Broken Harmony (19 page)

He was walking towards the door. I went with him in a kind of fearful daze. What else could I do but walk through this strangeness, letting it unfold around me? Who was this gentleman? How did
he come to know me? Why was this house both so familiar and so strange? Where was Lady Anne and the familiar reaches of Caroline Square?

The door stood open (in my daze, I had not noticed the fact before) and the day outside was chill and sunny. I looked out on the street that I had only seen in darkness before. By daylight it
looked of no great significance, neither busy nor quiet, not shabby yet not especially grand. A few carts trundled up its length, followed by a carriage with the blinds drawn down. A woman who
passed inclined her head to my companion; she was of a respectable middling sort – the wife of a tolerably well-off tradesman, perhaps.

Two men lounged against a sedan chair at the pavement’s edge. They straightened as they saw us and hurried to the chair’s poles.

“You’re a good man, Patterson,” the gentleman said, regarding the scene with some satisfaction. “I said as much when we appointed you to St Nicholas. And that music of
yours – good decent stuff.”

He seemed to wait for a reply; I said mechanically: “Thank you, sir.”

“Well, I must be off.” He nodded goodbye to me. I expected him to climb into the chair but no, he strode away along the street. The chair, expensive as it was, was mine.

I stood on the doorstep, looking at the bearers. What if I was to get into the chair, allow the men to carry me away? Would I find the rest of the town subtly changed, with people I did not know
but who knew me, with different streets and buildings, with perhaps even stranger, as yet unknown phenomena? If I walked away from this house would I ever get back to the people and the places I
knew?

I put my hand to the smooth paint of the door. It was chill under my fingers. And the chill spread up my arm, into my heart and my head, and I was falling, falling.…

23

SINFONIA CONCERTANTE
Movement I

Lady Anne swept into my room, laughing aside the protests of Mrs Foxton who hung upon the door jamb. Startled, I raised myself on one elbow against my pillows. I had been lying
fully dressed upon my bed, trying to ease the throbbing in my head and the turmoil in my mind, staring into the shadows of the room and the dark of that madness last night. I could still feel the
light touch of Lady Anne’s fingers on my arm as the walls had begun to waver, still smell the man’s sour breath, still see the gaudy livery of the sedan chair bearers…

Mrs Foxton’s shimmer reflected the late afternoon light and worsened the pain behind my temples. Lady Anne was dressed in a pale gown with a velvet cloak thrown about her shoulders; her
face was flushed and her hair awry.

“Oh, stop your fussing, spirit!” she cried. “Go and talk to that sallow-faced seamstress. Leave us alone.”

I protested. “Your reputation, Lady Anne –”

“Never mind
her
reputation,” Mrs Foxton said shrilly. “Think of your own. Think of the rumours about Mr Demsey.”

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 scents 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.