Broken Harmony

by Roz Southey

  But my attention was distracted by the servants bringing in chairs for the company and tea tables with all the necessary paraphernalia. All the chairs, I noted, were being placed at one end of the room as if to leave the other end, around the harpsichord, free.

  A servant came in with a music stand.

  I flushed, answered one lady’s questions at random. Could Lady Anne have brought me here merely to afford her guests after-dinner entertainment? But if so, what an invidious position she had put me in by introducing me to them as an equal. There is always a clear division between the entertainer, who is paid, and the entertained, who pay.

  But no, Lady Anne was indicating a chair, and praying me to sit down and tell her how I preferred my tea. I was to listen. Perhaps one of the younger ladies was to entertain us upon her harp; that would be unexceptional, if trying to the musical connoisseur. One of the footmen was unlocking the harpsichord and propping up its lid, revealing gorgeous paintings of dancing nymphs. A few songs from the young lady, then? But from the hall came the sound of a footman greeting a newcomer and a scuffle of preparation. Footsteps approached the door. I was seized with a hot premonition of disaster.

  The doors were opened. In the space, pausing for a moment so that we might appreciate his elegance, was Henri Le Sac. He was to entertain; Lady Anne’s behaviour clearly indicated that I was to be entertained. She could not have prepared a greater insult.

  10

  DUET FOR HARPSICHORD AND VIOLIN

  What was I to do? The moment Le Sac set eyes on me he would take offence, and indeed I would not blame him. Here was I, greatly his inferior in performance, set to lord it over him as if I was one of the gentry. How could he tolerate that? Yet if I offered to play, which might satisfy Le Sac (particularly as I would be at the lowly accompanying instrument), I would set Lady Anne’s guests against her for having the audacity to introduce them to a mere performer.

  And while I delayed and hoped to fathom Lady Anne’s motives for playing such games, Le Sac glanced round and saw me.

  For a moment he was blank-faced, then drew back in disdain. “Milady,” he said, “you desire this person to accompany me?”

  Nothing, his tone said, could possibly be less welcome. All eyes turned to me; with a frown, Claudius Heron said, “Do you play tonight, Patterson?”

  Silence. Then Esther Jerdoun said, “Mr Patterson is my guest. He came to examine some music books in my possession.”

  There was a collective sigh of relief, as if the company regarded Mrs Jerdoun as some eccentric whose will must be humoured. Only Claudius Heron continued to frown, and to look from myself to Le Sac to smiling Lady Anne in turn. Not a man to be fooled easily and his previous mistake over the brawl must have made him wary.

  I hurried into speech. “But I would be honoured if Monsieur le Sac would consent to my accompanying him. Though I cannot of course hope to do the pieces justice.”

  So the proprieties were preserved. Lady Anne was considered to have been most kind to her eccentric cousin; I was most obliging in helping to retrieve the situation. And, as I was clearly not being paid to play, it was possible to regard me (for this night at least) as a gentleman amateur. My dish of tea cooled on the table as I disposed myself on the harpsichord stool, and Le Sac bent to fetch out his music. He swung with a flourish and a smile for his audience, and presented me with the harpsichord part; his eyes met mine and I saw by their glitter that there was one person in the room who was not appeased.

  I say one, but there was another also. As I glanced across at Esther Jerdoun, I saw her cast her cousin a look of annoyance and reproof. Lady Anne lounged in her chair, one leg crossed mannishly over the other, swinging a slippered foot and smiling a smile of triumph. I had seen that look before, on a dozen of my older pupils; it was the enjoyment of a chance to cause consternation.

  It was not an evening I care to remember, although the harpsichord was excellent. Le Sac was determined to make life as difficult as possible for me. He speeded up and slowed down outrageously, drew out melodic phrases to a perfectly ridiculous extent then unexpectedly galloped away at top speed. He cut sections out of the music and repeated others that were not meant to be repeated so that I constantly appeared to be unsure of my place. In short, he was every accompanist’s nightmare.

  But his audience – with the exception of Mr Heron, who sat stony-faced throughout – loved every moment. They gasped at every rapid dash of notes, every dramatic flourish, no matter how coarse and meaningless. In truth, there was nothing of worth in the entire piece – it being one of Le Sac’s own compositions – and my only consolation was that the harpsichord part had been copied out by George and was therefore eminently readable. Unlike Le Sac’s part which, I saw over his shoulder, was an illegible scrawl.

  He came at last to the end and enjoyed the applause with great flourishing bows in the continental style. I did not share the applause; not only would it not have pleased Le Sac but it would have underlined my status as a performer and I was still trying to walk that fine line between guest and hired help. But as Le Sac turned to his music case for another solo, Esther Jerdoun stood up and spoke in a voice that cut through the conversation.

  “Monsieur le Sac, I am sorry to inconvenience you but I must reclaim my guest. We have not yet concluded our business.”

  Le Sac looked outraged but he was powerless to object. I was tempted, as I bowed to him, to point out that he should have brought his own accompanist. But he was as much a victim of Lady Anne’s playfulness as I was; I kept silent.

  So Mrs Jerdoun and I withdrew to the far end of the library where we conducted our conversation in low voices while Le Sac fiddled away unaccompanied, with renewed energy. As she lifted down a music book from the shelves, she said, “Forgive me if I seem abrupt. But my cousin’s habit of setting people at each other’s throats annoys me greatly.”

  I opened the book – Geminiani’s Opus 8 – to give credence to our conversing. “It sometimes seems –” I hesitated for fear of offending her – “that Lady Anne enjoys an uproar.”

  She shook her head. “It is something more than that, I think. I have been in France and Italy for some years, you know, and when I returned, a twelvemonth ago, I found Anne greatly changed. Of course, she was a girl of only ten when I saw her last, so perhaps I should not be surprised. Here, sir, is another book of Italian violin pieces. What do you think of Signor Vivaldi?”

  I winced. “You wish the truth?”

  She smiled. “Indeed, sir.”

  “Defective in harmony and poor in melody.”

  “Alas.” She sighed. “I have always found him a pleasant diversion.”

  “Did you not say you found music trivial?”

  “I do indeed, but it has some useful effects. It is particularly good for easing social relations. One may talk to all the world at a concert and see one’s neighbours in a congenial setting, and that must be of benefit to society.”

  One could say the same of the horse races, I reflected. “Then far from being a trivial occupation, madam,” I said, “music and its practitioners –” I bowed – “are performing a great service to the world.”

  She laughed. Heads turned; Le Sac played more loudly. I did not care; I found the lady’s company most agreeable.

  “I must allow you the final word, sir,” she said, reaching for another book. “You argue excellently. Let me show you another volume. This was obtained recently by my cousin. She thinks most highly of these concerti.”

  It was a handwritten volume, but most unfortunately the first page, with the author’s name upon it, had been torn out. I hummed a few bars of the first tune and found myself agreeably taken by it. The accompanying parts were simple but that is not a bad fault; perhaps the players for whom the composer wrote were not expert. Rather like the gentlemen in our own concert band.

  “Indeed, I like these very much,” I said and then gave way as the lady’s cousin beckoned to her. Mrs Jerdoun went to Lady Anne and I leafed through the v
olume. Oddly, the handwriting was not dissimilar to my own neatest hand.

  Esther Jerdoun returned to me. “My cousin says that if you wish to borrow that volume, you are most welcome.”

  I could hardly refuse; I bowed and Lady Anne inclined her head. Mrs Jerdoun beckoned to a servant and he took the book away to wrap it against the weather. As we waited at the back of the room I said, somewhat hesitantly, “Was your husband French, madam?”

  “I am not married. My mother’s second husband was French and I adopted his name as my own. He was an official of their government.”

  Unmarried. Ridiculous to take such pleasure in the thought; there was a great gulf between us, both in station and fortune.

  The servant returned with the book; I took it, kissed the lady’s hand, then took my leave of Lady Anne in the same manner. Claudius Heron nodded to me civilly. In the hall, the servant returned my greatcoat; clasping the book in my arms, I stepped out into a heavy drizzle, breathing a sigh of relief for my escape.

  But I knew it would not be for long. Le Sac was not a man to forgive slights. My safe, dull life was beginning to collapse about me. I had earned Nichols’s enmity (through no fault of my own) and Le Sac’s (for no reason at all – or rather an imagined rivalry) and I had quarrelled with Demsey. I was somehow a pawn in a game Lady Anne was playing, though what that game was, or what purpose it had, I could not tell. And I was in danger of losing my living, or would be, if Le Sac had his way.

  And more than that, there was that other puzzle which I could not fathom. I hurried for the shelter of the gardens, passing that place where I had twice fallen, as quickly as I could. Nothing happened. Had I imagined it after all?

  More than my living, I began to fear for my sanity.

  11

  FULL PIECE

  Halfway home the heavens opened and spat all the venom they possessed at me. A vicious wind seized my tricorne from my head and drove a deluge of rain on to my hair, plastering it to my face. It lifted the tails of my coat and splattered my breeches and stockings with mud; passing carts splashed puddles over my shoes. I tucked the book under my coat and ran the last streets. In the dryness of my own room, George was curled into a ball on the floor, snoring noisily into his blanket. I stripped off my wet clothing, hung it over the chair to dry, and slipped silently into bed, falling asleep at once.

  Rain was still falling when I woke in the morning, pattering against the window and obscuring my view of the sodden street below. I rose with some weariness. It was the day of the weekly concert – the worst day to rain, for only the most ardent music-lovers turn out in such weather. And I would have to face Le Sac once more. Well, I would not be blamed for what had happened; it was Lady Anne’s doing. She had been generous to me but for all that she was a shallow frivolous woman, as Le Sac must already know.

  I prepared myself with my usual care as was my wont on concert days, calling up the fellow on the floor below – apprentice to a barber – to shave me. He came with such speed and readiness that it was obvious he knew the day as well as I and was ready to earn his fee. (I warrant he never told his master he earned it.) And while he shaved me, I turned over that other matter which still unsettled me.

  I had not been drunk last night, neither had I felt ill. Moreover, the strange events only took place in Caroline Square and only near that house. I wondered what Esther Jerdoun had seen – merely a man stumbling and falling? Surely if she had seen anything else, she would have commented upon it. Had the spirit in the square seen anything? (And would he make sense if I asked him?)

  There was one solution to the problem – avoid that square. Avoid Lady Anne and her schemings too. But Lady Anne was not the only occupant of that house and I found myself reluctant to avoid Esther Jerdoun. No, this would not do. A man may admire but he should not entertain preposterous notions which are beyond his reach, however pleasing they may be.

  I dressed neatly, though not ostentatiously, and supervised George’s preparations. He had spent the time while I was being shaved in leafing through the volume I had brought home from Lady Anne’s.

  “These are much better, master,” he said with enthusiasm when I called him over. “When did you write these?”

  “They are not mine, you dolt.”

  “But it is your hand, master.”

  I should have been glad to own to the authorship of them if I had been able. I turned George round, brushed him down, and made him put on his tow wig. His own straggly hair showed beneath the wig; I trimmed the ends and tucked them in. By all commonsense, he should have shaved his head entirely but his scalp was so scabby that it was patently out of the question. Still, he looked presentable. I combed my hair (for like Le Sac I too wear my own) and we set out for the rehearsal.

  Hoult’s Long Room was engaged for a dinner on this night so the concert was to be held at the Assembly Rooms on Westgate. I had misjudged the time and we were almost late for the rehearsal. I was surprised to be met at the door by the Steward. “Ah,” he said with a sigh of relief. “You’re here at last.”

  I was about to offer apologies when we heard loud voices from the upper room; I thought I recognised one or two directors of the Concerts. And was that Claudius Heron speaking more moderately? That murmur certainly belonged to sly Mr Ord.

  “You had better go up,” the Steward said. “Try your hand with them. I can’t calm them down.”

  In trepidation, I went up, followed by George in an even worse state. “It’s him,” he quavered. “He doesn’t want me here.”

  I emerged into the Long Room. The music stands had been set up at the end of the room in their usual places, with chairs for the two cellists and a stool for myself at the harpsichord. But only Henry Wright hung awkwardly over his music, his tenor violin in his hand and an air of embarrassment about him. The other gentlemen were in huddle near the top of the stairs, each trying to speak the loudest.

  For a moment, my arrival went unnoticed. Then Mr Ord darted forward and seized my arm. “Here he is! Now all shall be well.”

  A silence. “Good,” Claudius Heron said in his usual severe manner.

  “Is something amiss?” I asked.

  Mr Jenison (one of the minor scions of the celebrated family of that name and the prime mover of the Concerts) said, with ill-concealed irritation, “First violin’s ill.”

  “I understand,” Mr Heron elaborated, “that he was caught in the rain on his way home last night.”

  What a wealth of meaning there was in that simple sentence! First, a reminder that Le Sac had made his way to his hostess’s house on foot, which clearly marked him as inferior. Second, a reminder of my own status, for I too had done the same. Third, Mr Heron had of course been warm and dry in his carriage, driven by servants – the mark of a gentleman.

  “Burning up with fever!” Mr Ord did not sound distressed but quite the opposite, almost merry. “Out of the question that he should play today. So you see,” his plump fingers dug into the flesh of my arm, “we have no musical director.”

  Another silence. A stray slant of watery sunshine chanced through the windows and lit the empty music stands. The floor, polished for dancing assemblies, smelt of beeswax. I was conscious of a great feeling of relief.

  “You must stand in, Patterson,” Jenison said. “Mr Wright, will you do me the kindness of fetching the music-books from their cupboard? I have unlocked it already. The programme is decided. We will be short of violins, of course.” His gaze lingered on George. “Is this the boy?”

  His slight emphasis on the definite article suggested he too knew all George’s history.

  “Indeed,” I said, seizing my opportunity. “He has had a good solid foundation in music. He will do very well on the back desk.” They were all looking at me for direction, I realised, and I felt a surge of exultation. “Perhaps Mr Heron,” I went on, bowing, “will consent to lead the band?”

  “Certainly not,” he said firmly. “Quite out of the question for a gentleman. Put the boy there.” But he was
plainly pleased to have been asked.

  So we settled ourselves to rehearse. I ordered the harpsichord to its proper place at the centre of the band and sat down to make sure it had not gone out of tune in the moving. The gentlemen shuffled music on the stands. At least the bad weather had kept all but the players indoors so we had had no spectators to witness our wranglings, and the petty humiliations that I suffered even in this moment of pleasure. Jenison, for instance, would never have ordered Le Sac to play this piece or that; he would have made suggestions in quite a different tone of voice. It was perhaps fortunate, therefore, that I had no quarrel with Jenison’s choice of music; he was an excellent judge and knew what audiences liked to hear.

  George settled himself in the leader’s place, a small figure compared to the gentlemen looming behind him. He cast me a sly look of satisfaction; I would have been better pleased to see some nervousness there. But off we went into an overture by Mr Handel and to my surprise it went rather better than I had hoped. George played well and the gentlemen were agreeable to watching for my nod. Even more fortunately, Mr Ord was not particularly familiar with the piece and, in his concentration, quite forgot to trill except upon the last possible occasion. The gentlemen seemed subdued without their idol; I, on the contrary, was elated. I had not been fully aware of how lowering an effect Le Sac’s presence had upon me.

  In the middle of the rehearsal, we broke for wine that was carried in from the tavern opposite. When two or three gentlemen accosted Jenison to plead for their own favourite pieces to be included in the programme, I took the opportunity to stroll across to Wright – who stood a little apart, regarding his tenor violin with some dissatisfaction.

  “Patterson,” he greeted me. “I cannot get any notes out of this thing. I’ve half a mind to give it up altogether – I’m sick of it.”