Let It Be Me

Nine

SOMETHING was wrong. Oliver knew it the instant Carpenini instructed her to play.

Since the interview at the Hotel Cortile, Oliver discovered he was of two minds about the entire enterprise. On the one hand, now that Miss Forrester had agreed to become Carpenini’s student, now that everything was in place, it was futile to try to persuade her against it. They could only move forward and make the best of it. And Oliver could not deny that he had a stake in the scheme’s success. He wanted it all—the lessons, the competition—to go as smoothly as possible.

On the other hand, he knew that Bridget Forrester was here by his doing—his fault. Therefore, he felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility for her welfare in these strange circumstances. He knew how Carpenini could be. The man never saw the looks of utter adoration in the faces of his admirers—thus he didn’t have to set out to seduce someone for them to wind up in his power. And often, in his bed.

Thus, while he found it expedient to find a way to remove Lady Forrester and any other unwanted observers to their lessons, he would be damned if he was going to leave the girl alone with Carpenini for a single second.

But at that moment, it was not Bridget Forrester’s physical welfare that concerned him. It was the way the blood drained from her face, the way her lips thinned, when faced with Carpenini’s instruction.

“Now we will begin in truth,” he had said, as the girl seated herself.

It was not as if she had lost her footing, or swooned, or something equally dramatic. But as someone who had once found the study of people beneficial to his profession, Oliver knew that something was . . . off.

She had skill, he remembered that with certainty. Not to mention, an hour’s worth of scales had proven her fingers adept and strong—a result of the hours and hours of daily practice that, at their interview, they had been informed was Bridget’s routine. Therefore her talents should not have become rusty with disuse. Quite the contrary.

So why the tremor in her hands? Why the fear?

“This is . . . this is, a Bach minuet,” she said, her voice coming out a touch too sharp, as if she were forcing herself out of meekness.

She began. And to be fair, she began quite well. It was a simpler piece, but one that was meant to be played with feeling—and it was often the feeling that set a good musician apart from a great one. Oliver could tell immediately when her shoulders began to relax, when she began to throw herself more into the piece.

But then her fingers stumbled.

Just once, and she recovered from it. Oliver saw Carpenini’s face register a small frown, although he said nothing. But Miss Forrester caught it out of the corner of her eye.

Swallowing hard, she recommitted herself to the piece. But then the same descending run occurred, and the same flub. Then another.

By the time she reached the end of the second refrain, what had begun beautifully had declined into unfortunate mediocrity. By the time the last note died in the air, Miss Forrester’s face looked so distraught, Oliver wondered how her eyes remained dry.

But if Miss Forrester’s face was complete ruin, Carpenini’s face was pure thunder.

They all held their breaths. The metronome ticked, its constant rhythm the only sound in the fragile air. Finally, Carpenini broke the silence.

“Please, excuse me a moment,” he said tersely. And then, with no further explanation, he left the room.

As the door clicked shut, Oliver felt something in his soul begin to wake up. Something indefinably from his English half. Something . . . protective.

“It wasn’t as bad as all that,” he began, trying to comfort.

“Yes it was,” Miss Forrester replied, her voice heartbreakingly final.

“No, I promise you, it wasn’t. The Signore is likely getting some sheet music . . . trying to discern how to approach your instruction. Now that he knows where we are to start, it will be—”

“Don’t lie to me!” she cried vehemently, stilling the next platitude on his lips. “That was terrible. I know it. And he knows it. I ruined my one chance with my own wretchedness. I have disappointed Carpenini, and now he’ll never teach me—he’ll be better off finding some other girl off the street who’s never seen a note of music. At least he can train someone like that to overcome her own fears,” she sighed, a watery sniffle escaping as she did so. “I should go.”

She stood, her decision made. But Oliver found himself so lost in what she was saying, he almost missed it when she made for the door.

At least he can train someone like that to overcome her own fears . . .

“Miss Forrester!” he cried, leaping from his chair, following after her. “Miss Forrester, wait!”

She was out the door that led to the street before he managed to catch up with her. “Miss Forrester, if you insist on going back to the hotel, at least allow me to escort you.”

“There is no need,” she said, not turning to face him, her hand wiping at her cheeks. “I know the way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied sternly. “I am not about to let you get lost in the alleyways of Venice by yourself.”

“I don’t get lost,” she countered, matter-of-fact. “Not on streets, anyway.”

“Well, I’ve lived here for nearly five years, and I still do. Perhaps it is I who require your escort.”

Despite the roundabout logic, she made no further objection, so Oliver fell into step beside her. But her gaze remained straight ahead.

“When did it start?” he asked, after they had gone a few blocks.

“Last year,” she answered, resigned. “During my debut season. There was so much weight placed on everything. How I spoke, how I danced. How I played.” She paused, let her eyes flit over the water as they crossed one of Venice’s many footbridges.

“I used to love playing for an audience.” She sighed after a moment. “It made people happy, or bereft, or wistful, depending on the piece. It’s such an amazing sensation, being able to make people feel something.”

“But now, you think you’ve lost that.”

“After a year?” She surprised him by looking up into his face. “Mr. Merrick, I know I have.”

“I wonder, then, that you play at all anymore,” he said mildly. “I know many performers on stage who have given up their careers when faced with a bad case of nerves.”

“I play because when I play really, truly well . . .” She came to a stop and rubbed her knuckles into her chest, just outside her heart. “There is this strange hollow that has never been filled by gossip, or flirting, or books. But music . . . music fills it.” She paused, sniffing away tears. “Besides, I can still do it when by myself, or just with my family.” Her face became bleak again. “But when people I do not know are waiting to hear me play—all their expectations written plainly on their faces . . .”

“Miss Forrester, I did not mean to upset you,” Oliver was quick to reply. “I meant my last statement as a compliment. It takes a great deal of fortitude to push through when you have little to no hope.”

“Oh,” she replied. They began walking again. “Thank you.”

“And I do understand that hollow feeling you speak of.” He let a small smile creep onto his face. “Although I might describe it a little less dramatically.”

“That was particularly overwrought, wasn’t it?” she replied sheepishly, with a small laugh.

It was good to see her smile, however small.

“Miss Forrester, you say you can play in front of people you know. Now that you know both myself and the Signore, surely you can see that there is nothing to fear from us.”

She shook her head. “Don’t you understand? Every time he sees me now, he will expect me to disappoint him. And I will live up to that expectation. I will not be able to stop it. And he’s just so . . .” Oliver wondered which adoring adjective she would choose. Wonderful? Brilliant? Talented? “Carpenini,” she finished quietly.

She came to a stop again, and Oliver was surprised to see that they were standing in front of the Hotel Cortile. Bridget’s steps had been sure, and she’d led him quickly through the complicated maze of Venice’s streets and bridges. Perhaps she really didn’t get lost. At least, not on streets.

“Mr. Merrick, thank you for your escort. I . . . I suppose it is best if I explain the situation to my mother.”

“What situation?” he blinked at her.

“Why the Signore will no longer be teaching me.” She shrugged. “Perhaps she will be pleased. She had hoped this Italian holiday would prove more varied.”

Her resignation was so terribly sad that the protectiveness that was born in him earlier that day came raging back, full force. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and murmur comforts—she would never have to play again if she did not wish it, there would be no competition, nothing to make her afraid of people’s stares again.

But there was another part of him, perhaps an even greater kind of protectiveness, that saw the truth. She had crossed a continent for the chance to learn from Carpenini, to overcome her own fears. She had come this far. He could not let her give up now.

“Miss Forrester, I beg you, do not say anything to your mother yet,” Oliver said, taking her hand in his, a strange shock of warmth running through him at the touch. “Just come back tomorrow.”

One skeptical eyebrow went up. “The Signore will not want to teach me . . .”

“Let me worry about Carpenini. Just come back tomorrow. And if after tomorrow, you still feel the same, I will be sorry for it, but I will understand.”

Stunned, Miss Forrester nodded slowly. Then, after a quick bow over her hand, he released her, watching as she tentatively walked away, disappearing back inside the hotel.

After a quick walk back to his home (during which he took a wrong turn only twice), Oliver entered the drawing-cum-music room, his mind still turning over ideas for tomorrow. There he was not surprised to find Carpenini, returned once more to his place at the pianoforte, looking dejected. His fingers did not play but instead traced the ghosts of patterns left by Miss Forrester’s fumblings not a half hour ago.

“So,” Oliver said, making himself known.

“So,” Carpenini echoed back at him in Italian. Then after a moment, he turned his head and eyed Oliver from over his shoulder. “Stage fright?”

“Quite so,” he replied, also in Italian. “A rather ingrained case of it. She says it’s been plaguing her for about a year now.”

“Ah.” Carpenini put his fingers back to the keys and this time pressed down lightly, letting chords seep into the room like morning light. “She did not have to run off. We could have continued the lesson.”

“Well, perhaps if you had been a little more discreet in hiding your disappointment, instead of rushing out of the room . . .”

“You’ll have to excuse my shock, Oliver. I have a great deal riding on Miss Forrester, and I had been told by someone whose opinion I trust implicitly that the girl could play, and quite well, too.”

“She can play,” Oliver began, but Vincenzo cut him off with a stern look.

“Is that your memory or your infatuation talking?”

“My infatuation?”

“I’ve seen you watching her. The way your shoulders tense when I get within six inches of her.”

“That’s because I know you, Vincenzo.” Oliver replied darkly. “And if I become anxious when you get near to her, how do you think the girl feels? Someone with as bad a case of nerves as I’ve ever seen . . .”

Vincenzo stood up from his bench, shock written on his frame. “As bad a case of nerves as you’ve ever seen? And this is who I’m supposed to teach?” He began to pace. “Perhaps it is not too late. Perhaps we can set off for England. You can see your home again, and I can set the British on their ears with my new compositions!”

“What new compositions?” Oliver replied flatly. “The ones you’ve been promising me for a year? Besides, it won’t work now. Before the Carnival ball, yes, you could have toured abroad. But since you have made this wager—if you back out of it, that disgrace will follow you wherever you go.” Oliver watched as Vincenzo stopped moving and took in his predicament. There was no slipping out of this one. He cleared his throat and brought them back to the topic at hand.

“Miss Forrester says her nerves do not plague her as long as she is alone or with close friends—people who do not make her uncomfortable.”

“Unfortunately, we do not have the month or so it would take to devote to making her comfortable with me,” Vincenzo argued, resuming his pacing.

“I know—we need to shock her into not being afraid of you.” Oliver said, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“And just how do we do that?” Vincenzo harrumphed.

“What was it you said to me at the Carnival ball?” Oliver mused. “Oh yes: ‘Do not worry. I am simply going to test a theory.’”





“I’ll be right honest, miss: I do not like this. Not one bit.”

Molly crossed her arms with such force, it caused the gondola to rock slightly in the current. The gondolier—the young man with strong arms who propelled the gondola on its path—shot an unhappy glare at Molly. The ride from the Hotel Cortile to Mr. Merrick’s home on the Rio di San Salvatore was short and, since they went via the Grand Canal, beautiful, but Molly was determined to make it as torturous for Bridget as she could.

As if Bridget weren’t torturing herself enough already for agreeing to come back.

“I promise there is nothing amiss about it, Molly.”

“Nothing amiss about a young lady paying calls on a gentleman alone? We may not be in England anymore, but we are not in the savage lands neither!”

When Bridget had come home the day before, her mother and sister had not yet returned. Perhaps they actually did have an appointment to keep somewhere in the city, or perhaps they had simply decided to sightsee, but in either case, it was Molly who greeted Bridget with surprise, and then, seeing the worry on her face, suspicion. And it was Molly who had dug out the truth of what had happened that morning from a reluctant Bridget.

And out of everything that had happened—out of Bridget’s horrible case of nerves and the Signore walking out of the room and playing scales for hours—what was the one thing that Molly had to harp on? It was the fact that Mr. Merrick’s aunt was very clearly not Mr. Merrick’s aunt.

“I don’t know what your mother was thinking, declining to accompany you today. I told her in the strictest terms she should.”

Luckily, even when faced with Lady Forrester and Amanda’s sternest objections to sitting and listening to scales, Molly had held her tongue on why she felt Bridget required a chaperone. She simply insisted on accompanying her herself.

Lady Forrester and Amanda had returned home at nearly four, famished and in great need of repast. While Lady Forrester regaled Bridget with tales of all the sights seen and unseen (their mother really should not be without her spectacles) and Amanda went on and on about what the guidebook had said about the Piazza San Marco and the Doge’s Palace, Bridget smiled and nodded and waited for an inquisition that did not come.

It seemed that Lady Forrester was content with the lessons as long as Bridget was content with the lessons and would not lay question to it.

For that Bridget was grateful.

And strangely, she was grateful for Molly, too.

Molly did not make her nervous. Molly did not look at her with expectation. Instead, Molly simply protected.

It was comforting. Even if such protection came with a degree of disapproval.

“I will not be sitting down in the kitchens, miss, I tell you that much,” Molly was going on, her tight movements of fractious energy swaying the gondola, earning glances from the gondolier, thus repeating the cycle. “And if that Signore walks out of your lessons again, we will go right out the door and back to the hotel to pack. You don’t need no lessons from the likes of him.”

“Just . . . if anything like that happens, just please do not tell my mother about it. I . . . I can’t disappoint him again,” Bridget whispered to herself.

“You can’t disappoint him? That man should be worried about disappointing you!” Molly practically jumped from her seat, like the best of guard dogs, ready to defend her miss from any slight, real or imagined. Unfortunately, while most guard dogs have four legs and can keep their balance, Molly had only two, and the rocking of the gondola was so severe that the gondolier actually held them in place beneath a bridge, put one hand on Molly’s shoulder, and, with a string of Italian neither of them understood, forced her into her seat.

“Well,” Molly said touchily. “There’s no need to be so forceful about it!”

They remained silent—and, thankfully, still—for the remainder of the short trip, and before Bridget had even begun to muse on what the next few hours would bring, they found themselves at the front door of Mr. Merrick’s home. There, they were greeted not by Mr. Merrick, nor by the Signore, but by someone new.

“Signorina Forrester?” the man asked, his Venetian accent thick over the English. When she nodded, he bowed. “I am Frederico, Signor Merrick’s valet. The gentlemen are setting up; allow me to help you.” Luckily, Mr. Merrick would have a valet with decent English.

“See, Molly?” Bridget whispered, once they had been handed onto the landing. “There are servants. I would not be alone in the house with the gentlemen.”

“Yes, well, what are they ‘setting up’ as this Mr. Freddy says? A dungeon? A torture chamber? A kidnapping?”

“Molly.” Bridget shook her head. “Have you begun reading horrid novels?”

But even Molly’s lurid imagination was not prepared for what greeted them when they walked into the music room.

Jugglers, tossing batons into the air.

Acrobats, hanging from the ceiling.

Girls in costume, dancing in lines.

It was a circus. An actual circus, wedging itself into the small music room of Mr. Merrick’s house. Laughter, noise, movement, color. And at the center were Mr. Merrick and Signor Carpenini, dressed as clowns—the former in the white baggy costume and painted face of a Pedrolino, the latter in the bright diamonds of a Harlequin. Both broke into huge smiles upon seeing Bridget.

“There you are, Miss Forrester!” Mr. Merrick said merrily, as he bowed.

“Mr. Merrick, Signore . . .” Bridget fumbled, as she stepped forward. “What on earth is going on?”

“This,” Signor Carpenini said, with a dramatic flourish of his cane (part of the costume, it seemed) as he came forward to take her hand, “is your first lesson.”

Bridget stood in shock, her eyes moving from one thing to the next, finally coming to rest on Molly’s equally surprised gaze.

“If you think I ain’t telling your mother about this, miss,” the maid said, shaking her head, “you’re stark raving mad.”