Chilvers reckoned that by dint of economies, a judicious clearance of items and an income from Faith, he would at least be able to discharge the interest on his debts for a few months. That would give him time to find alternative funds or, perhaps, the Baron would be tracked down and arraigned.
After several calming glasses of port, he congratulated himself on his astuteness. Dark thoughts then turned towards the girl sleeping in the room directly above him. Sophie had gone and now Winnie lay, soft, vulnerable and alone. She was enjoying the benefits of his household and must, by turns, repay his largesse.
He fancied that Winnie was actually jealous that he had previously singled out Sophie for his attentions. Well, her turn had come. He climbed the wooden stairs to the garret room where the girl slept and lifted the latch on the door. Winnie had not heard his steps and was asleep by the light of a candle on a small table. Chilvers sat on the bed and pulled back the bedclothes. He noted, lubriciously, the firm young outline of the girl under her nightclothes. He placed his hand on her breast. Like a cobra and in one movement Winnie slid a kitchen knife from under her pillow and, kneeling up, levelled it against Chilvers’ eyes.
“Touch me and I swear to God that I will be the last thing you ever see!”
Chilvers backed off, his hands raised, shocked by the venom in her face and voice.
“Very well. But you will be leaving my service tomorrow so you shall not win, God damn you!”
“If you do dismiss me as you did poor Sophie, I shall expose your doings and speak plainly of what you have done and that you are the father of a bastard child. And if you do not believe me ask yourself, what have I got to lose?”
Chilvers made a tactical retreat to his rooms, cursing the girl but realising that any scandal, any suggestion that he was not the gentleman he held himself out to be, that he was evading his responsibilities, would be social and financial death. At this junction, he could take no more risks.
At breakfast the following morning, he airily disclosed certain elements of his financial plans to Faith. Some assets would be realised, including certain of her trinkets and jewellery in order that the money should be better employed.
Disbursements on food, wine, wages and the like would be more strictly controlled. Finally, in order that she make a contribution to the household (portrayed as a benevolent concession), Faith would be expected to resume her musical recitals.
Faith, surprised but pleased said that she would discreetly arrange one or two commitments. Chilvers hardened.
“No, this is not simply a pleasurable interlude for you to amuse yourself. I will expect you to undertake perhaps ten or so performances each week in order to make your contribution meaningful and so that you understand the value of the earned guinea as well as the one which is spent.”
*
Chilvers set about the disposal of household valuables: jewellery, fine clothing, paintings, silver spoons, snuff boxes and other items of worth. He uncovered a network of individuals in the London demi-monde, part-fence, part-pawnbroker, who were delighted to relieve him of his goods for a fraction of their worth. Samuel Cobb in Newgate market could be relied upon to advance money against paintings. Elizabeth Pinder in Leather Lane was a specialist in jewellery and silver. Whilst William Trippet in Castle Street specialised in gentlemen’s clothing and accessories. Each of them with a nose for a distress sale drove confiscatory bargains just short of embezzlement. Chilvers had little choice. The dispositions enabled Chilvers to pay off the bank interest due and to resume payments in the short term.
Meanwhile Faith was finding it difficult to arrange any musical bookings. In the London social circles a whiff of improbity was wafting around the Chilvers household and the taint of it rubbed off onto Faith. Doors that had once been open and welcoming to her father, Thomas Drinkwater and herself were now politely but firmly closed. This disturbed Chilvers who made it clear that she was not trying hard enough to find paying clients.
“I consider that the fault must lie with you. You have become too accustomed to the soft life. Why, even a blind beggar with a mouth organ can drum up a few coppers. Stir yourself and demonstrate to me that you have not forgotten how to do a day’s work. I must remind you that I took you on when others would have looked the other way. Now you must repay my philanthropy with some restitution by your own hand.”
But, other than a small part in an orchestra commissioned on the consecration of a church in Bow, Faith’s best efforts produced no return.
Chilvers, having exhausted the pool of more expensive items in his bid to stay above water, moved on to the more mundane household articles for which there was a ready market. Blankets, aprons, kitchen pots, plates and drinking glasses were all gratefully accommodated by Chilvers’ new bedfellows, sensing his increasing desperation.
Faith, noting both his black humour and the disappearance of household accoutrements, attempted to engage him in discussion.
“Sir, may we discuss what is happening? I am aware that it is your right to dispose of our goods and chattels in order to maintain our finances but can you say when we will be back on solid ground?” she asked hesitantly.
Chilvers, who was now drinking to excess, flew into a rage blaming the bank, the pawnbrokers, the Baron and finally Faith herself. In his drunken state he finally exposed enough of their predicament for Faith to understand the perilousness of their situation.
“And you, you!” shouted Chilvers, pointing at her accusingly. “You had better make some money in any way you can soon or we will be thrown out of this house and you will be sleeping in the poorhouse with nothing but the clothes on your back!”
*
Later that week Chilvers came back from the bank. After an examination of his finances, Thynn had said that since it was apparent that the bank could not rely on regular repayments of interest on the loans, that they had reluctantly begun proceedings to call in the loan on the house. Furthermore, although it very much pained them to do so, the bank had little option but to begin proceedings against Chilvers himself in order that an account could be made of his assets and liabilities.
“Unfortunately,” said Thynn, unctuously, “that may mean that you will be declared bankrupt and I am very much afraid that debtor’s prison may be the only option available to the court.”
Chilvers sat in his rooms, now bare of furniture apart from his desk, chair and a lamp. He drank a whole bottle of port angrily.
Faith knocked at his door.
“Come in! What is it, dammit? Come in!” he shouted, half-angry, half-despairing.
“Sir,” said Faith meekly, afraid of his rages. “I was looking for my Italianate violin…? The one my father gave me?”
“Gone, gone. Everything gone,” said Chilvers his head dropping on his chest. “You couldn’t make any money with it so it might as well prove its worth another way.”
“But, sir,” said Faith heartsick at her loss. “He entrusted it to me. It was his pride and pleasure. A unique piece. And its value—”
Chilvers held up an arm.
“I’ll hear no more of it. Its value to me was forty shillings. No more.”
Hesitatingly Faith tried to speak her part.
“But, sir—”
Chilvers cut her off abruptly.
“I will not be spoken to in this way under my own roof. That is the end of the matter. If you do need a fiddle to raise funds – which you have singularly failed to do – then you must make do with that child’s fiddle, what do you call it?”
“My pochette, sir.”
“Yes, that,” said Chilvers with finality. “It plays the same tunes so I cannot understand why you let your emotions get the better of you in this way. Now leave.”
Faith retreated to her bedroom. She sat on the edge of her bed and wept for her father, remembering his goodness. She wept for the violin that had been his gift to her. She heard the
violin play in her head. And she wept for herself.
*
Swithinbank, Flatter and Fogg were about their drink in The Three Tuns in Half Moon Street.
It was customary for Swithinbank, a joiner-undertaker, to meet with Flatter, a cutler, and Fogg, a farrier to meet now and again for some tossing of ale pots and gossip. On this early Friday evening in August 1770, with London suffocating in a sweltering heatwave, the three were awash with beer. Drink replenished the sweat, relaxed the muscles and loosened the tongue.
On this evening, Swithinbank was treating his friends.
“Aye,” he said, “drink your fill. Old Swithy has had a bit of good fortune.”
Pressed by his counterparts he related a recent piece of business.
“This family wanted a good send-off. So, by the time you added in a fine elm coffin, lead cherubim handles and grips, fine crepes, black feathers for the horses, black hatbands and gloves all round, cards, mutes and all, well the total bill were fifty-one pounds, eight shillings and fourpence. Well they seemed to have plenty of money so I gave them what they expected and—” he gestured behind his hand, “quite a bit more besides. That will keep me in funds for a while and will fill your bellies, you rascals!”
“Some old toff, were it?” enquired Fogg between gulps.
“No, young woman about thirty-year old only. Come to an untimely end it seems. Funny thing. She were in poor lodgings when I come to get the corpse. But her family popped up right out of the blue to give her a send-off.”
“A mystery,” said Flatter. “How come, then?” he said, turning down the corners of his mouth.
“Well,” said Swithinbank. “Story was she had been married but her old man were a bit of a scapegrace. Lost their home then he turns up dead and bloated like a whale in the river at Putney.”
“Drownded, were he?” asked Flatter.
“Well they didn’t rightly know, but either that or the rope round his neck got him and thrown in for concealment some say. Me? I don’t know and I don’t ask.”
“But what of the girl?” said Fogg. “How did she come to meet her end?”
“Sad business all round,” said Swithinbank. “Well, apart from the funeral, that is. Seems that she were accustomed to scraping some sort of a living playing the fiddle in alehouses. I heard that one night she were in the middle of an almighty bear-garden in some place or other and got stabbed, accidental like. She just happened to be caught up in it poor girl.”
“Did for her, did it?” asked Flatter, ruefully.
“No, she weren’t too bad. But then her blood got poisoned and she got fever and convulsions. Breathed her last about a week after.”
“So where had this family been?” asked Flatter.
“Dunno. But they weren’t short. Very particular they were as well. Made sure she was buried holding her little violin. A child’s violin really. Paid all their bills in coin. On the spot. Strange old business.”
“So who were they then?” asked Fogg, shaking his head.
“Just the three. Old couple. Her very proper and well turned out but upset through it all. Him looked like he were a bit of a burnt cork. And an old man, black apart from his white hair. Never said a word. Just stood at the burial respectful and still. Very old but ramrod straight. Sad business.
“Anyway, what about another jug?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hugh Wortley had renewed his acquaintance with his friend, Thomas Linley, from the Royal Crescent. He had been to study violin and composition in Florence. Back in Bath to see his family in early 1773, before his elevation to Leader of the Drury Lane Orchestra, he had sought out Hugh to regale him with his exploits and stories.
“Do you remember that boy we went to see at the Swan and Harp public house in London?”
How could Hugh forget?
“Well, he is also at the Academy in Florence studying under Signor Nardini. He is the finest and most gifted musician you could meet. Compositions pour out of him daily. He will sit down at the piano and in an eye-blink he will have written another sonata or concerto. If I play him one of my compositions he will not only reproduce it instantly from memory, but will also orchestrate two or three subsidiary parts, all perfectly sonorous and harmonious.”
“That is indeed impressive, but what is he like as a fellow?” asked Hugh.
“He is very excitable company but is a humorous chap. Although he does make reference to all sorts of filthy things and then laughs uproariously at his wit. Such words that you would not chance to repeat in company.”
“And do you play and compose? How is your own mastery progressing?” asked Hugh with a playful punch.
“Well, modesty forbids but I am not ashamed to say that Mr Burney – do you know him? The musician and critic? – well, he calls me ‘The Tommasino’ and ‘Little Mozart’. But in truth if I hold a candle to Amadeus then it is a very small one.”
As they sat in the fine salon in King’s Circus, Thomas showed Hugh his new violin.
“My father found it at a dealer in London. Apparently some ne’er-do-well had bought it in claiming that it had been played before and praised by no less than Mr Handel himself. It is certainly of rare quality and sound and Amadeus himself has played it declaring it to be the equal of any Italian fiddle he has encountered.”
Hugh turned the instrument in his hands noting the fine tiger stripes of its back plate and the delicacy of its ribs, blocks and purflings. He asked Thomas to play something of his own composition and sat transfixed as he played a plangent melody showing off the pure, clear top notes and a powerful lower resonance that almost pulsated through his body.
When he finished Hugh said, “My friend, I have just heard the finest instrumentalist playing his most dazzling composition on unparalleled strings!”
Thomas dismissed the praise with an agreeable shake of his head and continued.
“But what of you? How goes it in your world?”
Hugh spoke of his own musical studies.
“But of a much lesser notoriety than you,” he said with a mock-reverent inclination of his head.
“In truth I have yet to find my metier. I have an ample allowance from my father and since my parents are much taken up with William, now a gallant in the military, and Henry, a legal sorcerer by all accounts in London, they are happy for me to dawdle my way in life.”
“And what of the girls here in Bath? A handsome young beau like you must have a queue of beauties hoping to be your sweetheart!” Thomas asked, with a conspiratorial smile.
Hugh hesitated, then, in a whisper, said, “Well, I will tell you something my old friend but you must promise that no word of it ever passes your lips. Do you swear it?”
Thomas did so and Hugh confessed his folie d’amour. He told the wide-eyed Thomas of his seduction and affair, sparing no detail.
“So you will see that you must keep this knowledge with utmost discretion so as not to ruin the reputation of the lady.”
Thomas, with startled prurience, simply repeated what Hugh had told him.
“Catherine de Neufville! Who would have thought it?”
Hugh continued.
“Yes, you are receiving a fine education under Signor Nardini whilst I undergo training of a different measure under the good lady. But I must say that my mind is now changing. Where I once saw beauty and desire, I now see more clearly.
“The lady will not see five-and-forty again and the bloom of youth has long faded, with a dewlap under her chin and lines under her eyes. I have also noticed that her teeth are stained, with some missing. And she addresses me in a faux voice of a young girl, which becomes very wearying.
“I believe it may be time for new pastures and I am much of the opinion that I should sample some of the firm-fleshed delicacies I see spread before me at soirees and balls in Bath and Bristol. Or perhaps some of the more exotic
tastes in London and Paris. Again, perchance a visit to Florence to see my old friend! But she has taught me well. I have a repertoire of artifices and horsemanship that will serve me well in my next endeavours!”
The two friends laughed as they spoke of old times and of the open vistas of the future. They spoke the words of infallible, immortal and timeless youth when only golden days stretch far out to the horizon.
*
Within the year, William Wortley had married Elspeth in a Cromartyshire castle. Alasdair Drew, her father, had secured his acres and fortune through stout support for the Crown during troubled Jacobite times. He further enhanced his fortune through hemp and herrings and by keeping his feudal workforce in bothies and penury.
Scarcely had the marriage been celebrated when William’s military duties called him away to America.
“Those colonists have become cussed and quarrelsome and need to be reminded of their place,” barked Colonel Thirleby of the Grenadier Guards, addressing the men.
“A little flash of steel and a whiff of grapeshot and we’ll soon have them scurrying back to their hills!”
So the scarlet uniform, musket, fife and horse swaggered in classic military formation through the towns and villages of Massachusetts and Vermont, expecting, and receiving, an appropriate level of colonial compliance.
The Violin Page 9