Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (29 page)

“Perhaps it should be renamed. Perhaps it can be the ‘Ode to Vienna’ after tonight,” he teased.

“No, I shall write Vienna her own ode. This one belongs to Venice.” She shook her head at him. Then, with consideration, she asked, “What next?”

He cocked his head to one side. “Play what urged you down here. What you wanted to play when we lay so cozily next to each other in bed.”

She regarded him for a short moment. Then, with infinite care, she placed her hands on the keys again and began the No. 23.

With those few opening chords, the music took over her body. There was no hesitation. There was, indeed, nowhere to hide. Oliver leaned against the instrument, weakened by the beauty of it. She exposed every ache, every plunge, through the highs and lows and rapid appoggiaturas. It was well played, as always. But this time, something was very different.

Instead of sitting back and letting the feeling come, as before, this time, she pushed the feeling at the audience, the way she had described Beethoven doing in his latest symphony. Whether she could do this because she was naked, or because she had only Oliver listening, he could not tell, but the only thing he could think was that he was so terribly grateful that he got to be the one to hear it.

She let her fingers rest after the first movement, taking them off the keys. She let the power that she had unleashed into the air seep back again, falling like light, settling around them.

When she finally turned to him, her eyes were shiny with tears.

“You’re crying,” she said to him. Oliver put his hand to his own eyes. She was right—tears threatened to fall onto his cheek, too.

“That is how you should play it. At the competition.”

“That’s how I will win?”

He shook his head. “That is how it should be heard.”

He moved from his position leaning on the pianoforte and came to gingerly sit next to her on the delicate piano bench. He felt the warmth coming off her, her skin so close to his. She began the second movement of the No. 23. Not pushing emotion or herself this time, just feeling out the notes from memory, letting herself float along with the melody.

“The competition,” she breathed, shaking her head. “You have no idea how much I wish that were already over. And yet I dread its coming.”

“Do you?” he asked.

“It is all I think about,” she admitted. “My entire life has been framed around it, for months. I will be so relieved when it is over, but on the other hand . . . what do I do with myself when it is gone? My lessons . . . do they come to an end? My family—I suppose we go back to England. But if I begin thinking of the after, I become overwhelmed and then ultimately, oddly . . . bereft.”

“Bereft,” he repeated. “I do not understand why.”

She shook her head, lifting her fingers from the keys midmeasure. “Because it means this time—this wonderful, glorious time—is coming to an end. My lessons, playing for a circus, learning from Carpenini and wandering the city with you. My
purpose
will have ended. And I cannot think on that without being a little sad. And then utterly distracted.”

He held his breath, waiting. She put her fingers back on the keys again, picked up exactly where she had left off.

“So I do not think about it,” she said, letting herself drift back into the music. “I can only think of the competition. And let the after come later.”

Oliver let out a long slow breath. He had to admit, he had not been thinking about the after, either. He had only assumed that the way their lives were would carry on. His mind had not let him think of her not taking lessons any longer . . . or of the possibility of her going back to England.

But he knew one thing. He did not want Bridget to leave his life. He wanted that day of family and flowers and a church, and the lifetime of music that followed.

“Bridget, you know that we are going to have a conversation all too soon. About the after. A question that needs asking.”

“I know,” she nodded. “But not until after. Please.”

“All right,” he conceded. “Not until after.”

She smiled at him and leaned into him playfully as her fingers continued on the keys. He let the music surround them for a few moments, let it whisk her away into feeling. Then, gently, he leaned down and kissed her shoulder. Reverently.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Whatever for?” she replied, astonished.

“For the most incredible night of my life.”

Twenty-three

“I
do not sleep as soundly as you think I do.”

Bridget whipped her head around, eyes wide. Amanda stood stock-still looking out at the lawn of the Schönbrunn Palace. It was their sole full day in Vienna—they were due to begin their journey back to Venice at first light tomorrow—and Amanda had absolutely insisted on getting her way and going to see some of the more illustrious sights of Vienna.

Luckily, the royal family was not in residence, and therefore the touring grounds of the Schönbrunn were open to the public . . . that is, a public that could manage the entrance fee. A price set high enough to keep out the riffraff, yet not too high to discourage the gentry from an idyllic tour. The palace itself was located a few short miles from the center of Vienna, and so talking Lady Forrester into the carriage that morning had not been too daunting a task. A short ride, they told her, and then the wide-open spaces of a well-planned garden. Lady Forrester saw her youngest daughter’s insistence, her middle daughter’s acquiescence, and gave in.

Indeed, Bridget did not care a fig what they did today, as long as they were out of the house and in company. Because if she had the opportunity to be alone with Oliver, the chances were they would not be able to keep their hands off each other, and then there would be real trouble.

Keeping their hands off each other in the company of her mother and sister had been troublesome enough. Before, while on the trip north to Vienna, they had been itching with curiosity, but now that they both knew what it was like . . . well, suffice it to say, Bridget practically had to sit on her hands during the ride to Schönbrunn, lest she unconsciously find hers wrapped up with his.

Bridget had thought they had done a reasonably good job hiding what had passed between them in the night from the stark light of day and the prying eyes that would know more.

But apparently, they had not.

“What . . . what do you mean?” Bridget asked, aiming for nonchalance and failing miserably.

“I know I was rather dead on my feet by the time we arrived home last night, so I do not fault you for thinking that I would slumber as soundly as Mother does.” Amanda shrugged as she began walking. Bridget could only follow, a brisk pace necessary to keep up with her taller sister.

They walked past a hedge line of white roses that surrounded the famed maze of Schönbrunn, Amanda idly touching the blooms, stopping to smell them here and there. To anyone else—and especially, to their mother, who was walking several yards ahead of them, Oliver held hostage on her arm—it would look like they were simply strolling.

It would not look in any way like Bridget’s biggest secret was about to be exposed—and by her sister, no less!

“In any case,” Amanda continued, her tone as bland as if they were talking about the flowers, “perhaps it was all the sleeping I did during the day in the carriage, but I was shocked to find myself wide awake after only a few hours’ slumber. And since I heard the very soft piano music, coming from somewhere in the house, I thought perhaps you might be awake, too.”

“Me?” Bridget replied, her voice a squeak. “I assure you I went right to bed. You must have been dreaming, Amanda.”

“I promise you, I could not have been dreaming—my imagination is in no way strong enough to have created what I saw from the ether.”

Bridget had to restrain herself from asking just what it was that Amanda thought she saw, but she held her tongue. Having her baby sister say out loud that she had seen her playing the pianoforte in such a state of dishabille—there was no
habille
to remark upon—while sitting next to a man who wore little more . . . she did not have the stomach for it. Instead, she decided to ask a far more pertinent question.

“How did I sound?” She turned to Amanda, cocking her head to one side.

Amanda blinked twice, then smirked. “You sounded wonderful.”

A hundred butterflies began flapping their wings as she began her next question.

“You haven’t told Mother yet, have you? Of course not; if you had, I would be locked in my chamber on gruel and water right now.”

Amanda’s brow came down. “Where on earth would Mother find gruel in Vienna?”

“It does not matter; she would.” Bridget shook her head. “Please do not tell her—not yet; let me . . . oh, let me figure out what to think and I shall cater to your every wish in the meantime. I will go and see every single architectural sight in the Italian peninsula with you, just let me figure out how to speak to Mother—”

“I am not going to tell Mother.” Amanda shook her head.

“You’re not?” Bridget breathed a sigh of relief. Then, always skeptical, at least when it came to her sister, she asked, “Why not?”

Amanda took her time, but when she did speak it was with the gravity of truth.

“Because you looked happy.”

It was Bridget’s turn to blink in surprise.

“I don’t understand,” Bridget replied, unsure. “You are not going to tell Mother what you saw?”

Amanda shook her head. “I have to admit to a certain amount of shock at seeing . . . well, you know. His . . . taking of liberties.”

Bridget wanted to cringe. Just how much did her sister see? But Amanda continued on blithely.

“But after I
scoured my eyeballs
,” she grimaced, “I let myself remember that Mr. Merrick seems to be a very nice man, and very nice to you. After all, any man who creates a circus in his music room for you must be worthy of some consideration.”

Bridget came to a stop. “I never told you that. How did you know . . .”

“Molly told me.” She shrugged. “I told you, I like to know things. And when I could not understand why the man should wish to take us to Vienna for a single concert, she told me that he had done much more than that for you, and likely would again.”

Bridget felt her heart begin to beat queerly. Her eyes trained themselves on Oliver’s back as her mother pulled him along the path. At that moment, he glanced back at them and winked at her. He was handling their mother with aplomb, it seemed.

“And he makes you better.” Amanda’s gentle line broke into her thoughts.

“Better,” Bridget repeated dully, her brow coming down.

“Well, you are not as angry as you once were. As lost, I should think.”

Bridget turned to her sister then, regarding her. “And you are not as young as you once were, are you? I do not think I can handle you being quite this grown up.”

Amanda shrugged, in that way that still marked her youth, and Bridget was glad of it. “I simply do not see the point in denials. I prefer you happy, Bridge. It makes life so much easier. So the question remains, does Mr. Merrick make you happy?”

A breeze picked up at that moment, stirring the skirts at her ankles, winding around her, then moving forward to wrap the pair walking ahead of them up in its life.

“He does make me happy,” she admitted quietly. “I’m in love with him, Amanda.”

“Oh,” Amanda breathed. Then she frowned. “Although I would not let that buy him forgiveness for taking liberties.”

“So . . . you approve of Mr. Merrick?”

Amanda turned up an eyebrow at her. “I do not know if it is my place to approve. Just as it is not my place to tell Mother what I saw. Although I think you should.”

“I will . . .” Bridget whispered desperately, and meant it. Perhaps she would not tell the particulars of what had transpired between her and Oliver, but she should at least speak her feelings. “At the right time. We have not . . . that is, not discussed . . .”

This time Amanda came up short. “You haven’t discussed? For heaven’s sake, Bridget . . . How can you not know his intentions? Do you even have any clue what you are doing?”

Bridget’s face flamed with shame and not a little bit of anger. Explaining herself to her sister was not on her list of activities for the day.

“Yes, I know what I am doing,” she said sternly. She knew his intentions, after all. Didn’t she? Granted, the question of marriage had been skirted around—although that was Bridget’s doing and not his. And if they did get married, where would they live? Would they remain in Venice? Would Bridget ever be able to go home to England and see her family? Her heart was sick at the idea of not being near her father, her sisters . . .

But no! This was exactly why she did not want to think about what came after the competition. Why she had requested a stay on the judgment, a stasis. A note held without transition.

Oliver glanced back at them then. A smile flashed over his shoulder—and a slightly desperate plea for rescue. She could only giggle as she watched him try to placate her mother with smiles and nods, touched by the solicitous way he always made certain that Bridget and Amanda were fine and within sight.

What on earth did she have to worry about? She shook her head at own foolishness. Oliver had never been anything but wonderful to her. Her safe harbor when it came to her own nerves. Her silent anchor when her lessons became overly intense. Her champion when she exposed that littlest bit of herself with her own compositions.

He was the one person she could truly trust. Even with the most sacred part of herself.

“Yes, Amanda,” she said again, but this time more kindly. “I know what I am doing.”

And she could only pray she was right.

Twenty-four

T
HE
competition. It loomed in the brains of
all parties concerned like a dark portent—one could never be too prepared, because it
was
coming. While Vienna had been a respite, a holiday from the pressures of what they faced, almost as soon as the carriage doors had closed and they took off that next morning at dawn did it become obvious the competition could no longer be pushed out of their thoughts.

Lady Forrester spent the ride alternately moaning in agony, deciding which dress Bridget should wear to play and whether Molly should be required to add any fluff or furbelows to make it shine like it should, and plotting which of their newfound friends in Venice should be present at this competition.

Amanda spent the six-day journey back to Venice keeping a watchful eye on Mr. Merrick, and just as watchful an eye on Bridget, beside whom she insisted on sitting the entire journey, forcing Oliver to take the seat next to their mother. While she may have been willing to trust Bridget that she knew what she was doing with the gentleman, she in no way was under any obligation to trust Mr. Merrick, especially given that he had not yet had the temerity to speak his intentions toward her sister! Although she did find him kind and solicitous and every bit the gentleman, and he did make her sister happy . . . well, suffice it to say, Amanda’s maturing mind was at a loss how to categorize Mr. Merrick, and therefore she thought he warranted watching. That was all.

Oliver, meanwhile, spent the journey worrying over Bridget’s state of mind, that she was contented and unbothered by anything that could distract her from her playing, all the while his mind completely engrossed in the different tangential possibilities of the future. Also, he could not help wondering why Miss Amanda kept staring at him, as if he were a piece of crown molding to be studied and watched for signs of rot.

And Bridget could only think about how the music was supposed to sound, about the rhythms that came to her from the way the carriage moved with the ruts in the road, and how much she wished she could reach across the space of the carriage and take Oliver’s hand.

Every night spent on the road was more and more torturous for the young lovers. Not because their passions overwhelmed them, but because as they got closer and closer to Venice, the worry returned, the grim lines around Bridget’s mouth became deeper. It was not without notice that the ability to simply hold each other would do her a world of good. As it would Oliver.

A night of rain made the roads slow going, which added a day of travel to their journey. And which, when Oliver finally walked through the door to his house, had apparently wreaked havoc upon Carpenini’s sensibilities as well.

“Where the hell have you been!” he cried, his speech a rush of Italian. “You said you would be back yesterday!”

“I know,” Oliver replied, exhausted. They had taken over fifty miles of road that day to reach the banks of the lagoon before dusk settled in. They found a ferryman to take them across the lagoon to the city, and he had just delivered the ladies to their hotel, where Lady Forrester had been appalled to learn that Signor Zinni had let one of the unoccupied rooms on the second floor while they had been away. From the way she blistered Zinni’s ears, Oliver had the feeling the poor hotelier was going to have to remedy that problem immediately.

“Rain delayed us,” Oliver said in Italian, by way of explanation. “Frederico!” he called out, “I should like some supper, if you please. Sometime before breakfast.” He made a move for the worn velvet sofa that he usually occupied, his entire body aching to lie across it.

But Carpenini blocked his path. “And where is Signorina Forrester?”

“Back at her hotel.”

“Bring her back here! We have only days until the competition; we must practice through the night!” Carpenini growled, pacing as he sat down at the instrument.

Oliver took in the room. After nearly a fortnight away, he would have expected the place to be an absolute wreck, considering he had left Vincenzo in the deepest throes of composition. Normally there would be balled-up paper everywhere, ink on Vincenzo’s cuffs, and a small mound of food detritus—since he would not allow Frederico to come in to clean, if Frederico felt like cleaning anyway.

Oliver turned to Vincenzo as understanding dawned. “You finished your piece.”

Vincenzo could not help a small smile. “Yes, I did. And now I should like to concentrate on rehearsing my student before her recital.”

“That is excellent!” he cried, collapsing on the sofa while Vincenzo was distracted. “Tell me about it.”

“It is a symphony—a full symphony, with weight on the strings, in the beginning, like the dawn awakening . . .”

As Vincenzo began spinning out the description of his symphony, Oliver felt a deep pleasure settle over him. Because not only had he successfully distracted Vincenzo from dragging Bridget to the house for practice at this late hour, but Vincenzo had his piece completed! He had a work that could enjoy its premiere at the Teatro Michelina. And once Vincenzo was vindicated as a musician by Bridget’s beautiful playing, the Marchese would back wherever Vincenzo wanted to play . . . Oliver could get him to invest in the Teatro, he could have the place cleaned up in a matter of weeks and be a viable theatre again . . .

As Oliver indulged his fantasies of everything working out perfectly—if not in quite an orthodox manner—he leaned back against the couch and sighed happily.

“So, are you going to play it for me?” Oliver said, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

“Not yet.” Carpenini shook his head. If Oliver had not been so tired, he would have said that his brother was being unusually protective of his work. But he decided better of it.

“Right now,” Carpenini said, cracking his fingers, “we must focus on the competition before us. Have the Signorina here at eight o’clock tomorrow.”

And she was. Bridget appeared on their doorstep at exactly eight o’clock in the morning, having received Oliver’s note the night before, her mother and sister in tow. Now that the competition was so close, their lives revolved around it as well, and they would not leave her side. And Bridget was as restless to play.

Having listened to Vincenzo’s recitations all evening about how he was absolutely certain that Bridget had not had opportunity to practice and that her playing would have suffered for the trip, Oliver knew Carpenini was just as eager to hear. But when Bridget sat down and began to play, suddenly Carpenini was singing a very different tune.

“Wonderful!
Bellissima!
” he cried, a wide grin spreading over his face. “I knew a trip to Vienna would bring out what was missing! You hear the master Beethoven and he taught you what was in your heart!”

If Oliver and Bridget happened to exchange a quick glance at that, no one in the room was the wiser. For everyone around them, from Carpenini, to Lady Forrester and Miss Amanda, to Frederico and Molly, who had come to hover in the doorway from the kitchens, had gathered around simply to listen to the transcendent beauty of Bridget Forrester’s playing. She had not missed a single note, a single beat, a single emotion. It was all there.

“Just you wait, Oliver,” Vincenzo whispered to him, unable to quell the smile on his face. “Come tomorrow, we will show that fraud Klein and whatever poor student he has just who is the better teacher!”

Oliver wanted to roll his eyes at Vincenzo’s presumption but could not. Because like the rest of them, he was just happy to let the music roll over him, and think about tomorrow, tomorrow. It would come soon enough.

And it did.

Tomorrow evening came like a rush of stillness, each minute marked and waited on, gone through with the patience of those who had only time in their way. Carpenini and Oliver came to the Hotel Cortile to fetch the Forrester ladies, this time in a gondola rented for the occasion. Oliver had no desire to be seen and spotted in as recognizable a vehicle as Lord Pomfrey’s red open contraption again, just in case Klein had some last-minute ideas in his mind.

They had heard nothing of Klein in the short hours since they arrived back in Venice. He had not made any overtures to Oliver or Carpenini; he had not, according to Veronica, come into La Fenice. His staging of his
Odyssey
had come to an end, but he had been seen there several times since, kissing the correct hands among the musical patrons of Venice. However, one could assume that either Klein had been put at ease by the Forresters’ sudden disappearance to Vienna and had not heard of their return, or he had heard of it and was madly working to bring his own student up to standard. But either way, for the journey from the Rio di San Marina along the Grand Canal, their party was safe.

The Palazzo Garibaldi was lit inside and out with a thousand candles and lamps, making it shine like a beacon over the sea of gondolas that waited just outside it, jockeying for position as their tufted and bejeweled passengers made to disembark.

And Bridget felt for one brief moment that she could not breathe.

The beautiful palazzo, its reflection in the Grand Canal fractured by the movement of all the black boats, caught and held her focus. It was the grandest palace she had ever seen. Grander than La Fenice. Grander than the homes of the richest people in London. She had passed the building a dozen times in daylight and possibly marked its beauty, but now . . . now it was the setting for the most important night of her life.

It was as if the weight of the palazzo itself settled next to Bridget in the gondola and would sink them—her—into the canal.

“Two breaths.” Oliver’s voice came from her side, a warm gentle caress. “The first to steady yourself.”

She did.

“And the second for what comes next.”

By the time she exhaled the last of the second breath, Bridget found that the fear had taken a step back.

She looked up into the eyes of Oliver and took his hand. Her anchor, not caring for once who else could see them. But oddly, no one was paying attention to her at that moment. It had been decided that while Amanda had been permitted to enjoy some of the smaller, more British social functions that Venice had to offer, tonight was too large and uncontrollable an event for someone still sixteen. Therefore she was left in the care of a vigilant Molly, likely one helping the other organize trunks, as they had not yet fully unpacked from their journey to Vienna—possibly because no one knew how long they would be staying in Venice after this evening.

Bridget’s mother sat opposite Bridget and Oliver but was concentrating on a distant point on the water, as she had taught herself to do to stave off any uneasiness brought about by the sea travel. Carpenini sat next to her—however, his attention was to the front, on the Palazzo Garibaldi, and the fight that was before them.

The gondola made its way to the front of the line quickly enough. Oliver and Carpenini alighted first, both turning to take Bridget’s hand.

“Signorina, tonight you must be by my side,” Carpenini commanded, and he brooked no argument. After a moment, Oliver nodded and withdrew his hand.

Bridget stepped out of the gondola on Carpenini’s arm and was made a little uneven by it. She was not used to Carpenini’s attentiveness in matters other than her technique, her playing, her emotional consistency. Nor did she want Oliver to step into the background.

But on the latter score, she was relieved when Oliver leaned down to her ear and whispered, “And you will be by my side every night after this,” causing her to pink with pleasure.

She glanced at him fleetingly as he helped her mother out of the gondola and gave her his arm. They were the words she needed to hear. Needed to know that even though she was Carpenini’s student, she was Oliver’s in truth. And while she was not on his arm as they made their way into the palazzo, its grand hall and staircase dominating the space, littered with the beautiful and powerful of Venice, he was no more than a step away.

As Carpenini gave their names to the majordomo, a hush came over the crowd. And when the stalwart man bellowed their names to the party, cheers and applause rose with the turning faces of the crowd. Bridget was stunned until she recognized Antonia Galetti making her way through the crowd to their side.

“My darling Vincenzo! Signorina Forrester,” she said by way of welcome, bobbing into a scant curtsy as Bridget executed a far more graceful one. Then she extended her hand to Carpenini, and he took it reverently. It was as if through her coquettish smiles and giggles all memory of their previous meeting with Antonia Galetti and her small act of betrayal had been forgiven.

Although, to be fair, she had been away from the Signore for a fortnight . . . who knew how often Antonia had been forgiven in the intervening time.

“Finally, you are here!” she cried in heavily accented English, in deference to Bridget. “We wait, for you,” she said, attaching herself to Carpenini’s other side. Bridget glanced behind her, finding Oliver there with her mother. Her mother seemed to be taking in the grandeur of the space silently, but not in awe. No, Lady Forrester had no need to be awed. But perhaps she was just a little bit impressed by the ornate hall and staircase, the Tintorettos on the wall, the beauty of the guests.