Chapter 14: "Opus 18," by Ludwig von Beethoven

Note: This is the final chapter! There will be a sequel...eventually. Stay tuned!

For my German-speaking readers… es tut mir leid. My German is ganz schlecht, but I tried :)

"So, why has no one told me where we are going? Is it dangerous?" Marianne chided Sophy Croft the following evening from her perch next to her new friend, just as she was about to climb out of the carriage.

Sophy simply shrugged, amused. "I am not allowed to say."

Brandon reached up, excitement glittering in his eyes despite his typical calm demeanor as he grasped her gloved hand and guided her down onto the street. Paired with the beautiful green gown he had bought for her, she wore the jewelry he had given her as a wedding gift, and the ermine stole he had bought her for her birthday-a fact that had given her some consternation-"You've already done something else for my birthday, too, haven't you; that's why we're going out this evening; you'll have me quite spoiled; I look like a proper lady, now, and I think you've spent far too much money," she'd cried out, but again as before, he kissed her senseless, and she stopped her protests.

They walked into the house to which they'd driven, a fine, large house in one of the richest parts of the city. There were guests gathered in the foyer-another assembly? Marianne wondered-and all of them were dressed to the same level of formality as Marianne, with equal-or even greater-fineness to their garments. She silently thanked her husband again for recognizing the need to look like something more than a pauper when she attended these fine parties with him.

At once, Admiral Croft found the host of the party, a stout man named Treiger with a gregarious disposition not unlike Sir John Middleton's. Introductions were made all around, and Herr Treiger asked, in accented English, "I hope you are all ready for our little concert. Our great star has just arrived. He is really looking forward to seeing you again, Admiral, as he knows your taste is generally fine."

"Ah," replied Croft, "I have in my company a young woman whose taste is also noted to be remarkable."

Marianne blushed to hear herself talked of so. She now gathered that they were to hear a private concert, something she'd longed once to do in London had her affair with Willoughby gone off better, the dream of which she had abandoned when his true intentions to her had been made known. Finding it necessary to say something to her host, she said, "I am not very experienced, indeed, but I do love to play. My husband also-he has a fine ear for music. What sort of music are we to hear tonight? Something I've heard of?"

"Something you've heard of-well, I suppose his fame may not have made its way to England yet, but surely you've heard of Herr Beethoven?"

"Herr Beethoven…" Marianne's heart leapt as she realized the name from the most recent sheet music her husband had given her-indeed, from before they were married, when he had been silently pining for her with each note she'd played-she did know of his music, but only just. "He is here?"

"Yes, and set to conduct a concert for me and a few of my friends," Treiger said, gesturing around at the more-than-a-few friends who had gathered.

Marianne glanced at her husband, whose eyes twinkled. All she could say was, "Oh."

In a flurry of excitement, Marianne felt herself be guided on Brandon's arm. She squeezed it, and felt him flex his muscle to squeeze her hand back. "How on earth did you manage this?" she whispered when they were seated in the parlor in front of the musicians who began to tune up, so close they could see the stitches in their coats and almost reach out to pluck the strings on their instruments.

"All I did was mention to Admiral and Mrs. Croft that you were so fond of music, and they arranged it all. I really had no hand in it. I had planned to buy you some sheet music as a birthday gift, which I will still do, by the way, as a memento of our travels. But I felt, given the circumstances…"

He trailed off. Something had changed in her face. She looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. And he flattered himself that she liked what she saw.

"I am going to thoroughly enjoy myself this evening."

He smiled, and replied, "I had hoped as much-"

"I wasn't finished. I'm going to thoroughly enjoy myself this evening, and it will be lovely, and I will shake hands and make friends with all of these people, and wrap myself up in the music that we hear. But do not think that one moment will pass where I will not be planning for what happens when we arrive back at our quarters tonight."

Her eyes blazed with desire then, but only for a moment, and then she replaced that look with one of proper decorum as she turned to face the musicians.

"I shall be at your service, then, as ever," he whispered in response, his breath displacing the curls at the nape of her neck. It was from this, as much as from the famed composer's entrance, that she felt a shiver running through her entire being.

Herr Beethoven was...unassuming at first. His face, though not unattractive, was not alarmingly devastating either, and she thought she never would have pegged him as a brilliant musical mind. When he had made his way to the middle of the room to take his place before the string quartet that was to play his latest opus, however, Marianne saw a flash of something in his eyes that belied some great passion or talent. Indeed, the rest of the room was ahead of her-a standing ovation from some of the guests was given the minute he emerged from an adjoining chamber. He looked around, meeting her eyes briefly, and those of most of the closest spectators-as if he was searching for something-and then gave a tiny, almost arrogant smile, seeming to ground himself, before bowing a little and then turning to his players. Without any further ado, he raised his arms and began to conduct.

Dear God, it was good to listen to this. It was almost like making love. Almost.

At one point, Marianne came to and realized that her pulse was pounding to the rhythm. Musically, it was the most exciting thing she'd ever heard.

She glanced at her husband, whose fingers and feet were thrumming along to the rhythm too, a dazed, raised-eyebrow expression on his face, his mouth a little upturned. She knew that he was surprised by how much he found himself enjoying this, because old-fashioned as he was, this new-fangled sort of tune was out of his typical range of interest. But here he was, anyway. He had brought her to hear something truly great, even though himself didn't think he'd be inclined to enjoy it. And he had done so gleefully, knowing it would make her happy.

She returned her attention to the music, more warm and content than she'd ever been in her life.

The minute the last quartet was finished, the whole room burst into thunderous applause, and Marianne and Christopher stood along with everyone else to add their heartfelt praise. Marianne thought they'd leave soon after, but Treiger, their host, announced to the room, first in German and then again in English and French, "Friends, I hope you'll stay for a little reception, now you've heard Vienna's most prestigious rising star, and meet these lovely young musicians who've given us an evening of their time."

Brandon turned to Marianne and the Crofts, just as Admiral Croft was asking, "Well, how about it? Should you like to stay and meet the man?"

Sophy, who had been sitting on Marianne's opposite side and who had only showed a passing interest-Marianne suspected that she had very little taste in music, but did not hold it against her-yawned, and asked that maybe she and her husband could say hello to 'Dear Ludwig' and then turn in for the evening, for she was quite fagged. Admiral Croft thought this a fitting idea, and suggested that he could send the carriage back around for Marianne and Christopher when they'd arrived at the hotel. Though the newlyweds protested that they didn't want to cause any trouble, the Crofts insisted, and so it was. The Brandons were entrusted to the care of Treiger, who wasted no time in showing them around, introducing them to all the fashionable (and a little avant garde) guests. Marianne gave a silent prayer of thanks for the French and German lessons she'd undertaken recently, for she was using them more than she would have thought possible, switching back and forth from one to the other. Brandon didn't seem to be having any trouble, but made an effort to include her in each conversation as he met someone new, speaking clearly and using vocabulary he knew she had heard, even if she had to wrack her brain to translate his phrasing into her native tongue. All in all, each conversation focused on music, something she understood deeply and loved even more, and she found that she was having a more thrilling time here among these people, with this man by her side, than she'd ever have imagined. Just think what she would have said, had someone told her two years ago that she'd be here with him! How she had underestimated him!

And at last, in a fresh set of clothes (for she had been close enough to see the perspiration dripping from Herr Beethoven as he'd conducted, every fibre of his being engaged in the act of creating magic), the composer himself reentered the room to a fresh set of applause. Treiger brought him around and made introductions, and soon Marianne found herself standing in front of him. And just as she'd hoped he would, he shook her hand, dispensing with the notion that ladies couldn't do so as well as men in the physically-demanding task of greeting one another. "Wie geht es Ihnen?" she heard herself murmur.

"Speak up, or he'll never hear you," Treiger intimated. "He's deaf as an albino cat."

"Not so deaf yet," Beethoven answered in English and half-smiled ironically, and Marianne giggled girlishly. Dear God, I am married, she remembered. The man to whom she was married thrust his own hand into Beethoven's, and began peppering him with questions, which the composer answered graciously, and then fired back with questions of his own. Marianne relaxed to hear her husband's German speed up beyond the point where she could understand it, though he did speak loudly enough that his co-conversant could hear him. He was star-struck, too, and not thinking of her, any more than she had been thinking of him thirty seconds before.

Soon the two men began gesturing, and as she stared up at them, she realized they were gesturing to her. Christopher was smiling fiercely and possessively, indicating his wife, and before she could put her translating powers to use in trying to decipher their meaning, Herr Beethoven turned to her and half-shouted:

"Moechten sie fuer uns das Klavier spielen, Frau Brandon?"

"I beg your pardon-what was that?" She furrowed her brows at the composer and her husband. "Ich kann… nur ein bisschen Deutsch, entschuldigung."

Beethoven cleared his throat and smiled at her, choosing his words carefully. "I asked if you would like to play the klav-eh, the pianoforte-for us. Your husband suggested that you have some talent."

Mortified, heart pounding in her chest, Marianne looked at Brandon, then at the composer. "I? No, he-he thinks-" she fished for a response. "He speaks far too highly of my skills, I am afraid."

"Nonsense, Madame. Come-Treiger! Treiger!" He shouted for the host, whom he soon found, and asked, "Hast du einen Klavier, das Frau Brandon spielen darf?"

"Ja! Ja! Come, come!"

And Treiger led them into a smaller chamber where several people were gathered, Beethoven following him, then Marianne, and Brandon bringing up the rear. Marianne looked back at Brandon, terror filling her features. "I didn't put him up to this. I simply suggested that you enjoyed playing."

"Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear," was all Marianne could answer, the supper she'd consumed earlier threatening to work its way back up and out.

"Here, you have a seat. What do you like to play?" Beethoven asked encouragingly.

"M-Mozart," she answered, teeth chattering.

He rolled his eyes and smirked. "Alright, let us hear."

Marianne took a breath, looking up at her husband for comfort. She placed her hands on the keys, and at once all the eyes in the room turned to her, voices hushed. Her first chord came tentatively, and all at once Beethoven shook his head, waving his arms.

"No, no. Bold. You must play as bold as you can. I cannot hear you otherwise." He laid his palms flat against the instrument as if to pick up all the vibrations, and nodded his head toward her to begin playing again.

The song she'd chosen was a favourite, and it poured out of her thoughtlessly. She heaved with the effort of playing, putting more passion and energy in than she had ever done before, and felt the gaze of her husband on her as it ever was. She played as if her heartstrings were the very strings inside the instrument, and cessation would mean the stopping of her very own life's blood from pumping. Here she was surrounded by people who really, really loved music, and understood it, and gave her their full attention. And she did not disappoint them. She knew as she sat there that it was the best she'd ever played, better even than when she played alone for her husband, because then often it was a secondary thing, more about their love for one another than purely for the sake of the music itself. But now… Now she felt invincible.

Treiger led the applause when she'd finished. Beethoven himself clapped, and then nodded thoughtfully. She stood up to go, but he held out his hand. Then he reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out some paper, unfolding it. "Can you try this? It's something I've been working on and I want to hear if it makes sense."

Happy to oblige, she took the composition from him, some of the ink smudgy as if it had been written in a hurry to get thoughts onto paper. She began to play it, haltingly as it was new and unfamiliar, but soon found her rhythm. He nodded along with her, glancing up each time she got to a difficult part, and then waving her along to keep playing if she stumbled.

"I know that wasn't perfect-" she began when she'd finished.

"No, it wasn't. But who is?" he asked, sitting next to her and forcing her to scoot over. "This part here, it was...confusing? What do you think-here-where is that husband of yours? What do the two of you think about this part? Would it sound better if-"

And for some time, the three of them bent over the new composition, Beethoven seemingly losing interest in most of the other guests but simply focused on the task at hand.

Abruptly, he stood, stepped away from the instrument, and said, "That's enough for tonight. I must return home. Your playing has not displeased me, Frau Brandon. You could benefit from real lessons. Hast sie einen Lehrer?" He turned to look at her husband.

"Oh...nein. Nein. Es ist… nur eine Kurzweil." Marianne recognized the words 'teacher' and 'only a pastime.' The two men seemed to share a silent moment in which Beethoven's understanding dawned on him. Women don't seriously study music. Of course they don't. Still.

Beethoven huffed. "Das ist aber schade, dass sie eine Frau ist." He hastily bowed, and turned on his heel to depart.

"Vielleicht," Brandon breathed in his wake. "It probably is." He smiled down at her where she still sat, exhausted, perspiration pooling at her temples and collarbone. "Are you ready to return home?"

She shakily stood and allowed him to lead her out, giving their thanks to Treiger as they exited. "What did he say at the last?"

"From what I've gathered about that man's reputation for being a harsh critic, he probably gave you a better compliment than he's used to giving to anyone. He said basically that it would be better if you had been a man, so you could have become a serious student of music."

She thought for a bit as she made her way into the carriage and allowed him room next to her. "I don't think I could handle the responsibility of being a man. To carry the weight of all that superior intelligence, and not to be buoyed by all of these flighty feminine emotions… Why, whatever would I do with myself?"

He snorted, burying his nose into the space behind her ear and nuzzling her warm, softly-scented neck. "It is...very tiresome," he replied.

"Very much so?"

"Oh, yes."

"Is there anything I can do to...ease the burden of...manhood?" she asked, slowly sliding her hand from his knee up his thigh.

"I am certain you can think of something," he breathed, setting his teeth against her earlobe and tugging, sighing as her hand found its target. "Easy, love. I've been watching you play all evening. You know what that does to me."

"Yes, but I like to confirm my suspicions."

"Oh, dear God," he laughed, prying her hand away and taking it in his own. "In all seriousness, however… Marianne...you really do have a gift. Would you like me to engage a teacher for you? It would be an honour to give you an opportunity to grow as an artist, if you'd like."

"Really?"

He met her eyes. "Of course."

She took a minute to think about it. "Perhaps one day. But I think not yet. I shall be very busy soon, shan't I?"

"Busy?"

"Yes, when we return to Delaford in a fortnight. I'll have to learn my duties as mistress of the house-"

"Yes, well, that shouldn't take very long; Delaford has been mistress-less for ages, and has gotten on just fine."

She eyed him pertly. "Well, I intend to make myself useful, whether or not you think I am needed."

He snorted. "Of course you are needed. I only meant that the servants will be very adept at guiding you in which decisions to make, and how to do things."

"Well, and then there's Elinor and Edward, and the baby, and I'm sure there will be more of those. And Charity and Eliza, whom I have every intention of visiting regularly. And there will be our own child soon, of course."

Brandon jumped in his seat, bumping his head against the roof of the carriage. "What? Marianne, are-is there reason to believe-"

Marianne perceived his agitation with confusion for a moment, then laughed. "No, no. Not-that is, there is no reason to believe that any...any changes have occurred on that front, not yet."

Brandon slumped into his seat. "Ah."

"Are you relieved or disappointed?" Marianne asked hesitantly.

"Neither, really-only, I was shocked-you must admit, the way you phrased that last-it was unclear."

"Well, we will have a child soon, the way things are going, won't we? You, sir, are insatiable."

"You, madam, are one to talk."

"And will you react with such gusto when I do tell you that I am with child?"

"Marianne, I-if and when that day should occur, if you are happy, then I will be the happiest of men."

They pulled up just then to the facade of their hotel, and Brandon scrambled to get out and hand his wife down, careful to avoid a patch of ice. Bundled up in her ermine, the glittering green jewels shining in the light of the street lamps, the dazzle of the music still present in the glow of her eyes and cheeks, Brandon thought she had never looked more graceful, more mature, more lovely.

"Well, you are now twenty. And how do you like it?"

"So far it appears to have its benefits." He reached down to help her with her skirts as they ascended the stairs. It became real to the two of them that they were alone on the staircase, their chamber, private, warm, and inviting, just steps away.

"Colonel Brandon," she began shyly as they reached the final landing, "Will you still think I'm beautiful when I'm seven-and-twenty?"

Puzzled, he asked, "Do you have a reason to doubt that I would? After all, I am seven-and-thirty, and you don't utterly detest me, or so I have come to believe."

"I've just never really thought about getting older before. How-how my body will change."

"As long as your heart is still mine, you will always be the most beautiful creature I've ever beheld." He unlocked the door. "Was that trite?"

"Not if it was honest."

"Perfectly honest, Miss Marianne." They stepped through the door, and Brandon closed it behind them. A fire had been laid out, and the warm glow beckoned them. They simply stood face to face just inside the door.

Slowly, now, Brandon told himself. With great patience, he lowered his head incrementally toward hers and found her lips, then began to work his way beyond the barriers of her sanity, his fingertips brushing against hipbones, the undersides of her breasts, the crevice at the base of her spine just above her backside, the soft fabric of her gown and chemise gliding against her soft skin and causing her to moan against his mouth. She grabbed at the back of his greatcoat, pulling him close to her, just before he broke away. "You said you were concocting some...plans for this evening?"

Marianne blinked her eyes thickly and quirked an eyebrow.

"And I told you that I was at your service. So, Mrs. Brandon," he touched his forehead and nose to hers, "how may I be of assistance?"

She smiled broadly then, for nothing pleased her more than when he was playful like this. Biting her lip, she asked, "Would it be too much trouble to ask you to help me with my gown?"

"That seems like a good start, doesn't it?" He collected her wrap, hanging it and his own greatcoat up and then returning to her. His fingers had now become quite adept at removing the gowns she selected, as well as her stays, and he made easy work of it, but he took his time, taking each opportunity to place his lips upon her skin as it was newly exposed. For good measure, he worked the hem of her chemise painfully slowly up her body as he removed it chemise, then scooped her up in his arms-he always enjoyed the little yelps and giggles of protest she gave him when he did this-and sat her down in the large armchair in front of the fireplace so he could kneel in front of her and remove her boots and stockings.

"How convenient," Marianne noted.

"Oh?" her husband asked, as he caressed her thighs.

"You're already perfectly situated for the second part of my plan."

"Am I, now?"

"Hmm," she murmured in assent, as he replaced his hands with his mouth, inching close to her sex and then finding her sweet warmth with his tongue. Her fingernails stroked his head and scratched at his shoulders as he brought her closer and closer, and the sensations were oddly stimulating to him. She tugged his hair as she came, and he dug his fingers into her thighs in response-the tiny little ache of this prolonging her pleasure and ensuring that she was left completely breathless and spent.

A minute later she slid down to the soft rug where he sat at her feet. She wrapped her arms around him-he was still fully clothed, she realized, except for his coat-and investigated his state of arousal. Quite satisfying. Smiling to herself, she began simultaneously to unlace his trousers and to kiss him, his startled breath stopped by the pressure of her lips. Soon the torment was too much, and he batted her hand away and completed her task himself, all patience forgotten. She lay down then, stretching out down the length of the rug, her naked body warmed by the fire, and he brought himself between her legs and inside her, closing his eyes with pleasure-each time, it was like finding a missing part of his own heart, just taking her in this way. She whispered to him- "Yes, oh-so good-" and scratched at his back again, finding her way up under his shirt to touch bare skin. "I love you," she whispered as he began to speed up-and soon he was lost to all reason, incapable of doing anything more than moving and breathing.

When it was over, and he lay beside her, she scratched lightly up and down his torso, watching the shadows her hand made in the firelight. He rumbled a sigh of satisfaction, kissing her forehead. "We should transfer ourselves to the bed before I fall asleep like this," he said.

"Just a little while longer. I don't feel up to moving just yet."

"As you like." He gathered her a little closer to him. "Happy birthday."

"Happy honeymoon."

"Has it been all so very awful, these past few weeks of marriage to an old man like me?"

"Not very. Some moments have been even bearable." Her eyes twinkled.

"Even when I became agitated and irritable and generally depressing? Like at my sister's?"

"It's always nice to be reminded that you have flaws, my love, for your good qualities are typically so overwhelming that they put me to shame, in my youth and recklessness and…"

"Hush." He pressed a finger over her lips.

"Christopher?"

"Hmm?"

"Tonight was...the most...well, magical seems a silly word to use, but may it not be appropriate from time to time? Not just because of the opportunity to meet Herr Beethoven and hear his music-although that was something I shall never forget-but because of your thoughtfulness."

He felt a lump form in his throat. "Surely you know-I only want to make you happy. It's what I long for above all other things."

"And if you continue to strive for that, and I work as hard as I plan to do to make you happy as well, then...then I think our marriage is destined to be a successful one."

Brandon raised himself up on an elbow. "It won't always be joy, Marianne. There will be hard times."

"But they will not be indicative of any cracks in our commitment to one another."

"I would hope not."

"No-we'll weather the storms, won't we?"

He smiled at her and wrapped one of her loose curls around his finger. "I feel that with you by my side, I can suffer anything."

She got up suddenly.

"Where are you going?"

"I was reminded of a poem." She fished around on the stand near the bed, through their books and papers, and found the volume she'd been rereading. There, easily opening to the page she'd wanted, she read: "How blest I am in this discovering thee! To enter in these bonds is to be free."

He got up, wrapped his arms around her from behind, and completed the verse: "That where my hand is set, my seal shall be." And he began to tickle her stomach, so that she fell onto the bed into a fit of giggles, and thus they carried on into the night, paying no heed to the ticking of the clock or the emerging light of the sun peeking through the window.

The End! (Or the beginning…)