Broken Harmony (8 page)

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 volume. 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.”

Young Mr Wright is one of those gentlemen who never picks up his instrument to practise but nonetheless fancies himself a great expert. The instrument itself, needless to say, is to blame for
every fault; it is badly made, the bow-stick is too light or too heavy, the strings will not speak properly, &c., &c. But the prospect of losing our only tenor, no matter how erratic his
playing, filled me with alarm.

“How odd,” I said swiftly. “I was only just reflecting how greatly improved you are upon the instrument.”

He turned on me a startled expression and a hopeful one. “You think so? I thought, from the way Monsieur le Sac sighs over me, I was as bad as ever.”

For once, I sympathised with the Swiss. But I merely said, “If I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion?”

“Yes?”

“A small alteration in the position of your hand upon the bow-stick.” I demonstrated what I meant; he copied my instructions, then tried it upon the strings.

“Good heavens! Why, that is much easier!” And he ran off a passage with a great deal more pleasure.

We resumed and went through the remaining pieces with such ease that we finished long before our usual time. The rehearsal broke up in as high spirits as it had started, though in considerably
better humour. I was even more pleased to be accosted by Jenison just as I was about to leave, and asked to put in a solo of my own.

“The audience expects some fire, Patterson,” he said. “Play something to take their fancy.”

Something like Le Sac’s vapid, showy pieces, he meant. Over ale in Nellie’s coffee-house, I contemplated what I might play. I could not compete with Le Sac for virtuosity, and in any
case I would prefer to play something with more heart. Yet a slow piece, no matter how moving, would not please an audience. Finally, I decided upon a piece I had written some years before –
a lightweight piece intended to amuse rather than edify, based upon some popular Scotch tunes. Perhaps, in the audience’s enjoyment of recognising favourite melodies, my lack of virtuosity
would go unnoticed.