Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (5 page)

Four

February 1824

A
T
last
, Bridget thought, her body vibratin
g with excitement,
Italy
.

But not just Italy, no.
Venice
.

Although, she thought, wrinkling her nose in the salt air as they were transitioning from the large passenger ship that had borne them from Rome to a smaller skiff that would take them to the mass of islands that made up this miraculous city, Venice was not necessarily Italian at all.

While on board the
Tromba
, the Italian-owned merchant vessel that Bridget, her mother, and her younger sister had boarded in Portsmouth nearly a month ago, Bridget had been without what usually took up most of her time—a piano on board an oceangoing vessel was pure folly, after all.

Thus, she and Amanda had taken to wandering around the ship, pestering the captain of the
Tromba
(which meant “trumpet” in Italian, which Bridget took as a good sign). Well, Amanda was pestering. Bridget could not pester, as she couldn’t get a word in edgewise, with Amanda peppering the captain with her questions about what was Italian, and what was not.

“But it says in my guidebook”—when they had decided on this trip, Amanda had immediately devoured every travelogue of Italy she could find in their family library, not to mention in London’s bookshops—“that Venice is not
really
Italian!”

Captain Pirelli, a kind man, scoffed at the notion. “Venice, not Italian! That is like saying Rome is not Catholic!” And thus he humored their lack of knowledge about the world stage and took out his maps.

It seemed the wars at the beginning of the century had turned what had been a conglomeration of kingdoms that most Englishmen thought of as Italy into a bit of a redistricted mess, and Venice, at the very northern edge of the Adriatic sea, was no longer Italian at all, but part of the kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia.

“And since Lombardy-Venetia is ruled by Emperor Francis of Austria,” Amanda concluded, “one could argue that Venice is . . . Austrian!”

“But do not worry,” Captain Pirelli had said, his eyes crinkling to the superior Amanda and the blinking Bridget from behind his bushy beard. He must have been smiling in there, somewhere. “The city of Venice has survived the assaults of Turks and pirates and raiders for a thousand years. One little Austrian government is a minor thing in its history.”

“But, Captain,” Bridget had replied. “Who owns Venice?”

“The Venetians, my little
uccello canoro.
” He tweaked her nose then, a gesture that in England would have earned him a strong reproof, not to mention the possibility of a duel for disgracing her so, but on board an Italian ship, the rules of Italy seemed to apply. And Italians
touched
. Even sheltered English ladies, who had their mother, three maids, and three footmen traveling with them for protection. (Lord Forrester, who could not accompany them on the trip because of “Historical Society business”—although Bridget suspected that her father’s dislike of traveling farther than his library weighed more than business in his decision—refused to allow his ladies to travel with anything less.)

Italians also apparently called people by pet names. It took an Italian-to-English translation book and Captain Pirelli’s own indulgence for her to figure out that
uccello canoro
translated to “warbler” or “songbird.” Apparently, Bridget, without a pianoforte on board, had taken to getting the melodies that took up space in her mind out of her body by humming them under her breath—as her singing voice left much to be desired. According to Amanda she did this all the time, and as they shared a stateroom she had to beg her to stop humming as she fell asleep.

The pet names Bridget could get used to. The constant touches were a bit more disconcerting.

Really, between the little tweaks to the nose and the
uccello canoro
, Bridget would have half believed that Captain Pirelli was in love with her. If he weren’t old enough to be her grandfather and didn’t show off the miniature of his wife of thirty years to anyone who showed the slightest interest, that is.

She was sorry to say good-bye to Captain Pirelli when they docked in Rome. Indeed she was sad to say good-bye to the entire crew. (Their mother was less sorrowful, as she spent the first week of the journey “getting her sea legs” and never fully adjusted, practically kissing the ground as they disembarked.) But she was far too excited for what was to come to mourn for long.

It was as if, with each passing league away from London, she felt herself shedding the old Bridget as a bird molted feathers for the summer. The closer she got to the warmth of the Mediterranean, the farther she was from the wretched, scowling thing she had become over the course of the past year, watching her sister Sarah’s success at the expense of having any herself. The Bridget whose fingers failed her when anyone other than her family watched her play.

It was her second chance. Her blank slate. She could be new again.

And, she had thought determinedly, with the help of Signor Carpenini, she would become the musician she was meant to be.

They had stayed in Rome for two days. Not long enough for their mother, who, after weeks at sea, was loath to board a ship again, and not nearly long enough for Amanda.

“But the Pantheon!” Amanda had cried, flipping to the appropriate page in her guidebook. “The Colosseum!”

“We will get to them.” Bridget had tried to placate her sister. “After Venice.”

As they had planned their trip in those frantic days in London, Bridget had done her best to steer her family into the opinion that it was best to go to Venice first. “It will be much easier to start at the top and work our way down. That way, we will have less to travel on the return trip,” she had said, as nonchalantly as she could manage.

This logic looked sound on paper, and therefore it was agreed on at the time. But now, having already docked in Rome, less than two days’ travel by sea around the island of Sicily and up the Adriatic to her intended destination, Bridget could not let something as little as her mother’s weariness and her sister’s sightseeing enthusiasm stop them.

“But Venice will be crowded,” Amanda warned. “It says right here in my guidebook—” But Bridget cut her off with a wave of her hand.

“Yes, yes, the carnival. I don’t know why that worries you so; I think a carnival will be fun,” Bridget said smoothly. “And of course it will be crowded; Venice is supposed to be the most beautiful city there is, and the most pleasant in temperature.”

Amanda frowned a little and flipped pages, looking for any information that might relate to Venice’s weather.

“Well, hopefully it will be warmer than Rome,” Lady Forrester replied. “Their winters may be milder than England, but one could hardly call this gray atmosphere balmy or exotic.”

Bridget nodded, and hoped that neither her sister nor her mother would realize that, being to the north, Venice’s weather was likely similar to if not slightly cooler than Rome’s. And since the English winter had been the excuse given for their escape, Bridget’s fragile fiction could fall apart at the seams.

“Besides, we have already arranged for rooms in Venice, haven’t we, Mother?” Bridget said finally.

Thankfully, this last little bit of persuasion did the trick, as Lady Forrester sighed and rang for the footmen to come and make sure their trunks were ready to be loaded onto the smaller ship that would take them to Venice in the morning.

Because it was in Venice that Signor Vincenzo Carpenini, master musician and composer, currently resided. And thus it was to Venice that Bridget would go.

“I told you we should have stayed in Rome.”

Amanda puffed out the words on a sigh, low enough so their mother wouldn’t hear her frustration. Although their mother was already frustrated enough.

“What do you mean you have no rooms for us? We sent a messenger ahead to arrange for them!”

“Si, Signora, you did,” Signor Zinni, the proprietor of the Hotel Cortile, located right off the winding Grand Canal, stammered, wringing his hands. His English was very good (and not surprisingly, so was his German), which was likely why the establishment was recommended to them as being very friendly to travelers of the Forresters’ station and nationality. “But you arrived too quickly to receive our reply. The hotel is booked months in advance for Carnival!”

Carnival—not “a carnival,” as Bridget had been quick to dismiss it—was the festival of indulgence that preceded Lent. And it was something for which Venice, according to Amanda’s guidebook, was well-known.

For the months of January and February, before Ash Wednesday descended and ushered in forty days of penance, Venetians took it upon themselves to make certain they had something to repent. Well, at least they
had
, before Napoleon and Austria took the stuffing out of the city. Now, the custom was limited only to those who had the funds and the time to do so—that is, the wealthy and the tourists. Which seemed to make up the entirety of the Hotel Cortile’s clientele.

White masks, faces blank and frozen, made to hide the sinners from the consequences of their sins, had stared back at them from other gondolas—some made out of plaster, some heavy ceramic. Yet all were strangely beautiful and grotesque. People danced in the streets and on the footbridges that arched over the narrower canals. And the music! There was music pouring out of every window, on every corner. No matter their exhaustion at travel, it made Bridget’s senses awake with wonder, made her body vibrate with melody.

“Just wait until my husband’s friends at the Society of Historical Art and Architecture of the Known World in London hear about this,” Lady Forrester was saying in grand, tragic tones. It had taken two ships and a gondola to get them to this hotel, and Bridget knew her mother was not about to set foot on another waterborne vessel without putting up a fight. “They are the ones who recommended your establishment, Mr. Zinni. And they travel. Quite often.”

Zinni blanched, as was appropriate. “Signora, the Carnival will be over after this Tuesday,” he replied, thinking quickly. “Indeed, in four days time, you can have an entire floor of the hotel to yourselves.” Lady Forrester squinted, then raised one imperious eyebrow at the little man. “At no additional cost, of course,” he murmured.

Their mother, who relished negotiating more than was seemly for a lady of quality, preened a bit at winning that battle. But then she steadied herself and raised her eyebrow again at the hotelier. “That is all well and good, but what do I and my poor daughters do in the meantime?”

“I . . . I know not, Signora.” Zinni shrugged. “Perhaps some of our gentlemen customers can be persuaded to share a space for a time? But it would take some lire . . .”

While their mother metaphorically rolled up her sleeves and set about haggling for a room like the very best fishwife, Bridget turned to Amanda, who was waiting by their luggage, trying to stay out of the way of the numerous people passing through the hotel’s main entrance.

“Is Mother still negotiating with that poor man?” Amanda asked, her eyes never leaving the guidebook except to occasionally peek out the window, as if confirming something she had read.

“Intimidating him is more like it.” Bridget threw her eyes over to her sister. “What are you reading about now?”

“Where we are,” Amanda said. “Did you know that there are no carriages in Venice? No buggies? The narrowness of the streets and all the steps on the bridges don’t allow for it. If you rode in a carriage, you’d never get anywhere.” She nodded to the window, which opened up onto a smaller canal. “Everything has to be transported via those little flat boats. That or walking.”

“Mother will be so pleased,” Bridget said under her breath. “To have the choice between boats or walking.” Amanda giggled. “Why do you have your nose in that thing constantly?” Bridget asked, suddenly struck by how often she had seen her sister buried in that book of late.

But Amanda just shrugged. “I like to know things. You and Mother and Sarah never tell me anything, so I have to figure it out on my own.”

Bridget blinked in surprise. Although she supposed it was true. Last Season, Amanda was shielded from most of the dramatics, which drove the girl crazy with curiosity. And when she had decided to persuade her mother to take them to Italy, Bridget had simply told her sister to follow her lead, not giving her any more information than that. Surely she deserved a little more consideration.

“So,” Bridget exhaled, seating herself next to Amanda. Amanda looked up, slightly surprised at this newfound attention. “Where are we? Precisely.”

Amanda flipped the pages in the guidebook and found one with a detailed map of the streets and canals of the main island of Venice. The Grand Canal bisected the picture, and Amanda pointed to a small canal just to the east of it. “Here. Rio di San Marina.”

Bridget dutifully looked to where Amanda’s finger pointed, but her eyes found themselves falling on another
rio
, just a few canals away.

Rio di San Salvador.

Her breath caught as little pinpricks of awareness spread across her scalp. In the letter they had received from Carpenini’s friend Mr. Merrick, regarding taking lessons with the Signore, he had given his address as the Rio di San Salvador.