Broken Harmony

by Roz Southey

  I hesitated but the need to ask was not to be denied. “You must get into every part of the town?” I said.

  “Of course,” he said, surprised.

  “I wondered –” There was no help for it; I plunged on. “If you had ever had a glimpse, however strange and unexpected, of – of another world…”

  His face lit up with radiance and delight. “Indeed, Patterson, indeed I have. It is all that sustains me at times like this. The glimpses we are all vouchsafed of God’s heaven, of the saints sitting at his right hand…”

  With sinking heart, I realised that he was talking of something altogether different. Well, it had always been the faintest of hopes.

  The Rev Mr Bell turned towards the Side to climb the hill and the smoke soon swallowed his dark figure. I felt my way along the walls of the Sandhill and found the Golden Fleece by the sound of horse’s hooves and the chinking of harness. As I came to the arch into the inn, the stench of horse dung briefly choked me. A few yards further and I saw a hunched figure low to my right. A quavering voice said, “Master?”

  George was sat upon the lowest step of the stairs to the agent’s office, hugging himself in his fright. “I heard voices!”

  “Just the spirits.”

  “In the river? I hope I don’t die in the river.”

  I stood, listening to the cries and shrieks still echoing from the pall of smoke around us. “Amen to that,” I said.

  We climbed the steps to the agent’s. A lamp hanging above loomed out of the thinning smoke, shedding a miasma of oil and lavender from its guttering wick. Lavender bunches had been hung outside the door at the top of the stairs and rustled as I brushed against them. I was about to open the door and go in when I heard voices.

  “Why don’t we go in, master?” George said, his voice muffled through his hand cupped over his mouth against the smoke.

  “Shhh.”

  We bent our heads to listen. I felt guilty at setting a bad example to the boy but was unable to resist the temptation. For the voices – a trifle hoarse from the stench and the smoke – were Jenison and Le Sac.

  “I will not be refused,” Le Sac said.

  “It is most unreasonable.” Jenison’s annoyance was evident in his voice. “The usual rate is ten shillings. That is more than adequate.”

  “Fifteen,” Le Sac said peremptorily. “I will accept nothing less. It is the fee paid in London.”

  “This is not London,” Jenison said. “Thank goodness. I flatter myself we have a better idea here of how much money is really worth. And fifteen shillings for one rehearsal and a concert is asking a great deal, sir. You are already paid ten and I for one am of the opinion that that is generous.”

  I struggled to stifle a cough – the damn oil and lavender were clogging my throat as much as the smoke. Le Sac was continuing.

  “Ten shillings is nothing.”

  “It is ten days’ wages for one of my labourers, sir.”

  “Any man can shift stones or till the land. Is there another who can lead your band for you, and choose your music, and entertain you?”

  A pause, before Jenison said, “I daresay Mr Patterson could have a good stab at it.”

  George prodded me with glee but I was cursing. This could only increase Le Sac’s antagonism towards me.

  “In any case,” Jenison went on, “we have to remember, sir, that music is not one of the necessities of life. Can you eat it, drink it, shelter under it? Oh, I grant you, it has its uses, else I would not be one of the directors of the Concerts. It encourages trade in its way and provides an employment for the ladies who might otherwise be idle, and it gives a place a good character when visitors find we are so respectable as to have a set of concerts. But it is not necessary, sir – it is a luxury. And to be spending fifteen shillings on a luxury when I have the other performers to pay, and the room to hire, and the candles to buy, and all the rest of it – no, sir, you ask too much.”

  “Then I will not play,” Le Sac said with an air of triumph. “See then how many people support your luxury.”

  “They may do what they choose,” Jenison said. Le Sac had plainly forgotten that the music lovers had already paid their subscriptions and the money was safely in Jenison’s pockets.

  “You cannot do without me, sir!” Le Sac cried. “You saw last night how they adore me!”

  “Well, if I cannot,” said Jenison, “I will happily do nothing at all. I would rather abandon the Concerts altogether than pander to a – a French –”

  The door of the office was thrown open and Le Sac stalked out, head held high. We drew back quickly. He smiled coldly when he saw me and said something in French. As I have said before, my knowledge of that language is abysmal but I gathered the general meaning of his remarks from his tone and the expression upon his face.

  “Mr Patterson,” said Jenison from the office. “How opportunely come.”

  So I came into the direction of the Concerts, for a while at least, since I was certain that either Le Sac or Jenison would give way within a few days. And I had no doubt that Jenison saw me as someone he could control more easily than the Swiss. When I suggested I had works that might grace the Concerts (thinking of Lady Anne’s volume of pieces), he frowned as if I was guilty of great presumption and was only mollified when I offered to send George’s copies of the volume to him, implying that his judgment was better than my own. (I vowed to slip one of my own pieces in with the volume.) Demsey may be right in saying I know how to handle such men as Jenison, but it can be hard and dispiriting work.

  Nevertheless, I was pleased when Jenison promised me seven shillings and sixpence for each concert day. With George’s three shillings and sixpence for playing as leader, each concert would earn me as much as Le Sac’s despised fee. I hoped merely that they would not come to an agreement until the passing of at least one concert, so I could show what I could do and flatter the gentlemen into thinking me the better bargain. At last one thing was turning in my favour.

  I had reckoned without sly Mr Ord.

  19

  CANZONET

  I would have been still better pleased had the concert been on its customary day. But it had been put off a day for the convenience of several of the gentlemen players who had another engagement. I calmed my impatience, though not without difficulty.

  In the morning, a reply to one of my letters came from Mr Hamilton, the publisher in Edinburgh. The letter was welcome in two respects. First, he sent me a list of twenty-six subscribers for my music, which I carefully added to my ever-growing store. Second, most astonishingly, he told me he had seen Demsey.

  I had the honour [he wrote] of Mr Demsey’s Company at Dinner a se’nnight ago. [I checked the date of the letter – last Saturday.] He was, I thought, sombre but in good Heart and gave me much lively Intelligence of Affairs in your Town, the which I was glad to have for it is many Years since I was there, and, owing to the present uncertain State of my own Health, unlikely I shall ever be there again. Mr Demsey was, he informed me, on his way to Aberdeen, although what the Purpose of his Visit was, and how long he intended to remain there, I cannot tell. I have recently receiv’d by Ship from France, several of the latest Concerti…

  I scanned the rest of the letter; it consisted of business matters only. What the devil was Demsey doing in Aberdeen? And at this time of year? Thomas Saint’s wife comes from Dundee, I recalled, and she has often spoken of the winter gales and snows in that part of North Britain. Perhaps Demsey intended to set up there as a dancing master; but what call could there be for the elegancies of life in such a god-forsaken spot?

  I was pondering whether to go and quiz the good lady when George came in, clutching the latest edition of the Courant. Thomas Saint has evidently taken to publishing on Tuesdays as well as on Saturday. George was looking puzzled.

  “I saw Mr Ord, sir, and he asked if I’d read the paper yet. When I said I hadn’t, he bought me a copy.” He sounded both awed by such largesse and uneasy over the possible cause of it
.

  I took the paper from him and scanned the front page; it was crowded as usual with advertisements. Did Le Sac plan another benefit, perhaps for the week of Signor Bitti’s return? It would be too hard upon the heels of the first concert, but perhaps he wanted to convince Jenison of his popularity.

  The faintest gleam of light slid between the hinges of the door. Mrs Foxton said, “The third page, sir, at the bottom of a column.”

  I passed over the national news upon the second page and glanced at the local correspondence. An account of a high wind at Morpeth, tragic death at Sunderland, three drowned at Shields, the Bishop’s return to Durham, births, marriages…

  “Which column did you say, Mrs Foxton?”

  “I know not. I saw Mr Phillips reading as he passed the window and noted how he had the paper folded. He seemed to find the matter amusing.”

  My heart sank as I found the piece at last. It was a letter, printed in the smallest type Thomas Saint had, for it was a long letter and he had been hard put to to get it all in.

  Sir,

  Pray allow me the advantage of your columns to put forward the case of a modest young man who has been most harshly treated.

  Oh God, I thought, the writer cannot refer to me? Other phrases leapt to my attention. Where Genius can command, it has the power to be generous to those less fortunate. A reference to Le Sac clearly, and a less than happy compliment to myself. Yes, and here was the demand for fifteen shillings – only, we are told, what is commonly offered in London.

  I was reading snatches aloud. Mrs Foxton snorted at references to Genius. George was staring open-mouthed; no doubt he didn’t understand half of the rolling, pompous phrases. The writer must have spent his entire day on this rubbish, and poor Thomas Saint must have been up half the night setting it in type. Unless, of course… I scanned the column again; there was nothing in it that might not have been written last week, except for the matter of the fifteen shillings; which might have been inserted at the last minute. But that would imply a well-planned campaign against Le Sac.

  To make such Demands is unworthy of one whose Heart ought to be softened by the divine Art of Musick… No, no, never mind all that.

  The affair of the missing Music Books [oh God, not that again] transpired to be a mistake – the books, we are told, were merely mislaid. As for the Violin, we shall doubtless never know the thief who sent it on its journey south, but the Swiss Gentleman should think twice before he makes Accusations. He should recall that the Instrument was stolen from his own Rooms, under his very Nose, while he lay ill in Bed; and that the modest young Man he hints about never had access to those Rooms.

  I stopped reading. How had the thief taken the violin?

  “Go on, master,” George urged.

  “Read it all.” Mrs Foxton had moved to the table next the door and gleamed upon the unlit tallow candle. “It is best to know everything, however bad.”

  I read the rest of the column, preposterous as it was. “There is much written of Le Sac’s manner,” I said. “It talks of an insult to the young man – that is supposed to be me, clearly – in not asking him to play at his benefit Concert.” I stopped, amazed. I had been disappointed, yes, principally for the sake of the money, but how could anyone say it was an insult when the substitute was Signor Bitti?

  As for righting the supposed insult – this letter was more likely to send Le Sac running in alarm to make his peace with Jenison and I would lose my chance to direct the Concerts. I was seized by a sudden rage and tossed the paper into a corner of the room. “How can anyone write such drivel? It can only make matters ten times worse!”

  The letter was signed AMATOR JUSTICIAE. Lover of Justice. “Amator Discordiae, more like,” I said in disgust.

  I was not left in doubt of Le Sac’s reaction for long. He sent me a note scribbled in an execrable hand and in French so colloquial I understood less than one word in ten. I pondered long over whether to seek a translation. I could not ask one of the gentlemen of the Concerts in case the note contained wild accusations against me; moreover, I doubted such men as Jenison and Ord would know any language but their own. Claudius Heron might, I supposed, but after our last encounter I judged it best not to test his good will too much. A pity Demsey was not here; his French was fluent (and colloquial) to a degree – all those visits to Paris to learn the latest dances.

  I was tempted to throw the note into the fire but Le Sac was devious enough to send me a letter I could not understand and then claim he had told me this or that important fact. I had but one alternative; only one person could oblige me with a translation without exclaiming over the contents of the note. Lady Anne, despite her plottings, or perhaps because of them, would understand any accusations Le Sac might have made.

  I was conscious of the irony in asking Le Sac’s patroness to decipher the threats of her protégé but I felt reckless. I was surrounded by people who wished to take my life into their control and to use me for their own purposes, and I was not inclined to allow them to do so. I had had enough of mysterious plottings. If I had a quarrel with Le Sac, I would prosecute it myself.

  My first lesson of the day was in the upper reaches of Northumberland Street, almost upon the Barras Bridge. After the lesson, I was walking down towards the town through a stiff breeze blowing leaves about me from the gardens, when a horse clip-clopped to a halt beside me. I looked up into the face of Claudius Heron.

  “Do you go to the Key, Patterson?”

  “To Caroline Square.”

  “I will walk with you.”

  He swung himself down and fell into step beside me, leading his horse and glancing about. Not, I fancied, out of interest in the few passers-by, but as an excuse not to look directly at me. The embarrassment of that last encounter still hung between us.

  “I am very pleased with my son’s progress,” he said. “His harpsichord playing is much improved.”

  “He works hard.”

  “Of course.” Heron’s profile, which he kept turned to me, was in the classic style, most elegantly proportioned; his figure was trim despite his age (he was forty-one or two) and his demeanour as cool as ever. “He has expressed a wish to learn the German flute.”

  That I doubted but I did not say so. “A very gentlemanly instrument.”

  The wind lifted the skirts of Heron’s riding coat and slapped them about his thighs. The horse tossed its head and tugged at the reins. “You will start him on the instrument the next time you come.”

  I was about to speak when he added, “And I will have my lesson first.”

  “Your lesson, sir?”

  “Upon the violin.”

  “I had thought –”

  “Yes?”

  “That you studied with Monsieur le Sac.”

  “I am of the opinion,” he said, turning his head to me for the first time, “that music is an art for gentlemen. Monsieur le Sac is not a gentleman.”

  “Indeed,” I murmured.

  We soon parted, and I turned west to walk down towards St John’s Church and Caroline Square. The prospect of instructing Mr Heron was daunting, and would require every ounce of tact I had; it was a challenge, however, that I found myself anticipating with some pleasure. What I did not look forward to was Le Sac’s reaction to losing a pupil, especially a wealthy one.

  Caroline Square was quiet, touched only by the rustling of the leaves on the trees in the central gardens. I walked boldly across the square towards the house. If the strange events were to happen again, so be it. Every time they happened, I gathered more information. (Would not the Steward of the Assembly Rooms congratulate me on my ‘scientific’ attitude?) I had learnt that within those events I could see other people but apparently was not seen by them; I could walk about and touch and hear, and feel the ground beneath my feet. The events could occur as well within the house as without and no one else experienced such events (remembering Lady Anne’s astonishment at my hints). But wait, had not Claudius Heron felt the chill too? Had he not heard
me shouting?

  Still, at least these strange events had never yet threatened me with any danger, merely discomfort and confusion. And today, as on the last occasion, they did not occur at all. I cursed. I had steeled myself to confront the mystery, to no purpose.

  A servant answered the door; Lady Anne, he informed me, was absent on business and not expected back for some hours. I stood irresolute.

  “Very well,” I said at last. “Ask Mrs Jerdoun if she will spare me a few moments of her time.”

  I was left to wait in the withdrawing room while the servant went in search of Esther Jerdoun. I was conscious of my temerity in approaching a lady with whom I was on bad terms – worse, one who thought so ill of me – but there was nothing else to do.

  She came into the room quickly, dressed in a gown of pale green, with tiny embroidery of white. “Mr Patterson,” she said brusquely, “I must apologise to you.”

  Disconcerted, I stuttered. “Apologise, madam?”

  “I have been most unforgivably rude with you, and with no excuse other than my own ill humour.”

  I was silent, remembering what she believed me capable of. Her cool direct gaze creased into a frown.

  “Are you well, sir?”

  “A trifle – distracted. No matter.”

  “You were unwell the other day.”

  That was my opportunity. “There is something about this house –”

  She nodded. “My cousin likes it greatly but I confess I feel it has a cold air. I am never quite warm here. Are you sure you are not ill?”

  “You have not seen anything unusual here?”

  She frowned. “Of what kind?”

  No, she had seen nothing unusual; I knew that by her puzzled manner. And she had her own preoccupations. When I merely shrugged, she went on. “Do you come about that letter in the Courant? I assure you I had nothing to do with it. Indeed, I thought it most ill-judged and told Mr Ord as much.”

  Ord! I sighed and explained about Le Sac’s note. She took it from me, exclaiming at the handwriting and frowning over one or two words that are evidently only to be found in the Swiss form of the French language.