Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (11 page)

Carpenini shot a helpless look to Oliver.

“In fact, as Venice has so far unimpressed my daughter, we were contemplating traveling at the end of this week.”

Miss Forrester sent a look of complete shock to her mother. Obviously, the girl was not expecting to leave Venice so soon. Especially not now that Carpenini was sitting in front of them.

“But, er, Mother,” the girl ventured, “I would think that now, considering the opportunity . . .”

“Yes, my dear,” Lady Forrester replied sharply, staring daggers at her daughter. “But perhaps if we traveled south and found warmer climes, your disposition might improve.”

Oliver had to suppress a grin as he watched Miss Forrester suppress a snort.

“Besides,” Lady Forrester continued, “I hate to be so gauche in front of company, but we hardly planned to have the expense of unending lessons. Traveling is so much more costly than one expects, isn’t it?”

The command in Lady Forrester’s voice, the sly way she played her cards, the way she said no but then invited them to argue against her: Oliver suddenly realized what this game was all about. Lady Forrester
was
negotiating with them, and by the gleam in her eye, hidden beneath a studiously resigned expression, she enjoyed it considerably.

“Lady Forrester, on that score you should have no worry,” Oliver replied smoothly. “For Signor Carpenini is offering to tutor Miss Forrester gratis. For free.”

“He is?” both ladies asked at once.

“I am?” Vincenzo asked, alarmed. “Er, that is, of course I am.” He smiled at Lady Forrester, then Miss Forrester. “It has been long that I was allowed to teach someone with talent. I will enjoy the opportunity.” Vincenzo’s Italian accent flowed charmingly over his not-quite-fluent English, making the ladies smile, and not just politely.

Then, under his breath in rapid Italian, he laid into Oliver. “What the hell are you doing? I could have made a fortune! You are the one always complaining of funds.”

“True—but if you are going to use her to save your career, I would not have her pay for the privilege,” Oliver fired back, in the same language.

“Gentlemen.” Lady Forrester’s English broke into their conversation, although she did not look pleased. For one breathless moment, Oliver was afraid that the woman understood what they had said, but then he realized she was merely disappointed by the lack of a fight over price. “I think that sounds lovely.”

“So we are agreed?” Carpenini’s face broke into a smile.

But Lady Forrester simply turned to Bridget, regarding her. Oliver glanced down and saw that the girl had taken her mother’s hand and given it a short, sharp squeeze. A message. Apparently he and Vincenzo were not the only ones able to have private conversations in company. “That, I believe is up to my daughter,” Lady Forrester answered. Then she rose. “Would you all excuse me a moment? I should speak with Signor Zinni about the possibility of extending our stay.”

And, with the light of bargaining once again restored to Lady Forrester’s face, she left her daughter to entertain the gentlemen callers. But not before issuing a curt nod to the maid just inside the door (the same one who had accompanied Bridget to Oliver’s home a week ago), a silent directive to keep an eye on the goings-on.

When the door clicked shut, silence fell down onto the room. Miss Forrester, her wide green eyes never blinking as she turned to look from Oliver to Vincenzo, back to Oliver again, and then, finally to the abandoned teapot.

“M–More tea, Mr. Merrick?” she asked, scooting over on the settee to take her mother’s place by the tray.

“No, thank you, Miss Forrester.” He saw the nervousness in the smallest shake of her hands, the uncertainty in her very skin. “Er, I know it must seem strange, given the circumstances of the last time we met—”

“Oliver, she does not wish to speak of that,” Vincenzo broke in. “She was foolish to interrupt, and I was foolish enough to have such an angry temperament. But I promise, my dear, it is only when I am composing.”

He smiled at her again, obviously hoping to put off her unease. But, to her credit, Bridget Forrester proved less malleable than Vincenzo probably liked.

“No, I think it should definitely be remarked upon. Especially considering what you are asking of me.”

Both Oliver and Vincenzo went very still. “What do we ask of you?”

“I don’t know!” The girl practically exploded from her seat, sending cups scattering to the floor. The maid leaped from her position at the door to gather the broken pieces.

“Oh, Molly, I’m so sorry,” Bridget said suddenly, on the verge of tears.

“It’s no difficulty, miss,” Molly demurred. And then with a sharp look to the two men, she muttered, “I understand why you are so upset.”

“Yes!” Bridget cried. “I am upset. But I am also confused. A week ago, you had no idea who I was, Signore, even though Mr. Merrick wrote to me on your behalf. And now you seek me out, and you wish to become my musical instructor? For free? This smacks of something underhanded, and I do not know what it could be.” Her voice began to tremble with vehemence. “Are you planning to make fun of me? Because I have had plenty of that in my life and I could easily do without it, thank you very much.”

On this last, Bridget’s voice broke completely, and the smallest sob escaped. But she stifled it. She beat it back with an unseen resolve. But even that resolve could not stop her frame from shaking with every breath.

“My dear Miss Forrester,” Vincenzo began, “there is nothing, as you say, underhanded—”

“Tell her,” Oliver said bluntly, before he could stop himself.

Vincenzo shot him a look that told him he would prefer Oliver to be on fire at that very moment. But he didn’t give a damn.

“If Miss Forrester is going to put her hand in with us, she had better well know what it is all about. About the mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” He turned to meet those unblinking green eyes. “Miss Forrester, you are feeling badly dealt with, and you should be. You are right that Signor Carpenini does not remember you. Because he didn’t. I wrote you that letter, because I remembered that you played very well, and thought to drum up some business for him, but that is beside the point at the moment. What is important is that Signor Carpenini finds himself in reduced circumstances in this city. He has lost his patronage.” Vincenzo’s face went red with fury, but he said nothing. Indeed, it seemed at that point that anyone would be hard pressed to stop Oliver from continuing his narration.

“And now, he thinks to earn his patron’s favor back again by challenging the Austrian composer, Herr Gustav Klein, to a musical competition. Klein produces his best male student, and Carpenini produces his best female student, and whoever plays better is pronounced the winner. It’s as simple as that. Except that Signor Carpenini has no female students. No students at all, in fact.”

Oliver finished his speech, letting silence come into the void. Even Molly, the maid, had stopped scraping up pieces of china in the wake of these revelations. Miss Forrester slowly lowered herself back onto the settee.

“So . . . you need me to perform? In a competition?” she asked slowly. “In public. Now?”

“No. In May,” Oliver answered, when Vincenzo refused to open his mouth.

“All . . .” she began, and then collected herself. “All I had wanted was to learn . . . to learn everything I could.” She took a few more moments, swallowing the information, her eyes on the floor but darting back and forth as if reading something written on the rug. As if searching to come to terms with what had been said.

“Is this true?” she finally said, looking directly into Vincenzo’s gaze.

“Yes,” he replied curtly, his accent thick but his words unobscured. “I do find myself in a trouble that only you can help me out of. I am—how do you say—alone in Venice and no musician—man or woman—wants to work with me. I live on Oliver’s charity. I even find myself in a bitter black humor because I . . . because composing does not come as easy as it once did.”

Oliver’s eyes shot to Vincenzo’s face, surprised at this last admission. It was a vulnerability that he had not expected to hear. Neither, apparently, had Miss Forrester. She gazed at him with sadness and sympathy.

He’s reeling her in
, Oliver realized.

“It is all true,” Vincenzo continued, his voice becoming low, mellifluous. “Except for one point. I do remember you.”

Oliver’s head came up slightly, surprised.

“You played while your sister sang a sad tune. ‘Tom Bowling,’ was it?”

“Yes,” Miss Forrester replied. “I was playing it too cheerfully, and you corrected me.”

“Yes, I remember.” He sighed, somewhat wistful. And Oliver felt his brow come down. What were the chances that Carpenini actually remembered Miss Forrester’s playing, instead of simply using what Oliver had told him?

“You were very good. I remember at the time wondering why anyone would ruin such excellent playing by having an inferior singer. Most people would only see your sister—older, is she? Pretty.”

At Miss Forrester’s stilted nod, Oliver knew that Vincenzo had found a wound to needle. And now, he was going to exploit it. Just as he had with Gustav Klein.

“It’s very hard to be overshadowed by a sibling, but you would be used to it. Your friends, society—even your parents—they favor the other. But that does not mean you have to like it,” Vincenzo continued, drawing Miss Forrester to him, bringing her to the edge of her seat, as he sat on the edge of his.

“If you come train under me, I will make you the best piano musician in England. Ladies’ parlors will be too small a venue for your talents. You will be sought after, admired. People will want you.”

Vincenzo, at some point in the conversation, had taken Miss Forrester’s hand, which had gone limp in her lap, all sense of nerves gone. He now raised it to his lips and held it there.

“It will not be easy. I will work you harder than you’ve ever worked in your life. But in the end you will win this competition, the respect of Venice, and I . . . I will be forever in your debt.”

He held her eyes. Oliver held his breath, hoping for a different answer, for some defiance that would protect the girl. But he knew her words, even before she said them.

Her voice was small but sure. On her face rested a look of desire, ambition . . . and endless adoration. She was completely under Carpenini’s spell.

“I’ll do it.”

Eight

T
HERE
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.