Mozart's Sister (35 page)

Signor Ceccarelli completed his solo. The musicians voiced their
approval. "Bravissimo!"

Ceccarelli bowed but extended an arm to include me and the
others in the movement's success. Therese scurried about with a
pitcher, making sure goblets were full as the musicians chatted about
the music and lauded their own abilities.

The oboist, a handsome man with a stunning smile, walked in
my direction. I stayed on the bench and waited for him.

"Well, Frau Mozart. I never dreamed I'd discover such playing
in little Salzburg."

I ignored the compliment and corrected him on his choice of
title. "It's Fraulein Mozart."

He looked confused.

I pointed to Papa. "He's my father."

The man put a hand to his chest. "Oh my. Forgive me. I
thought you were his wife-his younger wife to be sure, but-"

Papa's wife? My stomach clenched. I rose, feeling the need to
escape. "If you'll excuse me."

I edged my way out of the music room and slipped into the
room down the hall that Papa used as a study. I stood behind the
door in the dark. My chest heaved and my tears surprised me. The
man assumed I-

Suddenly Papa came in the room, looked around, found me, and said, "I saw you run out. What did that man say to upset you so?"

"I . . ." I wished I could draw deeper into the shadows where
Papa could not see my pain.

He pulled me fully into the light of the doorway, his eyes
scanning my face. He intercepted a tear on its journey down my
cheek, then pointed in the direction of the main room. "If that
man's offended you, I'll kick him out and-"

I pulled his arm down. "No, Papa. He didn't offend. At least not
on purpose.

His shoulders relaxed a bit. "Then why are you here in the dark,
crying?"

My reason would sound absurd. Papa would never understand.

"Nannerl, I am not leaving until I know the reason."

I took a fresh breath. "He thought I was your wife."

"My... ?" He shook his head. "Why would he think that?"

I moved away from him, deeper into the darkened room.
"Because I'm twenty-six years old and unmarried. Because I still live
with my father. Because I look ... old."

"You do not look old."

It was the only point he could even try to dispute.

"I should be married, Papa. The years fly by. Most of my friends
are married or betrothed. Some have children. And though I have
male friends, I don't have a suitor. Sometimes I feel like sitting in
the square and choosing the first man who walks by. The results
wouldn't be any worse than doing as I have been doing."

He took my hands in his, pulling the two of us close enough to
see each other's faces, even in the dark. "Never settle, dear daughter.
You are far too precious and far too prized to settle."

I had to laugh. "Prized?" I pulled my hands away and took a
step back. "Papa, I'm an old maid, a spinster. It's not natural for me
to be unmarried. I've heard people talk."

"Who's talked?"

I shook my head and pointed to the music room, where laughter
and exuberant talk overflowed. "The nonexistence of suitors makes
me look at even Signor Ceccarelli with interest."

Papa shook his head vehemently. "The purpose of marriage is
to have children. Don't even think such a-"

I sighed. "The point is, my prospects are minimal. I don't have
much to offer, Papa."

"Nonsense! You are a talented girl, handsome and true. You
are ... you are industrious and steadfast and ... and would make
any man happy."

Industrious and steadfast. The words haunted me.

"I don't want you settling, Nannerl. I won't-"

I slipped past him into the hall. "We need to get back to our
guests."

Sleep did not come easily that night-though it was much
needed. I had avoided Papa's company by helping Therese with the
kitchen cleanup rather than helping him straighten the music room.
I lingered over the dishes until Papa came into the kitchen and
announced he was going to bed. Only then did I leave my drying
towel behind and escape to my own room.

I undressed, sat at the window seat in my smock, and removed
the ivory pins from my hair. My mood had not improved after talking to Papa about my marriage prospects-or lack thereof-and it
had taken a great deal of effort to return to our guests and assume
the happy face of a hostess. I'd managed to avoid the oboist and had
given considerable attention to the cellist, a certain Hans Kraubner
from Linz.

I'm sure the man thought my interest was more than I intended,
for he asked if he might come calling when next they were in town.
I did not even have the strength to create a probable excuse to tell
him no. And who knew? Perhaps becoming the wife of an itinerant
musician would be my just fate-appropriate or not.

What other choices did I have?

It's not that I didn't have male friends. Beyond the gatherings at
our home, I spent many an evening at concerts or at the homes of
friends for dinner. I might have been an old maid, but I was not a
hermit. I was well practiced in flirtation and thereby enjoyed the
attention of many young men of Salzburg.

But so far there had been none that truly piqued my interest. My girlfriends and I often discussed the lack of eligibles in our fair
city. For one did not marry a coachman, a cooper, or a baker's son
even if he was handsome and made us smile. A woman's immediate
happiness was not to be considered. Nor romance. The future
loomed large and must be addressed. How could this man provide? was
the question.

And the truth was, though I should not marry down, the chances
of my marrying up were slim. Papa was the Vice Kapellmeister. I
was proud of him. But we were not nobility. And though Papa
sometimes acted as though the position of paid musician was akin
to sitting at Jesus' right hand, it was a position of servitude. He was
certainly higher in rank than a cook or maid, but the people he
worked for were his superiors-no matter how hard he pretended
otherwise.

And so, the unspeakable part of my situation, the one Papa
would never hear from my lips, was that I did not have much chance
of marrying a man who could offer me the financial security that
obsessed Papa's waking moments. Oh, how I prayed Wolfie would
be successful and find a good position. For all our sakes.

As for the sake of my heart? I pulled my knees close and bowed
my head against them.

As soon as Papa left for work, I took our fox terrier, Bimperl,
for a longer walk than usual. The November morning was not intolerable, though I could see the effort of my exertion in the bursts of
breath that slipped into the folds of my hood. On such days people
walked briskly with heads lowered, as if they were thieves in the
night trying to make an escape.

I enjoyed the bite to my cheeks as well as the need to increase
my pace. My dog took advantage and pulled her leash out of my
hands.

"Bimperl! Come back-"

"Whoa there, little one." A soldier coming from the opposite
direction scooped her up with one hand. He nestled her in the
crook of his arm, and she tilted her head back, exposing her neck
for more attention.

I hurried toward them. "Thank you," I said. "If I walk faster
than usual, she gets excited and the terrier in her takes over."

"Ready for the hunt, yes?"

"I'm glad you were there to stop her or I may have ended up
searching the hills. She likes to chase mice."

"As all good terriers do." He gave me a smart bow, tipping his
hat. "Captain Franz d'Ippold, at your service"

I curtsied. "Maria Anna Mozart, but friends call me Nannerl."

His right eyebrow rose. "Mozart?"

I was surprised to find I felt some trepidation at the fact he knew
our name. "My father is-"

"You are a skilled musician, yes?"

For a moment I was taken aback. "I play. I give lessons."

"I heard you and your brother play a duet for the archbishop last
summer. I was quite impressed. Your fingers fairly flew over the
keys."

"My brother composed that piece especially for us "

"Composed it very well, I think." Bimperl squirmed in his arms,
so he handed her back to me. "Would you care to join inc for some
coffee or hot chocolate?"

I could think of nothing better. "We would be delighted."

By the way my stomach danced, you would have thought I'd
never had a conversation with a handsome man. I tried to mentally
couch my excitement by reminding myself that I was in a vulnerable
state after the previous evening's awkward exchange with the oboist.
But if I were honest, I had to admit that the pleasure I received in
talking with Captain d'Ippold far exceeded the pleasure gained from
my conversation in the recent past. With anyone. Male or female.

Of course, it was made doubly easy because he was extremely
handsome. Where the noses of the Mozart family were prominent,
the captain's was small, allowing his blue eyes and wide smile to
command the attention. His blond hair was tied with a red bow that
matched the red in his uniform. The only detriment to his looks
was the accumulation of lines about his eyes and forehead, indicating he was probably at least forty. Yet what difference did age really
make?

Upon acknowledging his maturity, I noted there was no ring on
his finger. Although not all men wore wedding bands, the lack of a
ring, plus his invitation to join him for hot chocolate, were two vital
clues to his marital status.

I must have been staring at his hand, for he said, "I come here
most mornings for a coffee and roll. You'd think with being single
so long I would have learned to cook something, but I have surrendered to the fact my talents are not meant for the kitchen."

I felt myself blush. But in spite of my pleasure that my deduction
was right, I tried to deflect my true interest in his hand by mentioning the scar that bisected its top. "Was that received in battle?"

He held his hand close, as if long ago forgetting the scar was
there. He ran a finger across it. "I should say yes, shouldn't I? Then
I could regale you with some laudable story of bravery and saber
fights where I appear the hero."

"But that would not be the truth?"

He sipped his coffee. "The scar is further proof of my ineptitude
in the kitchen. It's a burn. I was stoking the stove and burned it on
the top of the opening." He stroked it again, tenderly. "It did hurt
terribly," he said, smiling.

"Poor Captain d'Ippold. But since you speak of sabers and
scars ... have you been in battle? Are you going to battle?"

"I have not, and hope I never need to." He ran his hand down
the row of buttons on the front of his uniform. "I usually do not
dress like this, but later today I have a meeting with my unit."

"So what do you do day to day?"

He grinned. "Think about meeting a beautiful lady like
yourself."

It was too blatant a ploy for me to even blush. I rolled my eyes.
"Has such an answer worked in the past?"

He blushed-then ignored my most recent question and
answered the original query. "I am the director of the Virgilianum.
I live in a wing of Holy Trinity when I am not teaching the boys."