Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (32 page)

“Signorina,” Carpenini began, letting go of any pretense they might have had. “Please, I beg you forget what you just heard. Play well. Play your best. I know you can do it. And it would be lifesaving for me—for Oliver! Come, Signorina—show mercy upon us.”

“Oh, Signore,” Bridget sighed, her voice a steel blade. “Don’t you understand?” She lifted her hand delicately, indicating the ballroom beyond. “This has never been about you.”

And with that, Bridget squared her shoulders, painted a look of pure serenity on her face, and joined her mother in the ballroom.

The room hushed as she emerged, everyone settling into their seats. Her mother walked with her until she came to the stage; then she let her daughter carry on alone. Bridget held her head high as she mounted the stage and came to stand before the pianoforte.

She looked down into the front row—past the stage lamps she could see the Marchese sitting next to his daughter Antonia Galetti, who smiled smugly. The Marchese gave a nod, giving her leave to proceed.

Bridget gave the room a short curtsy. Then she turned and seated herself at the pianoforte.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knew she could do something horrible, something little right now. She could play terribly on purpose, to destroy any hope that Signor Carpenini had of winning the competition. She could do that, she supposed, and walk away with a spiteful heart. But somehow, she also knew that if she engaged in that kind of revenge, it would only end up hurting her. After all, it would be her failure at the keyboard, not Carpenini’s.

So she had to play. She would not give him—either of them—the satisfaction of bringing her low, of making her petty. Regardless of the way her heart was beginning to hurt, she had to play.

And so she put her fingers on the keys and began.

Almost at once, she knew something was wrong. She had begun too fast; the rhythm was rushed. Someone in the audience coughed, jarring her. She hit her first grace note before the beat, not on it. Then, not eight measures in, she flubbed a slur and hit a wrong note.

Hands shaking, Bridget lifted her fingers from the keys. Her eyes swam. Her heart beat like she faced a firing squad. Her nerves had never left her, it seemed, never given up the fight for her attention.

She turned her head to look out into the audience, where just beyond the veil of darkness a few hundred people sat, waiting.

Her judges.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice thick with the threat of tears. But just when she wanted to run, as she had done in the past—hell, in the last half hour!—she forced herself to stay rooted to the spot.

Her nerves would not get to win this time.

“I . . . I should like to start again,” she said firmly. Then placed her hands over the keys.

There was a point, between the end of a failure and the beginning of a new attempt, where one could allow change to squeeze in. Where a decision was made—between letting oneself fall or picking oneself up again. And it was that point around which whole worlds revolved.

One breath, to focus yourself.

In that moment, Bridget let her mind sharpen, her eyes firmly on the keys, letting them grow in her vision, just beyond her hands. She saw them clearly. She saw the music clearly.

A second breath, for what comes next.

And then she played.

At first, it was just the notes, just the way they were on the page, that filled her head. She could see them, just beyond the keys, guiding her measure by measure.

But it was not long before the notes floated away, leaving her with what she knew by rote, what she felt, and how she had gotten there.

The first few stanzas of the No. 23 were her trepidation. Her fear of being in a ballroom in London, of being compared to her sister. Of living a comparative life to her sisters. Then, a great thundering crash, a start of something rushed, and falling . . . like a tree through the front room of the Forrester town house—letting cold air in and waking her up. Waking Bridget up.

She let her fingers transition into the driving, thunderous undercurrent of eighth notes, sixteenth notes, a sense of drive, of spirit. Of something reckless and new.

She stepped out of the boat onto the streets of Venice. And hunted down her object with a hope and certainty only the naïve could have.

A change of key, into a minor step—expectations are not always met.

Oliver standing at the door, surprised.

And sometimes, you lay eyes on someone so important and yet, in that moment, you do not see them as such. And yet, you recognize them.

And then, everything changed. The music evolved into its second movement, a strange peace overtaking everything. A reprieve.

Oliver, walking her home, after lessons. His enthusiasm for the city infecting her.

She played with the stately grandeur of someone who knew the path that was laid out before her and enjoyed the details one can see only when one is no longer lost. A trill here, a small crescendo there—she could make this section her own.

Wandering the streets of Venice. A kiss in a cobblestone alley. A circus.

Falling in love leisurely, without realizing it was happening.

The music changed once again—the reprieve, the grace of the second movement was always too short-lived for Bridget’s liking. Now came the rush of necessity. Of moving through the mud and finding yourself only inches farther away than you were before—but much, much stronger for it.

Lessons, drills, hand exercises. Working harder than she had ever worked in her life.

Finally, she reached the epoch of the run, the notes that were written on a scale about the scale. A mad rush of finger work that took all of her strength, all of the length of her arms. Thank heaven for the fashion of short sleeves in evening dress and summer wear, because Bridget did not have Oliver’s shirt to save her this time.

The music slowed suddenly, a
ritardando
that brought the drive up short and forced the listeners to catch their held breath. A descending scale of notes, a falling dream in the middle of a sleepless night.

A daring, stolen gondola ride, under the stars. A wander by water.

But it ended in a crash of terror, this short reprieve immediately sent back to the beginning of the movement, a split refrain. Only this time, the pressure increased. Since it was a repeated movement, one knew what was coming. But one did not know the heart-pounding level of power that refrain could have.

Hearing Beethoven’s symphony for the first time. Making love with Oliver. All of it. Power. Joy. Need.

She pushed all of her emotions, her memory of that one transcendent night into this section. Into this repeated movement. Into its speed, its precision. But something else was there, too, something she had never had before, when she played.

Sadness. Loss. Throwing everything away with a few short words.

And that was what she did. She threw the notes away, the keys. Threw them far into the air and let them fall in an arc like water, a spiraling ascent and descent pushed through herself at impossible speed and ejected. Let go.

And it was glorious, because it set her playing free.

She didn’t want it anymore. She did not want this piece. And she did not want the applause that came in a massive wave once she hit those last notes with such force and verve they vibrated in the air long after she had finished.

It took a moment for Bridget to realize what was happening. Her breaths game in hard gulps, her hands still pulsing with the need to play, calluses forming from how hard she was striking the keys. A gleam of perspiration sat upon her brow. She had never, never played with as much feeling in her life. She had never before gotten that lost in the music, in the world she built around it.

And the reaction was breathtaking.

Once her eyes managed to adjust, she could see beyond the dark veil and into the audience; she could tell that they were all on their feet. Not one of them was seated, and every single one was applauding wildly. Bridget could even see some ladies waving their handkerchiefs—and then one of them threw hers upon the stage! A favor thrown for a musical performance by a lady was strange in and of itself, but for Bridget . . . it was wholly alien.

She bent to a curtsy, the only thing she could think of to do, gathering up the thrown handkerchief while she was bent low. Then, to cries of “
Brava! Encore!
” Bridget left the stage as quickly as her shaky legs could carry her.

She found her mother emerging from the sea of the applauding audience. Lady Forrester wrapped her in a hug, then took her by the shoulders. “Bridget, that was magnificent! I have never heard you play like that—I . . . I was crying!”

And indeed, she had been. The telltale shine on her cheeks gave it away, but the smile on her face told her it was tears of joy.

A giddy lightheartedness began to invade Bridget—it was happiness. It was, more than anything, relief.

“Indeed,” came a voice from behind her. A simple touch on her shoulder told her who it was. And suddenly, that lightheartedness began to feel hollow. She spared a glance over her shoulder. Hard, so hard for her to do.

“I have never heard playing like that,” Oliver said, his voice cracking with emotion. It seemed he had a few tears as well. “Bridget, please, let me explain . . .”

Behind him, Bridget could see Carpenini, as energetic as a schoolboy, happily shaking the Marchese’s hand. She could see Klein, too, just beyond the Signore, looking murderous, and nervous. Carpenini saw it, too, and could not help a gloating smile.

“There is no need to explain,” Bridget said simply. “You chose him. Threw in your lot. You always have. Go, revel in your success.”

“What is that supposed—”

“Mother, I’m suddenly very tired,” she said, turning to her mother, who was following the conversation raptly—and not without concern. “I should like to go now, if possible.”

“Er, you do not wish to stay?” she asked. “To hear the rest of the competition?”

“No,” she answered succinctly. “I would like to go home.”

“Of course, my dear,” her mother conceded. And without another glance over her shoulder, she let her mother lead her through the crowd, still applauding, still talking, their voices the squawking of a thousand excited geese in Bridget’s mind, to the doors, and out into the night.

Away from the party.

Away from Carpenini, away from Oliver.

Away from this movement, this chapter of her life.

Away, indeed, from Venice.

Twenty-six

“W
HAT
do you mean, gone!?”

Oliver cursed in Italian, pulling Signor Zinni, the poor and currently quite frightened owner and operator of the Hotel Cortile, off his feet by the lapels of his coat.

“They left at dawn tide, Signore,” Zinni answered, as politely as he could. “They had all their trunks still packed from their trip to Austria, and when Signora Forrester wants something, she finds a way. So when Signorina Bridget said it was time to go back to England, it was no difficulty to secure passage on the next ship . . .”

Oliver let go of the little man, with a bit more vehemence than he likely should have. Zinni stumbled back, catching himself on his heels.

“I am sorry, Signore,” Zinni said, straightening his jacket. “But they rowed out and met their ship before the sun had risen. They are well into the Adriatic by now.”

Oliver cursed himself as he left the Hotel Cortile. He cursed himself for waiting until the following morning to seek out Bridget. He cursed himself for his stupidity in what he had said, in what he had conceded last night. And he cursed himself most of all for listening to Vincenzo.

“Let her go,” his half brother had said, as Bridget and her mother disappeared into the crowd of the Marchese’s ballroom. “She is too overwrought from the performance now.” He took Oliver by the arm and pulled him toward their host. “Trust me. I know. I cannot speak for hours after a performance like that. Come, the Marchese wishes to congratulate us.”

And so, he let her go. Stupidly, foolishly. The rest of the evening was spent in hollow conversation. In a glass of wine or whiskey too much, trying to soothe his ragged senses. In coming home too late, and sitting up all night, waiting until such a time as it was appropriate to come and call. He had spent the evening racking his brain, trying to figure out what to say to Bridget, how to defend his detestable actions, how to get her to forgive him.

And she had spent it fleeing the city.

Fleeing
him
.

She had played amazingly last night. He had heard her play beautifully before, he had seen her play naked just for him and seen her play in front of a thousand people at La Fenice, but nothing had had the power, the defiance of her performance at the Marchese’s. She had deserved to be the one receiving the praise, to shake the hands of the nephews of kings, the elite whose family name had once been written in the golden book.

But she wasn’t. She didn’t. She had not cared a whit for it, the thing that would have made her a name, a shining star among her peers. The thing that Carpenini fed from. The thing that, if he harnessed it, would put the Teatro Michelina on the map.

He turned a corner. Then another. Trying to lose himself in the city that he loved. But now, every corner reminded him of a wander, a lost afternoon.

Of Bridget.

He was reeling, lost in his own city, lost once again on the streets, missing a guiding force he hadn’t known he’d needed.

He had ruined it. It was well and truly his mess.

What was he going to do now?

His mind was a blank, reeling pit of blackness as he crossed a footbridge and his own dilapidated little house came into view.

He did not want to go home. But he had nowhere else to be.

He walked through the door and was immediately surprised to see that Frederico was not only awake, but at his position near the door.

“Well?” Frederico said, oddly anxious. “Where is she?”

“Sailing down the Adriatic,” he answered flatly. “Bring something to eat to the drawing room. I need to figure out what to do.”

“How can you think about food at a time like this!” his manservant cried.

Oliver was so shocked, he stepped back and stared at Frederico. The look on his face must have been something to behold, because Frederico immediately retreated a few steps.

“Er, that is . . . I’ll go see what can be got from the kitchen,” Frederico stammered, then moved with a fleetness of foot Oliver didn’t know he had, away from him.

Just as Bridget had flown away from him.

Oliver entered the music room and was nearly bowled over by sadness. Everything in this space was Bridget to him. Hell, his shirt that she had worn was still hanging behind the screen!

He went to the screen, grabbed the shirt in his hands, and collapsed on the worn velvet couch where he had spent so many mornings and afternoons. Completely and utterly numb.

“What are you doing?” Vincenzo’s voice came from the doorway. “Aren’t you supposed to be smoothing things over with your Signorina?”

“She’s gone,” Oliver said bleakly. “They have left Venice. They are on their way back to England.”

“How is that possible?” Vincenzo asked, and Oliver filled him in on what the hotel proprietor had said.

“I’m so sorry,” Vincenzo said, pressing a hand to his heart. But then he straightened. “Come, you must cheer up. And you must clean up—bathe and shave. Else we will be late.”

“Late?” Oliver growled. “For what?”

“For the Marchese!” Vincenzo rolled his eyes. “A note came while you were out. We are to meet him and Antonia at your teatro. He is very curious about what must be done to turn it back from a warehouse into a theatre.” Vincenzo moved over to the window, using the glass to inspect his reflection, straightening his coat. “We only have today; the Marchese will be leaving for his house on the mainland for the rest of summer soon. He wants to fund the production of the symphony, you know. Klein was livid . . . but I doubt he’ll be in Venice much longer, so that blond, humorless statue will not matter soon.”

Oliver watched his friend, his half brother, in complete silence.

“Vincenzo, I’m not going with you.”

“Not dressed like that, you’re not,” Vincenzo answered blithely. “Is that the same coat from last night? Did you sleep at all?”

“No. Vincenzo, I’m not going with you. Ever.”

Vincenzo rolled his eyes and heaved a great sigh. “And why not?”

“Are you completely insane? I have to go find Bridget.”

“Her again,” Vincenzo said under her breath.

“Yes,” Oliver said, rising to his feet. “Her. Or have you forgotten her already? The student who played the Number Twenty-three better than even you could last night. The student you stole music from in the very same breath.”

“Damn it, Oliver, I thought you said we could move past this!” Vincenzo grumbled.

“Well, we cannot. It’s too large. We betrayed her. You and me, and if you had any decency, you would own up to it.”

“What are you going to do, Oliver? Chase her all the way to England?” Vincenzo scoffed.

“Yes,” Oliver said, realization dawning. “That’s precisely what I’m going to do. Frederico!”

He bellowed his manservant’s name, and Frederico appeared within seconds, a tray of meats in his hand that Oliver had forgotten he wanted.

“Arrange passage for me on the next available ship to England. Whatever the cost, it will be met.” Oliver reflected for a moment. “You are welcome to come with me, or you may stay and serve Signor Carpenini. He’ll likely be moving back to the Marchese’s palazzo—the lease on this house will be given up, at any rate.”

Frederico nodded, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, spoke. “Er, if it would be possible, Signore, I would prefer to come with you.” Frederico turned a rather unseemly shade of red. “It’s just that . . . Signorina Molly is with her mistress, and I—er, that is . . . we developed a rapport . . .”

Oliver’s eyebrows shot up. “Very well. We can be lovesick and irritable at sea together. Molly did do wonders at making you a better manservant.”

True to his newly improved skills, Frederico said nothing to this and instead bowed his way out of the room, presumably to go set up their passage.

“Are you mad?” Vincenzo asked. “What about the Teatro? What about all the money you have put into it?”

“Hang the Teatro,” Oliver said grimly. “I will build a new theatre in England. It will take years, but I will do it, for her.”

“I don’t believe you.” He threw up his hands. “The Marchese is within our grasp, and you wish to go chase a petulant girl halfway across the world? She doesn’t matter, Oliver!”

“That’s where you are wrong. She does matter. She matters more than anyone.” Oliver turned to his friend, seeing him with new eyes. And they were not kind. “What is it—was it the fact that she is so talented? That she played so well, composed such a beautiful ‘Ode to Venice’? Or was it that she preferred me over you? When did you stop giving a damn?”

“Oh, Oliver,” he sneered. “I never gave a damn. Not about her feelings. Not about the fact that you were bedding her. All I cared about was how she played, impressing the Marchese, and getting my rightful place back.”

“And there it is,” Oliver said, clapping his hands together in mock applause. “Finally a little truth from behind the facade. I know you don’t care about much, but foolishly, I did think you cared about me.”

“About you? Oliver, I
made
you! I brought you to Venice! I got you your place at La Fenice!”

“And in the past five years, you’ve never let me forget it!” Oliver shouted back. “You have spent the past year living off me and my father’s money like a parasite, and I allowed it, because of familial feeling. Making empty promises—”

“Empty? Ha!” Vincenzo cried. “I am making good on those promises right now!”

“Falsely. You stole the music of the woman I love, and a woman who trusted you as a teacher. You have no shame, do you?”

“Not if it gets me what I need.” Vincenzo rounded on him. “You had our mother, you had a father with money, and you have never known what it’s like to claw your way to your position.”

“And you have never known what it’s like to care more about someone else than about yourself. I did that, for you. I chose you, Vincenzo. Every time. Over my father, when he did not want me to come to Venice with you, when he thought it might be foolish. I did not even know you, but I was so excited at the prospect of having a real relationship with a brother—”

“You felt pity for me, because you stole our mother away from me,” Vincenzo snapped.

“Maybe I did,” Oliver conceded. “And you used that pity to your advantage. But I also chose you over every other person in Venice, when you were cast down and had no one. And last night I
idiotically
chose you over Bridget Forrester, something I will regret forever. And if she does not forgive me, so help me Vincenzo, I will never forgive you.”

They stood toe-to-toe, eye to eye, fists clenched. Brothers—same hair, same complexion, but so different in every other respect. In how they treated people. In how they thought about others. It was many long seconds before Vincenzo finally broke his gaze away.

“Fine!” he said, throwing up his hands. “I will go meet the Marchese myself.” He went back to the window, began straightening his coat again. “Have fun chasing the girl across the country. Have fun dealing with your father again. I don’t need you, Oliver. I have never needed you. I have never needed anyone.”

“No, Vincenzo,” Oliver said sadly. Resigned. But relieved. “It is I who do not need you. And knowing that makes me free.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left the music room, ran upstairs, and began the hasty process of locating trunks and throwing things in them.

After five long years, he was going home.