Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (2 page)

One

London, England

January 1824

I
F
Bridget Forrester had one wish in life, it would be one day, when introduced to someone new,
not
to hear that person cry in surprise and delight, “Oh, you must be Sarah’s sister!”

It was not a grand wish. She had no desire to be the most admired girl in the room, be festooned with diamonds and silks, or have sonnets written to the color of her eyes. But she did like to think that she was enough of her own person to be recognized as such, instead of an extension of her elder sister.

The problem was, of course, that her sister Sarah
had
been the most admired person in the room, festooned with diamonds and silks, with sonnets written to the color of her eyes—which technically, was also the color of Bridget’s eyes, but no one thought for a moment that those lines were composed to her.

And as she stood in the ballroom of the Newbury town house off Berkley Square, Bridget had to admit to herself that her one wish was not likely to be granted. Even when her sister was absent.

“Oh, so you are Miss Sarah’s younger sister!” Lady Newbury cried, taking in Bridget’s brown, curly hair with a skeptical eye. It was the opposite of her sister’s fair, straight locks. Nor did she have the long, easy grace that Sarah did. But she did have her mother at her elbow, and she at least would attest to having birthed both of them, strange as it might seem.

“Yes, my lady,” Bridget replied, the only betrayal of her true feelings being a double blink at Lady Newbury’s exclamation.

“We should say Mrs. Fletcher now,” Bridget’s mother, Lady Forrester, corrected. Now it was Lady Newbury’s turn to double-blink.

“Yes, of course,” she replied smoothly. “And how is Mrs. Fletcher—Sarah—settling in to married life?”

As her mother launched into polite small talk about the town house Sarah and her new husband had purchased, and how it was a mother’s duty to help with the decoration, Lady Newbury kept her smile pinned neatly on her face, but Bridget knew she was thinking about how such a bright star as Miss Sarah Forrester could possibly have chosen a naval lieutenant over any number of wealthier, more aristocratic gentlemen that vied for her hand. (Even though Jack was a family friend and proved an excellent match for Sarah, and with his new position at the War Department was well able to keep Sarah in comfort, none of those things mattered to the likes of Lady Newbury.) Bridget simply wanted to shake her head. It was that curious quality that Sarah possessed and Bridget did not—even after all the dramatics were said and done, people still wondered about Sarah, her name on the tips of their tongues.

“I do hope you enjoy yourself, Miss Forrester,” Lady Newbury said, and Bridget realized she was addressing her. “A girl’s first Season is always a wondrous occasion.”

“Yes,” Bridget replied, her eyebrow going up, “it certainly was.”

But her use of the past tense went unnoticed by Lady Newbury, who tittered on. “And I’m certain you will make a splash just like your sister. Why, I remember her sitting in my ballroom, just last summer, surrounded by men, and choosing of all of them her lieutenant to dance with.” She sighed. “So romantic.”

“It wasn’t romantic,” Bridget replied, bluntly. “He left her in the middle of the dance floor, causing a stir.”

“He did?” Lady Newbury’s brows came down. “I’m certain you heard it wrong.”

“Possibly, but I
saw
it correctly.” Bridget would have defiantly crossed her arms over her chest if her mother hadn’t been squeezing her elbow quite so tight. “I was there, after all.”

“Lady Newbury, thank you for inviting us. I’m certain we shall see you later in the evening,” Lady Forrester interrupted, before their hostess’s face could change from confusion to embarrassment at her faux pas. But even though she couldn’t help setting Lady Newbury back on her heels a bit since she had overlooked the fact that Bridget was not in her first Season and had in fact attended functions of Lady Newbury’s in the past year . . . Bridget was somewhat thankful that she had been overlooked. Perhaps it meant that everyone would think that she was new to the social scene.

Maybe, Bridget thought hopefully, she was about to be awarded a clean slate.

Sadly, it took only an hour to dispel that notion.

For girls who were completely unknown would at least get asked to dance at least once or twice.

But not Bridget.

The closest Bridget got to the dance floor was when being introduced to one Mr. Hartley, the son of a Baronet in Yorkshire whose pleasant appearance was marred by a lack of chin, which he tried to make up for with an incredibly complicated cravat. But he was nice and spoke passionately (about his sheep farm, but passionately, still) and seemed very eager to talk to Bridget. In fact, Bridget had thought he might ask her for a dance. That perhaps it was even on the tip of his tongue.

“Miss Forrester, might I ask . . .” Mr. Hartley was saying, when a firm hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“Hartley, where did you get off to?” came the friendly voice of Mr. Coombe—a young man not too long down from Cambridge, who Bridget remembered dancing attendance upon Sarah last Season. At least he wasn’t one of the cadres of men that had stood outside their doors at all hours, hoping for a glimpse of her sister, the Golden Lady, but instead confined his fawning attentions to various ballrooms.

“I was just having a pleasant conversation with Miss Forrester here,” Mr. Hartley said, and Bridget offered a smile and curtsy to Mr. Coombe, as he gave a short bow over her hand.

“Miss Forrester, happy to see you again.” Mr. Coombe said quickly before turning to Hartley. “Where have you been, old man? My aunt has been waiting a quarter hour for you to come partner her at whist, as you promised.”

“I did?” Mr. Hartley replied, before hastily amending, “Er, so I did! Miss Forrester, if you will excuse me?”

And with that Mr. Hartley, and the possibility of dancing, left Bridget.

It wasn’t long before she knew why. Without a dance partner, Bridget had no reason to remain in the ballroom, despite her mother’s insistence that she stay there “just in case.” She successfully pleaded thirst and excused herself to find the refreshments. After all, no one would be fetching anything for her, so she would simply have to do it herself.

At the refreshment table, Bridget procured herself a glass of lemonade and a small respite behind a potted palm tree, into which she and her green dress blended quite nicely.

One should beware of potted palm trees. They yield only unwanted information.

“I say, why did you pull me away from Miss Forrester?” she heard Mr. Hartley’s voice as he took a gulp of his own freshly procured lemonade. He was decidedly
not
playing cards with Coombe’s aunt.

“Don’t worry, I promised I’d introduce you to many eligible young ladies, and I shall,” Mr. Coombe replied. The thud she heard was likely him slapping Mr. Hartley on the back again. Coombe seemed inclined to back slapping.

“But you’re the one who told me that Miss Forrester was the catch of the decade! In fact, I was remarkably surprised to find her unattended.”

“That’s her sister, you fool! And that was
last
Season. Miss Forrester—the one worth talking to, at any rate—married herself off to a navy lieutenant last year.” Mr. Coombe then lowered his voice to a grumble. “The Golden Lady, married to a man with no prospects . . .”

Bridget could not contain an eye roll. Coombe was unaware of just how illustrious Jackson Fletcher’s prospects had become with his new, pivotal role within the War Department, but it wouldn’t matter to him if he did. He was still stuck on the idea of the Golden Lady going to someone else, like a prize won at cards, instead of it being
her
decision. But the eye roll was stopped short when she heard the next exchange.

“Then what do you know of Miss Bridget Forrester? I have to say she seemed pleasant enough to me. Pretty, too, in a freckled sort of way,” Mr. Hartley offered, and Bridget silently thanked him (freckles aside) for his kindness. Because she knew—knew to her toes—what Coombe’s answer would be.

“Yes, well, don’t let that fool you. She is an absolute shrew. Last Season, whenever anyone approached her, she said either something snide or nothing at all. Shocking that she’s related to the Golden Lady.”

“Oh,” was Hartley’s only reply. And with that single word, Bridget knew that any chance of dancing with Hartley—of dancing with anyone this Season—was next to nothing.

“Don’t worry, chap,” Coombe replied, their voices getting fainter as they moved away from the refreshment table, “this town is full of lovely young ladies for you to converse with. I’ll steer you around the unpleasant ones. Perhaps we’ll even find one who likes sheep as much as you do.”

Bridget stood quietly behind the fronds of the palm. She did not sink back against the wall. She had too much pride for that. Her eyes remained quite dry—indeed, to cry over the opinion of someone as low in her estimation as Coombe was a waste of perfectly good salt water. Instead, she let a wave of resignation move over her, straightening her spine, setting her jaw defiantly.

No, she would get no second chances. No blank slate. Instead her character was fixed as “unpleasant.” And there seemed little she could do but endure it.

It was going to be a long Season.

Two

T
WO
things came in quick succession that would change Bridget Forrester’s fortunes and alter the course of her second Season.

The first was a letter.

The second was a tree.

Bridget was where she always was when the first of these life-altering objects made their arrival: the music room. And it was hand-delivered by her little sister.

“I knew I’d find you here!” Mandy—Amanda, as she preferred to be called now, Bridget quickly admonished herself—exclaimed as she raced into the room, her face flushed, eyes sparkling.

Bridget did not pause in the minuet she was practicing. “And what new bit of gossip have you heard?”

Amanda pulled off her bonnet, her bright, shiny curls bouncing as she did so.

“Why would you think I have gossip?” Amanda frowned.

“Because you rushed in here from shopping with Mother, and you didn’t even pause to take off your cloak and bonnet,” Bridget replied, unable to hide a smirk.

“Well, if you don’t want my gossip, I shan’t give it to you.” Amanda said in a huff. At sixteen, Amanda had reached her full height—at least everyone hoped she had, since she had outstripped their father and most men of their acquaintance. But her features still maintained the roundness of girlhood, and her hair still bounced around her shoulders. Mother never let any of them put their hair up before seventeen, no matter how much they had all whined and begged.

“Fine,” Bridget said, smiling to herself, wondering how long Amanda could hold out before the dam burst.

Amanda came to sit next to her on the bench. Idly, she tapped her finger against the wood, then leaned her elbow against the pianoforte’s frame, her head against her hand. Staring her sister down.

“That’s a pretty piece. What is it?”

“It’s a Bach minuet,” Bridget answered, her fingers hopping over the keys in their happy rhythm. She’d always found the piece rather wistful, even though it employed staccato.

“Really?” Amanda asked, her brow coming down. “It sounds different.”

“Well, I’m fiddling about with a variation,” Bridget admitted. Indeed, the Minuet in G Major was a clean but somewhat simplistic piece. Its bass clef was little more than long-held chords. Today, Bridget wanted a challenge.

Bridget had always found that the easiest way to put away her social failures was to lose herself in a challenging bit of music. To let her fingers flow over the keys, moving and mutating the sounds she knew, took all of her will, so that she had none left over to reflect on how Mr. Coombe had denigrated her to Mr. Hartley the night before, and how Mr. Hartley had believed him so faithfully. How she had not received one single request to dance. How she had kept a smile pasted on her face until it became strained, painful, and still it was for nothing.

It was all her sister’s fault.

Not Amanda’s of course—as she was not yet out, she could not really have any effect on Bridget’s social successes or failures—but Sarah’s. If Sarah had not spent all of last Season—Bridget’s first—being so popular . . . If Sarah had not seemed to shun Bridget when she proved less popular than she . . . If Sarah had not had so many suitors they left none for poor Bridget, and she was sought out only by those wishing to charm inside information about her sister out of her . . .

But really, it was difficult to blame Sarah when she was now married and living in her own town house a few streets away, and not at all involved in the Little Season’s social whirl.

Luckily, as she played the Minuet in G Major, and her variations on it, Bridget did not have to think about such trying things.

Until, of course, she ran out of music. Which she did far too quickly.

“Are you finished?” Amanda asked excitedly.

“Apparently,” Bridget replied, lifting her fingers off the keys.

“Good, so now I can tell you my news!”

“You made it thirty-two measures, I’m impressed.”

Amanda shot Bridget a look of sisterly exasperation.

“Fine,” Bridget said, holding up her hands. “What did you learn today on Bond Street?”

Bridget braced herself for being told of some wonderful salon to which she would not be invited, or the announcement of some young lady’s engagement, a girl who had come out at the same time as Bridget. But instead, Amanda launched into a breathless narrative that, surprisingly, turned out to be all about Bridget.

“We didn’t learn anything on Bond Street; in fact, we only made it to one shop before it began to snow so heavily that Mother insisted we come back before the roads became impassable, although I did get a new bonnet ribbon, which will hopefully last me through St. Valentine’s Day because one simply cannot wear bright spring colors in winter, it just seems lazy. But anyway,” Amanda plowed on, taking a deep breath, “when we got home the post had been delivered, and since Mother was occupied telling the butler to make sure the front steps were swept of the snow in a timely fashion, I looked through it myself, and there was a letter that was addressed to the Forrester Family
from Venice
of all places, and since I’m a Forrester I decided I should be allowed to open it and so I did.”

And with that, Amanda took the letter out of her pocket and held it out to Bridget.

“Mother will be absolutely livid that you took a letter without her permission!” Bridget admonished.

“Bridget, just read it!” Amanda bounced in her seat. “Hurry!”

Bridget took it with some caution. “But we don’t know anyone in Venice.”

“That’s what I thought, too! But apparently, you do.”

“Me?” Bridget replied, perplexed.

She unfolded the letter. And as she read the words, each more fantastical than the last, a buzz of anticipation and excitement spread through her core.

Dear Lord and Lady Forrester—

I am writing this note on behalf of my good friend Signor Vincenzo Carpenini, the musician and composer, who, I am told, is well-known to you. His written English is unfortunately unequal to the task. Signor Carpenini and I are currently planning a tour of his latest compositions in northern Europe and England. He has mentioned several times that your daughter, Miss Brittany, has great raw skill at the pianoforte, and perhaps—should she be of a mind to further improvement—you would be amenable to having her become a pupil of his. Be aware, the Signore rarely takes on students but felt her natural talent worthy of his instruction. If it is agreeable to you, the Signore will call at your household upon his arrival in London.

Yours, etc.—

Oliver Merrick, Esq.

Rio di San Salvador, Venice

Bridget stared for some minutes at the letter, letting its words flow over her, some fragments of sentences making sense, and then others not.

“You remember Signor Carpenini, don’t you, Bridge?” Amanda said, gleefully.

Of course Bridget remembered Signor Carpenini. It had been one of the pinnacles of her short life, meeting the Signore.

It was five summers ago. A few years before Sarah’s first season. They were at their home near Portsmouth, which, as a major shipping city, always had people passing through. And their father, Lord Forrester, had a propensity to take in strays. Thus, people of the thinnest connection to the Forresters were always invited to stay at their beloved Primrose Manor while they waited for passage on a ship that had been delayed, or for friends who were at sea two days—or sometimes two weeks—longer than expected.

Lord Forrester at least had discretion enough that these people were, in general, incredibly interesting. There was the time a young painter, Mr. Turner, came for lunch while he waited for a colleague to come in on the ship from Spain. Mr. Turner became quite taken with the rolling hills of Primrose and the violence of the sea at their far edge. There was another time that Bridget’s mother’s second cousin’s four nephews came in from the wilds of America and stayed the night, before beginning the long trip up to Scotland, where their mother’s second cousin lived, as they were sent to help him build a manufactory. Bridget, Sarah, and Amanda beat those four strapping young boys soundly at bowls. (Sarah was, Bridget had to admit, a rather fierce bowl-player.) And Sarah’s own husband, Jack, had once been such a stray, as a midshipman at the nearby Royal Naval Academy. But having a house opened to unexpected visitors her whole life in no way prepared Bridget for the arrival of Signor Carpenini.

She had been in the music room—which was not uncommon at any point in her life, but especially at the age of fourteen. She preferred to hide there. From her governess, who would no doubt try to make her learn more Latin. Really, she should be learning Italian, given the amount of musical terminology written in that language—but no, Miss Pritchett insisted that Latin was the root of all romantic languages, and therefore it was better to learn that stuff and nonsense. She hid as well from her mother, who would undoubtedly try to tie another bow in her hair, no matter how much she had exclaimed that her unruly, curly dark hair was statement enough and did not require any frills or furbelows. And from her sisters, who would try to rope her into widening pursuits—be it a walk to town, or shopping, or playing a game. Right at that moment, at fourteen, she just felt like playing music.

Of course, the fact that she was hiding didn’t mean that she hadn’t been found.

Sarah had entered abruptly, interrupting what Bridget had been playing—an étude, if she recalled correctly—and wheedled, whined, and cajoled Bridget into accompanying her while she practiced singing a new tune.

Bridget grumbled but complied. After all, Bridget didn’t sing. Sarah did not sing much better, but she insisted on trying.

“
For tho’ his body is under hatches, his soul is gone aloft . . .
”
Sarah sang in her soft, thin voice, finishing out the strains to the not particularly feminine tune “Tom Bowling.” Bridget let her chords resolve . . . then, struck by a moment of impishness, played a few runs and triads—a flourish to finish off the piece. Though it was completely incongruous to the theme of the song, after playing accompaniment for the past half hour, it felt good to let her fingers run free.

“Why must you always do that?” Sarah had asked, her brow coming down. “It’s a sad song!”

“Would it be better if I did this?” Bridget asked, playing a range of minor chords in a progression that could only spell out doom for the poor sailor, Tom Bowling.

“
Si
, that is better,” came a thickly accented voice at the door. Both Bridget and Sarah turned and saw in the doorway a dark-haired, dark-eyed stranger. Behind him an equally dark-haired but hazel-eyed man hovered, anxiousness apparent in his tall frame.

“Vincenzo, Lady Forrester has had luncheon laid for us. If you will excuse us, ladies,” the lighter-eyed, anxious one spoke, his voice the epitome of aristocratic English.

“No,
uno momento
, Oliver,” the first man said, as he angled his way into the music room and came to stand over Bridget. She craned her neck to see up into his face.

“Play it again,” he intoned, his hand behind his back. “But this time,
calando
,
ritardando
.”

If Bridget was slightly confused why this man would be dictating how she played, she was also too curious about his critique to voice objection. She put her fingers to the keys and played the same minor chord progression that he had deemed better than before. But as per his request, she gradually lessened the pressure, the intensity, the music becoming slower and softer, as if drifting away to sea. When she lifted her fingers from the pianoforte, the note faded away, and all that was left was . . .

“Melancholy,” came the British voice of the light-eyed man—Oliver, he had been called—by the door. “Beautiful.” Bridget noticed that all the tension had left his shoulders for those few moments, and his line of sight went straight through the window to somewhere far, far away. The continental man who hovered over her, however, wore a smirk on his face.

“
Si
, Oliver! Exact!” he cried triumphantly. “You do well! I will hear more later!” And with that, he slapped Bridget on the back—a shocking gesture, not only for its impact but its intimacy—and made for the door.

“
Ciao, signorinas
,” he said, with a flourishing bow, and made his way past his friend, then disappeared down the hall, following where his stomach took him.

“
Ciao
, Signor Carpenini, Mr. Merrick,” Sarah replied, giving a small wave. The man who remained in the doorway—the light-eyed English one—snapped out of his reverie, tension returning to his shoulders as he gave a stiff bow, and made to follow his friend. But Bridget could only pay cursory attention to him. Because, if she was not mistaken, Sarah had called the Italian man . . .

“Did you say Signor Carpenini?” she asked, breathless.

“Yes, I did.”

“Vincenzo Carpenini? The
composer
?”

Sarah nodded. “He and his friend Mr. Merrick are on their way to Italy, but their ship was delayed until tomorrow. Why do you think I wanted to practice this song? Mother intends to have us play after supper.”

“Oh my goodness.” Bridget’s voice came out a squeak. “Oh my goodness.”

“Bridge—are you all right?” Sarah asked, looking queerly into her face. “You haven’t blinked in the last two minutes.”

“What? No! I mean, yes, I’m all right!” Bridget said finally. “But what are you doing just standing there? We must practice!”

And they had, Bridget working her fingers over the keys long after Sarah had felt she had practiced her fill and abandoned Bridget to the pianoforte. Bridget, of course, did not limit herself to playing droning chords for Sarah while she sang “Tom Bowling,” but instead, once dinner was over, she rushed to the piano and was ready to play the entirety of a Haydn concerto. When she was finished, and after Sarah had dutifully sung “Tom Bowling,” both guests had clapped enthusiastically, and then . . .

Bridget would never forget it.

Signor Carpenini made his way over to the pianoforte, kissed her hand, and declared to the room, “Marvelous! Send her to me, and I will make a virtuoso of her!”