Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (30 page)

“For a city in decline, you would not know it here,” Bridget heard her mother mutter, and Oliver gave a short chuckle. That was her mother, eminently practical in the face of opulence. And suddenly Bridget felt herself again.

Antonia was pulling Carpenini toward another room through the crowd. Subsequently, he was pulling Bridget, and Oliver and Lady Forrester followed. When they reached the new room, Bridget again found herself rendered speechless—and very, very nervous.

It was a ballroom, but not a ballroom like Bridget had ever seen in a private residence before. The pale blue walls were framed by gilt scrollwork, extending up to a vaulted ceiling floating above them, a celestial night painted on the ceiling above, lit by three massive chandeliers lining the length of the room. But this room had not been prepared for dancing. Rows upon rows of chairs—enough for every person currently jammed into the outer hall!—were facing a polished stage at the far end of the space. And on that stage, which could have fit an entire orchestra, was a single, beautiful, perfect pianoforte. Save their party, the room was empty, except for three men lounging in chairs in the front row, talking and laughing.

“Papa!” Antonia cried across the space. “I have them!”

As they made their way down the echoing space, Bridget recognized one of the gentlemen: Gustav Klein. He was dressed impeccably and seemed to be making the appropriate nods and gestures to his companions, but his stare—that unnerving stare—had locked firmly onto Bridget. Next to him was a younger gentleman—perhaps only a few years older than Bridget herself—just as blond and Germanic as Klein, with a more boyish face. He kept his hands firmly behind his back as he nodded at something Klein said. And the other gentleman, an older man with silver hair and a demeanor that could quell a hurricane, must be . . .

“Papa,” Antonia said as they reached the men, holding out her hands to the older gentleman. The Marchese—for it could only be the Marchese—grasped his daughter’s hands and kissed them. “I have brought you Carpenini and his little student.”

“Marchese”—Carpenini made a deep, obsequious bow—“may I introduce Lady Forrester, and her daughter, my student and entry into this competition, Miss Bridget Forrester.”

Both Bridget and her mother stood forward and gave curtsies. The Marchese bowed and did the honor of taking Lady Forrester’s hand. “Lady Forrester, an estimable pleasure.” The Marchese’s English was impeccable, far superior to his daughter’s thickly accented speech. Then he turned to Bridget.

“I have heard much about you, little bird,” the Marchese said, putting a finger under Bridget’s chin, forcing her eyes up from their spot on the ground. His choice of pet name reminded her of the kind captain on the ship over from England. But the rest of him did not. She met his scrutinizing gaze as best she could, knowing that the Marchese was not the only one watching this exchange. “Not only from my dear Antonia. Indeed, everyone here is wondering just what you can do.”

Bridget’s eyes flicked to the Signore beside her. He nodded once; she knew what she was supposed to say. “Signor Carpenini has been a great teacher, Marchese,” she replied.

The Marchese gave a half smile, a crooked cynicism. “We shall see. He has, at the very least, promised me I shall be greatly entertained tonight. Well, Carpenini,” the Marchese said as he turned to that man, “tell me what you think? We could not possibly fit everyone in the music room; thus I had the ballroom refitted to support tonight’s events—the stage, the small amphitheater we made of this end here?” He swept his arm over the space, at once owning and dismissing it. “I should like your opinion, too, Mr. Merrick.”

Oliver looked away from Bridget for the first time that evening, caught by the Marchese’s instruction.

“I am told that you should like to have something like this at your Teatro Michelina . . . if on a different scale,” the Marchese continued.

“Possibly.” Oliver cleared his throat. “I would accept the Marchese’s recommendation for any builder or mason . . .”

As the gentlemen began to move down the length of the room, talking about raised versus sunken orchestras and acoustics (and no doubt, Amanda would kick herself for not being present), Bridget was left with her mother, Klein, and the young unintroduced gentleman, who could only be his student.

“I wish you the best of luck, Fräulein,” Klein said, his cold stare never leaving Bridget’s face. “You will need it.”

Then, before a retort could be issued, Klein and his student bowed and made to join the men in their discussion.

“Heavens, my dear,” Bridget’s mother said, squinting after Klein’s retreating form. “That man just gets more and more unpleasant, doesn’t he?”

Bridget’s eyes followed Klein as he went, too. Inserting himself between Oliver and the Marchese, making himself the right-hand man of his patron.

“I am afraid he does, Mother.”

“I know you must be a little nervous about tonight, my love,” she said, nonchalant. “And I know that as your mother, you will think me biased. But I hope you believe me when I say that I have heard you play, and I know you can defeat him.”

A giddy resolve began to form in the pit of her stomach. Her mouth became a grim line of determination even as her mother’s words seeped into her head, feeding the soil around a seed of an idea that had not really existed before.

She
could
win. It was entirely possible. Before Carpenini, before Venice, she had thought herself a good player—talented, one who understood music at its roots but was felled by an unfortunate case of nerves. But now she knew that to be folly.

Now she was better than she had ever been. Even when she had been free from nervous shatterings, she had never, ever played like this. She had not been lying when she had said Carpenini was an excellent teacher. He was. He was a bit of an ass, in all honesty. He was ruthless, demanding, forcing drills and exercises and study the likes of which she had never attempted before. Before, she was good—but a good dilettante.

Now . . . she was a pianist.

“Thank you, Mother,” Bridget said, giving her mother one of her brightest smiles, filled with a surprising honesty. “I fully intend to.”

Guests began to fill into the renovated ballroom with the lazy efficiency of the masses promised a treat. As time passed, they began to fill up the seats, chattering and waving to each other, arranging themselves as they thought themselves best presented, choosing which were the most advantageous chairs to take. It was no different than the opera, Bridget thought, except now the assembly did not have boxes to exclude themselves and mingled freely. And rather loudly.

Bridget and her mother were escorted to a small antechamber where the players could hold themselves away from the crowd to “compose their minds,” as the Marchese had said. It was a pleasant chamber, with sofas overlooking wide windows that faced an inner courtyard. A perfect place for serenity—even if the occupants would never be at all serene. The crowd beyond could still be seen and heard through the doorway, but no one was coming over to wish Miss Forrester luck—all of the attention was on the Marchese and his two dueling maestros.

Bridget watched as the Marchese, standing in front of the stage, conducted the room. Everyone came up to him before taking their seats, causing a queer sort of receiving line—queer, because everyone had been received in the outer hall already. To his left stood Klein. To his right, Carpenini and Oliver. Oliver was the only one who glanced their way, making certain they were all right. More than once, he made to step away from the group, but was always pulled back in by some comment from the Marchese, and then by someone who had come up to them in line.

He was like he was at La Fenice, Bridget realized. He was alive, in the presence of all these musically inclined people. All the people he needed to know if he wished to run a theatre.

Carpenini was no different. But while Oliver was good-humored and making people laugh, Carpenini was impressing everyone with his verve and passion. He gesticulated wildly, speaking with enough animation to turn his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed. Occasionally he would indicate Oliver, draw him into conversation. Oliver would do the same with whomever he was talking to, throwing deference back on Carpenini.

The two worked together like a pair of hands. Partners in their social front, ready to take on the world.

“He seems to be enjoying the attention,” her mother said in her ear. They were perched on a sofa near the door, both peering (her mother squinting) out into the ballroom.

“He needs it,” Bridget replied, her eyes never straying from the pair. “Everyone knows Carpenini needs the Marchese to reinstate his patronage. He must be loved.”

“I meant your Mr. Merrick,” her mother replied grimly.

“He’s not my Mr. Merrick,” Bridget protested, but it was futile.

“My dear, I may have left off my spectacles, but I can still see what is truly important,” her mother admonished. “I should have thought that he would have had you out there, by his side.”

“I do not wish to be out there,” Bridget replied. She did prefer it in their little antechamber, where it was cool and nominally quiet. Why, it even looked out onto a calm, pleasant little courtyard. “But if you wish to be, I would understand,” Bridget said to her mother.

“You do not want me to stay with you?” her mother asked. It was not a question filled with hurt; it was, however, filled with concern. Bridget squeezed her mother’s arm, thankful for that kind tone in her voice.

“Actually, if you would not mind, I think I would prefer to be alone,” Bridget replied. “It will be easier for me to concentrate.”

“Are you certain, my dear? I would not leave you if you need me.”

“Go, Mother. I will be perfectly all right here,” Bridget replied. “Besides, you need to go stake your claim for the best possible seat.”

Her mother gave her one last squeeze and then pecked her cheek.

“You will be brilliant, my dear. I know it,” she whispered, before moving off into the glittering crowds, ready to smile and chatter with the best of them, laying praises upon her daughter all the while.

Leaving Bridget to stand at the door, unable to move forward or back, standing on the edge of the gaiety but not part of it. Not yet. No, she would wait, running through the themes of the music, the trills, the crescendos and decrescendos, letting it play again and again in her mind.

Until it would be time for her to play on the stage.

“When the hell are we going to begin this thing?” Oliver whispered to Carpenini, as the hundredth person came up to them, congratulated them, happy to see Carpenini back to being in his element, eager to see Miss Forrester play against Klein’s protégé.

Oliver was eager, too, but his eagerness was also filled with a sense of dread. As much as he enjoyed the flattery of having the Marchese place him firmly there, his entire mind was on Bridget, who by now would be alone in the antechamber, in a state of nervous anticipation. And picturing Bridget nervous made Oliver anxious as well.

“Desperate for it to be over already?” Vincenzo whispered back to him.

“Aren’t you?”

“No—this could be our only chance to enjoy any accolades.”

“You have so little faith in Bridget?” Oliver shot back, making sure to keep a strong grin on his face.

“Am I the only one prepared for the eventuality that we could lose?” Carpenini replied.

“Are you?” Oliver questioned. “Prepared for what will happen if we lose?”

After all, they could be run out of Venice. At the very least, Carpenini would never play there again, and Oliver would be punished for his support of his brother and likely have to wait another eon before the Teatro Michelina could have an orchestra playing on its stage . . .

“Of course I prepared,” Carpenini was saying. “Why do you think I worked so hard to finish my symphony? Even if the Signorina fails, I will play that piece for the Marchese and he will be forgiving of me.”

Oliver had to keep from grinding his teeth. “I wish you would have more faith in your student. Do you not remember how she played the room to tears only yesterday?”

“I do. And I will be praying she brings the same confidence to her playing tonight.” Vincenzo sent Oliver a sympathetic look. “Do not worry, Oliver. She will play magnificently. My new piece is only in case of true disaster.”