Let It Be Me

Three

“WELL, this cannot possibly get any worse!” Lady Forrester cried as they surveyed the damage the next morning.

The tree in question—usually standing strong and elegant on the edge of the square, just across the thin street from the Forresters’ front door—thanks to the thick ice weighing down its branches and a suspiciously strong breeze that had exploited a weakness within the tree’s trunk, now resided in the drawing room of the Forrester house.

“I tell you, my dear, I have absolutely had it!” Lady Forrester continued huffing to her husband. Lord Forrester stood in the doorway to the drawing room next to his daughters, staring into the wreckage while stroking his mustache in a nervous habit. Lady Forrester was working herself up into a good lather. The crash that had come in the wee hours of the morning had awoken the entire household, but only now, after the sun was well up, were they able to properly assess the damage.

The two large framed windows facing the street in the drawing room were completely smashed in, broken glass mixing with melting ice and shards of wood from the window frames. Additionally, the masonry work of the Forrester town house must have been atrociously shoddy, since parts of the stone facade and bits of wall littered the now utterly ruined carpet, too.

“How could we have possibly been living in a house as badly constructed as this one?” Bridget’s mother cried, as she paced. “We should take the builders to court!”

“Considering the house was built sometime before George the Third’s ascension, I doubt the builders are still alive, my dear,” Lord Forrester replied, but a swift kick from his youngest daughter, Amanda, stilled him from making further comment. A look passed between them told Bridget it was best to not poke the grumpy bear.

The grumpy bear in question shot her husband a dangerous look as she continued gesticulating from the doorway. None of the family had been allowed in the drawing room until all of the broken glass could be cleaned up, and thus they were relegated to the hall outside.

“Look at the mess! It looks like a cannon fired through the house!”

“That’s only because you refuse to wear your spectacles,” Lord Forrester muttered, and received swift kicks from both his daughters. “Er, I mean, my love, it’s not that bad. Just a few broken windows. We will simply close this room off until repairs can be made . . .”

“Close the room off? We cannot very well close it off from the street, can we? What will people say about us living in such conditions? Why will young men want to call when they have to weather that eyesore to do so?”

Bridget’s heart sank at her mother’s words. She was too tired, too sad to contradict her by saying that no young men were going to come calling—at least not until Amanda made her debut in two years’ time.

The situation was disheartening all around.

“All right, all right,” Lord Forrester was saying, holding up his hands. “We can remove from the house, then. I’m certain we can find a suitable one to rent, or perhaps Sarah’s new home can sustain us until the repairs are done . . .”

But a furious look lit his wife’s eyes. “I am not about to impose on my newly married daughter with our entire family! I doubt Jackson would much appreciate the intrusion, either. As for letting a house—nothing would be available on short notice. Oh! Why don’t you understand? I’ve absolutely had it with winter altogether!”

The sisters, meanwhile, watched their parents’ heated conversation in a mild state of shock.

“Bridget,” Amanda whispered, taking a small step back and pulling her sister with her, “have you ever seen them argue like this?”

“No,” Bridget whispered back. “Not in front of us, at least.” Indeed, their parents were usually very good about presenting a united front to their children, keeping any heated discussions behind closed doors. But now, with the pressures of a failing Little Season; a daughter who was not only “not taking,” but seemed to prove repellent; and a tree through the house, cracks were beginning to show in their mother’s usual practicality.

And Bridget knew it was her fault.

Not the tree, of course, but the other failures and catastrophes rested on her shoulders. After all, she had been the one who couldn’t help telling the Parrishes that she would have Carpenini for a teacher, and she was the one who let her doubts overcome her on the stage when she had learned of the Signore’s changed travel schedule.

When they came home after last night’s musical debacle, her mother had said nothing. No recriminations, no lectures. And Bridget felt worse for it. It was as if through silence, her mother had said she finally realized that Bridget was beyond saving.

Yes, Bridget was tired of the winter, too.

“Well, then,” their father was saying, stepping bravely back into the fray and trying to fix things, “perhaps you ladies should return to Primrose! I have to stay in London on Historical Society business, I’m afraid, but it must be much more cozy to the south.”

Their mother snorted. “Primrose Manor is practically on the sea! The winds alone are freezing, and they’ve likely knocked another dozen trees into our home!”

“My dear, short of hibernating or removing winter altogether, I can see no way around the season but to wait it out!” their father harrumphed. Apparently the cracks were beginning to show for him, too.

“Remove winter altogether?” Amanda asked quietly, in their own corner of the hall. “What a strange notion.”

“Indeed, how might one remove winter, do you imagine?” Bridget replied as brightly as she could manage. “Setting large fires at appropriate intervals?”

“Building a large ship that takes you away from it?” Amanda tried, wrinkling her nose.

“Far more practical than my suggestion, but I fear that would be removing from winter, not—”

Bridget’s voice caught in her throat. Could it be that simple? Was it possible there was a solution to all their woes, right in front of them?

For after all, it was possible to remove from winter—one simply had to go to a place where these early months were relatively mild. And what such land was renowned for its mild climate?

“Italy,” she breathed, earning a quizzical stare from her sister.

“Bridget, what on earth . . . ?” Amanda began, but was cut off by Bridget’s hand squeezing her arm.

“Mandy, do you want to spend the next few months with Miss Pritchett in the schoolroom at Primrose?” she whispered hurriedly.

“I doubt I’ll have much choice in the matter . . .” Amanda replied, her brow coming down in confusion.

“I know I wouldn’t. In fact, I would rather spend them learning from the world than reading about it. Wouldn’t you?”

“Er, I suppose so . . .”

“Then agree with everything I say for the next five minutes.” Bridget went on tiptoe to peck her sister on the cheek, then turned to her parents, who were still grumbling and staring daggers at each other.

“Father, what a marvelous solution you have struck upon. Mother, isn’t it simply wonderful?” she cried, crossing the hallway to them, Amanda in tow.

“What?” her father replied. “What solution, child?”

“Why for the removal of winter! Or rather, for the removal from winter.”

And with a tremulous smile, the largest of which had been seen on Bridget Forrester’s face in nigh on a year, a plan was laid out that suddenly made a tree through a drawing room look like a stroke of good fortune, instead of the worst of luck.

“Husband,” Lady Forrester cried when Bridget was done, “forgive me, but I must see to our trunks. We are off to Italy!”