Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (9 page)

Accepting the Marchese’s patronage five years ago had freed him of the scrambling that came when you knew your work was brilliant but no one else did. With the Marchese beside him,
everyone
knew. His works were given a stage and performed for the world to see. He was the composer who defined Italian music of the age.

For almost three years, he had sat down and composed. It allowed him to be generous—Oliver had been a recipient of that generosity, ending up on the stage of La Fenice, of all things. But more than anything, it had allowed Vincenzo to enjoy the life he had earned.

And enjoy he did. He enjoyed the fine wines and dances. He enjoyed the women who admired him, the salons and the people who had no greater task than to think all day about abstract things like beauty, art, and the truth about love. People who had never had to trick the butcher into giving a growing boy an extra cut of meat, people who took for granted that life had always been this way and always would.

And then . . . he began to take it for granted, too.

His compositions, while still strong, began to drop off in frequency. Music was no longer what drove him; it was no longer his savior. It was his occupation.

When the Marchese noted at one of his infamous musical gatherings that Carpenini should sit out performing, as it was likely he did not have anything new from the past few months, it was taken by all assembled as a rebuke. As he was about to slink away, acid churning in his stomach, a reprieve came. The Marchese’s newly married (and unhappy) daughter, Antonia, with her sparkling brown eyes, had taken up his cause, saying that anyone who had written such a masterpiece as
The Virgin and the Chrysanthemum
could not be rushed in composing his next.

And she had looked at him with such sweet intention, how could he help but fall into bed with the girl?

But unfortunately, his instincts for self-preservation abandoned him when he overindulged on wine, especially around Antonia’s luscious little maid.

That was why, tonight, at the Marchese’s Carnival ball, with Antonia back on his arm, her dark eyes twinkling at him from beneath her mask, he was not even risking a sip of wine. No, he needed to be sober; he needed his wits. The wits on which he had survived in his youth would now earn him back his place by the Marchese’s side.

But damned if he knew how.

“I heard that your last opera was enjoyed, Gustav,” Carpenini said drolly, by way of conversation. “Where was it performed again? Linz?”

The party had waged on. He danced endlessly with Antonia, greeting people gaily, all while he gritted his teeth beneath the mask. Now, in the early hours of the morning, he steered Antonia into the music room, where those who mattered gravitated.

Gioachino Rossini, visiting from Paris, was at the far side of the room, waxing rhapsodic about some new opera. He wasn’t much of a composer, Carpenini scoffed, but he tried. Caroline Unger, the young contralto, was down from Vienna and had her wig off, and was laughing with a masked man on a settee. Oliver leaned against the wall, listening to a hired harpist pluck away at her strings, giving the room a practiced air of lightness and formality, when it was anything but. At this point in the evening the masks were left off for the hot pretenses that they were, so Vincenzo felt justified in discarding his.

And in the center, holding court, was the Marchese. With young, pale-faced Gustav Klein at his side.

In that moment, Carpenini knew what he had to do. He had to, God help him, play nice.

Separating the Marchese from his new protégé was simple. Antonia simply flitted to her father’s side and naturally drew his adoring attention. Leaving Klein to Carpenini.

“Not Linz. Vienna.” Klein answered, his Italian clipped by his Austrian accent. He frowned in the direction of the Marchese’s daughter, his scowl disapproving. “In the Theater an dur Wien—and yes, it was well received. In fact, the manager at the opera house told me he had not heard such applause since your
Virgin and the Chrysanthemum
.”

“Yes, those were a marvelous four weeks that
The Virgin
played there.”

“Only four? Mine played for six.”

If Klein had said that with any trace of a smile, Carpenini would have been able to respect him, as it would be acknowledging another player in the same game. But the man was so terse, so humorless, that it was as if he did not even see Carpenini standing there. As if he were nothing.

Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to crush this interloper—this child, this copyist, who had first gained attention by writing variations on
his
work!—like the bug he was.

“Well, the Vienna opera house has nothing on the acoustics of La Fenice. The sound floats to the ceiling and permeates the air.”

“I look forward to finding out how my work sounds there. The Marchese is sponsoring a performance there next month.”

His eyes shot to Oliver across the room. Had Oliver mentioned that La Fenice was preparing a new opera? If he had, surely he would have mentioned that it was one sponsored by the Marchese, and by this upstart Klein.

The Marchese had brought Klein all the way from Vienna. And now he was staging his latest opera. The situation was becoming more dire by the minute.

“Well, I confess I look forward to hearing it. In fact, I have no idea what this opera is about. What style is it in?”

Klein lifted a brow, then shrugged with decided Germanic stiffness. “It is an old tale.
The Odyssey.
Greek heroes long at war, one a secret king, lost at sea,” he began, but Vincenzo waved him silent.

“No, no, what would be better than to
hear
it. I’m sure we would all love to hear what brought the house down in Vienna!” He declared this last sentence so loudly, the entire room could not help but turn and listen to him. Even the unnecessary harpist stopped plucking.

“Come, come, Gustav. You can play the ballet at least? The theme?” he smiled, challenging. “A stanza?”

Gustav’s eyes flitted to where the Marchese stood with Antonia. The room had gone still, waiting. Then the Marchese gave a slight nod and held out his hand toward the pianoforte, inviting Klein to play.

As Klein stepped to the beautiful golden pianoforte that dominated a stage on the far side of the room, all eyes turned to him. And Vincenzo made his way to stand beside the Marchese.

“Dare I ask if you will be gracing us with a new work tonight?” the Marchese asked in a low voice as Klein put his fingers to the keys, the first graceful bars floating over the guests, perking them up and out of their dissipation.

“No?” the Marchese continued, when Vincenzo did not answer directly. “I did not think so. Vincenzo, I am happy to let my daughter be foolish with you, if you can afford her, but that doesn’t mean I have to be. I would have kept you on if you had written anything worth performing while under my roof. But alas, you proved less than worthy.”

Vincenzo could feel the blood rushing to his face, a fury of hate and self-loathing covering his skin like tar. But he could not let this man see. Thus, he schooled his features into passivity and pretended to listen to Klein play.

“Perhaps I did,” he admitted, pressing a hand to his breast. “Although I am currently working on a piece that might prove more so. Tell me, what do you think this Klein will prove?”

And with that enigmatic statement, he bowed and left the Marchese to listen to the music.

Taking two steps back, he found himself against the wall, next to Oliver, who listened intently to the music.

“He’s very good.” Oliver whispered to him after a time.

“Hmph,” was all that Vincenzo could reply. But secretly, that pit of worry that had settled into his stomach upon meeting Klein had begun to grow and churn since he put his fingers to the keys. Klein was good. Very, very good. His fingering was graceful, impeccable. He pulled down on the keys instead of striking them, making the sound less jarring and more of an element of the space they occupied.

The section of his composition that he had chosen to play was powerful, angry. Vincenzo could imagine the wind beating against the Greek sails as rain poured down violently on stage in a depiction of those tragic Greek sailors lost at sea. And then, suddenly, the mood of the music changed—calming, like the storm passing. Klein told a story with his music . . . and he held the attention of every person in the room.

It was a complete disaster.

Damn it all—if only he had known about Klein before!

“Oliver.” Vincenzo turned to his friend, accusation unhidden in his voice. “Why did you not tell me about Klein’s opera being staged at La Fenice? And that the Marchese is financing it?”

“Because I didn’t know. I resigned from the theatre months ago. Remember?”

Oh yes. Oliver’s thwarted departure. Those few weeks Oliver had thought he was headed home had a lasting impact. He had never understood the hold Oliver’s family had on him. Perhaps it was one of the effects of having been raised by one. To his mind, Oliver and his father did not even get along—if they had, why would he have run to Venice at the first opportunity? So why Oliver should jump up to come home when called was beyond him. Family had its uses, Vincenzo supposed—gave one something to lean on when times were tough. But guilt and sacrifice were its pitfalls, and they just got in the way.

“But you still talk to some of the girls, the director,” Vincenzo replied.

“Yes, well, perhaps the director refrained from mentioning the Marchese since he knows the topic is delicate for you. And the girls . . .” Oliver shrugged. “When they talk to me about the opera, it is only to gripe about the lack of female roles.”

Vincenzo looked up, confused. “But doesn’t
The Odyssey
have a wife, and a daughter? There are a number of women in the story.”

“Yes, but Klein cut them all out of the libretto. Penelope, the wife, is mentioned but never seen. Even the role of Calypso is minor. Our friend Veronica barely has three stanzas to sing. The entire story is all about Odysseus and his men, longing to come home.”

Just then, something began to ferment in Vincenzo’s mind. It was barely more than an inkling, but he had been observing Klein as much as possible that evening, and there was more to his general rigidity than simply being Austrian. There was something almost puritan about his attitude. He regarded the partygoers—especially the ladies, with their soft forms and high-pitched laughter—with disdain.

And now, he writes an opera with almost no parts for women?

“Oh hell, what is it?” Oliver asked, peering at him closely. “I know that look. You are planning something, aren’t you?”

“Not planning, no. I am very much making this up as I go along.” Vincenzo replied, his face breaking into a smile. His first honest smile all evening.

“Vincenzo, I’m warning you. Don’t do anything rash. If the Marchese expels you from his home again, there is no possibility you’ll ever—”

“Stop acting like a grandmother,” Vincenzo whispered vehemently. “Do not worry. I am simply going to test a theory.”

Luckily, Klein finished playing then, lifting his fingers off the keys, allowing the notes to float over the room. Vincenzo made certain his applause was the first, and the loudest.

In his Harlequin costume, he was well positioned to put on a show.

“Bravo! Bravo!” he cried, as he moved through the crowd efficiently, coming to stand next to Klein at the pianoforte. “That was marvelous, Gustav, simply marvelous. I cannot wait to see the production at La Fenice. What an excellent selection you chose to play for us. Showcasing the two sides of nature.”

“Thank you, Signor Carpenini.” Klein gave another one of his short bows. “I am gratified by your compliments.”

“Indeed, the beginning so forceful and powerful, and the calming of the storm so delicate, and . . .
feminine
.”

The word struck home. Vincenzo could barely hold back his triumph as pure malice flashed over Klein’s face.

“Feminine? Perhaps I did not understand you correctly. My Italian . . .” Klein said by way of excuse, stiff politeness in his voice.

“Feminine? Of the female nature? Although I suppose the angry crashing of the beginning could be described as feminine as well. We’ve all known a woman who is a force of nature.” He found Antonia in the audience and winked at her. She blushed as the crowd tittered, knowingly.

“My work is not feminine,” Klein ground out, his entire being shifting uncomfortably, trying to decide between deferment and engagement.

“What is wrong with feminine?” Vincenzo asked innocently. “Here in Venice, we have the tradition of the Ospedale della Pietà—female foundlings trained in music and regarded as angels. Feminine music is not an insult. Women are the more expressive sex—indeed, some might say it lends them to music and art far more than men.”

Gustav Klein threw back his head and laughed at that. “Women are useful, I’ll grant you. They can reach the higher notes, they can inspire men’s work—but no woman has the education, the deep understanding of music that men have.”

Vincenzo glanced at the Marchese. He had hoped that Klein’s sentiments might earn him a blacker outlook, but the Marchese did not look angry. The man did not express more than mild interest in this sparring for his favor.

Clearly, Vincenzo needed to guide this confrontation through one more turn.

“I am sorry, Gustav, but that is simply not the case. I have female students who far outstrip my male ones.”

“
Your
male students perhaps, Vincenzo. Not mine.”

And there it was. The way to what he wanted. And Vincenzo would seize it like a man aflame.

“I accept your challenge.” He smiled at Klein graciously.

“What challenge?”

“The challenge you just laid out, my dear fellow. One of my female students against a male one of yours.” Vincenzo knew that every eye in the room was on him as he chanced a glance at the Marchese. The corner of the man’s mouth had lifted ever so slightly. A thrill of triumph went through him.

“I made no such—” Klein began, but then he, too, chanced a look at the Marchese. He saw the same thing Vincenzo had. Quickly, he changed tactic.