Broken Harmony (20 page)

“I intend to make my fortune,” I said, waving my hands expansively. I was feeling reckless, wild enough for anything. And nauseous.

“Indeed?”

“Indeed,” I cried. “I am off to Aberdeen, to write Scotch tunes and pass them off as centuries old –”

I stopped. He had drawn back. He turned his head away from me, came rapidly down the steps and pushed past. I yelled after him and was rewarded by an irate shout from the upstairs window of a
nearby house. Then he was gone.

Some time later, I managed to find Mrs Hill’s in the Fleshmarket. I stumbled into the place reeking of offal, for in the darkness I had slipped in a pool of butchers’ blood and sat
down in discarded guts. The tavern was packed and noisy; I collapsed upon a bench and called for Dick Kell.

“You’re drunk,” he said accusingly from the carved handle of a tankard. The candlelight flickering from the metal and from the glitter that was Dick Kell made my head spin. I
put my face in my hands.

“I’m trying not to be,” I said thickly. “Wait, wait.” Had I learnt nothing from that episode with Claudius Heron? When I was drunk, I did the most foolish things.
And to wander around the town out of my wits when there were ruffians out to get me was more than foolish. I gathered my thoughts together at last. “Dick, you were here when Light-Heels
Nichols first came to this town, were you not?”

“Lord, yes. Year before I died. Let me see. I died – um – four years back. That year we had the terrible snowstorms. Year before you came back from London.”

“You don’t by any chance,” I said carefully, squinting at the ale-damp table to one side of the tankard, “know where he came from?”

“Lancaster.”

My hopes plummeted.

“Born and bred there. Father was the organist. His brother had the post too but put himself up for the St Nicholas’s job. More money. Always liked money, those two. And women. Well,
Light-Heels does anyway. If you ask me, that’s why he left Aberdeen.”

“Dick,” I said to the pool of ale on the table, “I’m tired and I can’t think properly. Talk to me slowly. Nichols came to this town from Lancaster?”

“No, no,” he said good-humouredly. “You are in a sorry state, aren’t you? Light-Heels was
born
in Lancaster, but he spent some while as a music teacher in Aberdeen
before he came here. Taught singing.”

“Singing?” I echoed incredulously.

“And the violin. Can’t have made much a of a go of it. Left. Oh, sorry.” He mimicked Light-Heels’ careful voice. “
I resigned in order to return to my native
country. The Scotch were most complimentary about my playing.
Well, let me tell you, I’ve stood in front of Light-Heels Nichols in more than one concert and if the Scotch think a violin
should sound like a nail being drawn across a metal box, they’ve even less sense than I’ve always thought – and that’s not saying much! And what’s up with
you?”

“Aberdeen!” I said and started to laugh.

I made one last effort to prevent the contest on the Monday next, two days after I thought I had seen Demsey. Before I gave his son a lesson upon the harpsichord, Mr Heron came
in to take his first lesson. I spoke directly about the matter of the duel, for I knew he would scorn subterfuge or roundaboutation. I asked him to speak to Jenison and Ord and request them to call
off the affair.

He was taking his violin from its case and paused to look sideways at me. In the clear chill sunlight entering through the window, his pale eyes seemed to glitter.

“I do not think there is any point in wasting time in an endeavour that cannot possibly succeed. Why do you object to the contest?” He straightened, bow-stick in one hand and his
resin-box in the other. “Do you fear your boy will lose?”

“I know he will,” I said, rather more forcibly than I had intended. “As you are aware, sir, I was in London scarcely three years ago and I heard few violinists even there who
could stand comparison with Monsieur le Sac.”

“What, then?” He rubbed the horsehair over the resin.

I hesitated, but still judged it best to speak plainly. “Mr Jenison and Mr Ord have been filling the boy’s head with expectations that cannot be fulfilled, which will only lead to
disappointment. It is not fair on the boy.”

Heron did not speak for a moment. He laid the bow-stick upon the table and lifted the violin to the light, angling it as if to catch the patina of dust upon its surface. One lean finger plucked
a string.

“Slightly flat,” he said and glanced again at me. “I approve your good sense, Mr Patterson, but there is no avoiding this matter. I advise you to do as I do and stand well
clear of it.”

I considered but was not able to agree. “I cannot, sir.”

“Then there is no more to be said on the matter. Shall we proceed?”

And so I gave him that first lesson, surprised by the seriousness with which he undertook the task. Teaching gentlemen is never easy, for they are rarely amenable to accepting advice, or
anything but praise, no matter how undeserved. Heron, however, made it plain he expected honesty from me, and did not snap at me for giving it. It is rare to find a gentleman who takes the science
of music so seriously as even to practise.

Only later did I realise that Claudius Heron had done me the honour of adding to my name the title of Mr.

I had, perforce, to accept the inevitability of the duel. Lady Anne, Heron, gleeful Mr Ord – all thought it impossible to avoid. But I was determined to enjoy the Concert upon the Tuesday
night, as it might be the last I directed and I wanted to leave a good impression. It went very well, I thought, despite Mountier’s absence (he had another engagement in Durham); at the end
of the music, I went down into the yard of the Turk’s Head, to feel the coolness of the evening air after the heat of the crowded Long Room. Despite my tiredness, and my aches and pains,
there was a warm pleasurable feeling in my gut, a certainty that, given a larger opportunity, I could do very well as musical director, that this was something I could excel at.

A shadow moved beneath the arch of the inn. Then Esther Jerdoun came cautiously across the cobbles, holding up her blue satin dress from the mud and horse manure, stepping in and out of shafts
of moonlight, her shining shoes bright. She stopped in front of me but said nothing. She dropped her skirts and smoothed them down, then looked into my face with a directness that disconcerted
me.

“Did you never consider staying in London, Mr Patterson?”

I was astonished; her hint was unmistakable. “Are you advising me to consider it now, madam?”

Her ash-blonde hair gleamed in the moonlight; her bare arms, white and slim, lay smooth against the satin. She was without a cloak but did not seem to feel the cold.

“I wish I could say there is no danger to you, sir, but I would not be honest.”

“Do you mean to warn me against your cousin again?” I said boldly.

Her face hardened.

“Forgive me,” I said. “But I am well aware that Lady Anne enjoys playing games with lesser mortals. She –” I searched for polite words, then recklessly plunged on.
“She finds everyday life tedious and seeks to enliven it. I do not like that, I confess. Nor do I like being embroiled in your quarrel with her.”

She was contemplating me, expressionlessly.

“For you do have a quarrel with her, do you not, madam? You seem to disapprove of almost everything she does. Well, madam, if you wish to play your games, and try to diminish your
cousin’s standing with the world, I cannot prevent you. But I will not be caught up in it.”

I stopped, appalled to hear my own words, the force and the anger behind them. Esther Jerdoun regarded me for a moment, then reached to lift her skirts again.

“You are a fool, Mr Patterson,” she said, and turned away.

25

SINFONIA CONCERTANTE
Movement III

And so to the duel.

I rose early on the Wednesday morning, looking out of the window on to a gloomy drizzle; a thin layer of mud gleamed on the street below. George still snored, entangled in his blanket on the
floor, and I kicked him awake before splashing my face with cold water from the previous night. He was full of glee and talked incessantly of how he was going to defeat his old master. I curbed my
impulse to speak to him sharply – now was not the time to weaken the boy’s confidence – but I inwardly cursed Jenison and Ord. Vanity should not be encouraged, particularly where
it has no basis in fact.

“I must give my lessons as usual,” I told him. “I’ve lost enough money recently as it is. You will stay here and practise the Corelli.”

“Master –”

“Put on your best clothes just before you go. When you get to Mrs Hill’s, speak to Dick Kell. He knows what’s what.” I buttoned up my waistcoat and glanced down at his
eager face, wondering how it would look when I saw him next, after the defeat Le Sac would inevitably inflict on him.

“Play as well as you can, George. I cannot ask more than that. I’ll meet you here tonight and you can tell me all about it.”

“Yes, master.”

As I left, I wished he had been more sombre and thoughtful. He had that look of mischief that always bodes ill.

I spent the morning teaching on the Westgate and, on my way back into town, looked in again at Demsey’s school. The room itself was as it had been, except for a thick layer of dust on the
chairs. But, as I turned to go back down to the street, I saw something catch the light on the stairs to Demsey’s rooms above; I turned back. The fragment of a bright button, twisted and
broken. Perhaps that glimpse in the street had not been born of the brandy, after all. I looked closely and saw, in the dust on the stairs, the faintest trace of footsteps. Demsey was always
extraordinarily light upon his feet. I went up to the attic and rapped on his door. Not the smallest sound. I prised up the floorboard but the key was gone. He had certainly come back.

I went down to the coffee-house to write him a note saying I had seen him, that I regretted my last outburst and wished to speak with him. But the words were impossible to find. I sat long in
Nellie’s, with a dish of coffee cooling before me and the ink drying upon the quill.
My dear Demsey.
Easy enough to begin, but how to continue? How many men find it easy to say
I’m sorry
?

I was biting the end of the quill when there was a great noise at the door and I saw the massive figure of Tom Mountier, rolling and reeling against the jamb. Flattening at least three men on
his way, he hailed me with a roar.

“Charles, I’m parched! Buy me a drink!”

I signalled to the serving wench. “I’ll buy you coffee, Tom. You’re drunk.”

“Nonsense!” He gave me a wink. “I can sing as well as ever. Listen.”

He rollicked off the first notes of a hunting song and of course all heads turned. Some shouted encouragement and some joined in so that soon nearly the entire coffee-house was singing. I sat
back and listened, with a half-smile on my lips and the cold fear of dread in my heart. For I heard today, as I had never heard before, the edges of roughness creeping into that fine polished bass
voice – the suggestion of hoarseness and, worse, the lack of care he took over the shaping of phrases and the small graces that show true taste. Before, even when drunk, those things had come
effortlessly to Tom Mountier, once the darling of London concert-goers.

He finished, tossed off the coffee and called for ale. Someone shouted for another song but he roared that he was too sleepy, and melodramatically flung hmself down on the table, his head on top
of his arms, snoring loudly.

“Why are you in Newcastle?” I asked.

Bright-eyed and wide awake, he lifted his head and grinned. “On my way to Edin – Edinburgh. To the good gentlemen and their private concert.”

“Leave of absence again? I wonder Hesletine allows it.”

“Doesn’t know about it, my boy! Blissful ignorance and all that. I left him a note reminding him I told him of it weeks ago; he’ll not remember whether I did or no. When our
esteemed organist sits down in front of manuscript paper, the outside world exists no longer. Even now, he is penning some sublime Ode.”

I laughed. “‘Not at this moment, he isn’t. He’s in the Fleshmarket, being entertained – or otherwise – by my apprentice.”

Mountier stared at me. “My dear Charles, you run mad. I left Hesletine deep in the throes of composition. I had to creep past his window to avoid his notice.”

“He probably set out minutes after you did.”

“Nonsense. He’ll not stir till he goes to conduct the rehearsal for the concert.”

“Tom,” I said patiently. “Thursday is concert night in Durham. Today is Wednesday.”

“Not the public concert,” he said. “The private one in the Deanery. Handel, Handel and more Handel, the saintly one. Charles, my dear fellow...”

I was already halfway to the door, mowing down newcomers in my turn and running for Mrs Hill’s.

The butchers’ stalls in the Fleshmarket were crowded so there was scarce space for a dog to run down the street. I pushed through the mob, apologising hurriedly, stepping
on feet, oversetting baskets, apologising again. Someone spilt beer over me, someone else jabbed an elbow in my side. Gasping for breath, I stumbled against the wall of Mrs Hill’s – and
felt a hand seize my arm.

I tried to pull free, twisted and looked into the sombre face of Claudius Heron.

“It’s a trick,” I said, breathing heavily. “Hesletine is not coming. He probably doesn’t even know what’s going on.”

Heron nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

My recriminations died on my lips. Something in Heron’s expression stopped them – a twist to his mouth, that familiar hint of distaste and... And what? I put my hand against the cold
wall and drew a deep shuddering breath. “What is happening in there, sir?”

He drew me aside, to the mouth of an alley. He was perhaps an inch or two shorter than I, and his hand on my arm was chill even through the cloth. His speech was always slow but on this occasion
more than usual. “I regret to say that Ord and Jenison are trying to manoeuvre Le Sac into a position where he feels so humiliated that he leaves the town. They intend to impose new
conditions for the contest which he will not be able to accept.”