Let It Be Me

Twenty-three

“I do not sleep as soundly as you think I do.”

Bridget whipped her head around, eyes wide. Amanda stood stock-still looking out at the lawn of the Schönbrunn Palace. It was their sole full day in Vienna—they were due to begin their journey back to Venice at first light tomorrow—and Amanda had absolutely insisted on getting her way and going to see some of the more illustrious sights of Vienna.

Luckily, the royal family was not in residence, and therefore the touring grounds of the Schönbrunn were open to the public . . . that is, a public that could manage the entrance fee. A price set high enough to keep out the riffraff, yet not too high to discourage the gentry from an idyllic tour. The palace itself was located a few short miles from the center of Vienna, and so talking Lady Forrester into the carriage that morning had not been too daunting a task. A short ride, they told her, and then the wide-open spaces of a well-planned garden. Lady Forrester saw her youngest daughter’s insistence, her middle daughter’s acquiescence, and gave in.

Indeed, Bridget did not care a fig what they did today, as long as they were out of the house and in company. Because if she had the opportunity to be alone with Oliver, the chances were they would not be able to keep their hands off each other, and then there would be real trouble.

Keeping their hands off each other in the company of her mother and sister had been troublesome enough. Before, while on the trip north to Vienna, they had been itching with curiosity, but now that they both knew what it was like . . . well, suffice it to say, Bridget practically had to sit on her hands during the ride to Schönbrunn, lest she unconsciously find hers wrapped up with his.

Bridget had thought they had done a reasonably good job hiding what had passed between them in the night from the stark light of day and the prying eyes that would know more.

But apparently, they had not.

“What . . . what do you mean?” Bridget asked, aiming for nonchalance and failing miserably.

“I know I was rather dead on my feet by the time we arrived home last night, so I do not fault you for thinking that I would slumber as soundly as Mother does.” Amanda shrugged as she began walking. Bridget could only follow, a brisk pace necessary to keep up with her taller sister.

They walked past a hedge line of white roses that surrounded the famed maze of Schönbrunn, Amanda idly touching the blooms, stopping to smell them here and there. To anyone else—and especially, to their mother, who was walking several yards ahead of them, Oliver held hostage on her arm—it would look like they were simply strolling.

It would not look in any way like Bridget’s biggest secret was about to be exposed—and by her sister, no less!

“In any case,” Amanda continued, her tone as bland as if they were talking about the flowers, “perhaps it was all the sleeping I did during the day in the carriage, but I was shocked to find myself wide awake after only a few hours’ slumber. And since I heard the very soft piano music, coming from somewhere in the house, I thought perhaps you might be awake, too.”

“Me?” Bridget replied, her voice a squeak. “I assure you I went right to bed. You must have been dreaming, Amanda.”

“I promise you, I could not have been dreaming—my imagination is in no way strong enough to have created what I saw from the ether.”

Bridget had to restrain herself from asking just what it was that Amanda thought she saw, but she held her tongue. Having her baby sister say out loud that she had seen her playing the pianoforte in such a state of dishabille—there was no habille to remark upon—while sitting next to a man who wore little more . . . she did not have the stomach for it. Instead, she decided to ask a far more pertinent question.

“How did I sound?” She turned to Amanda, cocking her head to one side.

Amanda blinked twice, then smirked. “You sounded wonderful.”

A hundred butterflies began flapping their wings as she began her next question.

“You haven’t told Mother yet, have you? Of course not; if you had, I would be locked in my chamber on gruel and water right now.”

Amanda’s brow came down. “Where on earth would Mother find gruel in Vienna?”

“It does not matter; she would.” Bridget shook her head. “Please do not tell her—not yet; let me . . . oh, let me figure out what to think and I shall cater to your every wish in the meantime. I will go and see every single architectural sight in the Italian peninsula with you, just let me figure out how to speak to Mother—”

“I am not going to tell Mother.” Amanda shook her head.

“You’re not?” Bridget breathed a sigh of relief. Then, always skeptical, at least when it came to her sister, she asked, “Why not?”

Amanda took her time, but when she did speak it was with the gravity of truth.

“Because you looked happy.”

It was Bridget’s turn to blink in surprise.

“I don’t understand,” Bridget replied, unsure. “You are not going to tell Mother what you saw?”

Amanda shook her head. “I have to admit to a certain amount of shock at seeing . . . well, you know. His . . . taking of liberties.”

Bridget wanted to cringe. Just how much did her sister see? But Amanda continued on blithely.

“But after I scoured my eyeballs,” she grimaced, “I let myself remember that Mr. Merrick seems to be a very nice man, and very nice to you. After all, any man who creates a circus in his music room for you must be worthy of some consideration.”

Bridget came to a stop. “I never told you that. How did you know . . .”

“Molly told me.” She shrugged. “I told you, I like to know things. And when I could not understand why the man should wish to take us to Vienna for a single concert, she told me that he had done much more than that for you, and likely would again.”

Bridget felt her heart begin to beat queerly. Her eyes trained themselves on Oliver’s back as her mother pulled him along the path. At that moment, he glanced back at them and winked at her. He was handling their mother with aplomb, it seemed.

“And he makes you better.” Amanda’s gentle line broke into her thoughts.

“Better,” Bridget repeated dully, her brow coming down.

“Well, you are not as angry as you once were. As lost, I should think.”

Bridget turned to her sister then, regarding her. “And you are not as young as you once were, are you? I do not think I can handle you being quite this grown up.”

Amanda shrugged, in that way that still marked her youth, and Bridget was glad of it. “I simply do not see the point in denials. I prefer you happy, Bridge. It makes life so much easier. So the question remains, does Mr. Merrick make you happy?”

A breeze picked up at that moment, stirring the skirts at her ankles, winding around her, then moving forward to wrap the pair walking ahead of them up in its life.

“He does make me happy,” she admitted quietly. “I’m in love with him, Amanda.”

“Oh,” Amanda breathed. Then she frowned. “Although I would not let that buy him forgiveness for taking liberties.”

“So . . . you approve of Mr. Merrick?”

Amanda turned up an eyebrow at her. “I do not know if it is my place to approve. Just as it is not my place to tell Mother what I saw. Although I think you should.”

“I will . . .” Bridget whispered desperately, and meant it. Perhaps she would not tell the particulars of what had transpired between her and Oliver, but she should at least speak her feelings. “At the right time. We have not . . . that is, not discussed . . .”

This time Amanda came up short. “You haven’t discussed? For heaven’s sake, Bridget . . . How can you not know his intentions? Do you even have any clue what you are doing?”

Bridget’s face flamed with shame and not a little bit of anger. Explaining herself to her sister was not on her list of activities for the day.

“Yes, I know what I am doing,” she said sternly. She knew his intentions, after all. Didn’t she? Granted, the question of marriage had been skirted around—although that was Bridget’s doing and not his. And if they did get married, where would they live? Would they remain in Venice? Would Bridget ever be able to go home to England and see her family? Her heart was sick at the idea of not being near her father, her sisters . . .

But no! This was exactly why she did not want to think about what came after the competition. Why she had requested a stay on the judgment, a stasis. A note held without transition.

Oliver glanced back at them then. A smile flashed over his shoulder—and a slightly desperate plea for rescue. She could only giggle as she watched him try to placate her mother with smiles and nods, touched by the solicitous way he always made certain that Bridget and Amanda were fine and within sight.

What on earth did she have to worry about? She shook her head at own foolishness. Oliver had never been anything but wonderful to her. Her safe harbor when it came to her own nerves. Her silent anchor when her lessons became overly intense. Her champion when she exposed that littlest bit of herself with her own compositions.

He was the one person she could truly trust. Even with the most sacred part of herself.

“Yes, Amanda,” she said again, but this time more kindly. “I know what I am doing.”

And she could only pray she was right.