Let It Be Me

Ten

AS first lessons went, Miss Forrester’s instruction by Signor Carpenini would certainly rank among the oddest.

Oliver had to hand it to Vincenzo—while he might have scoffed at the idea initially, once it was in place he embraced it with his usual vigor.

“It is like Signora Galetti said,” he reminded Vincenzo as they were setting up. “One cannot be nervous in the middle of a circus. And it just so happens, we know a few performers.”

Dressed in his Harlequin costume, Vincenzo nimbly conducted the room of performers with his cane, as he would an orchestra. He took Miss Forrester by the hand, led her to the pianoforte, and said very simply, “Today we are helping them,” as he pointed to the jugglers.

Miss Forrester tentatively took her place, and at Vincenzo’s command, she began to play. The same piece she played yesterday, the simple Bach minuet. But this time, Vincenzo did not peer over her shoulder as she played. Instead, he turned his attention to the jugglers. “Signores, begin!” he commanded. And the jugglers, as they had been commanded to do, began their routine. While the dancers practiced their own steps in the background, as well as the acrobats doing their back bends, Bridget played, giving pace and tone to the cacophony of their rehearsals.

She had not come with her mother today. Oliver wasn’t exactly certain how he would have explained the circus performers in his drawing room if she had. (It was bad enough that Veronica, in full great-aunt makeup, was currently practicing a routine with the chorus girls.) Instead, Miss Forrester brought the same maid who had trailed after her that first day—Molly, he recalled. But by the way she looked to Molly for reassurance, Oliver felt certain the maid would be no obstacle.

The obstacle would be Bridget herself.

After a few minutes of playing, Vincenzo stopped the jugglers. Bridget’s hands came off the keys at the same time.

“What did I do wrong?” she asked, the fear easily read in the quaver of her voice.

“Nothing, Signorina. Carlos”—he addressed one of the jugglers in Italian—“you are half a beat behind. If you do not catch up, you will end up hitting your partner. Again!”

With that, they began again. And it was notable—or, perhaps, it was highly unnoted—that Miss Forrester’s performance was, for once, perfect.

“I can’t believe it,” Vincenzo whispered to him in Italian, when Bridget’s focus was squarely on the juggling team. “Your plan is actually working.”

Oliver couldn’t believe it, either. Or that it was working so quickly.

Being amid all the noise and movement that was the circus, Miss Forrester did not have time to worry about her performance. She was too busy watching everyone else’s. Therefore, as everyone was looking for fault in the jugglers, the acrobats, and the dancers, the idea of looking for mistakes in her own playing became almost preposterous. It was taken for granted that she would play perfectly, and thus she did.

She spent her first hour with the jugglers. By the end of their time together, the jugglers had broken a new routine to the minuet, and Bridget had taken to issuing commands—although since both Carlos and his brother spoke nothing but Italian (and the Venetian dialect at that), the communication was a little shoddy.

“Signor Carlos!” she said once, stopping midstanza. “You must catch on the downbeat. Catch.”

Carlos shook his head and shrugged.

Miss Forrester, frustrated, got out from behind the pianoforte, took the small bean sack from Carlos, and marched back to her place at the keys. Tossing the ball up in the air with her left and playing with her right, she demonstrated the note she wanted him to catch on. “See? Catch!”

Oliver could not help smiling. It seemed that when irritated, Miss Forrester’s overwrought nerves ran for cover.

The next hour was spent with the dancing girls. Vincenzo asked for a piece of music that was lively. “Allegro,” he requested, and she began with a variation by Pleyel. There was not a note that fell out of place as Vincenzo concentrated his instruction on the dancers, as opposed to the music.

The hour after was spent with the acrobats. For them she played Haydn.

After each hour, Oliver was certain that Miss Forrester’s playing was becoming stronger—she was becoming more and more comfortable with them. They took a short break for luncheon—bread and cheese and some cold fish. A necessary repast, as conducting a circus was an exhausting business. After the repast was served, they said good-bye to the jugglers, the acrobats, and the dancing girls, with promises that they would come and see them at the theatre soon.

“Now,” Vincenzo declared, clapping his hands together, “let us turn our attention to you, Signorina.”

This would turn out to be a terrible mistake. Oliver could see all of the good the morning had done falling away from her, as a snake shed its skin. In its place was raw vulnerability and uncommon fear.

But she covered as well as she could, straightened her posture, put her nose to the sky, and went to the pianoforte.

“I would like to go back to that allegro piece, the Pleyel?” Vincenzo said, and immediately began instructing her on a certain section. Leaning far over her shoulder. Playing fast and talking faster. And immediately, Oliver could sense Bridget shrinking back, almost afraid to have her fingers on the keys.

“No . . . it is triplets, here,” Vincenzo was saying, his frustration mounting.

Oliver wanted to hang his head in his hands. What had begun so well was turning quickly into disaster. And there was nothing he could do about it.

“Mr. Merrick, sir,” came a rushed whisper from behind him. It was Molly, who had sat watchfully in the corner during the entire morning “lesson.” “Miss Bridget seems to be losing her nerve.”

“Yes, Molly. I tried to make her more comfortable with us, but I don’t think it took.”

“Forgive me for saying so, sir,” Molly sniffed, “but a man who dresses up in a clown’s costume to put Miss Forrester at ease doesn’t seem the type to give over so quickly.”

Oliver looked down at himself. He was indeed, still in his Pedrolino suit—loose flowing shirt and pants, uncomfortable frilled collar, and short pointed hat. His false smile was still painted on his face in white.

And the thought struck him. Maybe there was something he could do, after all.

Moving as silently as he could, he trotted across the room and found a few bean sacks left behind by Carlos and his brother, underneath a chair. Historically, Pedrolino was not the happiest of clowns, but he would have to make do. Then, crouched behind the settee, he took two breaths. One to steady himself, and the second for what came next.

And then he began his performance.

It started with simply popping up and giving a large smile. A smile that said, I am shocked and pleased to find you here! Pointing at Miss Forrester at the piano, causing her to look up from her keys. Then a silent, belly-splitting chuckle.

Miss Forrester frowned and stopped playing. Vincenzo was about to say something cross to Oliver, but with a single silent look between them, he changed tack.

“Ignore him,” he said to Miss Forrester. “He will act to what you play; just concentrate.”

She tried to do as he said, but her eyes kept flitting up to meet Oliver’s. Usually while he was failing dramatically at juggling.

It was harder to make people laugh than it was to cry. That was one axiom of the theatre Oliver had learned quickly. His pantomime had never been subtle. In fact, it relied very heavily on bumping into things and falling over and failing at juggling. It had been quite a while since he last played this role (let alone any role), and he had seen it performed much, much better. But he was in a clown suit, and in Bridget Forrester, he had a captive audience.

And her playing immediately improved.

It was difficult to say why. That morning, having the focus off her and on the performers had provided her with the relief of not being able to worry about how she played. But with just him in the room, being completely silly, it was different . . .

If Oliver was to guess, it was because his silliness allowed her to let go of seriousness, of the weight of expectations.

One could never be nervous in the middle of a circus. Or perhaps, just with a clown.

And then, it happened.

Bridget stopped paying any attention to Oliver and his antics. The music had her attention instead. Not her playing, not the order of her fingers on the keys, the music. Oliver stopped his pantomime for the barest of seconds, testing her.

She did not notice. In fact, he would venture to guess she noticed nothing else in the room.

Her playing had been technically correct over the course of the morning, but she had not played like this. A vapor, a spirit, possessing her and moving through them all. This was feeling translated into music and then back again. This was getting lost. And she was set free by it.

This was how he remembered her having played before, five years ago.

By the time the final chords drifted away and she lifted her fingers from the keys, the music room had gone completely still.

Miss Forrester came out of her daze slowly, blinking her way back into the present. Oliver found himself almost mournful as the trance she’d laid was lifted and time came back to them.

“I . . . I am sorry,” she stuttered, seeming to realize what had occurred. “Did you want me to start again?”

“No, Miss Forrester, that is enough.” Vincenzo held up his hand and came to sit beside her. “Well,” he said, “you must arch your hands higher. And you were allegretto, not allegro. We must work on your pace.”

Her face fell, her mouth set into a grim line at the critique. But Vincenzo would not allow that. He leaned in and lifted her chin with a gentle touch. Made her meet his eyes. “But I am so pleased to have at last heard you play.”

Carpenini’s wide smile spread to her, and warmth filled the room. Oliver exhaled the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Now,” Vincenzo continued, rubbing his hands together, “now, we get to work, si?”





“What a day,” Bridget sighed, as she rolled her sore shoulders. Let out into the light of the early afternoon, Bridget felt as exhausted as if she had been working for a full twenty-four hours. Her limbs were languid, her knees shaky. But her mind was remarkably calm. She had poured out everything she had onto the keys, and it left her nothing more than a floating, peaceful vessel.

It felt very, very good.

“I could sleep for a week,” she said dreamily, letting the salty air fill her lungs as she took a deep breath.

“I would advise against it,” Mr. Merrick replied, keeping pace beside her. “After all, you are due back for lessons again tomorrow.”

She smiled up at him. When Bridget had rejected the idea of taking a gondola back to the hotel, instead wanting to walk, Mr. Merrick had changed out of his clown clothes and insisted again on seeing her home, even though she had Molly to escort her.

In truth, she was glad for his company. The afternoon had brought out the sun and warmth, and that brought out an alarming number of people. Given Bridget’s previous observations on board the ship about how tactile Italian men could be, the presence of a solidly built English gentleman did much to soothe any fears—as Mr. Merrick tended to do in general.

If it had been Carpenini who attended her, she would have been far too aware of it. Mr. Merrick was much safer.

Yes, she was glad for his company—but found his directional prowess somewhat lacking.

“Have you been in Venice long, Mr. Merrick?” Bridget asked suddenly.

“I’ve been in Venice for nearly five years, Miss Forrester.”

“Ah . . . I only ask, you see, because we have now gone a footbridge too far in our path back to the hotel, and I don’t think the alleyway that we just cut through—quaint though it was—has taken us anywhere nearer our goal.”

Mr. Merrick threw back his head in a deep-throated laugh. “Well, I did warn you yesterday that I might get lost.”

True, on their walk back to the Hotel Cortile the day before, he had mentioned something about getting lost. But since yesterday’s walk was vastly different (not only in direction) from this one, Bridget could not be surprised that such a detail had slipped her mind.

“And here I was thinking you made up your lack of a sense of direction in order to make me feel better about your company,” she replied impishly.

“I happen to have an excellent sense of direction, Miss Forrester.” Mr. Merrick bristled in an overexaggerated manner that made her giggle. Even though he had changed out of his clown face and costume, he still had some of the mannerisms. “But Venice is the one place that I find myself constantly lost. There is something new and interesting around every turn. How can one not?”

“One can not, by knowing where one is going,” Bridget heard Molly grumble from three steps behind them.

“Take the alleyway—quaint, I believe you called it?” Mr. Merrick continued, without regard for Molly, if he had even heard her. “What did you find quaint about it?”

“Well,” Bridget turned to look behind her, trying to jog her memory of the alley they had just left. “The . . . the cobblestones, I suppose.”

“What about them are so quaint?”

“They . . . they are wet. Either from the rain or from the seawater that seems to permeate everything. They shine in the afternoon light,” she ventured. “And the windows are so high but tumbled, stacked one on top of the other. Waiting impatiently.”

“Exactly!” he cried. “When else would you have seen such a sight, if not for taking the less direct route? When and where else would the light have been right for you to notice the beauty of wet cobblestones and stacked windows?” He sighed then, a sound of utter contentment. “There is always something I haven’t seen before in this city, and I find myself lost at least once a day because of it.”

“Even after you’ve been here nearly five years?” Bridget shook her head.

“Even then,” he replied. Then, thought creasing his brow, “Although, the fault could lie in the fact that I came to Venice to get lost.”

Bridget came to a standstill at the top of the little footbridge they happened to be crossing. A narrow canal ran underneath their feet, people propelling themselves forward. “I am afraid I don’t understand. Are you not on an extended European tour?”

“What in the world gave you that idea?”

“Your father.” Her simple reply was met with the most thunderous crashing of Mr. Merrick’s brow that Bridget found herself stammering. “Er . . . that is . . . I met him at a dinner party before we left London. He said . . . or rather, I guess I assumed . . . that you are on your European tour.”

Mr. Merrick took two deep breaths through his nose before he answered, and when he did so, it was with his normal calm, affable demeanor.

“Is that what my father is telling everyone?” He smiled at her, attempting to reassure, but it did not reach his eyes. “Miss Forrester, you are aware that most young gentlemen’s European tours don’t last five years.”

“Most, but not all,” she countered.

“And that those young gentlemen tend to travel to more than one city.”

“It is rare, but not unheard of.”

“And that rarer is the young English gentleman who studies pantomime on such a voyage.”

“That . . . that did give me pause, I will admit.” She shared in his smile then, and enjoyed the warmth that it lent her—almost like the warmth of the sun on the waters of the canal beneath them.

“So, you came to Venice to get lost . . . by becoming a clown?” she asked, taking a step forward, slowly propelling them on a more correct path.

“Not exactly. I came to Venice to meet my mother.”

Bridget felt herself stopping in her tracks again, not three steps taken since her last astonished stalling. He turned to her when he realized she was no longer keeping pace beside him.

“Mr. Merrick, I apologize; I was under the impression that your mother—”

“My mother passed, ten years ago,” he answered simply.

“I am sorry.”

“Thank you.” His hazel eyes seemed to grow misty for a moment, but with true English stoicism, he quelled any display of emotion. “While I was growing up, my mother was the buoyant, beautiful light—always singing, always dancing. She would tell me stories about when she was an opera singer in Venice, and how she met my father when he was visiting Europe, and they fell madly in love. Three weeks later they were married, and she was on a ship bound for England, never to return—much I think, to her regret.”

They continued walking again, moving slower now—lest Bridget feel the need to pull to an abrupt stop again.

“So, when Signor Carpenini—Vincenzo—and I chanced to meet, I took the opportunity to come to Venice and find out about my mother’s life here.”

“That I can understand,” Bridget replied. “However, I’m still a bit unclear on how it translates into clowning.”

He smiled again, the residual grimness from their sad conversation leaving him. Bridget realized suddenly that Mr. Merrick was not a man who could be unhappy or dour for very long. In contrast to the Signore, whose mood seemed to swing violently with his passions and fracture her pulse with it, Mr. Merrick’s pleasant steadiness was a decided comfort. And, curiously, infectious.

“Well, my mother had worked in the theatre,” he replied, with an impish grin. “I thought, how better to learn about her life than to work there? Luckily, Vincenzo put in a good word for me at La Fenice, and I ended up in the third row of the men’s chorus.”

“So, you are an actor!” Bridget cried, delighted. “I would not have guessed.”

“Because I’m an English gentleman?”

“No because you are so solidly built,” she said, then immediately blushed. “Forgive me, but I always picture actors as rangy, mobile fellows. Not so . . . tall.”

Bridget’s eyes flitted to his wide shoulders, to his reserved English bearing—in spite of his Italian coloring and startling light eyes. Her cheeks raged red at the awkwardly personal comment. But he saved her with a laugh and an explanation.

“That is likely from a youth spent as an English gentleman, pursuing those things my father thought an English lad should. One of which was boxing. When I proved adept at it, he threw me into that wholeheartedly.”

Her eyes again focused on the way his coat fit across his shoulders. Yes, he would have done quite well in an arena.

“But you loved the theatre,” she guessed, and he nodded.

“I boxed to please my father, and sang with my mother to please me.”

“Ah . . . so you must have a marvelous voice.”

“One thing that working in the theatre has taught me, Miss Forrester, is that my voice is depressingly ordinary,” he replied in good humor. “Which is one of the reasons I am no longer an actor on the stage.”

“That seems a shame,” Bridget replied sadly. “Your pantomime was quite amusing.”

“Thank you.” He blushed at the honest compliment. “But not only was my voice not strong enough, I also did not have the hunger for it.”

“Hunger?”

“Yes. There is this strange stagestruck ambition, an overwhelming desperation to be loved, that one must have to be cutthroat enough to be an actor.”

“That sounds rather . . . violent,” Bridget replied quizzically.

“Only to one’s psyche,” he answered jovially.

“So what do you do now?” she inquired. “I cannot imagine that someone who came to Venice and fell in love with the theatre is content to simply take a box for the season.”

Oliver’s eyebrow arched in surprise. “You are far more astute than most people find comfortable, aren’t you?” Then he began to explain that many would assume that a young foreign-born man of means, after a few years of folly upon the stage, would resume his place among his peers of wealthy expatriates who had their own society, and content himself with a box (and a mistress) at the opera. But Oliver could not. It had gotten into his blood, the theatre—or rather, because of his mother it had always been there, just awakened by his time in the men’s chorus. So he did something few men of his station rarely had done.

He had taken a job.

“At first,” he said, “I took whatever job Bruno—the stage manager at La Fenice—decided to torture me with. Stagehand, sweeper, cleaning costumes. Then I began to assist the director. I’m sure Bruno thought it a wonderful bit of folly to have a British lord’s son in service to another, but I loved it. Soon enough, they began letting me take charge of the little comedy bits that come on stage before the opera begins—and then before I knew it, I was helping to stage the main show.”

“Why, Mr. Merrick, aren’t you full of surprises?” Bridget smiled at him. “You are a director.”

“Not right now, unfortunately,” Oliver replied, unable to keep the grimness out of his voice.

“What ho, there is a story behind that statement,” she declared, hopping over a bridge as she did so.

“Really? How can you tell?”

“I have a sister who cannot wait to tell stories, Mr. Merrick. The signs are universal.”

“Yes, there is,” he conceded. “And actually, this story is related to you.”

She cocked her head to the side at that.

“A few months ago, my father wrote me, saying that my elder brother, Francis, had fallen from a horse. It was quite serious, and I was needed at home.”

“Oh, I am so sorry. About your brother, I mean.”

“Thank you.” He inclined his head. “So I resigned my position at La Fenice, packed my bags, and prepared to depart. Carpenini was to come with me.”

“And that was when you wrote to me,” Bridget surmised.

“Quite so. But a day before we were supposed to depart, I received another letter from my father, detailing Francis’s recovery. I was not needed at home after all.” Oliver sighed, his voice surprisingly sad. “I went back to La Fenice, but by then they had given away my position. Other opera houses were similarly staffed. So I am currently what I had claimed to not be—a British man living a life of leisure abroad.”

He smiled ruefully, but Bridget was silent, contemplative. “Well,” she said finally, “I am glad to hear of your brother’s recovery, at least. But it must have been terribly awkward for those few weeks. Preparing to change everything, to go home, and then to be told not to.”

He paused in his steps, his eyes searching her face, her features. As if she had struck at something true—more true than he himself realized.

“Yes, far more astute than is comfortable,” he murmured, and then he cleared his throat. “But I promise you, it is better this way. You must understand, he was the son of my father’s first wife, and as we are nearly fifteen years apart in age, we have never been particularly close. He is the heir, and thus he is the one groomed to a life of being Lord Merrick. The good English son. Currently he has only a daughter, so if he had passed . . . I would have been given the role. But I am a reluctant understudy, and I never learned any of the lines.”

He gave a halfhearted smile at that small pun, and Bridget had to stop herself from reaching out to him. He was such an imposing figure—taller than most men, and with the strength borne of a boxing regimen; he could have come off as hulking, brutish, with his fearsomely dark hair and complexion. But he was so kind and polite . . . and so open with himself that it belied any such mean description.

“It is hard,” Bridget said softly, “living up to the expectations set by elder siblings.”

“Especially when they are better at being who they are than you could ever be,” he commiserated, as he pulled to an abrupt stop. “But my father . . . well, it turns out I was not wanted in any case.”

Bridget looked around herself and was surprised to find that they stood in front of the Hotel Cortile. She had been so engrossed in hearing Mr. Merrick’s tale that she had lost all sense of time and—curiously, for her—direction.

Something haunted Bridget. The sad resignation in Mr. Merrick’s voice, saying he was not wanted. It had sounded so much like . . .

So much like Lord Merrick’s.

“But surely,” she tried again, “without your position at the theatre, you could have gone back to England for a visit anyway—”

“No,” he stated curtly, and Bridget reeled back at his abrupt speech. “I could not. Not now, likely not ever.”

Bridget opened her mouth to speak but was cut off by the wave of his hand.

“Please don’t pity me, Miss Forrester,” he said, his smile lightening the depths of their conversation. Impulsively he leaned forward and took her hand in his. It was warm, and she grasped his. “I promise you, I have enough irons in the proverbial fire to make up for the loss of my position at La Fenice. Besides, now I get to listen to you play daily—what could be better?”

Then he leaned over her hand and kissed it before releasing her.

“I can only hope to be so lucky, Mr. Merrick,” Bridget replied cordially, her arm falling gently against her side. “Although I have no intention of getting lost in Venice—I was rather hoping to find my way.”

He chuckled at that. “Well, you made a good start today, with Carpenini.”

“Just as you did, when you met with him in England,” she replied. “So . . . same time tomorrow?”

“Indeed, Miss Forrester.” He touched a hand to his hat by way of a salute. “Give our—mine and Vincenzo’s—regards to your mother and sister.”

“Yes, Signor Carpenini—” Bridget bit her lip. “Is he . . . is he always like that?”

“How do you mean?”

“Is he always so—abrupt?” Bridget’s mind flew back to how they had ended their session, less than a half hour ago. “He seemed very desperate to be rid of me. Indeed, as soon as lessons were finished, he practically shoved us out the door, desperate as he was to get to the keys of his beloved pianoforte and compose, as he had been apparently desperate to do all day.”

Her tone was light, but it was to cover one simple fact. In that moment, it was as if she hadn’t existed anymore, and that had left her momentarily stunned.

But Mr. Merrick’s tone was not anywhere near as light as Bridget’s. “He meant no insult,” he said softly, reassuring. “Indeed, you greatly pleased him today. He simply takes some getting used to.”

“Really?” she asked, unsure.

A rueful smile spread across his features. “Yes, Vincenzo can be rather, er, focused, when it suits him to be. He tends to forget everything—people, manners, food—when the mood strikes him.”

“If that’s the case, I find it hard to believe that the two of you became friends at all,” she smiled tentatively.

But the smile on his face fell. “Miss Forrester—I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?” she asked, her brow coming down.

“That Vincenzo and I . . . we are not simply friends.”

“How do you mean . . .” she began, and then felt her face go up in flames as realization dawned. Utter horror dripped through her body; she had been making a cake of herself all this time! “Do you mean . . . Oh! Oh, I am so mortified, Mr. Merrick, I had no idea. I mean,” she babbled, certain her tongue was running away with her, but unable to stop it in her embarrassment. “I knew such things existed. Or at least, Amanda says she once saw my music tutor—ages ago now—kissing a stable boy, but she was so young I thought she was completely mistaken, but then I heard other stories, especially about, er, theatrical people, but it never entered my mind that you . . . and he—” And to think, her mind reeled, I had been thinking about the Signore in that way . . .

“As well it should not have!” Mr. Merrick exclaimed, shocked, cutting off her ramblings. Bridget ventured a glance up to his face and could see that he had gone as red under his tanned skin as a lobster in summertime, his hazel eyes wide with shock. And it likely matched her own furious blush. “Miss Forrester, I . . . I am not so, er, theatrically inclined.”

“Oh,” she sighed, relieved. “Then neither is . . .”

“Neither is Vincenzo,” he said patiently.

“But,” she hedged, “you said that you are not simply friends?”

“Yes. It is well-known here, but I am not surprised my father did not take much to advertising the connection at home.” Mr. Merrick’s mouth quirked up at the corner, bemused. “Before my mother married my father, she had a child that she left here in Venice, in the care of the child’s grandparents.”

Bridget’s eyes went as wide as saucers.

“Vincenzo Carpenini is my half brother.”