Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (17 page)

It could only be pure recklessness that had him testing this theory with his next statement.

“Miss Bridget, I cannot tell you how glad I am to know that it’s Molly’s practical country nature that had you avoiding me for the past few days, and not what I had thought,” he said, steering her down a different street than they had taken before. Her footfalls followed his implicitly. However, her eyebrows flew up in surprise.

“And what had you supposed to be the reason?” she asked.

“You have no idea what I have been thinking!” He shook his head, laughing. “I racked my brain, trying to think of how our last conversation had set you against me—when I had felt the exact opposite. I thought I had somehow offended you by admitting that Carpenini was my illegitimate brother—”

“I did not realize he was illegitimate.” Bridget’s large green eyes went wide. “Although I cannot see how that reflects on you. Or Carpenini.”

Oliver smiled, and continued. “I thought perhaps I took you into the wrong part of town—that your sense of direction was livid over wandering so far . . . I thought the fact that my father and I do not get along, and that I lack a desire to go home to England, raised your ire.”

“My ire?” she replied. “No. Besides, I understand all that.”

“You do?” He could not keep the disbelief from his voice.

“Of course. You and I share the same malady.”

“Malady?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Stage fright.”

He jerked back suddenly, coming to a stop in the middle of the square, or
campo
, they had wandered into. “You think I have stage fright?”

“At least in part. I am afraid of what people will think of me when I play for them. That I won’t live up to their expectations. You are afraid you will not meet your father’s. That he would not, does not understand. So you stay here and carve out your own existence. Even though in every conversation we have had, you still call England ‘home.’”

Could she be right? Oliver fell silent, stern. Could he have avoided going back to England so long because he feared the judgment of others? Of his father?

But that judgment had already been rendered, in monthly letters and a quarterly allowance. His father’s words might have been kind, but they were also removed. And Oliver knew the money simply said,
Stay away
.

“But your stage fright is easily managed. After all, I think you need not worry as much about your audience as much as I worry about mine. I have to please all of Venice, not to mention Carpenini.” She grinned ruefully. “You only have one person to humor, and he seems far more reasonable.”

“Really?” Oliver answered, attempting humor. “You met my father only the once. He struck you as a reasonable man?”

She tilted her head to one side. “I was talking about you. You are your audience.”

“Oh,” he breathed shortly, properly chagrined.

“But I don’t know if your father is a reasonable man,” she said quietly. “When I met him, he just seemed . . . well, more sad than anything else, I suppose.”

“Oh,” he said again. Because it was the only thing he could say.

“My father and I . . .” Oliver began after a moment. “In truth I would rather not discuss him.” The future. Yes, it was better to think on the future. Vincenzo would win this competition, he would write a piece for Oliver to stage and the Marchese’s patronage would return, and all would be well. His father aside.

But Bridget blinked at him, then conceded with a nod.

And with nothing else to say, silence fell between them.

Oliver did not know how to feel about what Bridget had said. To distract himself, he did what he often had when his thoughts were getting in the way—he let the scene overtake him. The people in the
campo
, the cobblestones of the square, the bright afternoon sun.

It was a market day—as was almost every day, excepting Sundays and holidays—and even though it was the afternoon now, there were still a few stalls open, trying to sell that morning’s catch or now somewhat stale bread at a reduced price. There was a woman—a fishwife—singing about her husband’s prowess as a fisherman. She was fairly entertaining, her voice rich and full. Until, that is, she got to the higher notes, and her voice cracked with its limitations.

The sweet breeze of spring—made all the sweeter because the canals had not yet taken on their pungent summer aroma—came up behind them from the south. It wrapped around Oliver’s legs, holding him still in his place. It danced with Bridget’s skirts, pressing them tightly against her well-formed lower half, giving him an excellent idea of how they looked. He could not help but notice it—nor could he help the sensation that sight sent through his own lower limbs.

It seemed as if he would be breaking another promise to Molly that afternoon—Bridget’s safety and comfort were no longer the foremost thoughts in his mind.

“Where are we?” Bridget said at last, a blessed distraction from his overly distracting train of thought.

“Do you mean to tell me that even with your directional acumen, you do not know where we are?” Oliver said, teasingly. She shook her head. “We are at the Campo Sant Angelo. You should recognize it—did you not say that you were meeting your mother here a few days ago?”

Bridget looked around with a scrutinous eye. “I suppose it is familiar . . .”

“Look, over there—that is the famous well. This entire square was raised up so seawater would not get into the well during a flood.”

“Yes, I vaguely remember Amanda quoting something to that effect from her guidebook. She seems to be a great admirer of civil infrastructure.” Bridget smiled wryly up at him.

“And that building there—twenty years ago it was the Teatro San Angelo. Vivaldi was impresario as well as composer there.”

“Really? One would, I think should, remember that,” she grumbled ruefully. “To be honest, though, I was not paying the closest of attentions to my surroundings.”

“I am utterly shocked. This undoes all my preconceived notions about you.”

“Do be serious,” she laughed, belying any seriousness to be had. “Unfortunately I find I simply do not care about wells, and architecture, and other people, when there is music in my head. Even if I cannot practice on the pianoforte at the hotel, I can study the sheet music. I am here to study with Carpenini, not take in the sights!”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Perhaps you should.”

“But . . .” she began to argue, but he held up a hand to silence her.

“Hear me out. You wish to learn about music. To study. Well, music is
this
. It is an expression of life.” He pointed to the singing fishwife. “It is that woman there. Would she not make a perfect character in an opera? And what about our last unconventional walk back to the hotel—what was most memorable about it?”

He could see the wheels turning in her head. “Other than you claiming Carpenini as your brother?”

“Yes, other than that.”

She closed her eyes, let memory wash over her. “The . . . sunlight on the wet cobblestones in the alley.”

He found himself taking an unexpected step closer to her. His voice was warm, low. “And how would you play sunlight on cobblestones on the piano?”

Her eyes remained closed. “I . . . I don’t know.” Her voice came out in a whisper. Her fingers, likely unbeknownst to her, began to twitch at her side, as if finding ivory keys in the ether. “It would be high, and light. Earthy, though—muted pedals. Like waking up.”

Her eyes opened, and they found his smile. “
That
is something Carpenini cannot teach. Only Venice can.”

She took this in, a serene smile painting her lips. In that moment, he was bewitched. Truly and utterly. She, he, and the spring breeze wrapping around their legs. The impulse to lean forward and catch the little smile with his own, to learn what freckled skin tasted like.

Instead, he indulged the only thing he could do in the middle of a
campo
in broad daylight. Before he knew what he was doing, he had reached down, grabbed Bridget’s hand, and brought it to his lips.

“Mr. Merrick! Intent on incurring Molly’s wrath, are you?” she admonished, playfully, as he released her hand.

“Only when I can get away with it,” he replied impishly. And then she smiled up at him, and he smiled down at her . . .

And suddenly they were the only two people standing in the Campo Sant Angelo.

And that idea, that impulse to lean forward and take what those wide green eyes seemed to offer, nearly overcame him.

Nearly.

“Ah . . . Mr. Merrick. Oliver,” Bridget said sharply, rushing them out of their haze and back into the real world, singing fishwife and all. “I have to ask you something.”

She bit her lip so charmingly, Oliver could do little but reply with a rush of happiness. “Anything, Miss Bridget.”

Her next words were like a bucket of ice water over his head.

“The Signora Galetti . . .” she began hesitantly. “Is she . . . is she a woman of importance?”

“She is the daughter of a Marchese . . . she is a very wealthy, influential woman in Venice,” he answered slowly.

“No, I mean is she important . . . to Signor Carpenini?”

Oliver felt all of his happy energy drain from his body, out the ends of his fingertips. He could tell her, he supposed, that the Signora and Carpenini were lovers. It would be the truth, after all. He could tell her that Carpenini’s fate might very well lay in her hands and could be crushed if Antonia was not properly placated from time to time. That would also be true. But looking down into Bridget’s face, the vulnerability laid bare, he instead told the central truth he knew about Signora Galetti.

“No,” he replied. “She is not.”

He should have realized.

After those words had left his mouth, the rush of relief from Bridget startled him and seemed to exhaust her. At her request, they walked back in a more direct route to the hotel, so she could rest before enjoying the remainder of the day with her family.

“And learning from Venice,” she promised him.

He spent the walk from the hotel to his own rented house remonstrating himself for his flights of fancy.

She had not felt the same rush of temptation he had. Nor had she stepped into a bubble of their own making, as time slowed down and the temptation of her freckles became almost more than he could bear. No, instead she was more than halfway in love with her instructor, Carpenini, jealous of his relationship with another woman, while Oliver fit very nicely into the role of confidante and, more despised,
friend
.

He was alone in his feelings. It was something he could rail against, or he could cut the connection and save himself heartache. But he liked Bridget Forrester too much and felt too protective of her, and, strangely, he knew her to be too important to do anything other than survive them.

Carpenini’s actions, on the other had—
those
he could influence.

“Vincenzo!” he yelled, the door slamming behind him, jolting even lazy Frederico out of his chair in the hallway.

He found him in the music room, sitting at the keys, his hands down at his sides. Signora Galetti had apparently made her exit.

“You,” Oliver said. “I told you, you have to be more careful with Bri—with Miss Forrester. She’s half in love with you already, and young English ladies don’t play by your rules.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Vincenzo replied dully.

“It does matter. If you play with her emotions—well, not only will you find yourself without a student for the competition, you could very well—” But Vincenzo cut him off with a pound of fury on the keyboard.

“It does not matter!” he cried. “We have already lost.”

Oliver took a deep breath. “How?”

“Antonia brought with her the Marchese’s music selection for the competition.” Vincenzo’s voice broke as he continued, showing the truth of his despair. “We are not to play Scarlatti. Or Marcello, or Vivaldi, or any other honest, pure Italian composer.”

Carpenini pounded his hands against the keys again, a thunderstorm in the still room.

“He chose an Austrian. We are to play goddamned Beethoven!”

Twelve

L
UDWIG
van Beethoven’s Sonata No. 23, Op. 57, sat on the pianoforte, like a viper waiting to strike, knowing that its prey had no choice but to come to it.

“
This
is what I am to play?” Bridget asked, all of the air in her body somehow getting stuck in her throat. The notes on the page swam before her eyes, a jumbled stew of black and white. Twelve-eight time. Rapid appoggiatura. An endless stream of thirty-second notes. Natural minor scales changing to major scales with raised fourth degrees at a moment’s notice. It used six and a half octaves of the piano. Three separate movements and more than three hundred bars of music—not including repeats and codas! Even if she was playing
allegro
—which at times, she would be—this piece would take more than twenty minutes to play from beginning to end.

“We’ve . . .
I’ve
 . . . never attempted anything like this.” She could feel the panic begin to rise in her chest, sitting up high in her body.

“And yet you will,” Carpenini said, his voice clipped. His gaze had been intense all morning, red rimmed—as if he hadn’t slept in days—and focused intently on her. Some impulse in her wanted to reach out and smooth the locks of hair from his brow, but the moment she thought of it, it seemed beyond silly to her. Smooth Carpenini’s brow? She admired the man, of course . . . more than admired, if she was to admit the truth.

She knew very well she had a crush. Bridget had enjoyed crushes before—or had been tormented by them, depending on one’s perspective. She knew she thought too much about the man and not enough about the music when she was lying in bed at night. How could she not—after all, Carpenini had brought a circus to her, just so she could play without fear! He had sought
her
out, come to
her
door and seen
her
talent, and wanted her to play beautifully for him, for Venice. But now she had this music—this incredible, impossible piece of music—in front of her, and not only did she have to learn it, she had to
master
it.

Smoothing anyone’s brow seemed ridiculously silly in that light.

But while she contemplated the ridiculousness of smoothing anyone’s brow, Carpenini had been saying something, and Bridget had to snap to attention.

“I will play it through. You will listen.”

Bridget nodded and seated herself on the sofa. Next to her, Mr. Merrick—Oliver—arranged himself, ready to listen. She was very glad of his presence in that moment.

Carpenini began to play. From the opening notes, trepidation rose in Bridget’s chest. His fingers moved with an impossible mixture of speed and grace. His concentration was wholly on the page.

And Bridget’s stomach began to turn.

I cannot do this,
her traitorous mind whispered to her.

What had she been thinking? That she was any good at all? She would never, ever, not with a hundred years of practice, be able to play Beethoven’s Sonata No. 23!

She had been too rash, too prideful, thinking she was above the other young ladies who displayed their talents in drawing room musicales across London. This was a piece meant for concertmasters, not little girls. What was it she had said to Lady Worth, full of the false bravado of a nerve-racked performer? Oh yes, that she was “that good.”

That good.
What a laughable thought.

And so she did. She laughed, a small bubble of hysteria escaping her lips, and another threatening to overtake her.

Suddenly, a warm hand covered hers—which had been pressed into a white-knuckled fist, unbeknownst to her. It was Oliver’s hand, and somehow, it had the effect of tethering her back to the ground, before her imagination could put her feet to a run and have her out the door and off the island as soon as possible.

“Take two deep breaths. Slowly,” came Oliver’s deep, gentle voice. “The first, to steady yourself.”

She inhaled, slowly, letting the air fill her body, letting sensation into places that had previously gone numb from fear.

“Now, the second, to focus on what comes next.”

She took the second breath, and let herself hear the music again.

This time, she looked past the technique, past the difficulty . . . and the music was undeniably beautiful. It had a thunderous, deceptively simple melody, intruding into one’s consciousness easily, the way an army would march into a town. Taking over. The second movement was kinder, more of a . . . persuasion. Until a
fortissimo
grace note that signaled the change to the next movement, and once again the listeners were rocketed back to the invasion of their souls.

It was so sad, it could break one’s heart—but at least one would know that it was broken not out of despair, but overwhelming passion.

Carpenini’s fingers pounded out the final chords, and the haze of music cleared from his eyes. He turned to his audience. And waited.

“I’ve never played anything like that,” she said finally, calmly.

“I never taught anyone to play anything like that.” Carpenini answered in kind. “This is a piece for those who show off. For those who have played on stage since the cradle, and twice your years.”

“Oh,” she replied, unable to form a thought that matched the enormity of what they were about to attempt.

“Signorina Forrester, I will not lie to you.” His Italian accent smoothed over the English words, taking any harshness out of them. “I know this piece, yes, but I doubt I know it as well as Herr Klein does. It was likely taught to him by Beethoven himself.” Carpenini’s eyes bored into her, the way they had when he had asked her to become his student, to play in his competition.

Mesmerizing her.

Persuading her.

“I have been too easy on you the past few weeks. I have been too easy on myself. You are a talented player, yes. But are you this talented? I do not know. We are going to work harder than you ever have in your life. It will be a challenge, one we have no choice but to accept. There will be no more circuses.” His eyes flitted to Oliver, then back to her. “No more fiddling about with Scarlatti and Marcello.”

He seemed to require some assurance from her at this point—all Bridget could do was give a small nod. Everything else in her body was fixated on what lay ahead.

“Signorina Forrester, we have only two months before the competition. Therefore,” he said coolly, “we have no time to waste.”

“No, no, no!” Carpenini yelled, his footfalls hitting the floor with such force, it rattled the piano’s ivory keys. Bridget’s hands jumped back from their positions, startled. Although, she should not be startled; Carpenini had been yelling for a good hour now.

“Faster—the trill has to be faster. Your fingering is clumsy, flat—it has to be light, like air!”

He thundered at her like a dark god. She set her hands and tried again.

“No, no, no!” he cried again. Then, with a harsh breath, he continued. “Tonight, you count how many times you can do a six-note trill in one minute. And whatever number it turns out to be, work to double it.”

“But I am not meant to practice at the hotel . . .” she protested gently.

“Practice on the damned dining room table!” he ground out. “You do not need keys to make noise to know that you are doing poorly.”

“I am sorry, Signore. I will try again,” she said with heretofore unknown patience.

She played it again; this time, he bemoaned the trills but he did not stop her—not until she got to her first arpeggio, which finished with octave-and-a-half-spanning chords.

“You fumble the chords!” he chided with no patience.

“I . . . I am sorry, Signore,” Bridget replied. “They are large chords and my hands are small . . .”

“Well, I am sorry, but we cannot have a smaller piano made for your delicate size,” he countered snidely. “You must
stretch
. Your hands must become the width needed.”

“I . . . I will stretch, Signore.” She nodded, then set her fingers back on the keys.

It was as if Carpenini were a different man today, one intent on finding fault with everything she had ever been or done. As if she were not hard enough on herself! As if she were not daunted enough by Beethoven, now she must live in fear of Carpenini!

Bridget could feel the tears pushing themselves to the corners of her eyes, blinking fast to keep them from falling, when the last straw fell.

“So prim! So proper!” the dragon chided, his voice looming behind her. “Signorina, if you are to play that run, you must not keep your elbows locked by your sides. You need space!”

She moved her elbows out.

“No, wider! Wider!”

“Signore, I cannot!” she finally shouted back, a turncoat drop running down her cheek. “It is my dress—the sleeves are not made for one to lift her arms above her head! You must deal with close elbows!”

She turned back to the music and began to play again, her heart soaring from the relief of having fought back. But then, as she began another run, she felt nimble fingers at her back.

Undoing the buttons of her dress.

She stood up so swiftly, the legs of her piano bench screeched across the floor as she whipped around and found Carpenini staring at her incredulously.

No, he wasn’t staring at
her
incredulously. He was staring at Oliver, who had crossed the room and grabbed Carpenini’s hand, midbutton.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Signore asked, oblivious to offense.

And it was his obliviousness that deflated the situation. The murder left Oliver’s eyes and he let go of Carpenini’s hand. Instead, he sternly issued a warning.

“You cannot assault Miss Forrester’s person in such a manner.” His voice, usually a rich tenor, was now low, angry.

“I am not the one assaulting her person! The dress is!”

“Signore, I will
not . . .”
But her shaking voice was cut off by Carpenini’s protestations.

“Bah! If you cannot play properly in your dress, you must remove the dress! That is all there is to it!”

“And do what?” she fired back. “Play naked?”

“If necessary,” he replied, his voice cold casualness.

Bridget was so taken aback, she was utterly silent. As was Carpenini and, oddly, Oliver. But Oliver was the first to shake himself out of his thoughts and back into action.

“If you both will give me a moment, I think I have a compromise.”

And with a stern look to Carpenini, Oliver turned on his heel and exited the room, the door quietly clicking shut behind him.

Leaving Bridget alone with Signor Carpenini.

For the very first time, she realized.

It was unbelievable, that the man who had encapsulated every single thought since she had first received his letter—or rather, Oliver Merrick’s letter—was only now alone in her presence. If she were another sort of girl, the kind that took crushes seriously, she would look at this as some type of opportunity.

And perhaps, a few hours ago, she would have.

But the man who had emerged to teach her today—this overbearing, unforgiving, growling, feral creature who earned none of her sympathy and all of her unhappiness—was nothing like the man who lived in her mind. The man who had belief in her talent, who wanted her to succeed? The man who, in her fevered imagination late at night, bent over her hand reverently once she had played music for him, kissing her mouth, falling to his knees in adoration. (After that, her imagination was appallingly muddled. After all, no man, maestro or otherwise, had ever fallen to his knees in adoration of her. Nor kissed her on the mouth, come to think of it.)

Thus, how could this forbidding, hateful taskmaster be the man who had looked into her eyes and coaxed her into attempting Beethoven’s No. 23, only a few hours before?

“Why are you doing this?” she asked simply, her gaze as direct as she could make it.

His dark eyes met hers, a cold, unfeeling challenge in them.

“Because you need it.”

But something unspoken hung in the air between them, another simple phrase that did not leave Carpenini’s lips but entered Bridget’s ears all the same.

Because I
can.

Before she could contemplate what he had said and what her mind had heard, the door to the music room swung open, as Oliver entered, practically out of breath, bearing Molly in his wake. In his hand, he held a white linen shirt.

“Molly, would you please help Miss Forrester with this?” he asked very cordially, handing the shirt to her. Molly nodded, taking it, and led Bridget behind a screen in the corner of the room, one that had not been moved since the days of the circus—apparently some of the ballerinas had required room to change.

Apparently, Oliver had explained to the maid what was needed, because Molly wordlessly helped Bridget with the buttons on the back of her dress. Once the dress was unbuttoned to its high-waisted seam, she then helped Bridget pull her arms out of her sleeves.

“Can your arms move now, miss?” Molly asked quietly.

Bridget lifted her arms above her head—yes, there was a great ease of movement now. But it was in no way respectable, to have her dress half off, exposing her chemise and corset! Molly, bless her, seemed to sense her charge’s worry and, like a good, practical country woman, was on the task of all things regarding modesty.