by Roz Southey
I wondered if I could ask what Ridley had done; it might throw light on what he was capable of. I reminded myself to be careful. I was convincing myself Ridley was the villain of the piece without any proof.
Heron was continuing. ‘Armstrong is understandably torn between doing a favour for his old friend, the boy’s father, and anxiety over the possible damage to his business.’ He smoothed the music down as the pages threatened to drift closed. ‘I met Mrs Patterson at Armstrong’s.’
My heart sank but I kept my voice matter of fact. ‘She’s seeing him about the estates in Norfolk. Tenant problems.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I was surprised not to see you there. Nothing can be done without your agreement.’
‘It’s an urgent matter,’ I said, saying the first thing that came into my head, ‘and I’m not yet fully conversant with the issues.’
He was still surprised. The eyebrow hovered; he looked for a moment longer before turning back to the music. ‘Indeed?’
And he launched into the first movement of one of Geminiani’s sonatas, leaving me embarrassed and depressed. I’d lied to him, if not explicitly, then by implication. But to admit the truth would be to forfeit his good opinion of me.
Damn it, what the devil was I to do?
After the lesson we walked down together to Jenison’s agent’s office. The long stretch of Northumberland Street, where Heron lives, was dark with the continuing drizzle; a tiny wind skittered leaves and fragments of straw towards us. Walking down the hill towards the Key, Heron was in an unusually talkative mood; he was, he said, planning a trip the following year to Italy. I knew exactly what his manservant thought of hot countries, and fancied he’d work on Heron to change his mind, but I let him tell me about the attractions and the perils of the Alps, and how the best way was to sail from Marseilles to Genoa, providing one took plenty of weapons to protect oneself against pirates. And then, just as we turned in the door to Jenison’s agent, I realized why he was telling me all this.
‘Of course,’ he said, going ahead of me up the stairs, ‘I can give you recommendations to several gentlemen in Rome who will help you make the necessary arrangements.’
Dear God, he thought Esther and I should make the trip! Worse than that – we could afford it!
We emerged into a dark room, full of books and clerks scribbling at desks. Jenison’s agent is a spare man, who looks as if he never eats; he bowed very politely – too politely – to Heron and bestowed a much smaller bow on me. ‘And how is Mrs Patterson?’ he asked. There was a sneer in his voice.
‘Mr Jenison is expecting us,’ Heron snapped.
We were shown into an inner sanctum, where Jenison sat in splendour in a huge winged armchair, behind a desk overrun with papers. Jenison plainly didn’t believe in shelves and books and boxes; he preferred piles on the desk. He frowned when he saw us. ‘Is Mr Nightingale not here?’
In five years, I’ve never got a Mr to my name from Jenison.
‘He wanted refreshment and rest before seeing you,’ I said, and then, because I was tired and distracted, I foolishly added: ‘I left him at the Fleece.’
Jenison frowned. ‘You didn’t take him to the George?’
I cursed my own carelessness. ‘He bespoke a room at the Fleece. He said he likes somewhere busy and noisy.’
Heron shot me a look.
‘But I recommended the George to him,’ Jenison insisted, puzzled.
There was nothing I could say to this, so I kept quiet. Later, I’d point out that the Fleece was much cheaper than the George; Jenison would appreciate that.
A noise was heard downstairs. I said, with some relief, ‘Here he is now.’
He was drunk. He reeled in, clipping the door jamb as he misjudged the opening, and staggered to a halt in front of Heron’s fastidious – and condemnatory – gaze. I made the introductions.
‘Damn fine town,’ Nightingale said. ‘Fine women.’ He snagged his fingers in my coat sleeve. ‘Shame you couldn’t come.’
Jenison was a rotund ridiculous-looking man but he knew how to deal with his social inferiors. He said, ‘Sit, sir,’ in a certain tone of voice, and Nightingale sank into the nearest chair instantly. Jenison nodded at the clerk who’d brought Nightingale in. ‘Coffee, and a great deal of it.’ He looked back at Nightingale. ‘Would you prefer this meeting postponed until tomorrow? When you are less . . . indisposed?’
Heron and I exchanged glances. I doubted Nightingale would be any less ‘indisposed’ tomorrow or any day of his stay. The clerk returned; Nightingale snatched up the dish with shaking hands, drank the coffee down in one draught. Two more dishes and he seemed sensible again. Sensible enough, at any rate.
‘Thirty guineas, sir,’ he said thickly. ‘That was our bargain, was it not.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Per season,’ I said, remembering our previous conversation.
‘Half-season,’ Nightingale said indignantly. ‘And cheap at the price. You’re getting the performance that startled London!’
I saw Heron’s lips twitch.
‘I cannot vary the terms,’ Jenison said, every inch the shrewd businessman. ‘At least, not without the consent of the other Directors. Our agreement, I believe, is that you’ll give a concert for the subscribers. If everyone’s amenable, we’ll then decide on the final terms of the contract. If your performance is particularly impressive, there may indeed be room for increasing your fee.’
‘Can’t say any fairer than that,’ Nightingale said, slapping the desk.
‘And I’m sure,’ Jenison added, slipping abruptly into the role of an admirer, ‘that once everyone hears your admirable renderings of Vivaldi and Handel, they’ll be only too eager to agree.’
Nightingale smiled beatifically. He caught my sleeve again; I staggered as he pulled me towards him. ‘Here, Patterson,’ he said, ‘you haven’t heard me sing—’
‘We’ll need a rehearsal first,’ I said hurriedly, fearing he was about to launch into song there and then. ‘Tomorrow afternoon perhaps?’
Nightingale looked disappointed but Jenison brightened. ‘Then we can have the concert on Thursday afternoon. That’ll give me time to let everyone know about it.’ He bowed his head to Nightingale. ‘And of course you must come to dinner. I know my wife and sister are longing to see you again.’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘Delighted of course but—’ He swayed alarmingly and confided, ‘Damnably tired!’
‘Tomorrow night then,’ Jenison said. ‘Patterson and Heron have agreed to be there, and of course, Mrs Patterson. We’re all looking forward to it immensely.’
‘Indeed,’ Heron said dryly.
I could not imagine for a moment that the evening would go smoothly, particularly when Nightingale leant towards me on our way down the stairs and murmured in my ear, ‘They’re devilishly straight-laced, Patterson.’ Stale beer wafted in my face.
‘Oh yes?’
‘You should have seen them in London.’ He belched, stumbled on the stair. I steadied him, grateful Heron had remained behind with Jenison. ‘Will that fright be there too?’
I was pretty certain he was referring to Mrs Annabella, but could hardly assume that without appearing to endorse his opinion. ‘Mr and Mrs Jenison and Mr Jenison’s sister, Mrs Annabella Jenison, will make up the other guests,’ I said diplomatically.
‘That’s her!’ Nightingale groaned as we emerged into the bright sunshine. ‘She’s a silly old bat, Patterson. Gets funny notions in her head. I shall avoid her.’ How he intended to do that in a small private dinner party, I couldn’t imagine. He stumbled into the wall. ‘Where the devil’s the nearest tavern?’
‘The Fleece is next door,’ I reminded him, steering him in the right direction. ‘I think you need a good sleep.’
He shook his head; as we came under the Fleece’s arch, he took a handful of my coat in his fist. ‘It’s the devil of a job, Patterson, isn’t it? Having to make up to frights like that? Take my advice, Patterson. Marry money!
’
And he reeled across the yard, staggering into the wall on one side, then into the ostler on the other. If he made it to his room without falling flat on his face, I’d be astounded.
And his advice was well wide of the mark.
Thirteen
A gentleman should reward those who do him a service, but it should be quietly done, without any great show.
[A Gentleman’s Companion, May 1733]
I went home, tired and jaded. I could foresee the forthcoming concert series being very trying. Nightingale’s singing would be a sensation for the first two or three concerts, then the novelty would fade and the audiences, in all likelihood, drift away. So now, while the attraction was still strong, was the time to sell tickets; I’d four or five more calls I ought to pay, and I couldn’t summon up the enthusiasm for any of them. They were a distraction from much more serious business. What were Nightingale’s idiosyncrasies compared to the death of a child?
The moment I set foot inside the door, light flashed across my sight. ‘Note, master!’ George said imperiously, clinging on to a flower in a vase. ‘You’re getting a lot of notes these days! You never used to.’
I looked around. Tom was standing by the drawing-room door, patently seething with fury. His hands were behind his back and I’d lay any odds his fists were clenched. He must have been waiting for me, but no living man could move faster than a spirit.
I really didn’t want to have to deal with this, not now, not at any time. It occurred to me that while he’d been alive, George had been eager to placate me; now he was dead, I was anxious to placate him. That annoyed me.
‘Master!’ he said. ‘You’re not looking at the note!’
‘I’m in sore need of a brandy, Tom,’ I said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him snap upright. ‘Yes, sir!’ he said, with a distinct note of triumph, and marched off. There are things a spirit simply can’t do, which is why I had asked for a drink I didn’t want. Tom understood that.
A pity George plainly did not. He said, ‘You should get rid of him, master. I don’t like him.’
‘That is apparent.’ I unfolded the note.
It was written in the dashing, melodramatic hand of Solomon Strolger, the organist of All Hallows’ Church, for whom I sometimes deputize. It said:
Devil take it, Patterson, it’s this damned gout again. Take the services for me on Sunday, will you? And don’t [underlined three times] play any of your dull tunes.
Give ’em something cheerful.
I heard movement and looked up to see Esther, halfway up the stairs, looking down on me in some concern. ‘Was Heron that bad?’
She was holding a pile of linen in her arms; I fancied the top item was one of my old shirts that had a tear in it. I couldn’t resist smiling at her. ‘Heron was admirable as usual. I’ve just come from a meeting with Jenison and Nightingale. Nightingale was drunk and I very much fear it’ll be up to me to keep him sober enough to sing. Do I really look so evil-tempered?’
She hung over the banister, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Dreadful!’ She cast a quick glance towards the servants’ quarters, lowered her voice. ‘I could help change that . . .’
I looked up into her mischievous gaze. ‘I was going to visit the Ords,’ I said feebly. ‘And Dr Brown and Mr Wright—’
‘I will come with you to the Ords,’ she said, at once. ‘I promised Lizzie a book of drawings. We can go together. Later.’ And she reached down a hand.
‘Master!’ George said. ‘I was talking about Tom! He says things you wouldn’t like!’
‘This is a very private conversation, George,’ Esther said.
‘But—’
‘No buts, George.’
The spirit’s gleam dimmed. ‘Yes, mistress,’ he said, unmistakeably subdued.
Tom came back with a salver on which reposed not one but two glasses of brandy; he looked smug at his foresight. I wondered if George had overheard him talking about me. Esther’s servants were devoted to her. Did that loyalty extend to me? And wasn’t I thinking just the way George must have hoped I would?
Devil take it. I didn’t care. ‘Thank you, Tom,’ I said, and took the salver, and Esther, upstairs.
We did indeed make it to the Ords’ house, some two hours later, in the late afternoon. Mrs Ord – formerly Lizzie Saint – is one of my pupils and she greeted us both with enthusiasm as the footman showed us into the drawing room.
‘You must have tea, oh, and cook has some wonderful sweetmeats.’ She’d done her dark curls in a very becoming fashion, one ringlet hanging over her shoulder; her dress was white spotted with tiny blue flowers: very suitable for a young lady. I discerned Esther’s good influence at work; in the days after her marriage, Lizzie had dressed in much too severe a style. At only sixteen, she seemed far too young to have control over such a large house but I noticed she’d lost a great deal of her nervousness with servants. She poured tea for us and gossiped happily through the doings of our mutual acquaintances.
‘Not everyone’s back in town yet, you know,’ she said and proceeded to give us an exhaustive list of those who were. ‘Oh, and I saw a very odd young man this morning at the Barbers’. I couldn’t get a word out of him!’
‘Not one of the Ridleys?’ Esther asked, glancing at me.
Lizzie made a face. ‘The youngest. He’s so shy!’ She giggled. ‘Maria Barber’s much taken with him.’
Esther and I exchanged glances; Maria Barber, at seventeen years old, is not my epitome of good taste.
‘I can’t see why she likes him,’ Lizzie confessed. ‘I prefer someone much more decisive.’
As if on cue, the drawing-room door opened and her husband walked in. It was unlikely he’d heard us but Lizzie blushed fierily and looked becomingly confused.
Philip Ord is twenty years older than his wife, a fact which, to my knowledge, has never been commented on. But the way his gaze slid from myself to Esther suggested he was yet again noting Esther’s seniority of twelve years with some distaste. Esther appeared oblivious to any undercurrent; she greeted him courteously and complimented him on the horse she’d seen him riding the previous day. He mellowed visibly and I seized the moment to offer the concert tickets.
Lizzie clapped her hands, and hung on his arm, eagerly entreating him to buy. He stared into my face, patted her hand, said calmly, ‘Of course, my dear.’ His lips widened into what might have been intended to pass for a smile. ‘Will you accompany me to my study, sir?’
I accompanied him, but I didn’t think concert tickets would be our topic of conversation.
The house had, I noted, been entirely redecorated recently; the matter would of course have been undertaken in the course of preparations for the Ords’ marriage, and Ord would have deferred to Lizzie’s wishes in the drawing room and the hallway and in her own private rooms. The result was a light airy look with the newest wallpaper and delicate chairs. This was how it was supposed to be: a husband redecorates his home for his bride, deferring to her choice, at least in the public areas of the house, which after all is where she entertains her friends and enhances his status. But in our case, I’d moved into Esther’s home, already freshly decorated and done out in her own taste after she’d inherited it from her cousin a year ago.
In Ord’s private rooms, his own tastes would naturally have ruled; his study was small, very masculine in style and a little old-fashioned, still with the dark wainscoting of an earlier age. Like Esther’s estate room, it was full of books and papers that spoke of business; a document on the desk listed tonnages of coal carried down the river in a keel I knew belonged to Ord. I felt haunted by business, dragged my eyes away from it, watched as Ord unlocked a drawer and carefully counted out a guinea in small coins to pay for the two tickets. He slipped the rest of the money back in the drawer and locked it before standing, coins in hand, regarding me impassively. Finally, he held out the money, keeping it until I was forced to put out my own hand, palm upwards, for him to drop it into. Like a m
an bestowing charity on a beggar.
‘A man cannot escape his history, Mr Patterson,’ he said. ‘Whatever good fortune comes his way, he cannot be other than he is and always was.’
A tradesman, he meant, one of the lower orders. Not one who could trace his ancestry back to the days of the Conqueror and probably earlier, like the Ords. ‘I am, and always was,’ I said, ‘a musician.’
His lip curled. ‘And this taste of yours for involving yourself in . . . sordid matters better suited to the petty constables and watchmen. I would advise you to put these things aside, sir.’
I looked at him steadily. Before his marriage, I’d rescued Ord from a very difficult situation which might have made him the ridicule of his peers and put an end to all hopes of marriage to Lizzie and her father’s money. I thought he might have remembered that. But perhaps that was the problem: he did remember and would rather not.
He said finally, ‘You put me in a very difficult situation, sir. I am supposed to pay you for these tickets and for the lessons you give my wife on the harpsichord, yet at the same time invite you to sit at my dinner table as if you were one of my intimates. I do not find this considerate, sir.’
‘Then you have a simple solution to hand,’ I returned. ‘You can avoid inviting me to dinner.’
He nodded. ‘But that would be to disadvantage your wife whom I have always believed to be a woman of breeding and education.’
‘She is.’ I was mollified, a little, by this evidence of consideration for Esther.
‘Moreover, she is a good influence on my wife. An excellent friend and adviser. I choose my wife’s confidantes very carefully, Mr Patterson, and scrutinize their associates.’
‘You’ll find nothing to object to in Mrs Patterson’s husband,’ I said, biting back anger. ‘Except my birth.’
