Let It Be Me

Twenty-five

BRIDGET felt like a fool. A complete and utter fool. She had spent all that time convincing herself she could do this, training and becoming a better, stronger player, and one small hiccup and a stare from Klein’s ice blue eyes and she was undone.

It was utterly ridiculous! She would go out there, and she would show him, Klein, Carpenini, her mother, the entire crowd gathered for the gala—that she could do this. Despite the enormous pressure she was being put under, despite the strange way her body felt both light and heavy, both hungry and full and fluttering—she would go out there.

In a moment.

She instead sat on the sofa, looking out the long windows onto the courtyard, and let herself breathe. Once to steady herself . . . A second breath for—

“Are you all right?”

Bridget turned in her seat. Oliver stood by the door, slipping the latch shut.

“Yes,” she replied with a smile. “I just feel foolish, is all.”

“Foolish,” he repeated, as he came over to her, seating himself beside her. “For what?”

“For thinking I had this conquered,” she replied, shrugging sadly. “For letting myself give in to my fears and run.”

“You do have this conquered,” Oliver replied, resting his hand over hers. “Klein is a bastard. He has played a game with this competition and is hoping to play one with your head. He must know that you are too good a pianist to try to best you honorably.”

“I know.” She shook her head, trying to smile. “In my mind, I know that. And perhaps, as I’m playing, the rest of me will catch up.” She rose then, steeling her resolve.

“You don’t have to play quite yet,” Oliver whispered warmly, not letting go of her hand. “Vincenzo has bought us a few minutes’ reprieve. He is playing his newest composition for the Marchese. Listen.”

Bridget did—and heard the magnificent pianoforte, its music drifting in from the large ballroom to their small, still space.

“This is new?” she asked, letting herself listen for a few moments. “It’s lovely.”

“He’s been working on it for a while, finally cracked it while we were away. He’s quite proud of it.”

“And you are of him.” She sat back down by his side.

“I have to say, I am pleased that he has found his way back to music—and that he is keeping his promise to me, in letting me stage it in the fall.” Oliver gave a small frown. “If I ever manage to get the Teatro back into shape.”

“You will,” Bridget replied. “Once the competition is won, Carpenini will be welcomed back into the Marchese’s fold, and you will benefit from his patronage as well.”

“I do not wish to think about that right now.” Oliver shook his head, and she knew he meant the competition aspect of it. The fact that it all rested on her shoulders. This great favor she was doing for them.

“Nor do I,” Bridget replied. “In fact, I would like to think of nothing at all.” She looked up at him from under her lashes. He reached up, letting his knuckles graze lightly against her cheek. It was the first time in ages that they had been alone together. The first time since that night that they had no fear of being seen. They could be themselves with each other, at last.

Oliver leaned forward, took her mouth with his, and Bridget bowed into him, grateful for the contact. He kissed her lips, her eyelids, the easy spot beneath her earlobe—every one a thank-you, every one a gift.

His gentleness, his reverence nearly undid her, but more than that, it gave her strength, made her bold. She took what he offered and let herself go to the sensation. Let herself be in that moment. Not the one that would follow, and not the months of hard work and conquering fear that had preceded it. But simply being there, in that little room, at that one minute in time, it was all the comfort she could have ever asked for.

“Bridget”—he broke away, her name on his breath a prayer—“you’re thinking again.”

“I am,” she admitted, biting her lip. Oliver’s thumb moved lazily against her jaw. “I was thinking about how much I like this moment, and how I wish the next were over, so I could have more moments like this instead.”

Oliver’s hand stilled. Then after what seemed an age, he let out a slow, long-held breath. “You want moments like this one.”

“I do.”

“Forever?” he asked, his voice becoming ragged.

Now it was Bridget’s turn to go still. Oliver carried on.

“I told you that once this was over, I would have a question to ask you.” His thumb began to move again—a caress, a persuasion. “Would you like me to ask you that question now?”

Bridget looked into his eyes, could not look away. And suddenly she wanted to hear the question. She wanted to face what was coming and not stall it, not put it off, not be afraid.

She had spent so much time afraid.

Afraid of performing for people. Afraid of not measuring up to her sister Sarah. Afraid of being judged. Afraid of losing—be it a moment in time or a competition. She had spent so much time afraid that it overshadowed any accomplishment that she had made in that time. After all, she had performed on the stage of La Fenice! She had learned Beethoven’s No. 23. And she had somehow managed to get this man to fall in love with her—and vice versa.

She had a single point of bravery that had changed her life. She had come to Venice—perhaps at the time she had been running from failure in London, but she had come to Venice and it had altered everything. Because it had introduced her to this man, with whom she would never be afraid. Never be judged. He could always be trusted and she would always be safe.

She opened her mouth to let him know what she felt, to tell him to ask the question he so wished to ask. But before she could, something else came into the room.

Something that would change everything, once again.

At some point, in those few blissful minutes, Carpenini’s playing, floating in from the ballroom outside, had changed. He had shifted from the opening movement—a bright, cheerful march—to the second, which was deeper, more complex in theme. The notes came to Bridget as if through a fog. It started quietly, peacefully, like the morning sun just touching the waters to the east of the city. Then it built with the bustle of a day spent being met by new things, surprises, happy exclamations. Then the falling into night, a quieting down again, a delighted exhaustion.

To Bridget Forrester, it was the sound of a foreigner awakening to Venice and falling in love with its cacophony.

It was her “Ode to Venice.”

“What is that?” Bridget asked, horror breaking over her mind. “Is . . . is he playing my ‘Ode to Venice’?”

Oliver seemed as shocked as she was. He dropped his hands from her face, standing abruptly.

“Do not worry,” he said, turning to her—his face nothing but worry, turning quickly to anger. “Give me a moment. I will get to the bottom of this.”

And he stood and exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

The next few minutes, Bridget went numb. She knew that she heard her ‘Ode to Venice,’ woven through this movement and the next, built within the layers of the piece. She knew that at some point, the music stopped and the applause began. And she knew, without a doubt, that Oliver and Carpenini would be coming into her antechamber next, to fetch her to play.

And suddenly the room became too small for her.

Air, she needed air. Fleetly, she moved to one of the long windows—actually a door—overlooking the courtyard and stepped out into the night air. A small fountain bubbled in the center, but she did not care about the peace it brought. She instead let herself lean against the cool stone of the palazzo just outside the door, trying to calm down, trying to compose herself.

Carpenini had stolen her music. Her composition. It was as if he had taken her child and put his own name upon it. Then he had thrust it into the middle of his symphony, and the world had applauded his originality. If she could she would rip his teeth out, the lying wretch!

But no, she stopped herself from thinking violently, and futilely. Even if she had the strength and attitude to rip his teeth out, it still would not stop him from playing. Or from passing off her music as his. No, the only thing that could stop him now was Oliver.

Oliver. Just thinking of him calmed her nerves. Of course. He would find a way to fix this. He would, she had no doubt.

Unfortunately, at that moment, her faith would prove unjustified.

“Oliver, come now—” Carpenini’s voice floated into the antechamber, the click of a door opening preceding it.

“Can you really have no idea just what you’ve done? She is nervous enough as it is,” Oliver’s voice answered harshly. Then, calling out into the darkness, “Bridget? Are you here?”

But Bridget, still in a daze, could not move from her spot on the wall. Her despair kept her rooted, kept her listening.

“Did you see her come out of this room?” Oliver was saying, his anger and frustration showing in his voice.

“I was not looking, I was too busy playing and being applauded,” Carpenini replied with a sniff. Because Oliver was speaking English, Carpenini was, too—his frequent use of it over the past few months with her had made it as common to him as Italian. “Did you not hear them? They loved me, they loved the music!”

“Yes, I did hear them. What I did not hear was any acknowledgment from you that you did not write it.”

“I wrote every note of it!” Carpenini growled. “Everyone borrows from other composers, builds on their themes. There was also some Bach in there, some Haydn . . .”

“The difference is, when you borrow from Bach or Haydn, people say, ‘Oh, he’s reinterpreting old masters.’ When you ‘borrow’ from a young unknown, no one says anything!”

“A bit hypocritical, coming from the man who helped me do it!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Oliver bit out.

“You knew she was talented, had her play her piece, knowing I would overhear—”

“That’s not—”

“Then you remove her from Venice for a fortnight so I have time to work in peace—an arrangement you enjoyed as well, do not think I have not noticed.”

“Damn it, that wasn’t—”

“Tell the truth, Oliver,” Vincenzo spat out. “You are not angry at my having borrowed her piece—you are angry that I played it in front of her, and it upset her. Enough to run away, it seems.”

“I am angry at all of it, damn you!” Oliver replied in a ragged whisper. And then something fell, or was pushed, because a thud and crash followed, the sound of something heavy—flesh? books?—hitting the floor.

Both men fell silent for a moment, the tension in the air palpable, floating out into the courtyard. Suddenly, she could hear someone let out a long-held breath.

“What do you wish me to do, Oliver?” Carpenini asked, all aggression gone from his voice. “All you have wanted me to do for the past year is compose. Hell, you bought a theatre for it! You have been pushing me, day after day after day. And I finally have, and it is great. Hell, the Marchese was so impressed he took my hand. We may not even need the Signorina to play now!”

Carpenini paused, as if trying to collect his courage. “If I go out there now and tell him that it was not my original work . . . the Signorina could play as if Beethoven himself possessed her, and we would not win back his favor. I would never have his patronage again, and you, by your association with me, would never be able to open your teatro. Even if you had it outfitted in gold, one word from the Marchese and no one would dare set foot there.”

Oliver gave a grunt, perhaps in a scoffing manner, but there were no words to counter Carpenini’s persuasion.

“It is done now,” Carpenini said softly. “Can we not just move forward?”

The words hung in midair, taking up all the space. Bridget could no longer hear the babbling of the fountain in the courtyard, nor, from the opposite direction, the murmurs of people in the ballroom beyond the door. No, the whole world was those few words.

And the world was brought low by what Oliver said next.

“Fine,” he conceded. “We shall move forward. For now.”

“Thank you, Oliver, my brother,” Carpenini sighed in relief.

“Let’s just get this ghastly night over with,” Oliver said grimly.

“Yes, please!” Carpenini gave a short laugh. Then, a little hesitation entered his voice. “What shall you tell Signorina Forrester?”

“God only knows. I’ll make up something for now about how you intended it as a sort of honor, I suppose,” Oliver replied. “That is, if we can find her.”

“There is no need, gentlemen,” Bridget said, her voice as strong and resolved as she could make it. She lifted herself off the courtyard wall and presented herself in the doorway to the courtyard, in full view of the occupants of the small room.

Carefully, she moved through the door, her head held high, her back straight. And her eyes were absolutely dry.

“Signorina!” Carpenini cried, the slightest of nervous quavers invading his demeanor. “Thank goodness, we worried. Did we not, Oliver?”

Oliver came over and tried to take her hand. She moved politely but definitively out of his grasp.

“Bridget,” Oliver tried, his face grave. “What you heard . . . I cannot explain—”

“So do not try,” she answered. “I should hate for you to have to ‘make up something.’”

There was sufficient ice in her voice to throw Oliver off his balance. In fact, he looked visibly struck.

“You know, I do not know which of you is worse,” she said, very calmly, almost passively. She settled her gaze on Carpenini. “You, who would steal music from your student.” She turned to Oliver. “Or you, who would let him.”

Oliver looked ill—then began to say something. But before any words could be formed, a soft knock came at the door.

“I’m so sorry.” Bridget’s mother stuck her head in. “But they are waiting for you, my dear.” Her mother’s eyes found Bridget’s in the darkness. “The Marchese seems anxious for the competition to begin.”

Bridget nodded once, sparing her teacher a cold glance. “So it seems you do need me to play after all.”

“Signorina,” Carpenini began, letting go of any pretense they might have had. “Please, I beg you forget what you just heard. Play well. Play your best. I know you can do it. And it would be lifesaving for me—for Oliver! Come, Signorina—show mercy upon us.”

“Oh, Signore,” Bridget sighed, her voice a steel blade. “Don’t you understand?” She lifted her hand delicately, indicating the ballroom beyond. “This has never been about you.”

And with that, Bridget squared her shoulders, painted a look of pure serenity on her face, and joined her mother in the ballroom.

The room hushed as she emerged, everyone settling into their seats. Her mother walked with her until she came to the stage; then she let her daughter carry on alone. Bridget held her head high as she mounted the stage and came to stand before the pianoforte.

She looked down into the front row—past the stage lamps she could see the Marchese sitting next to his daughter Antonia Galetti, who smiled smugly. The Marchese gave a nod, giving her leave to proceed.

Bridget gave the room a short curtsy. Then she turned and seated herself at the pianoforte.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knew she could do something horrible, something little right now. She could play terribly on purpose, to destroy any hope that Signor Carpenini had of winning the competition. She could do that, she supposed, and walk away with a spiteful heart. But somehow, she also knew that if she engaged in that kind of revenge, it would only end up hurting her. After all, it would be her failure at the keyboard, not Carpenini’s.

So she had to play. She would not give him—either of them—the satisfaction of bringing her low, of making her petty. Regardless of the way her heart was beginning to hurt, she had to play.

And so she put her fingers on the keys and began.

Almost at once, she knew something was wrong. She had begun too fast; the rhythm was rushed. Someone in the audience coughed, jarring her. She hit her first grace note before the beat, not on it. Then, not eight measures in, she flubbed a slur and hit a wrong note.

Hands shaking, Bridget lifted her fingers from the keys. Her eyes swam. Her heart beat like she faced a firing squad. Her nerves had never left her, it seemed, never given up the fight for her attention.

She turned her head to look out into the audience, where just beyond the veil of darkness a few hundred people sat, waiting.

Her judges.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice thick with the threat of tears. But just when she wanted to run, as she had done in the past—hell, in the last half hour!—she forced herself to stay rooted to the spot.

Her nerves would not get to win this time.

“I . . . I should like to start again,” she said firmly. Then placed her hands over the keys.

There was a point, between the end of a failure and the beginning of a new attempt, where one could allow change to squeeze in. Where a decision was made—between letting oneself fall or picking oneself up again. And it was that point around which whole worlds revolved.

One breath, to focus yourself.

In that moment, Bridget let her mind sharpen, her eyes firmly on the keys, letting them grow in her vision, just beyond her hands. She saw them clearly. She saw the music clearly.

A second breath, for what comes next.

And then she played.

At first, it was just the notes, just the way they were on the page, that filled her head. She could see them, just beyond the keys, guiding her measure by measure.

But it was not long before the notes floated away, leaving her with what she knew by rote, what she felt, and how she had gotten there.

The first few stanzas of the No. 23 were her trepidation. Her fear of being in a ballroom in London, of being compared to her sister. Of living a comparative life to her sisters. Then, a great thundering crash, a start of something rushed, and falling . . . like a tree through the front room of the Forrester town house—letting cold air in and waking her up. Waking Bridget up.

She let her fingers transition into the driving, thunderous undercurrent of eighth notes, sixteenth notes, a sense of drive, of spirit. Of something reckless and new.

She stepped out of the boat onto the streets of Venice. And hunted down her object with a hope and certainty only the naïve could have.

A change of key, into a minor step—expectations are not always met.

Oliver standing at the door, surprised.

And sometimes, you lay eyes on someone so important and yet, in that moment, you do not see them as such. And yet, you recognize them.

And then, everything changed. The music evolved into its second movement, a strange peace overtaking everything. A reprieve.

Oliver, walking her home, after lessons. His enthusiasm for the city infecting her.

She played with the stately grandeur of someone who knew the path that was laid out before her and enjoyed the details one can see only when one is no longer lost. A trill here, a small crescendo there—she could make this section her own.

Wandering the streets of Venice. A kiss in a cobblestone alley. A circus.

Falling in love leisurely, without realizing it was happening.

The music changed once again—the reprieve, the grace of the second movement was always too short-lived for Bridget’s liking. Now came the rush of necessity. Of moving through the mud and finding yourself only inches farther away than you were before—but much, much stronger for it.

Lessons, drills, hand exercises. Working harder than she had ever worked in her life.

Finally, she reached the epoch of the run, the notes that were written on a scale about the scale. A mad rush of finger work that took all of her strength, all of the length of her arms. Thank heaven for the fashion of short sleeves in evening dress and summer wear, because Bridget did not have Oliver’s shirt to save her this time.

The music slowed suddenly, a ritardando that brought the drive up short and forced the listeners to catch their held breath. A descending scale of notes, a falling dream in the middle of a sleepless night.

A daring, stolen gondola ride, under the stars. A wander by water.

But it ended in a crash of terror, this short reprieve immediately sent back to the beginning of the movement, a split refrain. Only this time, the pressure increased. Since it was a repeated movement, one knew what was coming. But one did not know the heart-pounding level of power that refrain could have.

Hearing Beethoven’s symphony for the first time. Making love with Oliver. All of it. Power. Joy. Need.

She pushed all of her emotions, her memory of that one transcendent night into this section. Into this repeated movement. Into its speed, its precision. But something else was there, too, something she had never had before, when she played.

Sadness. Loss. Throwing everything away with a few short words.

And that was what she did. She threw the notes away, the keys. Threw them far into the air and let them fall in an arc like water, a spiraling ascent and descent pushed through herself at impossible speed and ejected. Let go.

And it was glorious, because it set her playing free.

She didn’t want it anymore. She did not want this piece. And she did not want the applause that came in a massive wave once she hit those last notes with such force and verve they vibrated in the air long after she had finished.

It took a moment for Bridget to realize what was happening. Her breaths game in hard gulps, her hands still pulsing with the need to play, calluses forming from how hard she was striking the keys. A gleam of perspiration sat upon her brow. She had never, never played with as much feeling in her life. She had never before gotten that lost in the music, in the world she built around it.

And the reaction was breathtaking.

Once her eyes managed to adjust, she could see beyond the dark veil and into the audience; she could tell that they were all on their feet. Not one of them was seated, and every single one was applauding wildly. Bridget could even see some ladies waving their handkerchiefs—and then one of them threw hers upon the stage! A favor thrown for a musical performance by a lady was strange in and of itself, but for Bridget . . . it was wholly alien.

She bent to a curtsy, the only thing she could think of to do, gathering up the thrown handkerchief while she was bent low. Then, to cries of “Brava! Encore!” Bridget left the stage as quickly as her shaky legs could carry her.

She found her mother emerging from the sea of the applauding audience. Lady Forrester wrapped her in a hug, then took her by the shoulders. “Bridget, that was magnificent! I have never heard you play like that—I . . . I was crying!”

And indeed, she had been. The telltale shine on her cheeks gave it away, but the smile on her face told her it was tears of joy.

A giddy lightheartedness began to invade Bridget—it was happiness. It was, more than anything, relief.

“Indeed,” came a voice from behind her. A simple touch on her shoulder told her who it was. And suddenly, that lightheartedness began to feel hollow. She spared a glance over her shoulder. Hard, so hard for her to do.

“I have never heard playing like that,” Oliver said, his voice cracking with emotion. It seemed he had a few tears as well. “Bridget, please, let me explain . . .”

Behind him, Bridget could see Carpenini, as energetic as a schoolboy, happily shaking the Marchese’s hand. She could see Klein, too, just beyond the Signore, looking murderous, and nervous. Carpenini saw it, too, and could not help a gloating smile.

“There is no need to explain,” Bridget said simply. “You chose him. Threw in your lot. You always have. Go, revel in your success.”

“What is that supposed—”

“Mother, I’m suddenly very tired,” she said, turning to her mother, who was following the conversation raptly—and not without concern. “I should like to go now, if possible.”

“Er, you do not wish to stay?” she asked. “To hear the rest of the competition?”

“No,” she answered succinctly. “I would like to go home.”

“Of course, my dear,” her mother conceded. And without another glance over her shoulder, she let her mother lead her through the crowd, still applauding, still talking, their voices the squawking of a thousand excited geese in Bridget’s mind, to the doors, and out into the night.

Away from the party.

Away from Carpenini, away from Oliver.

Away from this movement, this chapter of her life.

Away, indeed, from Venice.