Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (4 page)

And her eyes had caught on her sister Sarah across the room. Flirting with some man, some group of men, who all only had eyes for her. And for the first time in her life, Bridget had felt fear upon placing her fingers on the keys.

It wasn’t bad at first. She had played the opening stanza beautifully. But then she flubbed an arpeggio, and her fingers stumbled a bit on a key change. One thing building on another, like a snowball rolling downhill, becoming a boulder, and suddenly, Bridget was glancing wildly about her and finding herself . . . lost. By the end, the polite applause Bridget received was just that . . . polite. Not the triumph she had expected, that she needed.

The weight of judgment had fallen, and Bridget had been crushed beneath it.

She tried again, of course, but the second time was almost worse than the first, as she had that pit of dread in her stomach from the beginning. It was utterly bewildering, as Bridget had played in front of people loads of times! When people visited Primrose, they begged for a performance! Signor Carpenini, for heaven’s sake!

It was only at that time, in her first Season, when she was being judged on
everything
, that her playing was affected.

She was tempted to give up—but how could she give up the one thing that acted as solace? So she played at home, practiced, intent on rediscovering perfection. And with only her family to overhear, the family who had listened patiently through her first scales a decade and a half ago, she was completely fine. Better than fine, actually. She was . . .

“I am that good, Lady Worth,” Bridget replied fiercely.

“Are you certain?” Lady Worth replied, her eyebrow going up.

“Yes. I am brilliant,” Bridget stated. Her words might be full of bravado, but there was conviction behind them. At least enough to fool Lady Worth, who leaned in close, and whispered:

“Then play like it.”

She would. She would play like there was no tomorrow. The pit in her stomach, that cool dread making camp there, dissipated and howled against the fire now in her belly.

I can do this. I can do this.

All through dinner, Bridget repeated this mantra to herself, willing away that nervousness. She would play the Bach minuet she had been practicing the other day—perhaps she would even be so bold as to play the variation she had been fiddling with. No—that would be a mistake. Instead, let them see how perfectly she could play the original. Every note, every run, would fall perfectly in time. She could do that, she told herself.

Bridget held fast to the mental fever, to the focus that she needed to get through the meal—both interminable and too short!—and play. She was good enough. For heaven’s sake, she was going to be a student of Carpenini, wasn’t she?

“What did you say, my child?” Lord Merrick—an older, gruff man seated at the table next to her—asked in between bites of mutton. “Something about Carpenini?”

Oh dear Lord, had she been muttering her mantra aloud? Bridget blushed, mortified, hoping that no one would be paying their section of the table any attention. But Bridget’s luck had never been that good, and at the word
Carpenini
, several people in their immediate vicinity grew silent. The gentleman with little pieces of mutton stuck in his long sideburns did not seem to notice, however. Instead, he nudged his elbow into Bridget’s arm, attempting to prompt her to speak.

“Cat got your tongue, child?”

“More likely she was simply talking to herself, Lord Merrick,” came the voice of Henrietta Chatsworth—Lady Chatsworth’s eldest, snobbiest daughter—from the man’s other side. Bridget feared for the girl’s fiancé; her hearing was too sharp and her nose too pointed to make for a pleasant life. “After all, whom else would she talk to?”

Bridget’s eyes narrowed at the taunt. But as much as she wished to stare daggers at Henrietta, she knew it would only cause her reputation to further deteriorate, and therefore, she would have to try to be—
ugh
—sweet.

“We cannot all be as talkative as you, Henrietta,” Bridget replied, her tones so saccharine they would have turned lemons into lemonade. “I’m sorry, er, Lord Merrick,” she continued, turning her attention to the gentleman between them. “Miss Chatsworth is correct that I was talking to myself.”

“About Carpenini?” Lord Merrick replied, surprised. “Whatever for?”

“Well,” Bridget began. “I am a great admirer of his music . . .”

Merrick harrumphed at that.

“As I would assume your son is?” Bridget’s brow came down in confusion. “After all, he must be great friends with the composer, if he is bringing him with him to England . . .”

“No, he is not!” Lord Merrick exclaimed. “Fortunately or unfortunately, take your pick.”

His words came out with a measure of hurt behind them. But Bridget was far more concerned with the content of his speech than the emotions behind it.

“He’s . . . not?” she stuttered, dread driving her heartbeat faster.

“He’s not?” Henrietta injected herself into the conversation. “But how can that be?” Her voice dripped with the same acidic sweetness that had colored Bridget’s earlier tones. “When Miss Forrester here has been telling everyone that Carpenini asked if she would be his student?”

Bridget turned her mortified gaze to Lord Merrick. “I . . . that is, we . . . had a letter. Written by your son on behalf of Signor Carpenini, saying that they were coming to London.”

“And when did you receive this letter, Miss Forrester?” Lord Merrick regarded her with a gleam of interest in his eye.

“A few weeks ago, sir,” Bridget replied, only to watch Lord Merrick’s face fall abruptly, then reconstitute itself into resignation.

“I thought so. Your letter predates mine.” Lord Merrick shook his head and heaved a great sigh. “I’m sorry, my girl; I had a letter from my son not two days ago. It was brief, but in it he expressly said since he is not needed at home, he is extending his stay in Venice—and Signor Carpenini with him.”

“But . . . but . . .” Bridget couldn’t tear her eyes from Lord Merrick’s face. If she did, she knew she would see Henrietta Chatsworth positively crowing with delight.

Lord Merrick gave her a pitying pat on the shoulder. “Neither my son nor Carpenini is coming to England anytime soon.”

I can do this. I can do this.

She still had to play. If fact, as Henrietta whispered her delicious piece of gossip to the person on her other side, and it spread in a loop around the table, it became even more imperative that she show them all that she was imbued with real talent and skill. Or at least that was what Lady Worth whispered in her ear before she could slink away into the background.

“Let them know who you are, Bridget,” Lady Worth had said. “Make them eat their words.”

And so Bridget, her back straight and proud, still holding on for dear life to the focus she needed to play, walked through the crowd to the far side of Lady Worth’s pink sitting room and seated herself at the gleaming cherrywood pianoforte that had been placed there for her benefit.

The room grew quiet, stilling itself as the audience arranged themselves in their seats. Bridget felt a nervous giggle bubbling up and stifled it. After all, when was the last time any of the ton was so attentive to a debutante’s musical efforts? They were all so serious, so terribly curious!

But instead of giving in to a small hysteria, Bridget lifted the smooth hinged lid, revealing the ivory keys.

She took a deep breath and let her fingers rest lightly on the cool ivory, finding her first position for the Bach minuet as easily, as instinctually as breathing.

She let her muscles flex—not moving the fingers, mind, not yet ready to play. But just enough that she could map out where she wanted her force and power to go. She let the piece play in her head, let it wash over her, so much that everyone else in the room faded away.

I can do this.

Bridget played. She let the melody flow from her fingertips. And for once, it felt as if she might have it. As though the people who were staring at her were not there to judge her, and she were allowed to simply play the way she liked. To lose herself in the music.

But then . . .

A giggle intruded on her thoughts. But Bridget could not afford to let it distract her. So she played on, wiping it from her mind.

It was probably Henrietta Chatsworth who giggled.

It probably was, and she was probably giggling with Lord Merrick, who had been so sad himself and yet had regarded Bridget with pity.

Bridget suddenly realized her pace was too fast. Oh dear, this minuet would be over before too long, and Lady Worth would make her play something else, something longer. Better to slow down.

She changed her pace for the next stanza. But this just made her feel off. The G-major minuet was lively, spritely. But then again, its tempo was
moderato
; perhaps she should aim for somewhere in between?

A cough from somewhere in the back of the room jolted Bridget’s fingers, and she missed the F-sharp at the bottom of a long string of eighth notes, turning the entire run sour.

No, this mustn’t happen. I can do this.

. . . Can’t
I?

At the refrain, she felt like it was a new start. But so much had come before it, it was impossible to undo all the damage. It was like a snowball rolling downhill—only getting larger and larger in her mind, a number of little mistakes adding up. Henrietta’s giggle, Bridget messing up the tempo, Lord Merrick telling her that Carpenini wasn’t coming . . .

Carpenini wasn’t coming.

Another note missed, another half rest not held right. Basic music, things taught to children in the nursery, was abandoning Bridget. Until finally, she could not take it anymore.

The piece still had sixteen measures left to it. But they didn’t matter.

She lifted her fingers from the keys as if they burned.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked out, with tears in her eyes.

And then, before she could see her mother’s dismay, Lady Worth’s disappointment, Henrietta Chatsworth’s glee, or Lord Merrick’s pity, Bridget ran from the room.

That night, as Bridget lay awake in bed, her wretchedness acute, Mother Nature decided she agreed wholeheartedly with the ton, and that it was futile for Bridget to continue the farce of being a London debutante, and delivered that second thing that would in quick succession forever alter Bridget’s life.

She dropped a tree on their house.

Three

“W
ELL,
this cannot possibly get any
worse!” Lady Forrester cried as they surveyed the damage the next morning.

The tree in question—usually standing strong and elegant on the edge of the square, just across the thin street from the Forresters’ front door—thanks to the thick ice weighing down its branches and a suspiciously strong breeze that had exploited a weakness within the tree’s trunk, now resided in the drawing room of the Forrester house.

“I tell you, my dear, I have absolutely had it!” Lady Forrester continued huffing to her husband. Lord Forrester stood in the doorway to the drawing room next to his daughters, staring into the wreckage while stroking his mustache in a nervous habit. Lady Forrester was working herself up into a good lather. The crash that had come in the wee hours of the morning had awoken the entire household, but only now, after the sun was well up, were they able to properly assess the damage.

The two large framed windows facing the street in the drawing room were completely smashed in, broken glass mixing with melting ice and shards of wood from the window frames. Additionally, the masonry work of the Forrester town house must have been atrociously shoddy, since parts of the stone facade and bits of wall littered the now utterly ruined carpet, too.

“How could we have possibly been living in a house as badly constructed as this one?” Bridget’s mother cried, as she paced. “We should take the builders to court!”

“Considering the house was built sometime before George the Third’s ascension, I doubt the builders are still alive, my dear,” Lord Forrester replied, but a swift kick from his youngest daughter, Amanda, stilled him from making further comment. A look passed between them told Bridget it was best to not poke the grumpy bear.

The grumpy bear in question shot her husband a dangerous look as she continued gesticulating from the doorway. None of the family had been allowed in the drawing room until all of the broken glass could be cleaned up, and thus they were relegated to the hall outside.

“Look at the mess! It looks like a cannon fired through the house!”

“That’s only because you refuse to wear your spectacles,” Lord Forrester muttered, and received swift kicks from both his daughters. “Er, I mean, my love, it’s not that bad. Just a few broken windows. We will simply close this room off until repairs can be made . . .”

“Close the room off? We cannot very well close it off from the street, can we? What will people say about us living in such conditions? Why will young men want to call when they have to weather that eyesore to do so?”

Bridget’s heart sank at her mother’s words. She was too tired, too sad to contradict her by saying that no young men were going to come calling—at least not until Amanda made her debut in two years’ time.

The situation was disheartening all around.

“All right, all right,” Lord Forrester was saying, holding up his hands. “We can remove from the house, then. I’m certain we can find a suitable one to rent, or perhaps Sarah’s new home can sustain us until the repairs are done . . .”

But a furious look lit his wife’s eyes. “I am not about to impose on my newly married daughter with our entire family! I doubt Jackson would much appreciate the intrusion, either. As for letting a house—nothing would be available on short notice. Oh! Why don’t you understand? I’ve absolutely had it with winter altogether!”

The sisters, meanwhile, watched their parents’ heated conversation in a mild state of shock.

“Bridget,” Amanda whispered, taking a small step back and pulling her sister with her, “have you ever seen them argue like this?”

“No,” Bridget whispered back. “Not in front of us, at least.” Indeed, their parents were usually very good about presenting a united front to their children, keeping any heated discussions behind closed doors. But now, with the pressures of a failing Little Season; a daughter who was not only “not taking,” but seemed to prove repellent; and a tree through the house, cracks were beginning to show in their mother’s usual practicality.

And Bridget knew it was her fault.

Not the tree, of course, but the other failures and catastrophes rested on her shoulders. After all, she had been the one who couldn’t help telling the Parrishes that she would have Carpenini for a teacher, and she was the one who let her doubts overcome her on the stage when she had learned of the Signore’s changed travel schedule.

When they came home after last night’s musical debacle, her mother had said nothing. No recriminations, no lectures. And Bridget felt worse for it. It was as if through silence, her mother had said she finally realized that Bridget was beyond saving.

Yes, Bridget was tired of the winter, too.

“Well, then,” their father was saying, stepping bravely back into the fray and trying to fix things, “perhaps you ladies should return to Primrose! I have to stay in London on Historical Society business, I’m afraid, but it must be much more cozy to the south.”

Their mother snorted. “Primrose Manor is practically on the sea! The winds alone are freezing, and they’ve likely knocked another dozen trees into our home!”

“My dear, short of hibernating or removing winter altogether, I can see no way around the season but to wait it out!” their father harrumphed. Apparently the cracks were beginning to show for him, too.

“Remove winter altogether?” Amanda asked quietly, in their own corner of the hall. “What a strange notion.”

“Indeed, how might one remove winter, do you imagine?” Bridget replied as brightly as she could manage. “Setting large fires at appropriate intervals?”

“Building a large ship that takes you away from it?” Amanda tried, wrinkling her nose.

“Far more practical than my suggestion, but I fear that would be removing
from
winter, not—”

Bridget’s voice caught in her throat. Could it be that simple? Was it possible there was a solution to all their woes, right in front of them?

For after all, it
was
possible to remove from winter—one simply had to go to a place where these early months were relatively mild. And what such land was renowned for its mild climate?

“
Italy
,” she breathed, earning a quizzical stare from her sister.

“Bridget, what on earth . . . ?” Amanda began, but was cut off by Bridget’s hand squeezing her arm.

“Mandy, do you want to spend the next few months with Miss Pritchett in the schoolroom at Primrose?” she whispered hurriedly.

“I doubt I’ll have much choice in the matter . . .” Amanda replied, her brow coming down in confusion.

“I know I wouldn’t. In fact, I would rather spend them learning from the world than reading about it. Wouldn’t you?”

“Er, I suppose so . . .”

“Then agree with everything I say for the next five minutes.” Bridget went on tiptoe to peck her sister on the cheek, then turned to her parents, who were still grumbling and staring daggers at each other.

“Father, what a marvelous solution you have struck upon. Mother, isn’t it simply wonderful?” she cried, crossing the hallway to them, Amanda in tow.

“What?” her father replied. “What solution, child?”

“Why for the removal of winter! Or rather, for the removal
from
winter.”

And with a tremulous smile, the largest of which had been seen on Bridget Forrester’s face in nigh on a year, a plan was laid out that suddenly made a tree through a drawing room look like a stroke of good fortune, instead of the worst of luck.

“Husband,” Lady Forrester cried when Bridget was done, “forgive me, but I must see to our trunks. We are off to Italy!”