Let It Be Me

Twelve

LUDWIG van Beethoven’s Sonata No. 23, Op. 57, sat on the pianoforte, like a viper waiting to strike, knowing that its prey had no choice but to come to it.

“This is what I am to play?” Bridget asked, all of the air in her body somehow getting stuck in her throat. The notes on the page swam before her eyes, a jumbled stew of black and white. Twelve-eight time. Rapid appoggiatura. An endless stream of thirty-second notes. Natural minor scales changing to major scales with raised fourth degrees at a moment’s notice. It used six and a half octaves of the piano. Three separate movements and more than three hundred bars of music—not including repeats and codas! Even if she was playing allegro—which at times, she would be—this piece would take more than twenty minutes to play from beginning to end.

“We’ve . . . I’ve . . . never attempted anything like this.” She could feel the panic begin to rise in her chest, sitting up high in her body.

“And yet you will,” Carpenini said, his voice clipped. His gaze had been intense all morning, red rimmed—as if he hadn’t slept in days—and focused intently on her. Some impulse in her wanted to reach out and smooth the locks of hair from his brow, but the moment she thought of it, it seemed beyond silly to her. Smooth Carpenini’s brow? She admired the man, of course . . . more than admired, if she was to admit the truth.

She knew very well she had a crush. Bridget had enjoyed crushes before—or had been tormented by them, depending on one’s perspective. She knew she thought too much about the man and not enough about the music when she was lying in bed at night. How could she not—after all, Carpenini had brought a circus to her, just so she could play without fear! He had sought her out, come to her door and seen her talent, and wanted her to play beautifully for him, for Venice. But now she had this music—this incredible, impossible piece of music—in front of her, and not only did she have to learn it, she had to master it.

Smoothing anyone’s brow seemed ridiculously silly in that light.

But while she contemplated the ridiculousness of smoothing anyone’s brow, Carpenini had been saying something, and Bridget had to snap to attention.

“I will play it through. You will listen.”

Bridget nodded and seated herself on the sofa. Next to her, Mr. Merrick—Oliver—arranged himself, ready to listen. She was very glad of his presence in that moment.

Carpenini began to play. From the opening notes, trepidation rose in Bridget’s chest. His fingers moved with an impossible mixture of speed and grace. His concentration was wholly on the page.

And Bridget’s stomach began to turn.

I cannot do this, her traitorous mind whispered to her.

What had she been thinking? That she was any good at all? She would never, ever, not with a hundred years of practice, be able to play Beethoven’s Sonata No. 23!

She had been too rash, too prideful, thinking she was above the other young ladies who displayed their talents in drawing room musicales across London. This was a piece meant for concertmasters, not little girls. What was it she had said to Lady Worth, full of the false bravado of a nerve-racked performer? Oh yes, that she was “that good.”

That good. What a laughable thought.

And so she did. She laughed, a small bubble of hysteria escaping her lips, and another threatening to overtake her.

Suddenly, a warm hand covered hers—which had been pressed into a white-knuckled fist, unbeknownst to her. It was Oliver’s hand, and somehow, it had the effect of tethering her back to the ground, before her imagination could put her feet to a run and have her out the door and off the island as soon as possible.

“Take two deep breaths. Slowly,” came Oliver’s deep, gentle voice. “The first, to steady yourself.”

She inhaled, slowly, letting the air fill her body, letting sensation into places that had previously gone numb from fear.

“Now, the second, to focus on what comes next.”

She took the second breath, and let herself hear the music again.

This time, she looked past the technique, past the difficulty . . . and the music was undeniably beautiful. It had a thunderous, deceptively simple melody, intruding into one’s consciousness easily, the way an army would march into a town. Taking over. The second movement was kinder, more of a . . . persuasion. Until a fortissimo grace note that signaled the change to the next movement, and once again the listeners were rocketed back to the invasion of their souls.

It was so sad, it could break one’s heart—but at least one would know that it was broken not out of despair, but overwhelming passion.

Carpenini’s fingers pounded out the final chords, and the haze of music cleared from his eyes. He turned to his audience. And waited.

“I’ve never played anything like that,” she said finally, calmly.

“I never taught anyone to play anything like that.” Carpenini answered in kind. “This is a piece for those who show off. For those who have played on stage since the cradle, and twice your years.”

“Oh,” she replied, unable to form a thought that matched the enormity of what they were about to attempt.

“Signorina Forrester, I will not lie to you.” His Italian accent smoothed over the English words, taking any harshness out of them. “I know this piece, yes, but I doubt I know it as well as Herr Klein does. It was likely taught to him by Beethoven himself.” Carpenini’s eyes bored into her, the way they had when he had asked her to become his student, to play in his competition.

Mesmerizing her.

Persuading her.

“I have been too easy on you the past few weeks. I have been too easy on myself. You are a talented player, yes. But are you this talented? I do not know. We are going to work harder than you ever have in your life. It will be a challenge, one we have no choice but to accept. There will be no more circuses.” His eyes flitted to Oliver, then back to her. “No more fiddling about with Scarlatti and Marcello.”

He seemed to require some assurance from her at this point—all Bridget could do was give a small nod. Everything else in her body was fixated on what lay ahead.

“Signorina Forrester, we have only two months before the competition. Therefore,” he said coolly, “we have no time to waste.”





“No, no, no!” Carpenini yelled, his footfalls hitting the floor with such force, it rattled the piano’s ivory keys. Bridget’s hands jumped back from their positions, startled. Although, she should not be startled; Carpenini had been yelling for a good hour now.

“Faster—the trill has to be faster. Your fingering is clumsy, flat—it has to be light, like air!”

He thundered at her like a dark god. She set her hands and tried again.

“No, no, no!” he cried again. Then, with a harsh breath, he continued. “Tonight, you count how many times you can do a six-note trill in one minute. And whatever number it turns out to be, work to double it.”

“But I am not meant to practice at the hotel . . .” she protested gently.

“Practice on the damned dining room table!” he ground out. “You do not need keys to make noise to know that you are doing poorly.”

“I am sorry, Signore. I will try again,” she said with heretofore unknown patience.

She played it again; this time, he bemoaned the trills but he did not stop her—not until she got to her first arpeggio, which finished with octave-and-a-half-spanning chords.

“You fumble the chords!” he chided with no patience.

“I . . . I am sorry, Signore,” Bridget replied. “They are large chords and my hands are small . . .”

“Well, I am sorry, but we cannot have a smaller piano made for your delicate size,” he countered snidely. “You must stretch. Your hands must become the width needed.”

“I . . . I will stretch, Signore.” She nodded, then set her fingers back on the keys.

It was as if Carpenini were a different man today, one intent on finding fault with everything she had ever been or done. As if she were not hard enough on herself! As if she were not daunted enough by Beethoven, now she must live in fear of Carpenini!

Bridget could feel the tears pushing themselves to the corners of her eyes, blinking fast to keep them from falling, when the last straw fell.

“So prim! So proper!” the dragon chided, his voice looming behind her. “Signorina, if you are to play that run, you must not keep your elbows locked by your sides. You need space!”

She moved her elbows out.

“No, wider! Wider!”

“Signore, I cannot!” she finally shouted back, a turncoat drop running down her cheek. “It is my dress—the sleeves are not made for one to lift her arms above her head! You must deal with close elbows!”

She turned back to the music and began to play again, her heart soaring from the relief of having fought back. But then, as she began another run, she felt nimble fingers at her back.

Undoing the buttons of her dress.

She stood up so swiftly, the legs of her piano bench screeched across the floor as she whipped around and found Carpenini staring at her incredulously.

No, he wasn’t staring at her incredulously. He was staring at Oliver, who had crossed the room and grabbed Carpenini’s hand, midbutton.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Signore asked, oblivious to offense.

And it was his obliviousness that deflated the situation. The murder left Oliver’s eyes and he let go of Carpenini’s hand. Instead, he sternly issued a warning.

“You cannot assault Miss Forrester’s person in such a manner.” His voice, usually a rich tenor, was now low, angry.

“I am not the one assaulting her person! The dress is!”

“Signore, I will not . . .” But her shaking voice was cut off by Carpenini’s protestations.

“Bah! If you cannot play properly in your dress, you must remove the dress! That is all there is to it!”

“And do what?” she fired back. “Play naked?”

“If necessary,” he replied, his voice cold casualness.

Bridget was so taken aback, she was utterly silent. As was Carpenini and, oddly, Oliver. But Oliver was the first to shake himself out of his thoughts and back into action.

“If you both will give me a moment, I think I have a compromise.”

And with a stern look to Carpenini, Oliver turned on his heel and exited the room, the door quietly clicking shut behind him.

Leaving Bridget alone with Signor Carpenini.

For the very first time, she realized.

It was unbelievable, that the man who had encapsulated every single thought since she had first received his letter—or rather, Oliver Merrick’s letter—was only now alone in her presence. If she were another sort of girl, the kind that took crushes seriously, she would look at this as some type of opportunity.

And perhaps, a few hours ago, she would have.

But the man who had emerged to teach her today—this overbearing, unforgiving, growling, feral creature who earned none of her sympathy and all of her unhappiness—was nothing like the man who lived in her mind. The man who had belief in her talent, who wanted her to succeed? The man who, in her fevered imagination late at night, bent over her hand reverently once she had played music for him, kissing her mouth, falling to his knees in adoration. (After that, her imagination was appallingly muddled. After all, no man, maestro or otherwise, had ever fallen to his knees in adoration of her. Nor kissed her on the mouth, come to think of it.)

Thus, how could this forbidding, hateful taskmaster be the man who had looked into her eyes and coaxed her into attempting Beethoven’s No. 23, only a few hours before?

“Why are you doing this?” she asked simply, her gaze as direct as she could make it.

His dark eyes met hers, a cold, unfeeling challenge in them.

“Because you need it.”

But something unspoken hung in the air between them, another simple phrase that did not leave Carpenini’s lips but entered Bridget’s ears all the same.

Because I can.

Before she could contemplate what he had said and what her mind had heard, the door to the music room swung open, as Oliver entered, practically out of breath, bearing Molly in his wake. In his hand, he held a white linen shirt.

“Molly, would you please help Miss Forrester with this?” he asked very cordially, handing the shirt to her. Molly nodded, taking it, and led Bridget behind a screen in the corner of the room, one that had not been moved since the days of the circus—apparently some of the ballerinas had required room to change.

Apparently, Oliver had explained to the maid what was needed, because Molly wordlessly helped Bridget with the buttons on the back of her dress. Once the dress was unbuttoned to its high-waisted seam, she then helped Bridget pull her arms out of her sleeves.

“Can your arms move now, miss?” Molly asked quietly.

Bridget lifted her arms above her head—yes, there was a great ease of movement now. But it was in no way respectable, to have her dress half off, exposing her chemise and corset! Molly, bless her, seemed to sense her charge’s worry and, like a good, practical country woman, was on the task of all things regarding modesty.

“That’s what your Mr. Merrick gave me this for. It’s his best one.” She held up the shirt. Her nose wrinkled slightly. “At least, the best of what’s been laundered recently.”

Molly tied the sleeves of Bridget’s dress around her waist as snugly as she could. The dress was in no peril of sliding down, as it was still fitted to the smallest point of her waist. Rather, it functioned solely as a skirt now, and with Oliver’s shirt on, buttoned up to her neck, it was the best possible solution, albeit an oddly disheveled one.

Molly took a step back and surveyed her work. “The shirt is too large. It’s practically a nightdress,” she grumbled. “We will have to tie it at the waist somehow . . . aha!” Molly’s eyes fell on a bit of string that had fallen off one of the circus performers’ costumes, weeks ago now. “I hope this came from a shoe and not a corset,” Molly replied, her voice stinging with censure, her eyes sliding to beyond the screen.

“Is everything all right?” came Oliver’s kind, yet worried voice.

“Ah . . . nearly ready,” Bridget answered back.

As Molly tied the string around her waist, she whispered in Bridget’s ear. “I’ll sit in the room today, if you please, miss,” she said, her eyes meeting Bridget’s.

Suddenly, Bridget could tell that underneath her practical demeanor, Molly was worried about her, too. Not about propriety, not about the rules. About her. And tears began to sting her eyes.

“That’s . . . that’s all right, Molly. I’d rather have as few witnesses as possible to my humiliation today.” While Molly had never been the cause of one of Bridget’s panics on the stage, today seemed to be hard enough without tempting fate. “Besides, Mr. Merrick will be here.”

Molly gave a short nod. “You’re in good hands with that one, miss. He’ll look after you. Regardless of his hand-kissing ways. But if it’s all the same, I’ll not be sitting in the kitchens today. I’ll sit with Frederico, just beyond the door.” And with a squeeze of assurance on her arm, Molly turned and exited the small space behind the screen, giving Bridget little choice but to follow.

Stepping out from behind the screen, Bridget knew she looked a mess. She was not a wholly vain creature, as her sister Sarah could be, but she did consider it important to look presentable.

This . . . this was not presentable. Even with her waist tied with the string, the shirt was so large and voluminous it gave her no shape whatsoever. She looked as if she were buttoned up to her chin in a puff of cream, her fingertips barely finding their way out from beyond the sleeves.

No, it was not presentable. But it was serviceable, and it would have to do.

“Thank you, Molly,” Oliver said, dismissing the maid. Bridget met Molly’s eyes, and the practical maid gave a curt nod, letting Bridget know that she would, indeed, be just beyond the door.

“Er . . . may I?” Oliver’s melodious voice intruded on her thoughts. His gaze was directed at her oversized sleeves. He approached her with caution, and kindness. Gently, reverently, he began rolling up the sleeves of the shirt. Again, Bridget could not be more struck by the differences between him and his half brother! It was enough to make one start tearing up again.

“I am sorry about the size of the shirt—the shoulders sit practically at your elbows.” He gave a small laugh, trying to encourage her to join in. But her eyes were too wet, her nose too stung with withheld tears, that she couldn’t laugh lest they fall. “We will endeavor to find something better suited to you, I promise,” he continued, his eyes still on her sleeves.

“No, don’t,” she replied softly, her voice betraying her wateriness. “I like it.”

He looked up at her then, his lips pressing into a grim line. “This will not be easy, Bridget.” Her name sounded like such a balm, coming from him. “You do not have to do it—you are under no obligation to us. To him.”

“Yes, I do,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

“Then I will tell you a secret,” he said, his voice equally low. He dropped her second sleeve, now rolled, and leaned into her ear. His hand fell gently at the back of her neck as he pulled her to him, her skin incredibly aware of his touch.

“I have never, in all my life, heard anyone play the way you play.”

Her head came back, and her eyes met his.

“If you let him teach you—if you master this—it will be the making of you.”

Bridget could feel all the air leave her body. Those hazel eyes, golden green, kind as they were, found a way to bore into her very self and burn there.

“If you are ready,” came Carpenini’s sharp tones, breaking into their solitary sphere, “can we play then, yes?”

Bridget’s eyes stayed with Oliver’s for one more moment. And again, words entered her head that did not leave his lips, but they were somehow said, all the same.

You can do it.

“Yes, Signore,” Bridget said clearly, straightening her spine and turning with the grace borne of a Forrester lady. “I am ready.”