by Roz Southey
Ignoring her, Lady Anne produced a basket from the folds of her skirt and, from the basket, took a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Mrs Foxton made a noise between a sniff and a snort, and the gleam of her slid soundlessly between the hinges of the door and out of the room.
Lady Anne perched upon the edge of one of my chairs and insisted I drank the brandy. It was a very fine brandy. “You gave us all a fright, Mr Patterson,” she said, and there was an odd edge to her voice, a hint of – I could not be certain what. Concern? Could that be true?
“I had not intended to, my lady.”
“You virtually fell into my arms.” Yes – a forced edge to her good humour. “I thought for one dreadful moment that you had expired. But the apothecary said it was merely an after-effect of your dreadful experiences the other night, so we had you carried home and physicked. But I vowed to be certain you were well, so here I am!” She leaned forward. “A strange thing… You sounded as if you were speaking with a gentleman. Do you recall anything?”
Now was the time to tell Lady Anne what I had seen and heard in her house, but I looked into her face and knew I could not. There was concern in her gaze, yes, but there was mischief too, a gleam of bright pleasure. She was a woman with little to do who had therefore turned to setting one part of the town against another. She would greet my story with sympathetic understanding, no doubt, then tease me with it in front of others, embarrass me with hints. Exaggerated fears, perhaps, but I did not trust Lady Anne’s understanding of how careful a man must be when he relies on the favour of others to earn a living.
So I lied. “I did seem to have a dream. But I don’t remember it.”
She was watching me closely. “Nothing at all?”
“An impression of sunshine,” I said, sensing that she would not be satisfied with a denial. “And voices.” I shook my head. “I cannot recall what they said.”
She straightened in her chair, smiling at me over the top of her brandy glass. “Well, sir, I have more news for you, though I fancy you will not be pleased to have it. I have spoken to Mr Jenison and Mr Ord and they are adamant that the contest will go ahead.”
I set my head back against the pillows and cursed their obstinacy. “And the other gentlemen?”
“Mr Nichols and Mr Wright are acting for our Swiss friend. They in their turn insist upon the right of their principal to defend his reputation.”
“And Le Sac himself, madam? Have you spoken to him?”
“Impossible. He has gone to Sunderland for a concert and will not return until the day of the contest. Jenison and Ord are of the opinion that he has fled but I know him better than that. He is, in his own way, a man of his word. Having consented to the duel, he will not withdraw.”
“Then I will forbid George to take part.”
“You have that right, certainly. But I think Jenison and Ord will not forgive you interfering and you will then find yourself in a more difficult position than before. No, I have considered all aspects of the matter and I cannot find any way of preventing the contest that will not make the situation worse.”
Suddenly she bent forward and laid her hand upon my arm. “Mr Patterson, I beg you to take my advice on this matter. Let the contest go ahead. Le Sac will win. The boy will be disappointed, certainly, but you are a man of tact and understanding – you can console him. I assure you I will use my influence to raise general sympathy on the boy’s side.”
She drank down the rest of her brandy with a mannish gesture and got up to leave. “You had better rest, Mr Patterson. I have instructed the boy to send your apologies to your pupils and I will ensure that no one takes offence at your absence.” She took the empty glass from my hand. “My cousin, by the way, has sent a potion for you.” She indicated a small bottle upon the table, stoppered with cork and a twist of cloth. “It is a remedy for the headache; she brews it herself. I can personally recommend its efficacy.”
At the door, she almost walked into George, racing up the stairs. But she was in a good mood; she merely chided him laughingly and submitted to being taken downstairs by Mrs Foxton.
I had not seen George for some hours and I saw a change in him. He stood in the middle of the room, panting for breath and trying at the same time to list all the people he had visited on my behalf. He was in great good humour; yes, that was the difference – I had never seen him so animated.
“You seem to have been having a good time of it,” I said.
He looked guilty and his hand, all unbeknown to him, I think, crept to the pocket on his left side. What had he in there? Surely he hadn’t been indulging in boyish pranks – stealing fruit or cheeses, perhaps, from some stall. Yes, I thought, resigned, that would be it.
“And I saw Mr Jenison and Mr Heron upon the Key by the Printing Office. They told me to go home and not to catch cold before the contest. At least,” he amended, “Mr Jenison said so. Mr Heron just frowned.”
Heron. I caught at a faint hope. He was a man of sense. Might he prevent the duel?
I struggled off my bed. The brandy had made me warm but also dizzy. “Well, if we are committed to this stupidity, we had better take it seriously. We must decide what you are to play.”
“The Vivaldi!” he said eagerly.
I stared. “Which Vivaldi? I never taught you Vivaldi. I wouldn’t touch the stuff.”
“Mr Sac taught me it.” He started rummaging among the papers on the table. (I allowed him a corner at the back of it to keep his own music.)
“Corelli,” I said forcibly. Quite apart from the fact that I could not allow any apprentice of mine to exhibit inferior taste, I considered it more sensible to play a piece he had recently practised. And Le Sac himself would be familiar with the Vivaldi if he had taught it to his apprentice, and would no doubt play it excellently. No doubt he would be familiar with the Corelli too; we had played one or two of the concerti in the Concerts. But he had shown small enthusiasm for them, dismissing them contemptuously as ‘simple’ pieces. Such attitudes have a way of being heard in performance. And Hesletine, the proposed judge, was fond of Corelli, and would probably be offended by Le Sac’s indifference.
We produced the music at the same time. I stood with my hand on a printed edition; George waved a paper filled with that lamentable scrawl of Le Sac’s.
“Corelli,” I repeated, opening the book. “Get out your violin.”
“I don’t need to practise that one,” he said, looking beneath my arm. “We played it at the last Concert.”
“I was there,” I said. “You need to practise.”
He lifted his head defiantly. “Mr Jenison says I’m an excellent violinist.”
“You have the prospect of becoming so, certainly.” I was feeling light-headed; the brandy, I realised, had been stronger than I had made allowance for.
“Mr Jenison says I’m going to win this contest.”
A harsh retort hovered on my lips but I looked down at the boy and held my tongue. If the effects of his inevitable defeat were to be lessened, I must tread carefully. But I cursed Jenison as I looked down at the upturned face and saw the swaggering confidence there and the childish glee at anticipated victory.
“And what did Mr Heron say?” I asked gently.
“Nothing. I don’t think he likes boys.”
I had come to the conclusion that Claudius Heron liked nobody very well. “Mr Jenison’s opinion,” I said carefully, “is valuable, but he is, after all, only a gentleman amateur. If you are to win this contest, you must satisfy Mr Hesletine. And he, as I’m sure Mr Mountier’s anecdotes have made clear to you, is very difficult indeed to please. Now, get out your violin.”
He made a face of mutiny but fetched the instrument and I lingered at the window as he tuned the strings. The shrill sound of it made my head throb again and it seemed to me that George deliberately produced an inferior tone to spite me. I remembered Mrs Jerdoun’s potion and read the instructions she had neatly inscribed upon the label. Pulling out the stopper, I sniffed at the summer scen
ts of lime flowers and rosemary, mixed with wine.
I drank a small glass of the potion and felt the warmth of it seep down my throat. Leaning my hot cheek against the chill window glass, I gazed out into the dusk and tried to concentrate on George’s begrudging lifeless attempts at the first bars of the faultless Corelli. Figures scuttled beneath me: a child with a barking dog, a woman with a baby heaved up on a hip. And at the far corner, just turning out of sight...
Demsey.
24
SINFONIA CONCERTANTE
Movement II
I heard Mrs Foxton call as I flung open the front door. The cold air made me reel; for a moment the world seemed to spin. The road was full of people – housewives coming home from markets, children shrieking, carters edging horses through the melee – and the gloom of night was gathering fast. I pushed my way down the street. A barrel rolled across my path; I leapt it, turned the corner...
Nothing. The street was empty.
It was a momentary condition; almost at once, a group of miners trudged around the far corner. Might Demsey have gone into a shop? Or a tavern? I stumbled along, glancing in at every window, staring after every dark passer-by. I even accosted two gentlemen, complete strangers.
The air was making me giddy, or perhaps it was Lady Anne’s brandy. Had I merely imagined a likeness in a passing stranger? Demsey had gone to Aberdeen to make a new start, to teach young Miss Scotts their native dances or to introduce them to the civilising influence of the English. Hamilton had said so.
I wandered on as night gathered, unwilling to go back home. I’d left George without a word of explanation; he must think me mad, or ill again. But to the devil with George. An obstinate part of me whispered that I had not been mistaken; Demsey had returned. Perhaps Hamilton had misunderstood him, or he had changed his mind after speaking to Hamilton and not travelled north after all. I am not a man who likes to be at odds with his friends and since Demsey’s departure I had felt acutely the need of a friend. Moreover, I was conscious I had behaved abominably to him; I would have welcomed a chance to apologise. And a reassurance that he was well and did not suffer from the false accusations against him. Good God, what was happening? First the plot against Hugh, then the duel (besides all the mysteries happening in Caroline Square). Would there never be an end to it all!
“I am besieged on all sides,” I cried aloud. “Insulted, manipulated by men for their own purposes...”
“You are drunk, sir,” a cold voice said.
I looked up the steps of St Nicholas’s church, to the deep shadows of the half-open door. Light-Heels Nichols stood upon the step, looking down at me superciliously.
“Brandy, sir,” I said. “Fine brandy. It is beneath me to get drunk on anything less.”
“And where do you get the money, sir?” he returned contemptuously. “I trust the rate of interest upon the loan was not too extortionate.”
He was hardly fit to comment, considering his brother was so well acquainted with the money-lenders. But I could not quite express the thought; there seemed a gulf between my brain and my tongue.
“I intend to make my fortune,” I said, waving my hands expansively. I was feeling reckless, wild enough for anything. And nauseous.
“Indeed?”
“Indeed,” I cried. “I am off to Aberdeen, to write Scotch tunes and pass them off as centuries old –”
I stopped. He had drawn back. He turned his head away from me, came rapidly down the steps and pushed past. I yelled after him and was rewarded by an irate shout from the upstairs window of a nearby house. Then he was gone.
Some time later, I managed to find Mrs Hill’s in the Fleshmarket. I stumbled into the place reeking of offal, for in the darkness I had slipped in a pool of butchers’ blood and sat down in discarded guts. The tavern was packed and noisy; I collapsed upon a bench and called for Dick Kell.
“You’re drunk,” he said accusingly from the carved handle of a tankard. The candlelight flickering from the metal and from the glitter that was Dick Kell made my head spin. I put my face in my hands.
“I’m trying not to be,” I said thickly. “Wait, wait.” Had I learnt nothing from that episode with Claudius Heron? When I was drunk, I did the most foolish things. And to wander around the town out of my wits when there were ruffians out to get me was more than foolish. I gathered my thoughts together at last. “Dick, you were here when Light-Heels Nichols first came to this town, were you not?”
“Lord, yes. Year before I died. Let me see. I died – um – four years back. That year we had the terrible snowstorms. Year before you came back from London.”
“You don’t by any chance,” I said carefully, squinting at the ale-damp table to one side of the tankard, “know where he came from?”
“Lancaster.”
My hopes plummeted.
“Born and bred there. Father was the organist. His brother had the post too but put himself up for the St Nicholas’s job. More money. Always liked money, those two. And women. Well, Light-Heels does anyway. If you ask me, that’s why he left Aberdeen.”
“Dick,” I said to the pool of ale on the table, “I’m tired and I can’t think properly. Talk to me slowly. Nichols came to this town from Lancaster?”
“No, no,” he said good-humouredly. “You are in a sorry state, aren’t you? Light-Heels was born in Lancaster, but he spent some while as a music teacher in Aberdeen before he came here. Taught singing.”
“Singing?” I echoed incredulously.
“And the violin. Can’t have made much a of a go of it. Left. Oh, sorry.” He mimicked Light-Heels’ careful voice. “I resigned in order to return to my native country. The Scotch were most complimentary about my playing. Well, let me tell you, I’ve stood in front of Light-Heels Nichols in more than one concert and if the Scotch think a violin should sound like a nail being drawn across a metal box, they’ve even less sense than I’ve always thought – and that’s not saying much! And what’s up with you?”
“Aberdeen!” I said and started to laugh.
I made one last effort to prevent the contest on the Monday next, two days after I thought I had seen Demsey. Before I gave his son a lesson upon the harpsichord, Mr Heron came in to take his first lesson. I spoke directly about the matter of the duel, for I knew he would scorn subterfuge or roundaboutation. I asked him to speak to Jenison and Ord and request them to call off the affair.
He was taking his violin from its case and paused to look sideways at me. In the clear chill sunlight entering through the window, his pale eyes seemed to glitter.
“I do not think there is any point in wasting time in an endeavour that cannot possibly succeed. Why do you object to the contest?” He straightened, bow-stick in one hand and his resin-box in the other. “Do you fear your boy will lose?”
“I know he will,” I said, rather more forcibly than I had intended. “As you are aware, sir, I was in London scarcely three years ago and I heard few violinists even there who could stand comparison with Monsieur le Sac.”
“What, then?” He rubbed the horsehair over the resin.
I hesitated, but still judged it best to speak plainly. “Mr Jenison and Mr Ord have been filling the boy’s head with expectations that cannot be fulfilled, which will only lead to disappointment. It is not fair on the boy.”
Heron did not speak for a moment. He laid the bow-stick upon the table and lifted the violin to the light, angling it as if to catch the patina of dust upon its surface. One lean finger plucked a string.
“Slightly flat,” he said and glanced again at me. “I approve your good sense, Mr Patterson, but there is no avoiding this matter. I advise you to do as I do and stand well clear of it.”
I considered but was not able to agree. “I cannot, sir.”
“Then there is no more to be said on the matter. Shall we proceed?”
And so I gave him that first lesson, surprised by the seriousness with which he undertook the task. Teaching gentlemen is never easy, for they are rarely ame
nable to accepting advice, or anything but praise, no matter how undeserved. Heron, however, made it plain he expected honesty from me, and did not snap at me for giving it. It is rare to find a gentleman who takes the science of music so seriously as even to practise.
Only later did I realise that Claudius Heron had done me the honour of adding to my name the title of Mr.
I had, perforce, to accept the inevitability of the duel. Lady Anne, Heron, gleeful Mr Ord – all thought it impossible to avoid. But I was determined to enjoy the Concert upon the Tuesday night, as it might be the last I directed and I wanted to leave a good impression. It went very well, I thought, despite Mountier’s absence (he had another engagement in Durham); at the end of the music, I went down into the yard of the Turk’s Head, to feel the coolness of the evening air after the heat of the crowded Long Room. Despite my tiredness, and my aches and pains, there was a warm pleasurable feeling in my gut, a certainty that, given a larger opportunity, I could do very well as musical director, that this was something I could excel at.
A shadow moved beneath the arch of the inn. Then Esther Jerdoun came cautiously across the cobbles, holding up her blue satin dress from the mud and horse manure, stepping in and out of shafts of moonlight, her shining shoes bright. She stopped in front of me but said nothing. She dropped her skirts and smoothed them down, then looked into my face with a directness that disconcerted me.
“Did you never consider staying in London, Mr Patterson?”
I was astonished; her hint was unmistakable. “Are you advising me to consider it now, madam?”
Her ash-blonde hair gleamed in the moonlight; her bare arms, white and slim, lay smooth against the satin. She was without a cloak but did not seem to feel the cold.
“I wish I could say there is no danger to you, sir, but I would not be honest.”
“Do you mean to warn me against your cousin again?” I said boldly.
Her face hardened.
“Forgive me,” I said. “But I am well aware that Lady Anne enjoys playing games with lesser mortals. She –” I searched for polite words, then recklessly plunged on. “She finds everyday life tedious and seeks to enliven it. I do not like that, I confess. Nor do I like being embroiled in your quarrel with her.”