The Ladder Dancer

by Roz Southey

  Kate stared. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘My former apprentice,’ I said, sighing.

  ‘I’m still your apprentice, master,’ George said indignantly. ‘You can’t teach her. Girls can’t play the violin.’

  ‘Who says?’ Kate demanded.

  ‘It isn’t proper!’

  ‘George—’

  ‘Besides, girls aren’t any good at music.’

  Kate spluttered in indignation. ‘Don’t suppose you ever talked to a girl in your life!’

  ‘Girls are silly!’

  ‘I bet you never got a look in,’ Kate said. ‘Bet you had spots.’

  That was an unluckily accurate guess; George’s skin had been horribly scabbed. The gleam of light throbbed. ‘I bet you got the pox!’

  Kate shrieked. ‘I do not!’

  ‘Kate—’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ignoring me, ‘at least I ain’t dead!’

  ‘Master!’ George protested. But the rest of what he had to say was lost as Kate launched into a very fast, very loud jig.

  Kate played; the spirit skittered about the harpsichord lid, yelling. Its high-pitched indignation cut into my head like a saw; I had a raging headache in seconds. I tried to stop Kate but she pretended not to hear me, said, ‘Eh? What?’ a couple of times. George yelled, ‘Stop her, master, stop her!’

  I took a deep breath and bellowed. ‘Be quiet!’

  Kate stopped in mid-phrase, with such a look of dread on her face I was startled. She took a step backwards, said, ‘I didn’t mean— I wasn’t going to— honest, I wasn’t . . .’

  ‘She shouldn’t be playing, master!’ George said with an edge of triumph.

  ‘George.’ Esther’s quiet voice came from the doorway. ‘Come with me.’

  The gleam of the spirit jittered about uneasily. ‘But mistress . . .’

  ‘Now, George.’ And Esther turned on her heels.

  ‘Master!’ George wailed. I said nothing. The gleam hesitated, then shot off across the floor after Esther.

  There was silence for a moment after they’d left. Kate stood hugging the violin, looking fearful. She could fight off a drunken man with no hesitation but someone shouting at her made her tremble. I realized I hadn’t the slightest idea what her life must have been like in that slum.

  ‘I apologize for shouting at you,’ I said formally. ‘But if you and the spirit are going to yell each other down all the time, living in this house is going to be intolerable.’ Inwardly, I was groaning; first George took a dislike to Tom, now to Kate. Perhaps Esther could talk him round; I was beginning to think I could not. ‘Now,’ I said to Kate. ‘You’re not standing properly.’

  Criticism, as ever, worked its magic. The tension melted out of her. ‘I am!’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m on my two feet. How else do you stand?’

  ‘Straighten up,’ I said. ‘Rest the violin on your shoulder and keep your palm away from the neck.’

  She held the violin out. ‘Show me.’

  I took the instrument and stood in the correct position. Kate walked round me, peering under my raised bow arm, ducking under the violin, standing on tiptoe to see over my shoulder. Then, with a look of complete smugness, she took the violin from my grasp and held it perfectly.

  The lesson was a new experience for me. Kate did not respond well to being told what to do, but show her and she copied it, well-nigh perfectly. And if it wasn’t perfect, she was willing to do it again and again, and if need be, again, until it was. I was impressed; most pupils want to play just well enough to bumble through the piece and then move on to the next. Not Kate. She even submitted to playing her favourite tunes as slowly as possible, to make sure the bowing was even and the notes perfectly in tune.

  The only thing she couldn’t do was read the notes on the page. She couldn’t even see the sense of being able to do it.

  ‘Look,’ she said, pointing at the score on the music stand. ‘That little dot there.’

  ‘That represents the note C.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it does.’

  ‘Why can’t it be K?’ For Kate presumably.

  ‘Because it isn’t.’

  ‘And why not apple?’

  ‘Apple!’

  ‘And why are there five lines on that little ladder thing they sit on and not four?’

  She didn’t know her letters but she could count.

  ‘Kate,’ I said, ‘you’re doing excellently. But if you play that violin in public . . .’

  ‘I’m going to,’ she said, firing up at once. ‘This afternoon. In the old fellow’s concert.’

  ‘You’ll be branded as no better than your mother,’ I warned.

  ‘That’s unfair!’

  ‘That’s the way it is. Women who appear in public are not respectable.’

  ‘Your wife plays the harpsichord.’

  ‘Only in private. And even then, only the harpsichord and harp are suitable instruments for women.’

  ‘Anyhow,’ she said, changing tack skilfully. ‘Don’t matter. I ain’t respectable.’

  ‘You’ll be made the butt of all sorts of offers, which you’ll not like in the least.’

  ‘I’ll say no,’ she said. ‘If you won’t let me play, how can I ever earn any money without selling myself?’

  She had a point. ‘You could take up a position as a servant, in a respectable household—’

  She shrieked with derisive laughter. ‘How do you think my ma ended up where she is? I ain’t doing that.’

  ‘An apprentice is a servant of sorts,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Right,’ she said, thrusting the violin back into my hands. ‘You don’t want me, I’ll go to the old fellow.’

  ‘Nightingale simply wants to make money out of you.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right,’ she said, ‘because that’s what I want too. Lots and lots and lots of money!’

  I nearly said she could have mine.

  Twenty

  No gentleman ever raises his voice.

  [A Gentleman’s Companion, July 1732]

  The first person Esther and I set eyes on when we entered the crowded Assembly Rooms that afternoon was Claudius Heron, standing by one of the tall windows. If by keeping to the shadows, he was hoping not to draw attention to the large bruise disfiguring his left cheek, he was mistaken. It gave him a raffish air totally at odds with his character.

  ‘Ridley was not quite as pacified as I anticipated,’ he said dryly. ‘He was perfectly well-behaved until we drew up outside his parents’ home, at which point he apparently realized where he was and started flailing about. It took three footmen to subdue him.’

  I grimaced. ‘His behaviour to Nightingale last night was unforgivable. In a private house – in front of ladies!’

  ‘I am beginning to think him insane.’

  Esther said tartly, ‘He needs a firm hand, and work to keep him occupied.’

  ‘I agree entirely,’ Heron said, ‘but only so much can be done by force. If he will not discipline himself, there seems little others can do.’

  ‘He’s not seen Armstrong yet?’ I asked.

  ‘He has been given until the end of the day to do so.’

  Jenison was talking to Nightingale on the other side of the room; he signalled to me and I excused myself to Esther and Heron. A surprisingly large number of people had already arrived for the concert and as I made my way through the company, I received some hard stares; I heard someone murmur, ‘. . . rich woman. All the same, these fellows . . .’ I gritted my teeth, prevented myself – just – from turning to give them a hard stare. That’s what Heron would have done; I don’t have the confidence to carry it off.

  Nightingale was in pink, with the usual silver ladders climbing all over his ample stomach. All that embroidery must have cost a fortune. Jenison was saying, ‘Just a little demonstration, not a full concert. A few airs to entertain us.’

  ‘Of course,’ Nightingale said. I smelt a faint aroma of beer; he’d plainly been indulging b
ut not, I hoped, over-indulging.

  It was almost impossible to get him to the harpsichord; every lady wanted to greet him and he wasn’t in the least averse to returning the greetings fivefold; old or young, he treated them all with the same flattering flirtation. When he arrived at the harpsichord at last, he was breathless and glowing.

  ‘The Vivaldi,’ he said. ‘Slow movement, just to warm us both up, eh? Then the Handel. The overture to Giulio Cesare.’

  ‘All of it?’

  He had a pile of music on the harpsichord stool and handed it to me as I was trying to unlock the instrument. I put it back on the stool again.

  ‘Then the last movement of the Vivaldi. Do you know The Lass of Patie’s Mill?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’ll do that then. All five verses. I’ll do verse one as a violin, verse two as a trumpet, verse three—’

  ‘Alpenhorn?’ I suggested.

  ‘And I’ll sing the rest of them. Then the trumpet march by Purcell . . .’

  ‘Jenison asked for a few airs,’ I reminded him.

  ‘And the witches’ song from Macbeth.’

  I gave up trying to persuade him to exercise restraint and concentrated instead on tuning the harpsichord. There was a flurry of satin and a breathless voice said, ‘Dear Mr Nightingale.’ I glanced up to see Mrs Annabella, in the most amazingly elaborate white dress with an exceedingly low neckline, simpering at Nightingale. He bowed deeply, took her hand and bestowed the breath of a kiss on it. Then he drew himself up to his full height, standing just a fraction too close in a protective manner. ‘My dear lady, it is so crowded in here. Allow me to find you a seat.’

  She fluttered and simpered and disclaimed, but finally agreed to put her hand on his arm, and sailed off with a flushed face and a triumphant look at the other ladies who were hovering hopefully.

  The harpsichord keeps in tune well in the Assembly Rooms; I put down the tuning key and glanced round before opening the music. And there at the back was Hugh, sauntering in, dressed in his favourite dark blue, attracting as large a cluster of ladies as Nightingale. With his arm in a sling, he contrived to look as romantic a figure as any lady could wish for.

  And behind Hugh came Cuthbert Ridley.

  I looked to the windows for Heron, but he was already pushing through the crowds. Ridley was staring round the assembled company with a look of amused contempt. Then a young lady nearby glanced round, and Ridley was instantly diffident, twisting his hands together and staring at his feet.

  I glanced about for Nightingale. He was well out of Ridley’s way. He and Mrs Annabella had been caught in a cluster of ladies, all eager to be introduced. Mrs Annabella still had her hand on Nightingale’s arm but was looking a little put out by his attentions to the others, particularly as he interrupted her in the middle of a sentence. Mrs Jenison too hovered, looking uncertain. Nightingale bowed to one middle-aged lady, then another, had them all smiling and laughing at his bons mots. A few husbands looked disgruntled.

  Then an even bigger attraction presented itself. Nightingale straightened. His mouth stretched into a gracious smile, his eyes fixed on a young lady coming towards him. Mrs Annabella pouted; Mrs Jenison seemed disapproving. The other ladies looked annoyed.

  One of the matrons made the introduction. Nightingale bowed deeply over the hand of young Lizzie Ord. He must have said something complimentary for she blushed and gave him her fingers, but then couldn’t extricate them again and stood helplessly protesting as Nightingale acclaimed her beauty. She plainly felt trapped; she cast an appealing look over his shoulder, as if for help. I started up, but her husband was at her side at once.

  Philip Ord is a jealous man. I didn’t hear what he said, but Nightingale let go of Lizzie’s hand and moved smoothly on to two others coming up behind her – a lady with her daughter, younger but not as pretty as Lizzie. ‘Heavens above!’ he cried. ‘I never saw a town so full of beauties!’

  Lizzie gave me a mischievous look and went off to sit demurely by her husband on a sofa in a window embrasure. I laid out my music in the order Nightingale had mentioned – not that I expected him to do anything as simple as keep to what he’d said. Jenison came to collect his wife and sister. Heron, I noted, had taken a seat directly behind Ridley; Hugh and his adoring little court had settled into a cluster of chairs under one of the chandeliers, the ladies competing to find a cushion soft enough to place behind his injured arm. And – heavens above! – there was Kate in her yellow dress and a grin that she clearly imagined was gracious, making her way imperiously through the crowds.

  Nightingale sauntered over to her. I watched them together. His attitude to her, I thought, was overfamiliar, but nothing suggested he had untoward designs on her; he was treating her like an amusing little pet who would entertain the company with its tricks. He went off again to be gracious to an elderly matron.

  Esther stopped by the harpsichord for a moment. ‘It is agreeably busy,’ she said. ‘And Nightingale is making a distinct success with the ladies.’ She gave me an impish smile. ‘He has ignored me entirely. Walked straight past me. I was ready to take offence!’

  I laughed. ‘He plainly has too great an opinion of your good sense; he knows he can’t twist you round his little finger.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she murmured. ‘He clearly believes no lady can resist his charms.’

  I nodded towards the other side of the room. ‘Mrs Jenison’s not particularly entranced. She doesn’t look well.’

  The lady in question was sitting on a hard chair, listening to Mrs Annabella’s eager chatter with an air of great weariness.

  Esther nodded. ‘She has a headache. I have already promised her one of my cordials. Well,’ she said sighing, ‘I had better greet one or two of my acquaintance or they will think I am snubbing them.’

  She went off to talk to her friends, plainly not having seen Kate. The girl was looking a little lost; I smiled at her and she started across the room towards me. But Nightingale was striding up imperiously, bending across the harpsichord. ‘Devil take it! Why are you looking so sour? Smile, man, smile!’

  He was on edge, I realized; the incident with Ord must have upset him more than he liked to show. I hesitated, but the matter could not be ignored. ‘Do you still intend the girl to perform?’

  ‘Damn it!’ he said. He glanced round, saw Philip Ord staring at him, and lowered his voice. ‘Don’t get so disapproving, man, I’m only humouring the girl. I’m not carrying her off to London or Edinburgh! God knows what they’d make of her there,’ he added contemptuously.

  Kate, just behind him, stood stock still, face set hard.

  I said, ‘It’s hardly kind to raise her expectations, then dash them.’

  ‘She’s a novelty, man! Novelties never last. Two or three concerts and that’s it.’

  Considering Nightingale could himself be regarded in the light of a novelty, I thought his words remarkably imperceptive. But then, I’d come to realize, he was a man who saw what he wanted to see.

  ‘I still don’t —’

  His short temper snapped. ‘It’s none of your business!’ And he strode off, finding his smiles again with difficulty.

  Kate sauntered up to me, defiance in every line. ‘I’ll show him. He’ll not throw me off so easily. I want the fiddle.’

  ‘Kate—’

  ‘I want the fiddle!’

  ‘Fiddle?’ Philip Ord said sharply behind me. ‘The girl is not going to play, surely?’

  I met his gaze, saw another hostile gentleman behind him. They could be the answer to my problem, I thought; armed with their opposition, both Kate and Nightingale might be easier to withstand. ‘I regret,’ I said, steeling myself for Kate’s fury, ‘that I’ve left the key of the instrument cupboard at home.’

  Kate glared. ‘Go and get it, then.’

  ‘Young woman,’ Ord said frigidly. ‘Pray go back to your—’ He cast an eye down her gaudy dress, remembered he was amongst ladies and said, ‘To wherever you come from.’r />
  Nightingale came sailing up again. ‘Katherine, my dear! No violin?’

  ‘I don’t have the key to the instrument cupboard,’ I repeated.

  And to my astonishment, without further provocation, he flew into a huge rage, shrieking at me. ‘You thwart me! You want to ruin my performance? Jealousy, that’s what it is! Just because I have more talent than you can ever imagine—’

  Kate jerked back, plainly forced herself to stand still. Esther came up behind her and put her hand reassuringly on her shoulder. The room was disturbingly quiet; I heard Mrs Jenison say faintly, ‘Oh dear.’ Ord’s face had turned purple with outrage.

  ‘Call yourself a harpsichord player? I’ve heard better playing from a pet monkey! You thwart me! Get that damned cupboard open and get the girl a fiddle. Who do you think you are, sir, to countermand me? How dare you? A provincial scraper and squaller . . .’

  ‘At least he is a gentleman,’ Ord said loudly.

  Not a sound in the entire room. Over Nightingale’s shoulder, I saw Hugh staring and Ridley grinning. Heron stood up and walked towards us, hand on sword, footsteps echoing in the silence.

  Everyone was looking at me expectantly. I had the feeling this was the crucial moment, the moment the ladies and gentlemen decided whether I was worthy of being accepted into their midst, or whether I remained forever an upstart who’d married above his station. What the devil was I to do? I knew what I wanted to do; I wanted to knock Nightingale flat on the floor. What would a gentleman do? I had a panicky feeling that swords at dawn were expected.

  I said calmly, ‘Do you wish to continue the concert, sir?’

  Nightingale stared, caught in the middle of another rant. He snarled, teeth bared. ‘I do not!’

  ‘Then there’s nothing more to be said.’ And I stood up, put the harpsichord lid down and locked it.