A few days later I came down with a bad cold and was banished to the alcove behind the kitchen stove, the warmest place in the house.

      One of the nights I spent there, voices woke me. It was Papa and Aloysia, talking as they often did after the theater. Rolling over, I was immediately more aware of how painfully dry my throat was than anything else. Knowing that there was always a pitcher of water on the kitchen table, I got up and, by the light from under the door, made my way to it.

      Just as I was preparing to pour myself a drink, I heard Papa's voice rise.

      "Damn it! Believe me, Aloysia, the flesh is weak, especially young flesh! Do you want to end up handed around by those wealthy pigs like the Wendling girl?"

      I decided that the drink could wait and tiptoed to the door in order to peep through that handy crack.

      Papa and Aloysia were standing close to the stove, hands extended to catch the last warmth.

      "I think you should accept Mozart's proposal. Of course, he has no money now, but he does have good prospects. He's famous all over Germany."

      "Only for what he did as a child," my sister answered stiffly.

      "Consider carefully, Aloysia. He adores you. He's from a family like ours. He's astonishingly talented. He's sure to do better than I have."

      In the long silence that followed, I watched my sister shift and sigh.

      "I know. I know. But I just can't love him."

      Papa made a noise in his throat which in our house was universally recognized as disapproval.

      "Oh, Papa, please! Mozart has no place, nor is he likely to get one soon. No one takes him seriously!"

      Exactly what Josepha had said, I thought.

      "For once I see you include yourself in the common opinion." Papa sounded bitter. He hunched down, opened the grate, and begun to vigorously stir the remaining coals. Under cover of his agitated rattling, I made my way back to bed.

~ ~ ~

Read the rest of this outtake from "Mozart's Wife."