Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (15 page)

“As well it should not have!” Mr. Merrick exclaimed, shocked, cutting off her ramblings. Bridget ventured a glance up to his face and could see that he had gone as red under his tanned skin as a lobster in summertime, his hazel eyes wide with shock. And it likely matched her own furious blush. “Miss Forrester, I . . . I am not so, er,
theatrically
inclined.”

“Oh,” she sighed, relieved. “Then neither is . . .”

“Neither is Vincenzo,” he said patiently.

“But,” she hedged, “you said that you are not simply friends?”

“Yes. It is well-known here, but I am not surprised my father did not take much to advertising the connection at home.” Mr. Merrick’s mouth quirked up at the corner, bemused. “Before my mother married my father, she had a child that she left here in Venice, in the care of the child’s grandparents.”

Bridget’s eyes went as wide as saucers.

“Vincenzo Carpenini is my half brother.”

Eleven

O
LIVER
was at a bit
of a loss for what to say next.

When they had parted three days ago at the steps of the Hotel Cortile, Miss Forrester’s astonishment had been clear. It had obviously never occurred to her that there could be any relation between practical Mr. Merrick and her passionate, demanding teacher, Signor Carpenini, beyond that of a curious friendship—strange bedfellows, if you will. Indeed, his English upbringing had on more than one occasion masked just how similar their features were—they were of a height, their hair the same wickedly dark hue, their skin turned the same gold in just a fraction of sun. Taken at a glance, it was only Oliver’s eyes—their light, hazel hue—that betrayed him as anything other than a native Venetian.

It was one of the reasons why Oliver had spent his youth feeling . . . out of step. With both his family and peers. He was dark, they were fair. He liked to sing and read plays. They liked to hunt and ride. His father’s insistence that he take up boxing might have saved him from more than one beating from some of the older boys at Eton—both because he knew how to defend himself and, coincidentally, because it was a Very English Thing to do—and he put his heart into it because it was one of the few things about Oliver that his father would brag about.

His mother had petted him and loved him, had reveled in her son’s happy talents. But after a certain age, no boy wanted that from his mother. So he tried to be sporting and emulate the more English of his relations.

When Oliver’s mother had died when he had just been fifteen, it had been thinking that her son had turned his back on his Italian nature.

After that, the constant feeling of being out of step with the world around him had ballooned in his gut. Part of it was mourning, part of it was guilt. But part of it was also the queer looks he received from everyone upon introduction, and then their expressions clearing as he addressed them in his natural, cultured British accent. Their hypercriticalness, the inclusivity—that they would open up to him only if they knew he was “one of their own”—mocked him constantly.

Meeting Vincenzo and coming to Venice had been a dream. Here he would have a brother in truth, instead of one separated by a decade and a half and no small degree of superiority, borne of his dislike of having a stepmother and half brother to begin with. He could get to know his mother’s side of the family, her aspirations, her friends from the stage. Here, in Venice, he could indulge in the passions that he had tamped back down into the earth, hoping they would not spring up at inappropriate times. After all, there was nothing worse than bursting into an Italian opera in the dining rooms of Eton, overcome by the need to sing. Not that that ever happened, of course.

Yes, coming to Venice had been a dream.

A dream . . . that had never quite matched up with the reality.

In truth it was Vincenzo who had opened all the doors to him. If he had come to Venice alone, with his ill-remembered Italian and his English eyes, he would have been marked as a tourist and likely found himself headed back home within a month, with the obligatory “souvenereal disease.” Vincenzo introduced him to his friends, to the musicians and artists who populated Venice, and made certain he was included as one of their own.

But it had to be said—it was still there. The look. Even in artisans, in opera dancers, just as there had been in English society. People would look at him, trying to figure out where he fit. Whom he belonged to. If he was truly “one of their own.”

Because of Vincenzo, he had passed that test. Because of Vincenzo, he was tolerated and accepted as part of the Fenice theatre world. Because of Vincenzo, he had gained the knowledge and the belief that he could run his very own theatre.

And it was why Oliver felt he could not leave Vincenzo, especially now that he needed Oliver’s help. Of course he could not go back to England, as he had expressed—perhaps too vehemently—to Bridget.

But when she had said those words—told him that she knew how awkward those few weeks of thinking he was going home was—it had borne in Oliver such a light of hope.

Finally
, he thought. Someone who understood. Someone who did not look at him and wonder where he fit.

And while he had no idea what to say next—to Bridget—Oliver found himself eager for any conversation at all.

Indeed, he could not wait until the next day, when he would endeavor to walk Bridget Forrester home again.

But then, the most curious thing began happening: It seemed as if Bridget Forrester was avoiding him.

It happened the very next day. When he reached down to hand her out of the gondola upon her arrival in the morning, she let go of his hand as quickly as possible, glancing back at her maid. Then during lessons, she was too involved in the music to spare him much of a glance—although when she did, it was short and she turned back to the pages immediately.

But it was not until the lesson was drawing to a close that he knew his estimation had been correct. For the moment the clock ticked three, a knock came on the back door.

For a brief second, Oliver feared it would be Lady Forrester and her youngest daughter, and then they would be sunk. Their party had greatly been reduced since yesterday—Oliver had depleted a good portion of his funds on the circus and therefore could not pay Veronica to come and pretend to be his deaf great-aunt on a long-term basis. Considering that, and the fact that Molly the maid had begun to relegate herself to the kitchens and below stairs—where the air was cool and hearing the same music over and over again was muted, and therefore less headache-inducing—there was little more than Frederico, sitting outside the music room doors to guard propriety.

Not that anything inappropriate would happen. Oliver was there to make damn sure of it.

Still, a brief moment of panic did set in when he heard the knock—but then he was quickly reminded that Lady Forrester and Miss Amanda would arrive via the canal, not the back. Thus, when he opened the door, he found a footman in Forrester livery.

“My mother requested that I meet her and my sister at the Campo Sant Angelo today after my lessons, and sent James here to escort us,” Miss Forrester offered by way of explanation, as she gathered up her sheet music and shuffled it into a portfolio. Her tone was quiet, subdued. He hoped for, rather than heard, something apologetic in her voice. Perhaps in truth, she was simply tired.

“Signorina, Rossini’s most famous work is
The Barber of Seville
, and it may be comic, but it is also fluid. Even staccato, he is fluid! You must play with fluid grace! Think of that for tomorrow!” Vincenzo was saying, as she was on her way out the door.

Tomorrow came, and Bridget’s lessons had consisted of Rossini, Scarlatti, and some reinterpretations of Vivaldi—since the Red Priest composed almost exclusively for strings, his work had to be adapted for pianoforte. Vincenzo had found, after a long morning of inquiry, that Miss Forrester’s repertoire was woefully thin on Italian composers, and he felt the need to build her experience there, considering the nature of the competition they were entering. He was particularly horrified to learn she was not a student of the more intricate, layered style that popularized Italian music of the day . . . and that was Carpenini’s strength in composition.

“Yes, Signore, I will practice fluidity,” Bridget replied.

“No, Signorina, remember! No practicing at the hotel!” Vincenzo admonished before shutting the door to the music room behind them and leaving him to his compositions.

Which left Oliver to escort Miss Forrester, her maid (who had appeared from the kitchens promptly at three), and now, her footman, to the front steps, where he could hail a passing gondola for them.

He opened his mouth to speak to her—but nothing came out. And before he knew it, she was handed into the boat and had cast off from the docks.

By now, Oliver was torturing himself. What had he done—what had he said?—that caused her to shy away? While Oliver had felt a strange connection to Miss Forrester, had she instead found something to fear? What could it have been?

As Oliver ran through everything that had been said and done—where they walked, the actions he took, what she said in reply—on their last walk, he cemented one thing in his mind.

“Tomorrow,” he resolved to himself. He would explain himself tomorrow.

But tomorrow it turned out to be no easier to find a moment alone with Miss Forrester.

Vincenzo, it seemed, was dedicated to giving her as much attention as he could in those short hours that he had her. To inject as much of his knowledge as he could, to wrap her up in the notes and phrases so that she had no room for anything else in her mind. Oliver was very decidedly in the way, even when they took their infrequent breaks. Pianoforte adaptions of Rossini, Marcello and, in particular, Scarlatti made up the day’s practices.

“I am betting on Scarlatti,” Vincenzo had said as an aside to Oliver. “The Marchese adores him, and his compositions are quintessentially Italian. The perfect showpiece to choose for the competition.”

“But Scarlatti worked mostly in Spain. Not strictly Italian.”

But Vincenzo waved him away and turned back to his student.

Oliver kept waiting for Vincenzo to show himself to be impressed with his student’s proficiency, but the man very carefully held back any praise. For his part, Oliver was wholly impressed. Without the crippling fear of stage fright, Miss Forrester proved herself to be incredibly adept. What she knew, she played with energy and grace—and what she didn’t know, she learned quickly. Her sight-reading was top rate; after only a few times through she would know a piece well enough to play it with confidence . . . if not with the style and understanding that came from knowing a piece intimately.

As the day’s lesson drew to a close, Oliver felt certain he would
finally
be granted an opportunity to speak with Miss Forrester alone—but alas, there again came a knock on the back door.

Again, there was a footman.

“Where are you off to this time, Miss Forrester?” Oliver asked very cordially.

“I’m not certain,” she replied, as she gathered up her sheet music and pulled on her gloves. “James, where are we to meet Mother?”

“At the Rialto Bridge, miss,” James answered succinctly.

“The Rialto Bridge is a mere few minutes by foot,” Oliver said hopefully. “I would be more than happy to escort you.”

“Ah . . .” Miss Forrester looked between her maid, Molly, and the footman, James. Their censure had impact, it seemed. “We would not wish to trouble you. Mother is expecting us by gondola, and it would be best to travel that way. Besides”—the corner of her mouth turned up wryly, filling him with an expected hope—“with your sense of direction, we would likely end up there after my family had already left.”

And with that, again, she was gone.

It was another full week before he got his chance. Oliver had begun to despair of the idea that he would ever manage to explain himself to Miss Forrester—for he was certain that whatever had caused her to pull back was somehow his doing—when another knock on the door afforded him the opportunity.

Although this knock came from the front door, not the back.

“Vincenzo, where have you been hiding?!” Antonia Galetti cried in Italian as she burst into the music room. Frederico had barely had time to announce the bubbly lady before she burst into the lessons.

“I am so sorry, Signore, I know you gave orders to not be disturbed,” Frederico said sullenly, also in Italian, before sulking back to his place in the hall, where he had taken to sitting in a chair and reading periodicals.

“Thank you, Frederico,” Oliver muttered. “Once again, I get to question why I pay you.”

“You do not, Signore,” Frederico muttered back. “At least not enough.”

“Oh la, I am not a disturbance to him!” Antonia tittered, oblivious to any conversation that did not involve her. “In fact, I am something altogether more agreeable, aren’t I, Vincenzo?”

Oliver shot a look to his friend. At that moment, Vincenzo did not look agreeable. In fact, he looked quite disturbed. He had been seated next to Miss Forrester at the pianoforte, and the minute the doors flew open, he had closed the lid, nearly crushing Miss Forrester’s fingers. But Vincenzo’s face cleared almost immediately when he realized who it was. And, possibly, how detrimental rudeness to this particular lady could be.

“Of course, my dear, of course!” Vincenzo cried happily. And then, as she practically launched herself at him, Vincenzo seemed to remember that there was someone else next to him at the piano.

“Oh, Signorina Forrester, this is . . .” But he seemed to be at a loss for words, possibly because he was being strangled by Antonia’s arms around his neck.

“Signora,” Oliver stated, clearing his throat. “Allow me to introduce Miss Bridget Forrester, who is a student of Signor Carpenini.”

“Oh!” Antonia cried as she shuffled herself up to a more respectable position, out of Vincenzo’s lap. “Are you his student?” She addressed Miss Forrester in her well-taught English. “Everyone has been wondering who you are! You’re quite a little thing, aren’t you?”