by Roz Southey
‘Do, do, do!’ George shouted.
‘That’s enough!’
They both fell silent. The gleam on the banister shifted as if George was dying to say something more. Tom looked stonily into the distance.
‘I want you both to understand,’ I said, ‘that I’m perfectly satisfied with Tom’s performance of his duties. Thank you, Tom.’
‘Sir,’ he said, with a flush staining his cheeks.
‘But I’m not prepared to put up with arguments and dissensions in this house. They must cease at once. Do I make myself plain?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Tom said, a little subdued.
‘But master!’
‘Do I make myself clear!’
‘Yes, master,’ George said sullenly.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now, I came back for some music. And if there’s any more argument, I’m going to be late for a rehearsal.’
‘Sir,’ Tom said again, and retreated to the back of the house. George lingered, muttering.
‘I’m adamant, George,’ I said. ‘These arguments must end.’
‘But master!’
I could hear the hostility in his voice. The spirit was turning more and more green; I sighed inwardly. ‘I appreciate your concern for Mrs Patterson, George, more than I can say—’
‘Really, master?’ The green faded; he sounded gratified.
‘But you must moderate your behaviour to Tom. After all, there are certain things you cannot—’ This required some delicacy; no spirit likes to be reminded they’re no longer as active as they once were. ‘Tom’s here to make Mrs Patterson’s life comfortable, to bring her food and drink, and all the other trifles she needs. He can make her life so much easier.’
‘Yes, master.’ Dear God, now he sounded worryingly depressed, and I was getting later and later for my rehearsal with Nightingale.
‘I rely upon you to make sure everything runs smoothly, George.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do, master!’
‘Yes, I understand that. But don’t forget that other people can do their bit too.’
‘Yes, master. But—’
‘And you want Mrs Patterson to be happy, don’t you?’
‘Yes, master, but—’
‘Exactly,’ I said, and fled for the library.
My music sat in half a dozen piles on the floor behind the harpsichord. I thought I knew exactly the location of the copies I needed but I did not; after ten minutes of hunting, I finally conceded that Esther’s idea of new bookcases had considerable merit. Only at the last minute, just as I was leaving, did I remember Hugh’s note and retrieve it from my pocket. If it was another glowing encomium of London’s virtues, I’d leave it until I was in a better temper.
It was not. The note was addressed from Westgate.
Charles [Hugh had written] For God’s sake come round and console me. And bring some strong brandy.
Hugh was back from London? But he’d only been gone three weeks; what was the point in braving the appalling roads for so short a visit? And why did he need consoling? It sounded very much like a disastrous love affair, and I wasn’t in the mood for lovelorn descriptions of buxom beauties. For some reason, Hugh’s always tempted by redheads, and the more vulgar the better.
He’d have to wait. The Assembly Rooms were only a few doors down from Hugh’s lodgings; I could easily walk up there after the rehearsal. I heaved up the music, dashed out of the house – and ran straight into the girl, Kate.
She was lounging against the railings of the gardens at the centre of the square, apparently enjoying a patch of sunshine. She danced across to meet me. ‘Here, did you know there’s a drunken spirit in those gardens?’
‘Yes,’ I said shortly.
‘I don’t think he was respectable,’ she said. ‘You should have heard what he wanted me to do!’
I strode on, trying to outpace her. The sun was breaking through the clouds, drying the thin patina of dampness on the street. Midges bobbed around me. I batted them away irritably.
‘Not going to get rid of me,’ she sang. ‘I ain’t giving up.’
‘And I’m not giving in,’ I retorted.
I reached the Assembly Rooms only a minute or two late. The Steward of the Rooms was not there but he’d left the harpsichord key on its usual hook. I snatched it up and started up the long flights of stairs; the concert room is on the second floor. Kate was still at my heels.
‘Here,’ she said admiringly, looking at the decorations, ‘this is canny. All this gold stuff.’ She fingered velvet curtains at the landing windows. ‘I like these. I’m going to have stuff like this in my house.’
‘Oh yes?’ I turned for the next flight of stairs.
‘When I’m rich and famous,’ she said, poking her tongue out at me. ‘After you’ve learned me how to play the fiddle.’
I stopped in confusion on the topmost landing, sunlit through ornate windows. The most peculiar sounds were coming from the concert room. A succession of grunts and groans and rumbling and snorts. Kate made a face. Cautiously, I edged open the door. Kate peered under my arm.
Nightingale stood in the middle of the floor, a music stand in front of him. He had music on the stand, flinging over the pages with fiery abandon, as he wheezed and snorted. He broke into an unnerving falsetto, worse than any castrato. The truth dawned on me; he was working his way through one of Mr Handel’s overtures.
‘He’s ill,’ Kate said. ‘He’s eaten something bad.’
‘No,’ I said, sighing. ‘He’s singing the drum parts. And when he goes falsetto, that’s the flute part.’ I winced, as a nasal whine emerged. ‘And that’s supposed to be the violin.’ I thought fleetingly that even the ladder dancing would have been preferable to this.
‘False what?’ Kate said.
‘Falsetto. That very high-pitched voice.’
She giggled. ‘I can do that. Here.’ She let out such a piercing high screech I was surprised all the dogs in the neighbourhood didn’t come running. Nightingale stopped in mid-phrase.
‘Who’s that? Come out at once!’
I made my appearance, followed by Kate. ‘We were just admiring your performance.’ I went straight to the harpsichord and unlocked it, unable to look Nightingale in the face with such an outrageous lie.
Kate stood grinning in the middle of the floor. ‘I can do what you were doing.’
‘No, you can’t,’ he said.
‘Yes, I can!’
‘No,’ he corrected, drawing himself up. ‘I assure you, young—’ He gave her a derisory look, from the top of her tousled hair to the bottom of her frayed hem. ‘Young person, you cannot.’
‘I can, I can! Here, listen.’ Kate took one of her ridiculously large breaths and repeated, faithfully, everything Nightingale had just sung. I paused in the middle of setting up the harpsichord lid. Her recall was amazing. She could never have heard the music before yet she reproduced not just every note, but also the exact manner in which Nightingale had sung it. If she’d been a boy, I’d have been signing her up as an apprentice on the spot.
Nightingale was not so pleased. He strode over, seized her by the arms and shook her, snarling. ‘Get out, you little fiend!’
‘Nightingale,’ I said, starting towards them.
He took no notice, went on shaking as Kate struggled against him. ‘Vermin! Filth! Get out!’
‘Nightingale!’
He swung round on me, red-faced, veins standing out on his forehead, shouting wildly. ‘I will not be mocked! Get the slut out of here! Get her out!’
‘The girl was trying to flatter you. She was entranced by your performance!’
Behind Nightingale’s back, Kate stuck her tongue out again. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to make you mad. I liked it. I really did.’ Nightingale swung round on her; she put on an expression of angelic innocence. ‘I like that high bit. The fiddle bit. I play the fiddle.’
He snorted in derision. ‘You? Where did a slut like you learn to play the violin?’
‘George Allen learned me.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s a local fiddler,’ I said.
‘I can play you any tune you like,’ she said proudly. ‘Get me a fiddle and I’ll show you.’
He stared at her for a long moment then swung round. ‘Patterson. The concert band’s instruments must be kept here?’
‘You want her to play?’ I asked, startled by his abrupt change of mood.
‘Devil take it. A violin, man!’
I hesitated, but there seemed no point in arguing. Let Kate have her moment of triumph; Nightingale would forget her soon enough. I unlocked the cupboard and picked out a violin. I resined the bow, flicked fingers across the strings to make sure the instrument was in tune, and handed it to Kate. She smirked at me, put the violin against her shoulder, wriggled to get herself comfortable, and played, flawlessly, the tune Nightingale had been singing.
I itched to take hold of her and make her straighten her back, to show her how to hold the bow properly in order to produce a fuller, more pleasant tone. Nightingale just stared, watched her antics as she dipped and wove and bobbed about. And a slow knowing smile formed on his lips.
‘She’ll play in the concert,’ he said.
‘Yes, yes!’ Kate shrieked. ‘I’ll play anything you like. I can play dance tunes too—’
Nightingale put his hand on her arm as she started to play again. Under his smiling gaze, she began to glow and blush, even to drop her gaze bashfully. God, but he knew how to handle women! ‘We’ll have to do something about those clothes.’
‘I don’t think this is wise,’ I said.
Nightingale turned with a calculating look; behind his back, Kate smirked. Nightingale took me aside. ‘My dear Patterson, there’s nothing to worry about. The ladies and gentlemen adore novelties; they’ll idolize her.’
‘And what happens when the novelty wears off?’
‘My dear fellow,’ Nightingale said emolliently, ‘trust me. I know how to handle these matters.’ And he swung back to Kate. ‘Now we’ll see what else you can play.’
He started sorting through a huge pile of music on the harpsichord stool.
‘See.’ Kate poked me in the ribs with her bow. ‘Told you I’d get to play the fiddle. And,’ she added, ‘it’s none of your doing. Which means you’ll get no more help from me over the baby.’
Sixteen
Amity is one of the pleasures of life, if conducted in a restrained manner.
[A Gentleman’s Companion, April 1734]
I was in a rage as I went up the street the few yards to Hugh’s lodgings above the clockmaker’s. Down the alley to the side entrance that gives directly on to a flight of stairs. Up past the door to Hugh’s dancing school, up again, past the lodgings of the snobbish widow who always frowns on me. Up another flight, to Hugh’s lodgings in the attic.
I was a yard from the door when I heard the sneezing. I knocked cautiously. A voice full of cold called, ‘Cub in.’
Hugh was lying on his bed under the slope of the roof, a blanket tucked around him, although he was plainly fully dressed apart from his coat and shoes. His nose was extraordinarily red, his black hair down around his shoulders and his eyes dark-circled.
His left arm was in a sling.
‘Hugh!’ I stopped aghast. ‘What the devil happened to you?’
‘Fell,’ he said thickly. ‘Into a lake.’ His gaze settled on what I held in my hands. ‘Oh, thank God. Brandy!’
I’d called in at a tavern on my way up Westgate and bought the best they had to offer. Looking at Hugh’s face, I wished I’d done more.
‘When did you last eat?’
He groaned. ‘Don’t mention food. Just pour a glass of that stuff. A large glass.’
He dragged himself into a sitting position against the pillows, sneezed again. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and took the brandy from me. I sat down on the only chair in the room, as far from him as I could get. He gulped down the brandy, sneezed. ‘Never agree to musical parties on barges, Charles.’
I broke out laughing. ‘You were never dancing on a barge!’
‘No, playing the fiddle. Damn it, Charles! It rained every last moment from beginning to end. And the boards got sodden and someone bumped into me, and I went flying, fiddle and all. Smashed the fiddle but don’t worry, it was borrowed. Hit my arm.’ Another sneeze. ‘Heard it crack.’
‘You got it set properly?’ I said alarmed.
‘Fellow who owned the barge was some sort of society physician. Set it for free. Said he felt guilty. Only good thing about it.’
I poured him more brandy as he pulled the blankets around him. He said plaintively, ‘I was never so glad to get home.’ He gave me a sly look and sniffed mightily. ‘How’s Mrs Patterson?’
‘Very hale and hearty.’
‘And married life?’ He winked.
‘Very happy, thank you,’ I said primly. ‘In fact, everything’s fine except—’
He raised an eyebrow.
I gritted my teeth, but it was a relief to speak to someone about it. ‘The money,’ I admitted.
Hugh frowned. ‘You’re wealthy. What’s the problem?’
‘I didn’t earn it.’
He sighed melodramatically. ‘Charles! Why is nothing ever simple for you? Nothing wrong with marrying money; it’s not illegal.’
I said glumly, ‘I don’t have the least idea what to do with it.’
Hugh grinned. ‘You save it, Charles! Invest it with some coal-owner: Heron or Ord or Jenison. They give you four and a half per cent interest and you have a nest egg for when your fingers are too stiff to play the harpsichord and you forget every tune you ever knew.’
‘I never earnt above sixty pounds in any year,’ I said, ‘and now the accounts are for never less than two or three hundred. Hugh, you’ve no idea how much income we have a year!’
‘I can guess. Six hundred? Eight hundred?’
‘More like a thousand,’ I said gloomily.
Hugh whistled.
‘Armstrong keeps presenting us with bills for huge amounts to be spent on draining land in Norfolk or building a barn in Northumberland. How am I to know whether that’s money well spent or not?’
‘Ask your wife.’
I hesitated. ‘I’m not interested,’ I confessed.
He grinned and sneezed again, tried to wipe his nose with the back of the hand that held the brandy. ‘Let her get on with it, Charles. Just sign the papers and get back to your compositions.’
‘I haven’t set pen to paper for months. And now I’m tangled with the arrangements for the winter concerts.’ Which reminded me of the disastrous rehearsal from which I’d just come. ‘I’ve just been at the Assembly Rooms with the new soloist.’
‘Who is it? Anyone I know?’
‘Richard Nightingale.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s a ladder dancer.’
‘Charles, no! Not the fellow who imitates violins and flageolets!’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I saw him in London two years back. Charles, he’s dreadful!’ Hugh groaned. ‘I’m all for a little novelty but the man has no taste!’
‘You don’t need to tell me,’ I agreed. ‘I’ve just heard him.’
‘And,’ he prompted.
‘And?’
‘What else, Charles?’ He said patiently, ‘I know when you’re keeping something from me.’
‘You’re as bad as Esther.’
‘Sensible woman your wife.’
I sighed. ‘I’ve been wondering if I should take on another apprentice. Well,’ I corrected myself, ‘it’s been suggested I take on another apprentice.’
‘Do it,’ he recommended. ‘It’ll give you more money. Match your wife’s income with your own. Not that you need to, but if it makes you feel better—’
‘Her name,’ I said, ‘is Kate.’
‘Whose name?’
‘The girl who wants to become my apprentice.’
<
br /> He stared. ‘A girl! What do her parents say?’
‘Her father is notable by his absence. Her “ma” is usually so drunk on gin I don’t believe she knows what any of her children are doing.’
He squinted at me, shook his head. ‘You’re not making sense.’ He held up a hand as I started again. ‘Don’t bother. My head’s so thick with cold I can’t deal with anything more complicated than a piss. You can’t take her on, though.’
‘No.’
‘You know what people will think.’
‘Yes.’
‘And your wife wouldn’t like it one bit.’
‘I do know all this, Hugh.’
‘And she couldn’t perform in public anyway. Not a woman. Not the thing at all. Not modest.’
‘No.’
‘Only one kind of woman performs in public.’
‘Yes.’
‘The available kind.’
‘I know.’
‘So you wouldn’t get any money from her anyway.’
‘Hugh,’ I said wearily. ‘Drink your brandy.’
He squinted at me. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ His face lit up. He struggled to pull himself up against the pillows, sneezed. ‘Not another murder, Charles! Damn it, I knew a visit from you would cheer me up. What happened?’
‘This is serious, Hugh!’
‘Of course it is.’ He briefly assumed a pious look then broke out in smiles again. ‘Charles, I’ve spent four days in a coach being bounced about in utter agony and then twelve hours in my own bed with only my own company. Tell me about the murder, damn it!’
I told him what I’d seen on the Key: the drunken woman and the baby, the horseman, the sailors valiantly rescuing the woman, and the child being lost. Hugh questioned me minutely on the rider, what he was wearing, the quality of his clothes, of the horse.
‘He was a gentleman, Hugh; that was no livery stable horse.’ Then I thought of myself and the new coats under construction at the tailors. ‘Or at least a man with the money to dress and ride as a gentleman.’
Hugh was silent, considering the facts, tugging one-handedly at the blankets that threatened to slip to the floor. ‘CR,’ he said, thoughtfully.
‘On a bag thrown over his saddle.’
‘Pretentious.’
