Let It Be Me

Twenty-seven

Surrey, England

Five weeks later

“I declare, Miss Forrester, why have we not met before? You are far too fine a gel to be shut away in the country!” Mr. Hartley was grinning at Bridget with a dewy look in his eyes, as if he were in some kind of wonderful daydream. The nice, chinless, younger son of a Baronet from Yorkshire led her through the turns of their quadrille with, if not precisely grace, at least well-practiced concentration.

It was the middle of the regular Season, and apparently, the warmth that had eluded England in the winter had visited early and often in the summer. So much so, that most families had already quit the unpleasant growing stink of the city for the more comfortable climes of their country homes.

When the Forrester ladies had arrived back in town, it was to find Lord Forrester ecstatic to see his family again and their town house whole once more, but the front sitting room had not yet been refurbished (Lord Forrester wisely said he was waiting for his wife’s return, because if he attempted to decorate it himself it would simply be undone once she came home at any rate). Sarah Fletcher—née Forrester, Bridget’s elder sister—was thrilled to see them as well, if for no other reason than their father had taken to having dinner at the newlyweds’ house, and most newlyweds would have preferred at least a modicum of privacy.

Lord and Lady Forrester, when reunited, proved rather newlywed-like, too, and thus, when Sarah informed them that they had been invited to Lady Phillippa Worth’s house party at her country estate in Effingham, Surrey, they were more than happy to have Sarah act as chaperone to her two sisters while they stayed in London.

It was an enormous to-do, the way everything that Lady Worth did turned out to be, and it seemed as if everyone Bridget had missed the opportunity to meet over the Season was in attendance, to make up for that lack.

But there were a few people she had met before.

“Mr. Hartley, I am shocked that you do not remember,” Bridget replied cheerfully when they came together again through the movement of the lines. “We met in the Little Season, and I remember you and your friend Mr. Coombe.”

“Coombe?” A queer look crossed Hartley’s face. “And you say we chatted?”

“Yes, Mr. Hartley, we chatted very amiably.” Then Bridget decided to cut Mr. Hartley a little slack. “But it was right before we left town to go to Italy, so I do not fault you for not remembering. One meets so many people in London, it takes at least two or three introductions for anyone to stick.”

“I should imagine you would stick, Miss Forrester,” Mr. Hartley replied. “You are too bright a diamond to be out of anyone’s mind for long.”

Bridget blushed prettily and shook her head at the compliment. A diamond, indeed. Oh, Bridget knew she wasn’t a diamond by any stretch of the imagination, but since coming back a week ago, she had been much . . . calmer, she supposed. Less easily rattled, less confrontational. She smiled more, because she was no longer afraid.

Ever since that night at the Marchese’s palazzo, she had lost any sense of fear of being judged. Because no outcome could be anywhere near as heartbreaking as the one that night.

Therefore, there was absolutely nothing to fear from any of the young men who filled her dance card—and they did fill her dance card—she thought, as Mr. Hartley led her off the floor, leaving her with her sisters (Amanda, it seemed, had talked Sarah into letting her finally wear her hair up) to wait for the gentleman who had her next waltz to come and find her.

“Here you are,” her sister Sarah said, as she came to stand beside her. “You will be quite interested in this. Mr. Fairleigh here was just telling me about this new symphony by Beethoven. Apparently it’s all the rage in Vienna.”

“And I was telling Mr. Fairleigh that we know already,” Amanda piped up, but Sarah shot her a look of sisterly affection (which from afar might be interpreted as a look of death) and instead turned and presented Mr. Fairleigh to Bridget.

Sarah did not know what had transpired in Venice—unless, of course, Amanda had broken her promise not to betray Bridget’s confidence, but Bridget did not think that was the case. Because if she had, Bridget doubted Sarah would be as eager to present eligible gentlemen with similar interests to Bridget. (No, she would likely have her husband, Jack, track down Oliver Merrick and drag him through the Grand Canal by his teeth.)

Not that Bridget minded. New gentlemen, that is. Since they saw her as pleasant now, they were pleasant to her and eager to please. Mr. Hartley was one, and Mr. Fairleigh—a pleasant landed gentleman from Cumberland, not yet thirty—was another. And it seemed he did have an interest in music.

“The symphony has a beautifully strong theme, a message of hope and love. Music set to poetry,” Mr. Fairleigh was saying.

“Yes, I know,” Bridget replied. “For you see, my sister is right—we were fortunate enough to hear the premiere in Vienna.”

“Did you?” Mr. Fairleigh replied, his interest profound before but now suddenly piqued. “I thought you traveled only to Italy.” Mr. Fairleigh set a questioning glance at Sarah. Sarah simply shrugged, also uninformed.

Perhaps it would be wise to tell Sarah herself that more had happened while they were abroad than the taking of a few piano lessons. But if she did, it would be like reliving the whole thing.

And she could not do that. It all hurt too much.

“Mostly we remained in Venice,” Bridget explained, keeping her answers as vague as possible. “But we took a trip to Vienna, especially to attend that concert.”

“They have given the symphony its own name,” Mr. Fairleigh replied. “After the poem that is sung. They are calling it the Ode to—”

“Joy.” A warm tenor filled the air behind Bridget, making her heart stop. Bridget did not have to turn to know who it was, but some force of gravity spun her on an axis and brought her around to see his face.

“They call it the ‘Ode to Joy.’” Oliver Merrick stood there, looking down into her eyes. And it was as if the whole room, the whole party, the whole world, came to a sudden stop.

“You’re here,” Bridget breathed, her shock complete, and raw.

“Yes, I am,” he answered, unable to keep the bemusement out of his voice.

“I . . . What are you doing here?” she accused.

A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “I am here to collect my dance partner.”

He brought one of his hands out from behind his back and held it out to her.

“I . . . I don’t believe . . . that is, Mr. Fairleigh—” Bridget stammered, trying to unfold her dance card, her hands failing her in time. Because at that moment . . .

“Mr. Fairleigh is going to dance with me!” Amanda cried, wrapping her arm around Mr. Fairleigh’s, much to that gentleman’s bewilderment.

“Amanda—you cannot dance,” Sarah said under her breath to her sister.

“Why not?” Amanda replied. “If I can wear my hair up, I can dance. Right, Mr. Fairleigh?”

And a gentleman he was. “Er, I suppose. That is, I should be delighted to dance with you, Miss Amelia,” he said.

“Amanda,” she corrected, under her breath, but she kept the smile pasted on her mouth and shooed Bridget and Oliver away. “You must hurry if you are to take your places. We shall, er, catch the next one.”

Bridget wanted to rail at her sister, but Oliver’s hand was suddenly on her elbow, and she was too afraid she would jump out of her skin for want of his touch to do anything but follow where he led. As she was being maneuvered to the dance floor, she heard Sarah exclaim to Amanda, “I have the feeling I am not being told something important.”

“I know!” Amanda answered gleefully. “And for once, I do not!”

Once on the dance floor, Bridget could do little but stare at Oliver as they waited for the music to begin. She simply could not believe it was him. And that he was here. Looking as handsome as ever, damn him.

Although he did look a bit thinner than he had before. Was he not eating? Was he well?

“I can see you thinking, Bridget,” he said quietly, as the music came up and he stepped forward to take her in his arms.

“I was thinking . . . that you look as if you have been ill,” she said awkwardly, unable to find a benign lie.

But he smiled. “No—well, a touch of mal de mer once we hit the open waters of the Atlantic, but I’ve been fine ever since we docked.”

“Oh,” Bridget replied, stupidly. “And when was that?”

“Three days ago. Long enough for us to track down your address in London, discover from your mother your whereabouts, ask your father a question of some importance, and travel here.”

“Ask my father a question?” Bridget’s voice squeaked.

“Yes, but we can save that for later. First, I would like to show you something,” Oliver said, as he deftly spun her out of the dancers and away from the crowd.

They stepped into a corridor—Lady Worth’s country estate was just as labyrinthine as her oversized home in Mayfair, and therefore this corridor could lead to the card room as easily as it could the courtyard or the kitchens. Bridget had been in residence for almost a week and she still got lost.

She never got lost.

But for once, Oliver seemed to be the one who knew where he was going. Genially, properly, he offered her his arm, and Bridget took it.

“So,” he began cordially, “I told you about my voyage. How was yours?”

“It was . . .” Horrid. Sad. Lonely. “Fine. No mal de mer. Well, except for my mother.”

“You made good time; I daresay I left less than a day after you.” He mused. “However, I took a different route, crossing the mainland to Rome, hoping to catch you there. But you had already gone on.”

Her heart beat a rapid staccato. He had come after her in less than a day? “Yes, the captain said we caught a good wind. We were in England before I realized it,” she answered vaguely.

“And how long was it before you missed me?”

And it was that one question, that one simple question, that broke through the armor, the wall that was propping her up and keeping her safe.

“Oliver, please don’t,” she implored, her thickening voice betraying her. Tears threatened to fall down her cheeks.

“For me, it was practically the moment you left the Marchese’s ballroom, proud and triumphant. You won the competition, you know.”

“Did I?” She laughed sadly, trying desperately to hold on to some measure of control.

“Yes. After you performed, Klein did not even touch the piano. He conceded without playing. Now, tell me, how long was it before you missed me?”

“Three days,” she replied quietly. “I was so angry for three days, on board the ship. And then, I wasn’t anymore.”

Indeed, it was the morning of the fourth day, when she had awakened to find tears in her eyes. Tears that would not stop. It was as if all the anger had fled, leaving her hollow, and everything else rushed in. And he was right . . . the thing that overwhelmed her the most was the sense of vacancy in her heart, where he used to stand firm.

The missing him.

“I cried for days over you, Oliver. How could you do it?” she asked, more tears flowing now, tears she could no longer hold back. “How could you have let him do it?”

“Hush, my love,” Oliver said, his own voice breaking. He pulled her over to the side of the corridor, a small alcove providing a modicum of privacy if anyone should happen by. There, he took her face in his hands and kissed each tear that fell on her cheeks.

“I am sorry. I am so sorry. I will always regret what I did. I . . . I am trying to make amends. Please, will you let me try?”

“How?” she said, between sniffles. She felt horrible, weak-willed. Where was the Bridget who held her head high? Where was the Bridget who could turn away from him disdainfully?

Left at sea, she supposed.

“First of all, you have to know—I never asked you to play your ‘Ode to Venice’ so Carpenini could overhear. Nor did I take you to Vienna to get you out of his way so he could make use of it. I swear,” he breathed, his hands still framing her face, gently brushing back a wisp of hair here, a tear there. It was as if he could not give up touching her, now that she was in front of him.

Bridget did not think she could give it up, either.

“I wanted to hear you play, that was the only reason,” he continued. “And I wanted to be by your side when we first heard Beethoven’s Ninth. You are the only person with whom I can imagine sharing any of that, whom I would ask to share themselves so wholly with me.”

“I know,” Bridget replied, her heart a bit lighter. “I did not credit those accusations.” She gave a short frown. “Eventually, at least. But that hardly matters.”

“No, it does not,” he agreed grimly. “What I did—letting him steal your music—that is a gross betrayal for which I cannot hope for forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” Bridget cried. “Oliver, how am I supposed to trust you? You would make the same use of me Carpenini did, taking what you want for your own advantage.”

“No!” Oliver cried. “No, I will not. Bridget,” he said, running one hand through his dark locks. “I am not going back to Venice. I have decided to sell the Teatro—well, the warehouse that would have been the Teatro.”

“You have?” she asked. “Why?”

“Because if that was what I was willing to do to get it, it is tainted. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want anything without you.” Oliver met her eyes again. “I don’t want anything but you, Bridget. I love you. I have loved you since you showed up at my door, all determination.”

“I love you, too,” Bridget said in a rush. “I keep getting lost without you.”

He laughed and threw his head back in delight. “That’s amusing. For you see, it is only because of you that I managed to find my way home.”

He leaned down and kissed her then, and a thousand questions that had been lined up in Bridget’s mind instantly fled. To be in his arms again was the only right she could think of.

After a time, they broke apart, too happy to do anything other than smile and touch. Let their fingers intertwine and their bodies enjoy leaning on the other.

But as they smiled and twined and leaned, a few of those questions came back to Bridget’s mind. “What are you going to do, Oliver? Without the Teatro?”

“Well, I thought I might work toward opening up one here. In London.” He hesitated, then blew out a breath. “I have been talking with my father.”

“Your father?” She blinked.

He smiled. “He was much . . . happier to see me than I anticipated. We have much talking to do. He came with me here. I should love to have the opportunity to introduce you to him.”

“You forget, I have already met him once. But I should be happy to again.” They abandoned their nook in the corridor and moved down the hall slowly, savoring each other’s solo company.

“Is that what you meant by ‘us’?” she asked suddenly. He looked down at her quizzically. “You said that three days was how long it took ‘us’ to find me, and so forth.”

“Oh!” he cried with a smile. “Partially. I also brought Frederico. It seems he was just as heartsick for Miss Molly as I was for you . . .”

“That explains so much about Molly’s temper during the voyage,” Bridget gasped. “And here I had thought she was simply anxious to be on land again.”

“Yes . . .” Oliver hedged. “But I also brought someone else.”

They had traversed the hallway and found themselves standing in front of a door—and there was the distinct sound of a pianoforte coming from the other side.

Playing a suspiciously familiar tune.

Bridget warily pushed the door open and found herself in Lady Worth’s music room. It was populated by a rapt audience—Lady Worth was there, as was Lord Merrick, among others. And somehow, in the intervening time, both of Bridget’s sisters had migrated here as well. And everyone’s attention was caught and held by Signor Vincenzo Carpenini, up at the pianoforte, playing his latest composition.

The same one that had, upon her hearing it at the Marchese’s, nearly broken Bridget.

“What is he doing here?” she asked, her voice suddenly quite hard.

“Do you know, I am not entirely sure,” Oliver mused. But his hand had grown more firm around Bridget’s arm, making her stay still, anchoring her to the spot, whether she liked it or not. “When I told him I was leaving Venice and coming after you, he adamantly refused to come. But then he came to me and said that since the Marchese was going out of town for the summer, he would rather come with me to England than be left homeless in Venice, if he could. I, of course, placed some conditions on his coming, but he agreed to them.”

“Conditions?” Bridget asked, unhappy. Why was he playing this piece? It broke her heart even to think of it.

“Hmm,” Oliver evaded. “Either he needs people more than he thought, or perhaps he just did not wish to be alone in the world. Or perhaps he grew a dust-mote-sized bit of conscience. In any case, he is here now.”

“I don’t understand. Did you bring him along so I could strangle him?” Bridget bit out.

Oliver chuckled quietly. “If you wish, but first, perhaps we could go back to the matter of that question I asked your father.”

Bridget felt her head spin and her heart stop. “You wish to cover that ground now?”

“It was similar in purpose, although not exactly the same as the question I am going to ask you now.”

She whipped her head around to him, wide-eyed. Held her breath. What was he going to ask? And what would she say?

“I would like to know how you would have your name written,” he said.

Well, that was not exactly what she had expected. “I don’t understand,” she replied, once she was able to speak. “My name?”

“Yes. On the publication of the music.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, recently printed by the looks of it. He handed it to Bridget.

It was the cover sheet to a piece of music. Across the top it read, Symphony No. 4, in G Major. By Vincenzo Carpenini.

And then, underneath that, With variations and themes by Bridget Forrester.

“We took a guess that you would want your full name, not ‘B. Forrester’ or ‘Miss Forrester,’ or the like,” Oliver said quietly.

She looked up at him, in complete shock, unable to reply.

“If I could go back in time and stop Carpenini from playing your piece that night, I would. But he did, and what’s more he played it in front of half the musical world. The best way we could make amends was to make certain your name was on it, too,” he explained softly. “We made certain his music publisher in Venice knew that you should receive half the royalties and commissions. And we made a quick stop with Carpenini’s music publisher in London as well.”

“My name is on a piece of music,” she whispered in awe.

“Yes,” Oliver answered. “A rather good one, too, if you would have my opinion.”

“How did Carpenini take this sharing of credit?” Bridget asked, hiding a sniffle. “How did the Marchese?”

“I have no idea how the Marchese took it—one assumes he’s heard by now. As for Carpenini . . . well, it’s about time he learned to share, don’t you agree?”

Bridget smiled and laughed. “Yes. Although I venture to guess he’s agreed to it because he thinks he’ll make more money this way.”

“Maybe so. A young English lady composing a symphony—it would certainly sell tickets,” Oliver replied, unable to stop smiling, letting out a slow breath of relief. As if he knew that he had done enough to win his way back into her life, and all he had to do was work just as hard every day to stay there. “I hope you find our solution acceptable—”

She smiled back at him. “I daresay I do.”

“Good. Because there is one other question I have long held off asking you. And one that can wait no longer.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Bridget’s heart stopped. This was it . . . this was the time . . .

“Ah, there they are!” came a cry from across the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Signorina Bridget Forrester has finally arrived!”

They had not even noticed that the music had come to an end, but now, with Carpenini’s delighted cry, they most assuredly had an audience. Every head swung their way and a smattering of “ohh!”s turned into a rather jovial wave of applause.

Carpenini stood up on the piano bench, his Italian accent exaggerated, his theatrics in full effect, and those in the room loved every minute of it. “Friends!” he cried, “if you were unaware, if she was too shy to tell you herself, allow me. Signorina Forrester was briefly my student in Venice these past few months. She set the city aflame with her playing, she played on the stage of La Fenice, and she played for the Marchese di Garibaldi, winning his musical heart. She even helped me compose what you have just heard.”

Impressed murmurs spread through the music room. Bridget caught Sarah’s shocked gaze across the audience and watched as Amanda leaned down and whispered an explanation to her.

“And perhaps, if you would be so kind as to help me, we can persuade her to come play the piece, the Number Twenty-three by the Maestro Beethoven, that made all of Venice—and my friend Oliver—fall in love with her!”

The roar of applause that lifted the room set Bridget back on her heels. She looked from her sisters to the faces of people she had just met, looking at her with new eyes. Then she finally swung her gaze around to Oliver.

“Go,” he said. “Play your piece, and take the bow you have earned.”

The crowd parted like the Red Sea, making a path for her to the pianoforte. But before she took a single step, she turned back to Oliver and firmly planted a kiss on his mouth.

In front of everyone.

And they only cheered louder.

“Bridget Merrick,” she said, once she pulled away.

“What?” he replied, stunned.

“I think my name should be written as Bridget Merrick.” She bit her lip to hide her grin.

A slow easy smile spread across his face.

“As do I, my love. As do I.”


And she played. And it would be the music that would guide them through the years. Bridget took her bow, and took a new name with it. Oliver took a chance, and began mending fences with his father. He would buy a little theatre in Covent Garden, run-down, and turn it into the premier stage for the new and the exciting, especially the popular Italian operas. By the time he was ready to retire and hand his business over to his sons, it would have grown threefold, and now had stages in Edinburgh and Paris to his credit. His only stipulation would be that, as it had always been, the London stage played a concert of Beethoven’s Ninth at least once a year—a gift to his wife.

Yes, there would be children, and children’s children. There would be success, and despair. Their family would grow strong with time, their bonds unable to be broken by distance or death. There would be concerts, and performances. There would be more works written, some written with her infuriating brother-in-law, and some that Bridget wrote and published on her own. Carpenini would take up residence in London and spend the next twenty years composing happily and complaining unhappily about the stuffy English weather.

There would be sorrow, and hope. There would be six long years between the death of her husband and Bridget’s hearing Beethoven’s Ninth once more. But for the lifetime that preceded them, there was an infinite amount of love.

And that love would manifest in everything they ever did. Every song they ever wrote, every theatre they ever built, every child they ever brought into the world.

And throughout it all, like golden thread woven in fabric, there always was, and always would be, music.


Dear Reader,

The declining world of Venice and the rising world of music became the background for the passionate story of Bridget and Oliver, one of my personal favorites. I was as meticulous as possible in researching both these worlds, but as with any historical novel, the intersection of fact and fiction has to be traversed to tell the story. Sometimes history was massaged to this end, and I am sure there are some outright mistakes (which I claim as my own) but for the curious, here are some of the more interesting tidbits of historical information I came across as I wrote Let It Be Me.

Ludwig Van Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, the “Ode to Joy,” is arguably the most famous piece of music in the world. Its simplistic yet refined and infinitely variable central theme is why today it is the official anthem of the European Union. It is also one of the first instances of a choral symphony—the entire fourth movement being the 1785 poem “Ode an die Freude” sung by a full choir. But on May 7, 1824, at its first premiere in Vienna, no one knew what to expect. Beethoven had not appeared in public for years. He was possibly mad. He was most certainly deaf. Thus everyone was curious, and everyone showed up.

The description that Bridget and Oliver give of Beethoven conducting past the end of the music, and being turned around by the contralto Caroline Unger to five ovations of applause, is an anecdote oft reported but never verified. However, I like to believe that it is true, and thus I included this version of events in the story.

Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 23 in F Minor, Op. 57 was composed between 1804 and 1806, and is colloquially known as the Appassionata. One of the best known sonatas from Beethoven’s middle period, it was given it’s name because of its wide range on the keyboard and its extremes in both tempo and volume, as well as its breadth of feeling. Unfortunately it was not called Appassionata until 1838, and therefore it is only referred to as No. 23 in this work. Just listening to it, one can tell it is among the most complex and emotional pieces of music from the early 1800s; thus it would be perfectly suited to the Marchese’s musical competition.

The Bach Minuet in G Major that Bridget plays variations on is more famous to today’s generation for being the basis of the 1960’s pop song “A Lover’s Concerto,” recorded by the Toys. It was composed sometime in the early 1700s. Interestingly, there has been some dispute in the later part of the twentieth century about whether or not Bach was the actual composer, but in 1824, Bridget Forrester would have easily accepted the attribution of the Minuet in G as being by Johann Sebastian Bach.

One of the things Venice is famous for—besides its history, architecture, and canals, of course—is Carnival. Up until the end of the eighteenth century, Carnival was a six-month-long festival throughout all levels of Venice society, leading up to Ash Wednesday, where the revelers would become penitent observers of Lent. (Think of it as an extremely long Mardi Gras.) Carnival participants enjoyed wearing a variety of traditional masks, disguising their appearances—on any given day a duchess could be dancing with a shop clerk, and no one would know.

In 1797, Napoleon invaded Venice, and stripped the city of many of its ornaments and traditions—including Carnival. When the Wars ended, Venice was no longer a Republic, instead finding itself absorbed into the Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia and under Austrian rule. The grandeur and spectacle of the Carnival of Venice never fully recovered. In 1824, Carnival would have not been six months long, but a few weeks of frivolity at most. And the revelers were limited to the rich and the tourists, and only those on the main island of Venice. By the midpoint of the century, Carnival would have disappeared from Venice almost altogether, only to be resurrected in the 1970s as a grand tourist attraction to the city.

But even while Venice’s long decline had taken a sharp descent after Napoleon, it still retained a charm and grandeur that attracted seekers of beauty. Lord Byron was one of its most famous seekers during this period, enjoying the attractions (and women—he once said that Venice’s Carnival had given him the one bout of gonorrhea he hadn’t paid for) of Venice, and spending long periods of time there between 1816 and 1819. He even composed a poem in three (long) parts—his “Ode on Venice,” which Bridget mentions as being rather boring.

The Teatro la Fenice—or the Phoenix Theatre—was the most prominent opera house in Venice of its day. Unfortunately, it lived up to its name, and burned to the ground. Twice. The theatre that Oliver Merrick worked at would have been the first La Fenice, which burned in 1836. The second lasted until 1996, and was quickly rebuilt with the version of the opera house that exists today.

There is so much more that went into making Bridget and Oliver’s world come alive, from well-known impresario Domenico Barbaia to the history of the phonograph to walking the grounds of Schönbrunn Palace (and if you enjoy these details, there are more posted on my website at www.katenoble.com), but as with all stories, the characters live at its heart. I hope that Bridget and Oliver came alive for you as they did for me, and that their story, in the end, makes you sigh, smile, and hear their music.