Broken Harmony (12 page)

The next day was the day of Parry’s second benefit and I rose early to be done with all my errands before the evening. We had rehearsed our pieces the day of the first concert so there was
no midday rehearsal to distract me. I went first down to Caroline Square, with some considerable trepidation but equally with determination, to see Esther Jerdoun, tucking Lady Anne’s book of
concerti under my arm as an excuse for my visit.

It was a dull grey day and the spirit in the square was muttering morosely. That particular patch of ground upon which I had twice stumbled looked like every other part of the road; I stood
looking at it for some time. Then one of the other gentlemen who lived in the square came out and gave me a measuring look, plainly wondering if I was a thief. Heart pounding, I walked up to Lady
Anne’s door. Yet again, nothing happened.

A footman answered my knock but before he could speak, I heard a shout from within the house. Lady Anne, berating some unlucky servant. An object crashed to the floor. The footman flinched.

“Is Mrs Jerdoun at home?” I asked.

“She has gone out, sir. And –” Another shout arose behind him. “Lady Anne is not receiving visitors.”

“I’ll return another time,” I said, and made a relieved retreat.

Thwarted in my attempt to press Mrs Jerdoun for an explanation, I went about my other business of the morning, walking down to Thomas Saint’s to find out whether there had been any replies
to my advertisement for subscribers to my Scotch music. Without at least two hundred or so, I could not hope to raise the money to have it engraved and printed. Eight subscribers had kindly put
their names down. I put a brave face on it and told Saint to run the advertisement a second week, but I was plainly going to have to call upon the ladies and gentlemen personally to obtain their
patronage.

As I walked back along the Key, through the busy bustle of carts and yellow-waistcoated keelmen, the smoke drifting along the river caught in my throat and made me cough. I climbed up to
Fleming’s shop on the bridge – I had yesterday snapped the topmost string on my violin and used the last of my stock to replace it – and at the door, stood back to allow a lady to
leave the premises. It was Mrs Jerdoun, in a sensible if drab gown of a chocolate-brown colour. She clutched a parcel of books.

“Mr Patterson,” she said coolly, and made to walk on.

“Madam.” I stepped forward. Her quick frown of annoyance was not encouraging. “I have heard wild tales about grooms and Darlington Post House, and I had hoped you at least
would tell me a true tale.”

“A true tale, Mr Patterson? Do any of us know the truth?”

I thought she was trying to avoid answering me. “I would have thought you would, madam, better than anyone.” She hesitated. “You recovered the violin yourself, I
believe,” I added.

“Very well, Mr Patterson,” she said curtly. The wind – it is always windy upon the bridge – whipped her hair about her face. “I did indeed find the
item
in
question, in Darlington Post House where it had, most fortunately, been overlooked for several days without being sent on to London. The landlord of the Post House had been somewhat exercised by
the handwriting upon the label. I, on the other hand, recognised it at once.”

She glanced round as two gentlemen walked past and waited until they were out of earshot. Then she turned her cool grey eyes upon me once again.

“It was
your
hand, sir.”

I could think of nothing to say. I had not even wit enough to protest my innocence.

“I felt it wisest to disguise the matter as best I could,” she said. “I told the landlord the instrument had been sent on by mistake, bribed the fellow into silence and brought
the violin back with me. The label – I daresay you will be relieved to hear – I tore into pieces and buried deep in the bogs of Gateshead Fell.”

She glanced away to the shops on the other side of the bridge, her cheeks flushed. “There is, I assure you, sir, no reason to fear. My cousin’s groom is a reliable man and does and
says as he is instructed, and acts the fool if he is challenged. He will not say anything outside the script I gave him. You may rest easy – your name will never be associated with the
matter.”

I found my breath at last, though I felt my cheeks blanching. “Madam…” I began, but she turned away.

“There is nothing more to be said, Mr Patterson. I would be obliged if you do not refer to the matter again.”

She walked quickly away, crossing the bridge towards Gateshead Bank. I could only stand and stare after her, my clothes tugged by the river breeze and my mind in a turmoil. She thought
I
had stolen the violin.

I shifted as another customer came from the shop, and numbly went in to complete my own errand. Fleming is taciturn; I think I left without exchanging more than a dozen words with him. I walked
down from the bridge and up Butcher Bank towards Pilgrim Street, hardly noticing the passers-by. Esther Jerdoun’s opinion of me distressed me but I did not find it strange that she should
suspect me. Everyone associated with the Concerts must be aware of the argument between Le Sac and myself. My friend was known to quarrel with his. But the label – that was the puzzling
thing. I knew, as Esther Jerdoun could not, that it was a forgery.

Kicking at the leaves that had fallen from the trees in the gardens between the houses, I contemplated Light-Heels Nichols. He would have had access to Le Sac’s lodgings and might have
been able to contrive a means of carrying the violin off even with Le Sac lying ill there. But why should he do such a thing? To implicate Demsey, since Hugh’s disappearance at the same time
as the violin must inevitably have lent credence to any such tale? But then why my handwriting on the label?

And – I halted beside a garden wall – what proof did I have that the label had ever existed? Or that the violin had ever been in Darlington? Lady Anne was plainly playing games with
me for her own pleasure; why not her cousin too? Were the ladies cut from the same material?

I was not at my best during the lessons that day and my pupils came off rather easy. Nor was I in a good mood for Mr Parry’s second concert. I had made a firm decision.
That house in Caroline Square, and the ladies in it, was the centre of all my present woes; its owner was intent upon setting me at odds with Le Sac, Mrs Jerdoun either believed me a thief or was
playing a game of her own, and even the house itself was playing tricks on me. I would certainly go there no more, whatever invitations I might receive. I would avoid the ladies, except for the
demands of common politeness when we met, and that would be the end of it.

Old Hoult sensed my black temper as I climbed the back stairs to the upper room of the Turk’s Head. “Cheer up, lad,” he said from the banister at the head of the dark steps.
“His tunes aren’t
that
bad – although some of them may be a bit outlandish.”

The thought of two hours of reels and laments set my spirits plummeting.

The Long Room was brightly lit, every candle in the glittering chandeliers flickering gently in the draughts. Some of the audience were already gathered in clumps in window embrasures and around
some of the most comfortable chairs. George stood near to the music stands, frowning at a handbill; I was pleased to see that the boy had dressed in his best and had managed to desist from
scratching his spots. He smelt rather better, too, so he must have followed my orders to wash. He started when I came up to him and was clearly only a little relieved when he saw who I was. His
irrational fears still annoyed me, but I chose to ignore them for the sake of peace.

“Is that the bill for the night?”

“No, master.” He held the paper out to me. “Mr Nichols gave it me at the door.”

It was an advertisement for a concert the next day. With profuse apologies for the shortness of the notice, M. Le Sac offered a benefit concert at the Turk’s Head, and extended his
grateful thanks to Signor Bitti, of the York Concerts, who was travelling between that city and Edinburgh, and who had kindly consented to play upon the harpsichord and to offer several solos upon
that instrument.

“Sig-nor Bit-ti,” George read laboriously. “Do you know him, master?”

“I know of him,” I said grimly. “Hebden of York speaks highly of him. But then he has a wild fancy for anything Italian.” John Hebden is not above calling himself
Signor Hebdeni
in the wilds of Scarborough where he fancies they will not be quick-witted enough to recognise his Yorkshire accent. Still, he is an excellent judge; no one can ever accuse
him of hiring a bad musician. But it mattered not to me whether Sig-nor Bit-ti was excellent or not; this was one concert I would not appear in.

There was a numerous and brilliant company at Hoult’s that night. Some I recognised from Parry’s first concert; others had heard of the gentleman’s powers and come to see for
themselves. Young Hoult had to fetch in extra chairs from below and, when they had been disposed around the walls and across the place, the room looked very full indeed. The bright, warm glow of
satins and silks under the candlelight was very fine, and there was only a faint miasma of sweat overlaid by perfumes of musk and lavender.

As rooms filled with a multitude of people will, Hoult’s Long Room became hot and the air stale; I saw George surreptitiously slipping a finger under his cravat to ease it, and felt the
sweat trickle down my own cheek. Unluckily, the members of the audience were almost all clutching Le Sac’s handbills and used the papers to fan themselves, so universally that our renderings
of Handel were accompanied by a regular flap, flap, flap. But once the music was begun, my mind settled, for it is impossible to play well with only half a mind on the job. Parry performed much the
same pieces as before, with a few Irish tunes thrown in, and I saw one or two ladies wipe away tears at his most plangent melodies.

I occupied moments when the harpsichord was silent by looking about the audience. Mrs Jerdoun I spotted at once, seated against the far wall; she was dressed in palest lavender and did not look
my way. Her cousin, I saw to my surprise, sat across the other side of the room conversing with Mr Jenison. Had the ladies quarrelled? Well, it was none of my business any longer; I was resolved to
avoid them altogether.

One person I did not see until the interval between the acts was Mr Ord; indeed, I did not see him at all until he clutched at my sleeve. Parry had generously provided refreshments and Ord held
a glass of Hoult’s best wine between his fingers. He waved Le Sac’s handbill at me.

“This – this Bitty fellow. Do you know him?” His round red cheeks were glistening with heat.

“I have heard he is an excellent player.”

Ord pursed his lips. “And do
you
play in this concert, sir?”

“I am not needed,” I pointed out. “Signor Bitti is to play the keyboard.”

“In the band as well as the solos?”

“I have not heard precisely, but that would be my understanding.”

“Ah,” Ord said and nodded. “Well, Patterson – what do you say to that Irish jig in the second selection of airs? Most excellent, eh?”

“Very unusual,” I said, temporising.

At the end of the concert, I sent George off to bespeak one of Hoult’s pies – there is nothing like extended playing to work up an appetite – and started to pack away my music
while the crowds thronged around Parry. Jenison’s crisp voice sounded above all, offering congratulations. Then, as I turned to lower the harpsichord lid, I was startled by Lady Anne who
swung up behind it and leant towards me. She was clearly in a better temper than she had been in the morning, her face flushed and laughing, her hair in elegant disarray. Leaning forward upon the
closed lid, she afforded me a view of her slight breasts, enclosed in gold satin. Diamond drops lay on her white, flawless skin.

“I have been doing you a good turn,” she whispered, with a quick dart of her eyes here and there as if to ensure she was not overheard.

I was annoyed by the way she seemed constantly to seek me out, and alarmed too that others might draw erroneous conclusions from her behaviour. We had already attracted some attention.
“How so, my lady?” I asked warily.

“I have been extolling your qualities to Mr Jenison.”

“I am most grateful, madam,” I said dryly.

“And I have been pointing out how admired the Italian players are in London nowadays.”

I realised she had not been glancing round to ensure that no one overheard but quite the opposite, for Jenison himself was walking up behind me.

“I fancy, madam,” he said with some directness, “that I do not need fashionable fribbles in London to tell me what is good and what is not.”

She inclined her head. “I think we both agree, Mr Jenison, that
certain persons
have a natural judgment that can recognise quality wherever it appears.”

When she said
certain persons
, she clearly meant
you and I
. Her smiling glance indicated that I also was to be included.

“I have always been entirely sure, Lady Anne,” Jenison said, “that England produces talent to match anything that is found abroad.”

“Better, on some occasions,” the lady agreed and cast another significant glance in my direction, which caused me both embarrassment and annoyance.

“English musicianship,” Jenison pronounced, his gaze momentarily fixed upon the visionary distance, “is of a more solid and durable quality than that found anywhere else in the
world. Lady Anne, may I escort you to your carriage?”

“Why, thank you, sir. But I seem to have mislaid my cloak. I think I left it in the window embrasure.”

“Allow me, my lady.” He bowed.

Lady Anne watched until he was out of earshot before leaning closer. “Wait until tomorrow, Mr Patterson, and you will reap the full benefit of what I have done.”

“My lady –”

But she was gone and I was left, annoyed and irritated, to dwell on Jenison’s doubtful compliment (to be
durable
is all very well but who wishes to be regarded as
solid
?),
and to worry over what Lady Anne might have done this time.