Let It Be Me

Eight

THERE would be rules.

First of all, the lessons would be conducted at Mr. Merrick’s home. This surprised Bridget, as instruction was usually given at the student’s place of residence. But, as Signor Carpenini pointed out to Bridget’s mother when she returned, the Hotel Cortile, while well appointed, had a rather inferior instrument, out of tune and from the last century. Mr. Merrick’s piano was apparently of the latest style, with a proper seven-octave keyboard.

“But my daughter must be chaperoned,” Lady Forrester replied, unwilling to budge on this point.

“She has a maid, does she not?” Carpenini’s eyes flew to Molly, who had retaken her place at the door. Molly’s gaze remained steady and just slightly contemptuous. After all, she had heard every word of the true reason Carpenini wanted to teach her. Bridget could only silently plead with her to not blurt it out to her mother then and there. Later, she would plead verbally.

“A maid is hardly acceptable chaperonage in a bachelor’s home,” Lady Forrester wisely countered. “It would seem that I would be the only appropriate chaperone available.”

Her mother, chaperone? How was she supposed to learn anything with her sitting in the room, watching like a hawk? She would be too nervous to do anything. And she was already nervous enough, to be in the presence of Signor Carpenini!

Bridget shot a look of alarm to Mr. Merrick. Why Mr. Merrick, she did not know—perhaps because he was the one who had first breached honesty with her. But somehow, she knew that he was the person best suited to solving this problem.

He blinked twice, and then, miraculously, solve the problem he did.

“Er, luckily, it is not a bachelor’s home,” he blurted, seeming to surprise even himself.

“Are you married, then, Mr. Merrick?” Lady Forrester replied, blinking. “Your father never mentioned such good fortune when we met with him.”

“No! I am not married. But my, er, my aunt lives with me. On my mother’s side. Great-aunt actually. She hails from Milan and is very much a stickler for propriety.”

By the way Carpenini looked at his friend and then smoothly covered his reaction, Bridget knew this to be a lie. It was a small wonder that her mother did not catch it as well. She could only attribute it to the fact that once again, Lady Forrester had left off her spectacles.

“My aunt will provide ample chaperonage.”

“Well,” Lady Forrester said on a sigh. “I still will not feel comfortable until a proper call is paid upon your aunt. We will attend her at your first lesson, Bridget.”

“Oh, Mother, I don’t think—” Bridget was about to demur and try to gracefully back Mr. Merrick out of being caught in his lie, but the upturned corner of Mr. Merrick’s mouth—the smallest show of mischief—told her to keep still. Maybe he did have an aunt hidden away in the city somewhere who could be installed at a moment’s notice.

But the problem of the aunt was quickly put aside when Carpenini laid down the second rule.

“Your lessons will be daily, except for Sundays. They will begin at nine in the morning and not end until three.”

“Six hours? Are you intending to break my daughter’s fingers?” Lady Forrester said, aghast.

“It is how I teach, Signora,” Carpenini said simply, brooking no opposition. And then he added a third rule. “But I will not take all of the Signorina’s time. In fact”—he leaned forward, a conspiratorial glint in his eye—“forbid the young lady from practicing outside my presence.”

As much as his confiding tone (and the thought of six hours of Carpenini’s uninterrupted presence) set Bridget’s heart to prestissimo, she had presence of mind enough to ask: “But . . . why?”

“Because your mother wishes you to enjoy the delights of the city, and I will not take that away from you.” Carpenini gave a generous nod to Lady Forrester, and she preened with the attention and the deference. “Besides, I would not want you practicing bad habits,” he admonished Bridget. “So I must be there to make sure you are practicing good ones.”

“So we are agreed? We begin lunedi, Monday,” Signor Carpenini said as he rose from his seat, bringing an end to that afternoon’s interview. Bridget had a dozen or so questions (Did Mr. Merrick really have an aunt living with him? Why couldn’t she practice at the hotel? What should she play for the Signore first?), not to mention another dozen questions that were related directly to the competition (What piece would they play? How many people would be there? How was she ever going to play in front of a room full of people without her nerves failing her?), but no such questions emerged from her mouth as she and her mother stood and gave curtsies to Mr. Merrick’s and Signor Carpenini’s farewell bows.

Which was how, Monday morning at nine o’clock, Bridget found herself taking her first lessons from Signor Carpenini.

“Don’t be nervous,” Mr. Merrick said in her ear as he took her hand to help her from the gondola at the door to his home. Approaching the rough brick structure from the water had been different than approaching by foot. As if she were being delivered to her fate, instead of rushing headlong toward it. She managed to smile and nod at him as he led them through the main entrance.

Although she had been here for only minutes previously, there was now a charged air about the place. A sense of expectation.

“Your home seems different,” Bridget whispered to Mr. Merrick as she took his arm and he escorted her to the music room—which, it seemed, was also the drawing room, wherein a beautiful scrolled ebony pianoforte took up the center of the room. Indeed, it was a far superior instrument to what the Hotel Cortile had.

“Yes. It’s amazing what two days’ worth of scrubbing can do to a place,” Mr. Merrick whispered back, his eyes smiling at her. “But no more mentions of your last visit. We wouldn’t want your mother to become suspicious.”

“Yes, of course,” Bridget said nervously as she glanced over her shoulder, where her mother had seated herself on a low settee and was busy conversing with, surprisingly, Mr. Merrick’s ancient great-aunt.

“Che?” the old, bent woman kept saying, pulling her thick shawl tight over bony shoulders. “Lessons, si?”

“Si!” Lady Forrester yelled, taking another sip of the tea laid out for them. “For my daughter!” She pointed to Bridget. “With Signor Carpenini!”

“I think yelling is unnecessary, Mother,” Amanda said, from Lady Forrester’s other side. “She can hear, but she does not understand the language.” Amanda was exhibiting all the signs of the energetic younger child forced into this visit. Her feet tapped, and her hand went from her chin to the armrest to her chin again, an endless fidget. “Where is Signor Carpenini, anyway?” she pouted. Amanda had been horribly affronted to be left out of the meeting with the Signore.

Bridget had been wondering that, too.

In all the jumble of questions since the meeting, in Bridget’s mind, the memory of the direct gaze, handsome features, and passionate voice of Signor Carpenini played directly into her subsequent fractiousness. The fact that she had not seen him yet that morning only heightened the anticipation, and her fears.

Calm yourself, Bridge, she told herself. Think serenely. Like . . . Mr. Merrick. He is always calm, always affable. Emulate that.

“I am here,” Carpenini’s voice came from the entryway, and Bridget found that any calm she’d hoped to cultivate fled completely. And her scattered nerves returned in full force.

The first time she’d met with Carpenini in Venice, he had been bearded, scraggly, and angry. Like a feral dog scrounging bones, who growled at anyone that crossed his path. Then, when he had come to the Hotel Cortile, he had been clean shaven, handsome, suave, enticing. Now he bounded, commanding the attention of the room. His wiry frame made him seem like a coiled spring. His eyes were focused, pinning her to her place.

Out of all the incarnations of Carpenini, this one set her pulse fluttering fastest.

She glanced around the room, her eyes finally finding the calming gaze of Mr. Merrick. There was some comfort in his strong, solid form. Everyone else in the room looked at her with some expectation—Carpenini most of all. Mr. Merrick just smiled merrily and began to direct Lady Forrester and his aunt into quieting down.

Curious, that.

But there was little time to contemplate, as Carpenini quickly trotted across the room, took Bridget’s hand in his, and brought it to her lips.

There went her pulse again, like a hummingbird’s wing.

“Signorina Forrester, I so look forward to being your teacher.”

Was she supposed to say something? It seemed like she was expected to say something.

“And I your student.” Her voice came out small, demure, even. Bridget did not think she had ever sounded demure in her entire life. “Er . . . shall we begin?”

“Si. I would like to learn of your skill,” he said, then frowned, as if searching for the right word. “The level? Si. The level. It has been some time since I heard you play.”

Already. She knew she was going to have to perform, but she was still steeling her nerves to do it. She had spent hours practicing different pieces, not knowing what would be required of her. She figured she had not yet become his pupil, and thus Carpenini’s strange rule about not practicing at home was not yet enforced. Please don’t let my courage flee. Don’t let me fail this first test.

“All . . . all right,” she stuttered, as Carpenini helped her to her seat at the pianoforte. He drew back the cover, revealing the most perfect, beautifully straight keys. “I have been working on a Bach concerto, or I know Mozart . . .”

“No, we will start simply. I would like to hear your scales.”

“Scales?” she asked, surprised.

She almost missed it, such was her astonishment. But she was sure she saw Carpenini give the quickest of glances to Mr. Merrick. And saw Mr. Merrick give the smallest of nods in return. “Si, scales. Start with a C-major scale, then go up the octave by half steps. Then return.”

Carpenini seated himself in a nearby chair, so he could watch her hands while she played.

Then, with no other recourse, Bridget shrugged and let her fingers fly over the scales. As she did so, Carpenini wound the Maelzel’s metronome that sat on a nearby mantel. Its steady click became her beat. Soon enough, she was playing scale after scale, almost in a trance.

Carpenini would occasionally make small comments, such as, “Hands must be arched,” or, “Good, good,” but the one that came with regularity, whenever she reached the bottom of the octave, was, “Again.”

“Is this really how he teaches?” Lady Forrester said loudly to Mr. Merrick’s aunt, squinting at Carpenini.

The aunt simply turned and said something in Italian to Mr. Merrick. He responded conversationally, likely explaining what Lady Forrester had asked of her. Then the aunt turned back to Lady Forrester and said simply, “Si.”

The drills were easy, her dexterity unhindered by the lack of practice from a month spent aboard a ship. But by the time an hour had ticked by, Bridget’s fingers were beginning to cramp, Amanda looked bored to tears, and Lady Forrester was visibly twitching whenever Bridget began a new octave of scales, having given up long ago on conversation with Mr. Merrick’s aunt.

But both Carpenini and Mr. Merrick were calm, and watchful.

“Si, si, bellissima!” Carpenini finally cried, clapping his hands to end her playing. Everyone in the room visibly relaxed. Bridget lifted her hands from the keys and took the opportunity to rub her hands.

Carpenini tsked. “If your hands are sore already, we must build your enduring.”

“It’s not the playing,” Bridget was quick to assure him. “It’s the repetition.”

But Carpenini just shrugged as he rubbed his chin. “You need to strengthen! Now, we work on chord progression.”

“No!” Lady Forrester cried, standing up. Every eye in the room flew to her, causing her to blush and fumble. “Er, that is, Bridget, my dear,” she said, taking a deep calming breath. “I am afraid your sister and I must leave you.”

“You must?” Bridget asked.

“We must?” Amanda echoed, perking up considerably.

“Yes, we have an appointment. Somewhere. But I have satisfied myself that you are in good hands with Signor Carpenini, and Mr. Merrick’s aunt will be the most gracious of hostesses.” She nodded to that lady, who smiled daftly back at her, showing a yellowed, decaying set of teeth. “We shall come and collect you at three.”

“I will be happy to escort Miss Forrester back to the hotel,” Mr. Merrick said, giving a bow.

Her mother must have been flustered enough by her haste to flee the forthcoming hour of chord progressions, because she abandoned negotiations and flouted propriety in one simple nod of the head. Then she took Amanda by the hand and practically ran to the front door, where Mr. Merrick, following behind, hailed a gondola for them with an expert’s speed.

Bridget remained seated at the pianoforte—oddly, holding her breath. She wasn’t entirely certain what was happening, but by the way Carpenini remained frozen, listening to the muffled sounds of her mother and sister’s departure, neither was she about to move.

“Er . . . should I begin chord progressions?” she asked, tentatively. But Carpenini just held up a finger, silencing her.

Suddenly, Mr. Merrick came back into the room. He gently closed the door behind him.

“They’re gone.”

It was as if the room exhaled. Carpenini crossed over to Mr. Merrick and clapped his friend on the back. “Well done!”

“I think it should be Miss Forrester who is congratulated,” Mr. Merrick replied. “After all, she is the one who did the hard work.”

“Si,” came a lovely, airy accented voice from the settee. “I would go mad, singing scales.”

Bridget turned, and saw Mr. Merrick’s aunt . . . but suddenly, she didn’t seem ancient or decrepit. She had stood and was stretching her body—one that was longer and fuller than her hunched frame implied. With one quick movement, she unpinned her hair, letting surprisingly thick curls fall down her back. Threading her hand through the masses, she shook out a quantity of powder, revealing darker, shinier tresses, instead of the dull gray they had all assumed.

“Miss Forrester, this is Veronica Franzetti,” Mr. Merrick said by way of introduction. Veronica dipped to a curtsy and, stunned, Bridget did the same.

“We should be safe for the rest of today,” he said, turning to Veronica. “Could you do us the greatest of favors and come back in costume for a few more days? I think after that we should be safe, but I could not imagine the difficulty if Lady Forrester decided to accompany her daughter again, and my aunt weren’t here.” When she looked confused, he repeated himself in Italian and was rewarded by a huge smile.

“Per te, Oliver? Naturalmente.” She twinkled up at him and then went up on tiptoes to buss his cheek, like he was her favorite schoolboy. When she noticed that some of the deeply etched lines that had painted her face had come off on his cheek, she touched her skin, horrified. “Oh, I must remove the terrible stuff!” and she fled the room with a brief, “Scusi.”

Bridget could only stare at Mr. Merrick. “She’s not your aunt, I take it?”

“Not at all,” Carpenini replied for him, his voice an insinuation.

“Is she . . . is she . . .” Bridget did not know if she could even say it aloud.

“Is she what?” Mr. Merrick asked, with a trace of a smile.

“A courtesan,” Bridget finally whispered, mortified.

Mr. Merrick and Carpenini both laughed aloud at that.

“No, of course not!” Mr. Merrick replied. “She is an actress, singer. She is an accomplished diva at La Fenice.”

“But . . . aren’t actresses often courtesans?”

He cocked his head to the side, questioning. “Sometimes they take lovers, but ‘often’? I doubt they would have the time, what with rehearsals and performance schedules and the like.” His eyes lit with amusement as Bridget felt her face go red. “What is your fascination with courtesans?”

She met his eye in exasperation. “Well, Venice is rather known for them.”

“In the sixteenth century, perhaps,” he countered, enjoying the banter. Bridget found herself enjoying it, too, in spite of the uncouth topic. Or perhaps because of it.

It had been, all in all, a very strange morning.

“Now that we have established Veronica’s morals,” Carpenini drawled, interrupting the conversation, “should we get down to the business?”

Bridget’s eyes flew to the master. “Should I start playing chord progressions?”

Carpenini gave a little chuckle. “That will be unnecessary.”

“But you said . . .”

“Yes,” Mr. Merrick interjected. “I’m afraid that was also part of the ruse. We decided, and I’m sure you will agree, that it would be better to have the freedom to learn without your mother’s watchful presence. Thus, it was determined that the fastest way to drive her out was—”

“To bore her.” Bridget finished for him, the truth dawning. “Oh, Signore, that is absolutely brilliant,” she cried, turning to Carpenini. He took her smiles with a pleased bow, making that little thrill run down her spine again.

But what he said next was like cold water on her skin, sobering her . . . worse yet, freezing her.

“No more scales, no more exercises.” He seated himself in his chair next to the pianoforte again, indicating she should take her place at the keys. “Play your best piece for me. I will hear what you can do.”

Bridget felt the cold, all-too-familiar dread begin to snake over her body. Please, do not let me bungle this. Please—just don’t let me fail.

“Now,” he said, “we will begin in truth.”