Let It Be Me

Twenty-six

“WHAT do you mean, gone!?”

Oliver cursed in Italian, pulling Signor Zinni, the poor and currently quite frightened owner and operator of the Hotel Cortile, off his feet by the lapels of his coat.

“They left at dawn tide, Signore,” Zinni answered, as politely as he could. “They had all their trunks still packed from their trip to Austria, and when Signora Forrester wants something, she finds a way. So when Signorina Bridget said it was time to go back to England, it was no difficulty to secure passage on the next ship . . .”

Oliver let go of the little man, with a bit more vehemence than he likely should have. Zinni stumbled back, catching himself on his heels.

“I am sorry, Signore,” Zinni said, straightening his jacket. “But they rowed out and met their ship before the sun had risen. They are well into the Adriatic by now.”

Oliver cursed himself as he left the Hotel Cortile. He cursed himself for waiting until the following morning to seek out Bridget. He cursed himself for his stupidity in what he had said, in what he had conceded last night. And he cursed himself most of all for listening to Vincenzo.

“Let her go,” his half brother had said, as Bridget and her mother disappeared into the crowd of the Marchese’s ballroom. “She is too overwrought from the performance now.” He took Oliver by the arm and pulled him toward their host. “Trust me. I know. I cannot speak for hours after a performance like that. Come, the Marchese wishes to congratulate us.”

And so, he let her go. Stupidly, foolishly. The rest of the evening was spent in hollow conversation. In a glass of wine or whiskey too much, trying to soothe his ragged senses. In coming home too late, and sitting up all night, waiting until such a time as it was appropriate to come and call. He had spent the evening racking his brain, trying to figure out what to say to Bridget, how to defend his detestable actions, how to get her to forgive him.

And she had spent it fleeing the city.

Fleeing him.

She had played amazingly last night. He had heard her play beautifully before, he had seen her play naked just for him and seen her play in front of a thousand people at La Fenice, but nothing had had the power, the defiance of her performance at the Marchese’s. She had deserved to be the one receiving the praise, to shake the hands of the nephews of kings, the elite whose family name had once been written in the golden book.

But she wasn’t. She didn’t. She had not cared a whit for it, the thing that would have made her a name, a shining star among her peers. The thing that Carpenini fed from. The thing that, if he harnessed it, would put the Teatro Michelina on the map.

He turned a corner. Then another. Trying to lose himself in the city that he loved. But now, every corner reminded him of a wander, a lost afternoon.

Of Bridget.

He was reeling, lost in his own city, lost once again on the streets, missing a guiding force he hadn’t known he’d needed.

He had ruined it. It was well and truly his mess.

What was he going to do now?

His mind was a blank, reeling pit of blackness as he crossed a footbridge and his own dilapidated little house came into view.

He did not want to go home. But he had nowhere else to be.

He walked through the door and was immediately surprised to see that Frederico was not only awake, but at his position near the door.

“Well?” Frederico said, oddly anxious. “Where is she?”

“Sailing down the Adriatic,” he answered flatly. “Bring something to eat to the drawing room. I need to figure out what to do.”

“How can you think about food at a time like this!” his manservant cried.

Oliver was so shocked, he stepped back and stared at Frederico. The look on his face must have been something to behold, because Frederico immediately retreated a few steps.

“Er, that is . . . I’ll go see what can be got from the kitchen,” Frederico stammered, then moved with a fleetness of foot Oliver didn’t know he had, away from him.

Just as Bridget had flown away from him.

Oliver entered the music room and was nearly bowled over by sadness. Everything in this space was Bridget to him. Hell, his shirt that she had worn was still hanging behind the screen!

He went to the screen, grabbed the shirt in his hands, and collapsed on the worn velvet couch where he had spent so many mornings and afternoons. Completely and utterly numb.

“What are you doing?” Vincenzo’s voice came from the doorway. “Aren’t you supposed to be smoothing things over with your Signorina?”

“She’s gone,” Oliver said bleakly. “They have left Venice. They are on their way back to England.”

“How is that possible?” Vincenzo asked, and Oliver filled him in on what the hotel proprietor had said.

“I’m so sorry,” Vincenzo said, pressing a hand to his heart. But then he straightened. “Come, you must cheer up. And you must clean up—bathe and shave. Else we will be late.”

“Late?” Oliver growled. “For what?”

“For the Marchese!” Vincenzo rolled his eyes. “A note came while you were out. We are to meet him and Antonia at your teatro. He is very curious about what must be done to turn it back from a warehouse into a theatre.” Vincenzo moved over to the window, using the glass to inspect his reflection, straightening his coat. “We only have today; the Marchese will be leaving for his house on the mainland for the rest of summer soon. He wants to fund the production of the symphony, you know. Klein was livid . . . but I doubt he’ll be in Venice much longer, so that blond, humorless statue will not matter soon.”

Oliver watched his friend, his half brother, in complete silence.

“Vincenzo, I’m not going with you.”

“Not dressed like that, you’re not,” Vincenzo answered blithely. “Is that the same coat from last night? Did you sleep at all?”

“No. Vincenzo, I’m not going with you. Ever.”

Vincenzo rolled his eyes and heaved a great sigh. “And why not?”

“Are you completely insane? I have to go find Bridget.”

“Her again,” Vincenzo said under her breath.

“Yes,” Oliver said, rising to his feet. “Her. Or have you forgotten her already? The student who played the Number Twenty-three better than even you could last night. The student you stole music from in the very same breath.”

“Damn it, Oliver, I thought you said we could move past this!” Vincenzo grumbled.

“Well, we cannot. It’s too large. We betrayed her. You and me, and if you had any decency, you would own up to it.”

“What are you going to do, Oliver? Chase her all the way to England?” Vincenzo scoffed.

“Yes,” Oliver said, realization dawning. “That’s precisely what I’m going to do. Frederico!”

He bellowed his manservant’s name, and Frederico appeared within seconds, a tray of meats in his hand that Oliver had forgotten he wanted.

“Arrange passage for me on the next available ship to England. Whatever the cost, it will be met.” Oliver reflected for a moment. “You are welcome to come with me, or you may stay and serve Signor Carpenini. He’ll likely be moving back to the Marchese’s palazzo—the lease on this house will be given up, at any rate.”

Frederico nodded, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, spoke. “Er, if it would be possible, Signore, I would prefer to come with you.” Frederico turned a rather unseemly shade of red. “It’s just that . . . Signorina Molly is with her mistress, and I—er, that is . . . we developed a rapport . . .”

Oliver’s eyebrows shot up. “Very well. We can be lovesick and irritable at sea together. Molly did do wonders at making you a better manservant.”

True to his newly improved skills, Frederico said nothing to this and instead bowed his way out of the room, presumably to go set up their passage.

“Are you mad?” Vincenzo asked. “What about the Teatro? What about all the money you have put into it?”

“Hang the Teatro,” Oliver said grimly. “I will build a new theatre in England. It will take years, but I will do it, for her.”

“I don’t believe you.” He threw up his hands. “The Marchese is within our grasp, and you wish to go chase a petulant girl halfway across the world? She doesn’t matter, Oliver!”

“That’s where you are wrong. She does matter. She matters more than anyone.” Oliver turned to his friend, seeing him with new eyes. And they were not kind. “What is it—was it the fact that she is so talented? That she played so well, composed such a beautiful ‘Ode to Venice’? Or was it that she preferred me over you? When did you stop giving a damn?”

“Oh, Oliver,” he sneered. “I never gave a damn. Not about her feelings. Not about the fact that you were bedding her. All I cared about was how she played, impressing the Marchese, and getting my rightful place back.”

“And there it is,” Oliver said, clapping his hands together in mock applause. “Finally a little truth from behind the facade. I know you don’t care about much, but foolishly, I did think you cared about me.”

“About you? Oliver, I made you! I brought you to Venice! I got you your place at La Fenice!”

“And in the past five years, you’ve never let me forget it!” Oliver shouted back. “You have spent the past year living off me and my father’s money like a parasite, and I allowed it, because of familial feeling. Making empty promises—”

“Empty? Ha!” Vincenzo cried. “I am making good on those promises right now!”

“Falsely. You stole the music of the woman I love, and a woman who trusted you as a teacher. You have no shame, do you?”

“Not if it gets me what I need.” Vincenzo rounded on him. “You had our mother, you had a father with money, and you have never known what it’s like to claw your way to your position.”

“And you have never known what it’s like to care more about someone else than about yourself. I did that, for you. I chose you, Vincenzo. Every time. Over my father, when he did not want me to come to Venice with you, when he thought it might be foolish. I did not even know you, but I was so excited at the prospect of having a real relationship with a brother—”

“You felt pity for me, because you stole our mother away from me,” Vincenzo snapped.

“Maybe I did,” Oliver conceded. “And you used that pity to your advantage. But I also chose you over every other person in Venice, when you were cast down and had no one. And last night I idiotically chose you over Bridget Forrester, something I will regret forever. And if she does not forgive me, so help me Vincenzo, I will never forgive you.”

They stood toe-to-toe, eye to eye, fists clenched. Brothers—same hair, same complexion, but so different in every other respect. In how they treated people. In how they thought about others. It was many long seconds before Vincenzo finally broke his gaze away.

“Fine!” he said, throwing up his hands. “I will go meet the Marchese myself.” He went back to the window, began straightening his coat again. “Have fun chasing the girl across the country. Have fun dealing with your father again. I don’t need you, Oliver. I have never needed you. I have never needed anyone.”

“No, Vincenzo,” Oliver said sadly. Resigned. But relieved. “It is I who do not need you. And knowing that makes me free.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left the music room, ran upstairs, and began the hasty process of locating trunks and throwing things in them.

After five long years, he was going home.