Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (13 page)

As if Bridget weren’t torturing herself enough already for agreeing to come back.

“I promise there is nothing amiss about it, Molly.”

“Nothing amiss about a young lady paying calls on a gentleman alone? We may not be in England anymore, but we are not in the savage lands neither!”

When Bridget had come home the day before, her mother and sister had not yet returned. Perhaps they actually did have an appointment to keep somewhere in the city, or perhaps they had simply decided to sightsee, but in either case, it was Molly who greeted Bridget with surprise, and then, seeing the worry on her face, suspicion. And it was Molly who had dug out the truth of what had happened that morning from a reluctant Bridget.

And out of everything that had happened—out of Bridget’s horrible case of nerves and the Signore walking out of the room and playing scales for hours—what was the one thing that Molly had to harp on? It was the fact that Mr. Merrick’s aunt was very clearly not Mr. Merrick’s aunt.

“I don’t know what your mother was thinking, declining to accompany you today. I told her in the strictest terms she should.”

Luckily, even when faced with Lady Forrester and Amanda’s sternest objections to sitting and listening to scales, Molly had held her tongue on
why
she felt Bridget required a chaperone. She simply insisted on accompanying her herself.

Lady Forrester and Amanda had returned home at nearly four, famished and in great need of repast. While Lady Forrester regaled Bridget with tales of all the sights seen and unseen (their mother really should not be without her spectacles) and Amanda went on and on about what the guidebook had said about the Piazza San Marco and the Doge’s Palace, Bridget smiled and nodded and waited for an inquisition that did not come.

It seemed that Lady Forrester was content with the lessons as long as Bridget was content with the lessons and would not lay question to it.

For that Bridget was grateful.

And strangely, she was grateful for Molly, too.

Molly did not make her nervous. Molly did not look at her with expectation. Instead, Molly simply protected.

It was comforting. Even if such protection came with a degree of disapproval.

“I will not be sitting down in the kitchens, miss, I tell you that much,” Molly was going on, her tight movements of fractious energy swaying the gondola, earning glances from the gondolier, thus repeating the cycle. “And if that Signore walks out of your lessons again, we will go right out the door and back to the hotel to pack. You don’t need no lessons from the likes of him.”

“Just . . . if anything like that happens, just please do not tell my mother about it. I . . . I can’t disappoint him again,” Bridget whispered to herself.

“You can’t disappoint him? That man should be worried about disappointing you!” Molly practically jumped from her seat, like the best of guard dogs, ready to defend her miss from any slight, real or imagined. Unfortunately, while most guard dogs have four legs and can keep their balance, Molly had only two, and the rocking of the gondola was so severe that the gondolier actually held them in place beneath a bridge, put one hand on Molly’s shoulder, and, with a string of Italian neither of them understood, forced her into her seat.

“Well,” Molly said touchily. “There’s no need to be so forceful about it!”

They remained silent—and, thankfully, still—for the remainder of the short trip, and before Bridget had even begun to muse on what the next few hours would bring, they found themselves at the front door of Mr. Merrick’s home. There, they were greeted not by Mr. Merrick, nor by the Signore, but by someone new.

“Signorina Forrester?” the man asked, his Venetian accent thick over the English. When she nodded, he bowed. “I am Frederico, Signor Merrick’s valet. The gentlemen are setting up; allow me to help you.” Luckily, Mr. Merrick would have a valet with decent English.

“See, Molly?” Bridget whispered, once they had been handed onto the landing. “There are servants. I would not be alone in the house with the gentlemen.”

“Yes, well, what are they ‘setting up’ as this Mr. Freddy says? A dungeon? A torture chamber? A kidnapping?”

“Molly.” Bridget shook her head. “Have you begun reading horrid novels?”

But even Molly’s lurid imagination was not prepared for what greeted them when they walked into the music room.

Jugglers, tossing batons into the air.

Acrobats, hanging from the ceiling.

Girls in costume, dancing in lines.

It was a circus. An actual circus, wedging itself into the small music room of Mr. Merrick’s house. Laughter, noise, movement, color. And at the center were Mr. Merrick and Signor Carpenini, dressed as clowns—the former in the white baggy costume and painted face of a Pedrolino, the latter in the bright diamonds of a Harlequin. Both broke into huge smiles upon seeing Bridget.

“There you are, Miss Forrester!” Mr. Merrick said merrily, as he bowed.

“Mr. Merrick, Signore . . .” Bridget fumbled, as she stepped forward. “What on earth is going on?”

“This,” Signor Carpenini said, with a dramatic flourish of his cane (part of the costume, it seemed) as he came forward to take her hand, “is your first lesson.”

Bridget stood in shock, her eyes moving from one thing to the next, finally coming to rest on Molly’s equally surprised gaze.

“If you think I ain’t telling your mother about this, miss,” the maid said, shaking her head, “you’re stark raving mad.”

Ten

A
S
first lessons went, Miss Forrester’s instruction by Signor Carpenini would certainly rank among the odde
st.

Oliver had to hand it to Vincenzo—while he might have scoffed at the idea initially, once it was in place he embraced it with his usual vigor.

“It is like Signora Galetti said,” he reminded Vincenzo as they were setting up. “One cannot be nervous in the middle of a circus. And it just so happens, we know a few performers.”

Dressed in his Harlequin costume, Vincenzo nimbly conducted the room of performers with his cane, as he would an orchestra. He took Miss Forrester by the hand, led her to the pianoforte, and said very simply, “Today we are helping them,” as he pointed to the jugglers.

Miss Forrester tentatively took her place, and at Vincenzo’s command, she began to play. The same piece she played yesterday, the simple Bach minuet. But this time, Vincenzo did not peer over her shoulder as she played. Instead, he turned his attention to the jugglers. “Signores, begin!” he commanded. And the jugglers, as they had been commanded to do, began their routine. While the dancers practiced their own steps in the background, as well as the acrobats doing their back bends, Bridget played, giving pace and tone to the cacophony of their rehearsals.

She had not come with her mother today. Oliver wasn’t exactly certain how he would have explained the circus performers in his drawing room if she had. (It was bad enough that Veronica, in full great-aunt makeup, was currently practicing a routine with the chorus girls.) Instead, Miss Forrester brought the same maid who had trailed after her that first day—Molly, he recalled. But by the way she looked to Molly for reassurance, Oliver felt certain the maid would be no obstacle.

The obstacle would be Bridget herself.

After a few minutes of playing, Vincenzo stopped the jugglers. Bridget’s hands came off the keys at the same time.

“What did I do wrong?” she asked, the fear easily read in the quaver of her voice.

“Nothing, Signorina. Carlos”—he addressed one of the jugglers in Italian—“you are half a beat behind. If you do not catch up, you will end up hitting your partner. Again!”

With that, they began again. And it was notable—or, perhaps, it was highly unnoted—that Miss Forrester’s performance was, for once, perfect.

“I can’t believe it,” Vincenzo whispered to him in Italian, when Bridget’s focus was squarely on the juggling team. “Your plan is actually working.”

Oliver couldn’t believe it, either. Or that it was working so quickly.

Being amid all the noise and movement that was the circus, Miss Forrester did not have time to worry about her performance. She was too busy watching everyone else’s. Therefore, as everyone was looking for fault in the jugglers, the acrobats, and the dancers, the idea of looking for mistakes in her own playing became almost preposterous. It was taken for granted that she would play perfectly, and thus she did.

She spent her first hour with the jugglers. By the end of their time together, the jugglers had broken a new routine to the minuet, and Bridget had taken to issuing commands—although since both Carlos and his brother spoke nothing but Italian (and the Venetian dialect at that), the communication was a little shoddy.

“Signor Carlos!” she said once, stopping midstanza. “You must
catch
on the downbeat.
Catch.
”

Carlos shook his head and shrugged.

Miss Forrester, frustrated, got out from behind the pianoforte, took the small bean sack from Carlos, and marched back to her place at the keys. Tossing the ball up in the air with her left and playing with her right, she demonstrated the note she wanted him to catch on. “See? Catch!”

Oliver could not help smiling. It seemed that when irritated, Miss Forrester’s overwrought nerves ran for cover.

The next hour was spent with the dancing girls. Vincenzo asked for a piece of music that was lively. “
Allegro
,” he requested, and she began with a variation by Pleyel. There was not a note that fell out of place as Vincenzo concentrated his instruction on the dancers, as opposed to the music.

The hour after was spent with the acrobats. For them she played Haydn.

After each hour, Oliver was certain that Miss Forrester’s playing was becoming stronger—she was becoming more and more comfortable with them. They took a short break for luncheon—bread and cheese and some cold fish. A necessary repast, as conducting a circus was an exhausting business. After the repast was served, they said good-bye to the jugglers, the acrobats, and the dancing girls, with promises that they would come and see them at the theatre soon.

“Now,” Vincenzo declared, clapping his hands together, “let us turn our attention to you, Signorina.”

This would turn out to be a terrible mistake. Oliver could see all of the good the morning had done falling away from her, as a snake shed its skin. In its place was raw vulnerability and uncommon fear.

But she covered as well as she could, straightened her posture, put her nose to the sky, and went to the pianoforte.

“I would like to go back to that
allegro
piece, the Pleyel?” Vincenzo said, and immediately began instructing her on a certain section. Leaning far over her shoulder. Playing fast and talking faster. And immediately, Oliver could sense Bridget shrinking back, almost afraid to have her fingers on the keys.

“No . . . it is triplets, here,” Vincenzo was saying, his frustration mounting.

Oliver wanted to hang his head in his hands. What had begun so well was turning quickly into disaster. And there was nothing he could do about it.

“Mr. Merrick, sir,” came a rushed whisper from behind him. It was Molly, who had sat watchfully in the corner during the entire morning “lesson.” “Miss Bridget seems to be losing her nerve.”

“Yes, Molly. I tried to make her more comfortable with us, but I don’t think it took.”

“Forgive me for saying so, sir,” Molly sniffed, “but a man who dresses up in a clown’s costume to put Miss Forrester at ease doesn’t seem the type to give over so quickly.”

Oliver looked down at himself. He was indeed, still in his Pedrolino suit—loose flowing shirt and pants, uncomfortable frilled collar, and short pointed hat. His false smile was still painted on his face in white.

And the thought struck him. Maybe there was something he could do, after all.

Moving as silently as he could, he trotted across the room and found a few bean sacks left behind by Carlos and his brother, underneath a chair. Historically, Pedrolino was not the happiest of clowns, but he would have to make do. Then, crouched behind the settee, he took two breaths. One to steady himself, and the second for what came next.

And then he began his performance.

It started with simply popping up and giving a large smile. A smile that said,
I am shocked and pleased to find you here!
Pointing at Miss Forrester at the piano, causing her to look up from her keys. Then a silent, belly-splitting chuckle.

Miss Forrester frowned and stopped playing. Vincenzo was about to say something cross to Oliver, but with a single silent look between them, he changed tack.

“Ignore him,” he said to Miss Forrester. “He will act to what you play; just concentrate.”

She tried to do as he said, but her eyes kept flitting up to meet Oliver’s. Usually while he was failing dramatically at juggling.

It was harder to make people laugh than it was to cry. That was one axiom of the theatre Oliver had learned quickly. His pantomime had never been subtle. In fact, it relied very heavily on bumping into things and falling over and failing at juggling. It had been quite a while since he last played this role (let alone any role), and he had seen it performed much, much better. But he was in a clown suit, and in Bridget Forrester, he had a captive audience.

And her playing immediately improved.

It was difficult to say why. That morning, having the focus off her and on the performers had provided her with the relief of not being able to worry about how she played. But with just him in the room, being completely silly, it was different . . .

If Oliver was to guess, it was because his silliness allowed her to let go of seriousness, of the weight of expectations.

One could never be nervous in the middle of a circus. Or perhaps, just with a clown.

And then, it happened.

Bridget stopped paying any attention to Oliver and his antics. The music had her attention instead. Not her playing, not the order of her fingers on the keys, the
music
. Oliver stopped his pantomime for the barest of seconds, testing her.

She did not notice. In fact, he would venture to guess she noticed nothing else in the room.

Her playing had been technically correct over the course of the morning, but she had not played like this. A vapor, a spirit, possessing her and moving through them all. This was feeling translated into music and then back again. This was getting lost. And she was set free by it.

This was how he remembered her having played before, five years ago.

By the time the final chords drifted away and she lifted her fingers from the keys, the music room had gone completely still.

Miss Forrester came out of her daze slowly, blinking her way back into the present. Oliver found himself almost mournful as the trance she’d laid was lifted and time came back to them.

“I . . . I am sorry,” she stuttered, seeming to realize what had occurred. “Did you want me to start again?”

“No, Miss Forrester, that is enough.” Vincenzo held up his hand and came to sit beside her. “Well,” he said, “you must arch your hands higher. And you were
allegretto
, not
allegro
. We must work on your pace.”

Her face fell, her mouth set into a grim line at the critique. But Vincenzo would not allow that. He leaned in and lifted her chin with a gentle touch. Made her meet his eyes. “But I am so pleased to have
at last
heard you play.”

Carpenini’s wide smile spread to her, and warmth filled the room. Oliver exhaled the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Now,” Vincenzo continued, rubbing his hands together, “now, we get to work,
si
?”

“What a day,” Bridget sighed, as she rolled her sore shoulders. Let out into the light of the early afternoon, Bridget felt as exhausted as if she had been working for a full twenty-four hours. Her limbs were languid, her knees shaky. But her mind was remarkably calm. She had poured out everything she had onto the keys, and it left her nothing more than a floating, peaceful vessel.

It felt very, very good.

“I could sleep for a week,” she said dreamily, letting the salty air fill her lungs as she took a deep breath.

“I would advise against it,” Mr. Merrick replied, keeping pace beside her. “After all, you are due back for lessons again tomorrow.”

She smiled up at him. When Bridget had rejected the idea of taking a gondola back to the hotel, instead wanting to walk, Mr. Merrick had changed out of his clown clothes and insisted again on seeing her home, even though she had Molly to escort her.

In truth, she was glad for his company. The afternoon had brought out the sun and warmth, and that brought out an alarming number of people. Given Bridget’s previous observations on board the ship about how
tactile
Italian men could be, the presence of a solidly built English gentleman did much to soothe any fears—as Mr. Merrick tended to do in general.

If it had been Carpenini who attended her, she would have been far too aware of it. Mr. Merrick was much safer.

Yes, she was glad for his company—but found his directional prowess somewhat lacking.

“Have you been in Venice long, Mr. Merrick?” Bridget asked suddenly.

“I’ve been in Venice for nearly five years, Miss Forrester.”

“Ah . . . I only ask, you see, because we have now gone a footbridge too far in our path back to the hotel, and I don’t think the alleyway that we just cut through—quaint though it was—has taken us anywhere nearer our goal.”

Mr. Merrick threw back his head in a deep-throated laugh. “Well, I did warn you yesterday that I might get lost.”

True, on their walk back to the Hotel Cortile the day before, he had mentioned something about getting lost. But since yesterday’s walk was vastly different (not only in direction) from this one, Bridget could not be surprised that such a detail had slipped her mind.

“And here I was thinking you made up your lack of a sense of direction in order to make me feel better about your company,” she replied impishly.

“I happen to have an excellent sense of direction, Miss Forrester.” Mr. Merrick bristled in an overexaggerated manner that made her giggle. Even though he had changed out of his clown face and costume, he still had some of the mannerisms. “But Venice is the one place that I find myself constantly lost. There is something new and interesting around every turn. How can one not?”

“One can not, by knowing where one is going,” Bridget heard Molly grumble from three steps behind them.

“Take the alleyway—quaint, I believe you called it?” Mr. Merrick continued, without regard for Molly, if he had even heard her. “What did you find quaint about it?”