Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (31 page)

Oliver let out a long-held breath. He should not be as harsh on Carpenini as he was—after all, Carpenini had finished his composition
before
Bridget had come back from Vienna with her . . . musical education completed. And considering the importance placed on this competition, it was perhaps right to not have the entire weight of it placed on Bridget’s slim shoulders.

“Anyway, it looks as if the wait is over,” Vincenzo murmured. Oliver followed the line of his eyes. The Marchese had moved from his spot at the front of the stage to standing upon it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried, in his fluid Italian, “if you would be so kind . . .”

With a wave of his hands, a dozen liveried servants melted off the walls, ornate handheld lamps in hand. They moved the light from the room itself to the stage, placing the lamps on the edge of the stage, effectively lighting the stage and at the same time darkening the room.

The crowd hushed immediately, settling into their seats.

“You are all here because months ago, there was a challenge, a question issued. And we were all too curious to leave it unanswered.” The Marchese gave a quick, practiced chuckle. “Well, I could not.”

The room chuckled with him.

“Signor Vincenzo Carpenini, Herr Gustav Klein?” With those words, the two composers moved to join the Marchese on stage.

Oliver, seeing his chance, left his place in front of the stage and moved nimbly over to where Bridget was hovering at the doorway to the little room the Marchese had provided for them.

“Miss Bridget,” he said formally, smiling as he kissed her hand.

“Mr. Merrick,” she returned, but did not play along. Her attention was too much on the stage. So Oliver contented himself with taking her hand and wrapping it around his arm, holding her close to his side.

“I am a bit unclear on who issued the challenge,” the Marchese’s voice boomed across the room, “but Carpenini has said that he can produce a female student who can best a male student of Herr Klein’s at the pianoforte. An interesting choice of weapon for dueling, to be sure.” The Marchese gave a wry smile at Carpenini. Vincenzo simply gave a fluid bow to the audience, of which they heartily approved.

“And a piece of music was chosen,” the Marchese continued, “that both students learned. And now, it is only for us to introduce them!”

Applause came from the crowd.

“Are you ready?” Oliver asked, leaning down to her. She nodded, her eyes resolutely ahead.

With a breath of resolve, they began to walk up to the stage. Bridget did not pull away or against him—she simply moved with light grace, as if floating, until she came to a stop next to Carpenini, lit by the lamps on the stage.

“May I present Miss Bridget Forrester, lately of England,” Carpenini said in Italian, his words intoned so the whole room could hear. From the audience, there was one person who applauded enthusiastically at the name—one could only assume that it was Lady Forrester herself. Bridget smiled wanly when she heard her own name—as much as she had spent the last months in Venice, she had not learned the language nearly enough to follow the conversation.

Of course, it had been known for weeks that Bridget was Carpenini’s student—her mother had paraded her around the British expatriate houses of Venice with that information. But there was some speculation as to whether Bridget would appear that evening, and thus the wave of murmurs that followed Lady Forrester’s applause was particularly gratifying to Oliver’s ears. He looked down at Bridget—she was blinking out into the darkness, trying to see the audience in the dimness. Her face was rigid, unsmiling . . . and alarmingly pale.

“And Herr Klein? Your student?” the Marchese asked.

While Bridget had been a known entity for a little while, Oliver had it on good authority that no one knew which young man he would present. Klein enjoyed innumerable students in Venice, not to mention those he had taught previously in Austria.

But what he said next was not expected.

“I am afraid,” Klein said, also in Italian, “that the student I have prepared—Josef, come here—cannot play.”

The young man they had met earlier that evening walked up onto the stage, his hands held, as always, behind his back. But when he reached his place beside Klein, he brought his hands forward—the right one wrapped in a huge bandage.

“As you see, the young man has injured himself, just yesterday,” Klein said, as a hushed roar of titillation came from the crowd. “And I have no other student who knows the piece.”

“What is going on?” Bridget asked in a low whisper. She was watching the proceedings, her eyes glued to the bandage on Josef’s hand.

“Klein’s student cannot play,” Oliver whispered back.

“What does that mean?”

“I do not know,” he replied. “Hold on, we may find out yet.”

The Marchese was holding forth, turning over Josef’s hand in his, inspecting the wound. “This is unfortunate indeed. An unforeseen circumstance that does not please me, Klein.”

Klein flushed with chagrin at being admonished by his patron, but charged ahead. “I apologize, Marchese, but it cannot be helped.”

“Oh dear.” Carpenini chose that particular time to join in the conversation. “I am afraid that means that you will have to forfeit. How unfortunate, Gustav.”

“I do not intend to forfeit,
Vincenzo
,” Klein ground out. Then, drawing back into his usual reserve, he said “I would instead take the boy’s place myself.”

The dull murmurs from the crowd became thunderous at that point. As thunderous as the look on Carpenini’s face. But he did not lash out. Instead, he threw back his head in laughter.

“Oh, Gustav, you have been in Venice for months, and you have finally left your rigid, humorless ways back in Austria. Well done.”

“I am afraid I do not make fun,” Klein replied. “Why can I not—after all, the rules of your challenge state that I must produce a male student. Well, I am male, and I taught myself Beethoven’s Number Twenty-three. I am arguably my very best student.”

The Marchese, who stood between the two men, watched them intently. Then, with the air of a judge making a decision, he turned to Carpenini. “Gustav has a point,” he said, fingering his chin in contemplation. “Besides, I should not like to have my party ruined because it lacked its entertainment.”

“Marchese,” Carpenini replied, attempting to be as ingratiating as possible, “if Herr Klein is to play in his student’s stead, then I must request the same privilege.”

“Oh, but your student is to be female,” Klein piped up. “You cannot play . . . unless you mean to reveal something even more shocking to us tonight.”

The crowd tittered at that. And Bridget dug her hand into Oliver’s arm.

“Oliver,” she said, her eyes pleading up at him, “I don’t understand.”

Oliver took a deep breath. “What has happened is that the competition will go on—and your competitor will be Klein himself.”

He watched as any faint color that Bridget might have had drained out of her face. Her eyes whipped straight ahead, latching onto Klein. Klein, meanwhile, had done the same, locking eyes with Bridget, staring, unblinking, at her.

He was making his way inside her head, Oliver knew. And by the way Bridget paled and her hand began to shake, it was working.

Her eyes broke away from his and flew to the audience, just beyond the threshold of darkness. Searching for anyone . . . anything. But there was nothing she could see, only the hazy movements of people, and she could hear their voices, their whispers, amplified against the walls of the ballroom.

“I’m not ready,” she whispered to Oliver, her voice shaking.

“Well, now that that is decided,” the Marchese was saying, controlling the room with the elegance of a ringmaster, “shall we agree on the order?”

“Oh, since I have caused such difficulty,” Klein was saying with an obsequious bow, “let me cause no more, and offer Signor Carpenini the advantage. Ladies first.”

“Oliver, I’m not ready,” she repeated, her fear palpable in her voice. He reached down, tried to hold her hand against his arm, tried to steady her, but she jumped at his touch, pulled herself away, and fled the stage.

The crowd, already on the edges of their seats from the dramatics—before the music could even begin—began standing and pointing when Bridget left the stage. She ran to the small antechamber where he had collected her and firmly shut the door.

Oliver turned to Carpenini. “Buy her some time. I will calm her down and bring her out—that goddamn Klein is playing head games with her, staring her down, becoming her opponent—”

“I would bet his student’s hand was injured by his own,” Carpenini grumbled darkly.

“Probably, but it does not matter—you just need to buy us some time!”

“How?”

“You’re the one who prepared for this,” Oliver replied, exasperated. Then he turned to the Marchese and said, in a loud voice, so everyone could hear, “Marchese! Er . . . Before the competition begins, the Signor Carpenini has a gift to offer you!”

Carpenini’s face seemed to fall into a grim line. Then, decision made, he opted to go along with it.

“
Si
, Marchese,” Carpenini said with a bow. “With your permission, I should like to play for you the main theme from my new symphony.”

The Marchese looked over at them with a bemused smile.

“You have something new, Carpenini?” he said. “How utterly rare.”

“Er, yes. I hope to stage it with a full orchestra in the fall, but I could not wait that long for you to hear it.”

“You hope to stage it in the fall . . . I can only guess where,” the Marchese replied, his eyes falling on Oliver. Then, with a wave of his hand, he said, “Very well. Let us hear this new piece.”

As Carpenini made his bow to the Marchese, then to the audience, Oliver could wait not a moment longer. He took three long strides to reach the edge of the stage and ran down the steps, flying into the antechamber and after Bridget.

Twenty-five

B
RIDGET
felt like a fool. A complete and utter fool. She had spent all that time convincing herself she could do this, training and becoming a better, stronger player, and one small hiccup and a stare from Klein’s ice blue eyes and she was undone.

It was utterly ridiculous! She
would
go out there, and she
would
show him, Klein, Carpenini, her mother, the entire crowd gathered for the gala—that she could do this. Despite the enormous pressure she was being put under, despite the strange way her body felt both light and heavy, both hungry and full and fluttering—she would go out there.

In a moment.

She instead sat on the sofa, looking out the long windows onto the courtyard, and let herself breathe. Once to steady herself . . . A second breath for—

“Are you all right?”

Bridget turned in her seat. Oliver stood by the door, slipping the latch shut.

“Yes,” she replied with a smile. “I just feel foolish, is all.”

“Foolish,” he repeated, as he came over to her, seating himself beside her. “For what?”

“For thinking I had this conquered,” she replied, shrugging sadly. “For letting myself give in to my fears and run.”

“You do have this conquered,” Oliver replied, resting his hand over hers. “Klein is a bastard. He has played a game with this competition and is hoping to play one with your head. He must know that you are too good a pianist to try to best you honorably.”

“I know.” She shook her head, trying to smile. “In my mind, I know that. And perhaps, as I’m playing, the rest of me will catch up.” She rose then, steeling her resolve.

“You don’t have to play quite yet,” Oliver whispered warmly, not letting go of her hand. “Vincenzo has bought us a few minutes’ reprieve. He is playing his newest composition for the Marchese. Listen.”

Bridget did—and heard the magnificent pianoforte, its music drifting in from the large ballroom to their small, still space.

“This is new?” she asked, letting herself listen for a few moments. “It’s lovely.”

“He’s been working on it for a while, finally cracked it while we were away. He’s quite proud of it.”

“And you are of him.” She sat back down by his side.

“I have to say, I am pleased that he has found his way back to music—and that he is keeping his promise to me, in letting me stage it in the fall.” Oliver gave a small frown. “If I ever manage to get the Teatro back into shape.”

“You will,” Bridget replied. “Once the competition is won, Carpenini will be welcomed back into the Marchese’s fold, and you will benefit from his patronage as well.”

“I do not wish to think about that right now.” Oliver shook his head, and she knew he meant the competition aspect of it. The fact that it all rested on her shoulders. This great favor she was doing for them.

“Nor do I,” Bridget replied. “In fact, I would like to think of nothing at all.” She looked up at him from under her lashes. He reached up, letting his knuckles graze lightly against her cheek. It was the first time in ages that they had been alone together. The first time since that night that they had no fear of being seen. They could be themselves with each other, at last.

Oliver leaned forward, took her mouth with his, and Bridget bowed into him, grateful for the contact. He kissed her lips, her eyelids, the easy spot beneath her earlobe—every one a thank-you, every one a gift.

His gentleness, his reverence nearly undid her, but more than that, it gave her strength, made her bold. She took what he offered and let herself go to the sensation. Let herself be in that moment. Not the one that would follow, and not the months of hard work and conquering fear that had preceded it. But simply being there, in that little room, at that one minute in time, it was all the comfort she could have ever asked for.

“Bridget”—he broke away, her name on his breath a prayer—“you’re thinking again.”

“I am,” she admitted, biting her lip. Oliver’s thumb moved lazily against her jaw. “I was thinking about how much I like this moment, and how I wish the next were over, so I could have more moments like this instead.”

Oliver’s hand stilled. Then after what seemed an age, he let out a slow, long-held breath. “You want moments like this one.”

“I do.”

“Forever?” he asked, his voice becoming ragged.

Now it was Bridget’s turn to go still. Oliver carried on.

“I told you that once this was over, I would have a question to ask you.” His thumb began to move again—a caress, a persuasion. “Would you like me to ask you that question now?”

Bridget looked into his eyes, could not look away. And suddenly she wanted to hear the question. She wanted to face what was coming and not stall it, not put it off, not be
afraid
.

She had spent so much time afraid.

Afraid of performing for people. Afraid of not measuring up to her sister Sarah. Afraid of being judged. Afraid of losing—be it a moment in time or a competition. She had spent so much time afraid that it overshadowed any accomplishment that she had made in that time. After all, she had performed on the stage of La Fenice! She had learned Beethoven’s No. 23. And she had somehow managed to get this man to fall in love with her—and vice versa.

She had a single point of bravery that had changed her life. She had come to Venice—perhaps at the time she had been running from failure in London, but she had come to Venice and it had altered everything. Because it had introduced her to this man, with whom she would never be afraid. Never be judged. He could always be trusted and she would always be safe.

She opened her mouth to let him know what she felt, to tell him to ask the question he so wished to ask. But before she could, something else came into the room.

Something that would change everything, once again.

At some point, in those few blissful minutes, Carpenini’s playing, floating in from the ballroom outside, had changed. He had shifted from the opening movement—a bright, cheerful march—to the second, which was deeper, more complex in theme. The notes came to Bridget as if through a fog. It started quietly, peacefully, like the morning sun just touching the waters to the east of the city. Then it built with the bustle of a day spent being met by new things, surprises, happy exclamations. Then the falling into night, a quieting down again, a delighted exhaustion.

To Bridget Forrester, it was the sound of a foreigner awakening to Venice and falling in love with its cacophony.

It was her “Ode to Venice.”

“What is that?” Bridget asked, horror breaking over her mind. “Is . . . is he playing my ‘Ode to Venice’?”

Oliver seemed as shocked as she was. He dropped his hands from her face, standing abruptly.

“Do not worry,” he said, turning to her—his face nothing but worry, turning quickly to anger. “Give me a moment. I will get to the bottom of this.”

And he stood and exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

The next few minutes, Bridget went numb. She knew that she heard her ‘Ode to Venice,’ woven through this movement and the next, built within the layers of the piece. She knew that at some point, the music stopped and the applause began. And she knew, without a doubt, that Oliver and Carpenini would be coming into her antechamber next, to fetch her to play.

And suddenly the room became too small for her.

Air, she needed air. Fleetly, she moved to one of the long windows—actually a door—overlooking the courtyard and stepped out into the night air. A small fountain bubbled in the center, but she did not care about the peace it brought. She instead let herself lean against the cool stone of the palazzo just outside the door, trying to calm down, trying to compose herself.

Carpenini had stolen her music. Her composition. It was as if he had taken her
child
and put his own name upon it. Then he had thrust it into the middle of his symphony, and the world had applauded his originality. If she could she would rip his teeth out, the lying wretch!

But no, she stopped herself from thinking violently, and futilely. Even if she had the strength and attitude to rip his teeth out, it still would not stop him from playing. Or from passing off her music as his. No, the only thing that could stop him now was Oliver.

Oliver.
Just thinking of him calmed her nerves. Of course. He would find a way to fix this. He would, she had no doubt.

Unfortunately, at that moment, her faith would prove unjustified.

“Oliver, come now—” Carpenini’s voice floated into the antechamber, the click of a door opening preceding it.

“Can you really have no idea just what you’ve done? She is nervous enough as it is,” Oliver’s voice answered harshly. Then, calling out into the darkness, “Bridget? Are you here?”

But Bridget, still in a daze, could not move from her spot on the wall. Her despair kept her rooted, kept her listening.

“Did you see her come out of this room?” Oliver was saying, his anger and frustration showing in his voice.

“I was not looking, I was too busy playing and being applauded,” Carpenini replied with a sniff. Because Oliver was speaking English, Carpenini was, too—his frequent use of it over the past few months with her had made it as common to him as Italian. “Did you not hear them? They loved me, they loved the music!”

“Yes, I did hear them. What I did not hear was any acknowledgment from
you
that you did not write it.”

“I wrote every note of it!” Carpenini growled. “Everyone borrows from other composers, builds on their themes. There was also some Bach in there, some Haydn . . .”

“The difference is, when you borrow from Bach or Haydn, people say, ‘Oh, he’s reinterpreting old masters.’ When you ‘borrow’ from a young unknown, no one says anything!”

“A bit hypocritical, coming from the man who helped me do it!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Oliver bit out.

“You knew she was talented, had her play her piece, knowing I would overhear—”

“That’s not—”

“Then you remove her from Venice for a fortnight so I have time to work in peace—an arrangement you enjoyed as well, do not think I have not noticed.”

“Damn it, that wasn’t—”

“Tell the truth, Oliver,” Vincenzo spat out. “You are not angry at my having borrowed her piece—you are angry that I played it in front of her, and it upset her. Enough to run away, it seems.”

“I am angry at all of it, damn you!” Oliver replied in a ragged whisper. And then something fell, or was pushed, because a thud and crash followed, the sound of something heavy—flesh? books?—hitting the floor.

Both men fell silent for a moment, the tension in the air palpable, floating out into the courtyard. Suddenly, she could hear someone let out a long-held breath.

“What do you wish me to do, Oliver?” Carpenini asked, all aggression gone from his voice. “All you have wanted me to do for the past year is compose. Hell, you bought a theatre for it! You have been pushing me, day after day after day. And I finally have, and it is
great
. Hell, the Marchese was so impressed he took my hand. We may not even need the Signorina to play now!”

Carpenini paused, as if trying to collect his courage. “If I go out there now and tell him that it was not my original work . . . the Signorina could play as if Beethoven himself possessed her, and we would not win back his favor. I would never have his patronage again, and you, by your association with me, would never be able to open your teatro. Even if you had it outfitted in gold, one word from the Marchese and no one would dare set foot there.”

Oliver gave a grunt, perhaps in a scoffing manner, but there were no words to counter Carpenini’s persuasion.

“It is done now,” Carpenini said softly. “Can we not just move forward?”

The words hung in midair, taking up all the space. Bridget could no longer hear the babbling of the fountain in the courtyard, nor, from the opposite direction, the murmurs of people in the ballroom beyond the door. No, the whole world was those few words.

And the world was brought low by what Oliver said next.

“Fine,” he conceded. “We shall move forward. For now.”

“Thank you, Oliver, my brother,” Carpenini sighed in relief.

“Let’s just get this ghastly night over with,” Oliver said grimly.

“Yes, please!” Carpenini gave a short laugh. Then, a little hesitation entered his voice. “What shall you tell Signorina Forrester?”

“God only knows. I’ll make up something for now about how you intended it as a sort of honor, I suppose,” Oliver replied. “That is, if we can find her.”

“There is no need, gentlemen,” Bridget said, her voice as strong and resolved as she could make it. She lifted herself off the courtyard wall and presented herself in the doorway to the courtyard, in full view of the occupants of the small room.

Carefully, she moved through the door, her head held high, her back straight. And her eyes were absolutely dry.

“Signorina!” Carpenini cried, the slightest of nervous quavers invading his demeanor. “Thank goodness, we worried. Did we not, Oliver?”

Oliver came over and tried to take her hand. She moved politely but definitively out of his grasp.

“Bridget,” Oliver tried, his face grave. “What you heard . . . I cannot explain—”

“So do not try,” she answered. “I should hate for you to have to ‘make up something.’”

There was sufficient ice in her voice to throw Oliver off his balance. In fact, he looked visibly struck.

“You know, I do not know which of you is worse,” she said, very calmly, almost passively. She settled her gaze on Carpenini. “You, who would steal music from your student.” She turned to Oliver. “Or you, who would let him.”

Oliver looked ill—then began to say something. But before any words could be formed, a soft knock came at the door.

“I’m so sorry.” Bridget’s mother stuck her head in. “But they are waiting for you, my dear.” Her mother’s eyes found Bridget’s in the darkness. “The Marchese seems anxious for the competition to begin.”

Bridget nodded once, sparing her teacher a cold glance. “So it seems you do need me to play after all.”