"Sir," she'd gasped when he let her mouth go, "please, sir, this is not right."

Klara had been frightened and surprised, but she had also been schooled to absolute obedience. So, in spite of a thousand warnings from the Sisters chanting in her head, there were powerful counter forces at work. Her patron's long, powerful jaw and blue eyes mirrored the faces of the Habsburg
emperors whose heads adorned every coin she'd ever seen. He was of the bluest blood. He was her master! Were there not stories in holy writ about lords exercising this right over their female servants – and with God's blessing?

Oettingen had picked her up, as easily as if she were a doll, and had carried her out of the great room decorated with stag's heads into a small windowless antechamber, the door to which lay hidden behind a tapestry. The face of the liveried valet who pulled back the curtain so that his master and the slight young burden he carried could pass through was like a blind man's, unseeing, expressionless.

It was in this secret room, already prepared with the glow of candles, all reflecting in mirrored tiles, upon a silken bed, where all of Klara's senses were first seared by the cold fire of her count's experience. Her lips whispered ‘no’ but from the first skillful passages of his hands, her young body, hungry for experience, had begun to betray her. Maximilian, sure of his ultimate victory, had approached his goal slowly, imaginatively, using all his expertise. Klara had been pushed from intimacy to intimacy, until, with luxurious finality, Maximilian's strong, hard body had claimed the ultimate favor.

She'd wept afterwards, for although this first experience had been carefully orchestrated, there throbbed a confused understanding that love was a gift freely given, not a treasure which could be stolen! Dimly understood, painfully felt, her body and heart had been forced, for the first time ever, apart. Oh, Max had given a long lesson in pleasure, such as only a practiced sensualist can give, but even as Klara's body responded, her heart had remained quite still.

"Damned nuns." Max had held her tenderly against his broad chest and stroked her wealth of loose auburn hair. "I didn't get you away from them quite soon enough, did I?"

"Oh, sir Count…
.”

"At this moment I am not your master, little one. In fact, I shall now commit the supreme folly of telling you that it is quite the other way round. 'Max' will do when we are in bed." Tenderly, he’d tilted her chin. "Please don't cry! And don't worry about anything, either. I swear upon my honor that no matter what happens in this ugly and capricious world of ours, I mean to always take perfect care of you, my beautiful Maria Klara."

"This is mortal sin!" She’d sobbed the words.

"The sin," he'd responded, his proud face as grave and humble as she'd ever seen it, "I claim here and now as mine. You are only a little white ewe lamb who has gone where she was led. Besides, it may be a sin in the eyes of the priests, but experience of this kind of love is a requirement of your art. A virgin would never be able to discover the emotion that is required to sing the great arias. And I," he continued, his gray eyes fierce, "intend to have the joy of hearing you sing all of them."

There were other occasions in the next three weeks in which he took her to bed. With the same thorough attention he had given to other aspects of her education, he'd taught her about pleasure. Then he'd gone with his troops to battles with the Turks and had stayed away for almost six months. Klara remained in the townhouse going to lessons just as if she were still the same girl as before, although it was during this time that she was offered her first solo roles. In fact, a great triumph came to her in Maximilian's absence. The old Empress honored her by allowing Klara to kiss her cheek and then commented sentimentally upon her beauty in the presence of the assembled court. After that high mark of imperial favor, Klara's fortune was made. Every impresario the Court employed begged the talented beauty to sing for him.

Klara was still called upon to perform privately for the Oettingen family. Feeling terribly guilty and frightened, she'd sung at house-parties given by her lover's wife. One great ball at which she performed in front of the assembled nobility celebrated the marriage of one of Maximilian's daughters, a tall blonde who had her father's cold gray eyes, a girl who was younger than Klara.

Although she was awarded a good salary at the opera house, more money than she had ever dreamed of earning, Maximilian continued as her advisor. He saw that she took the greater part of her new wealth and put it with a banker. He himself took drove her to the haughtiest dressmakers and jewelers.

"Always use restraint, Klara." Oettingen waved away a brilliant red satin that the shopkeeper had offered. "Too much and too gaudy is for noblewomen who have more money than taste or for courtesans. Remember that neither your beautiful body nor your beautiful voice will last forever. What will you do if you have spent all you earn on trinkets? It's easy to get used to comfort, my dear, and a wretched business to give it up."

In those early days she'd imagined she was in love with him. After all, she must be! How else could she experience such pleasure in his embrace? She worried when the Empress repeatedly dispatched him to the eternal border wars. Impatiently, she awaited his return from military duties, or from long visits to his country estates.

Once she expressed jealousy of his wife when he had just returned from several months in the country. Max had laughed at her. "It has been awhile since there was much love lost there! Perhaps, little one, when I'm in the country it isn't my wife of whom you should be jealous."

She'd looked puzzled and Max, an ironic look in his eye, hadn't hesitated to explain. "My peasants always seem to have a pretty daughter or two, just grown to the right age. I must say those fellows understand how to offer their lord hospitality."

Klara, cut to the quick, had leapt out of bed they'd been sharing.

"Blessed Holy Mother! Why – why! You're no better than a heathen Turk!"

"All men are Turks, little one." Max had come after her, laughing. "Were you imagining something else?"

"And is that what I am? A diversion while you are in Vienna?"

"Not at all, Klara!" He'd chuckled, capturing her in his big hands. Although she'd struggled, tried to slap him, he'd unceremoniously carried her back to his bed. "You and those peasant girls have a certain sweet thing in common, but your talent sets you apart. Why, every connoisseur in Vienna is wild with envy that such a treasure belongs to me."

It was the first time she'd ever attempted to deny him. Even though Max was a big man, powerful enough to force her, not even on this night when she had been so humiliated did he have to resort to that. Max's force, Klara realized bitterly when she was alone again, was more sophisticated, a kind which did not leave bruises.

The grinding formality of their relations in public was often humiliating too. For all her successes at the opera, she was a depend
ant, a servant, one who could be summoned to play the harpsichord or to sing at the snap of his, or his wife's, fingers.

The only others who knew the secret was her woman servant, Liese, and the Count's personal valet, both of whom maintained a tomb
-like silence. Still, somehow, his wife found out. During one of her husband's absences, her servants came and ejected Klara from the townhouse.

"But where shall I go?" She’d pleaded with the imperious man who'd pushed her out the door into the snow.

"To the nearest whorehouse, where you belong!” He gave Liese the scornful kick he didn't quite dare to bestow upon Klara.

When the Count's bailiff found out what had happened and came to her rescue a few days later, he discovered Klara ensconced in a modest few rooms in a respectable building which her banker owned. She'd appealed to him, and with her saved money and Liese's help, she had set up housekeeping. Saying nothing to anyone about what had gone on, she held her head high and had kept up her performing schedule.

After all was said and done, Klara was reimbursed for the clothes and jewels which the Countess had spitefully removed. Something, however, was lost which could not be replaced, her reputation. Overnight the eyes of men grew bold. The aristocratic rakes who hung around the opera house were the first to step forward.