In Ord’s private rooms, his own tastes would naturally have ruled; his study was small, very masculine in style and a little old-fashioned, still with the dark wainscoting of an earlier age. Like Esther’s estate room, it was full of books and papers that spoke of business; a document on the desk listed tonnages of coal carried down the river in a keel I knew belonged to Ord. I felt haunted by business, dragged my eyes away from it, watched as Ord unlocked a drawer and carefully counted out a guinea in small coins to pay for the two tickets. He slipped the rest of the money back in the drawer and locked it before standing, coins in hand, regarding me impassively. Finally, he held out the money, keeping it until I was forced to put out my own hand, palm upwards, for him to drop it into. Like a man bestowing charity on a beggar.
‘A man cannot escape his history, Mr Patterson,’ he said. ‘Whatever good fortune comes his way, he cannot be other than he is and always was.’
A tradesman, he meant, one of the lower orders. Not one who could trace his ancestry back to the days of the Conqueror and probably earlier, like the Ords. ‘I am, and always was,’ I said, ‘a musician.’
His lip curled. ‘And this taste of yours for involving yourself in . . .
sordid
matters better suited to the petty constables and watchmen. I would advise you to put these things aside, sir.’
I looked at him steadily. Before his marriage, I’d rescued Ord from a very difficult situation which might have made him the ridicule of his peers and put an end to all hopes of marriage to Lizzie and her father’s money. I thought he might have remembered that. But perhaps that was the problem: he did remember and would rather not.
He said finally, ‘You put me in a very difficult situation, sir. I am supposed to pay you for these tickets and for the lessons you give my wife on the harpsichord, yet at the same time invite you to sit at my dinner table as if you were one of my intimates. I do not find this considerate, sir.’
‘Then you have a simple solution to hand,’ I returned. ‘You can avoid inviting me to dinner.’
He nodded. ‘But that would be to disadvantage your wife whom I have always believed to be a woman of breeding and education.’
‘She is.’ I was mollified, a little, by this evidence of consideration for Esther.
‘Moreover, she is a good influence on my wife. An excellent friend and adviser. I choose my wife’s confidantes very carefully, Mr Patterson, and scrutinize their
associates
.’
‘You’ll find nothing to object to in Mrs Patterson’s
husband
,’ I said, biting back anger. ‘Except my birth.’
‘Except, that is,’ he retorted, ‘that one thing that is above all essential. Good birth, good breeding. You are not a gentleman, sir, and never can be.’
I took a deep breath. It was not wise, not wise in the least, to talk about the birth and breeding of some of Ord’s late
associates
— the ‘lady’ he’d once been intent upon marrying, for instance. Not wise to reveal the story I alone knew the truth of. And definitely not well-bred. But irresistible.
‘I have one attribute of good breeding at least,’ I said. ‘As you well know. Discretion.’
He flushed. I laid the tickets on his desk, gave him a polite
thank you
and retreated.
I was furious; for Ord to presume to condemn me – particularly when he’d benefited from my activities in the past – was offensive in the extreme. But he couldn’t be ignored; he had a great deal of influence. People would listen to him and they might not have his leavening of respect for Esther.
The rain was pattering down again as we stepped out into the street. Esther drew her cloak about her and I turned to ask if she wanted me to hire a chair to carry her home. She was just telling me, with some asperity, that she wasn’t in her dotage yet, when I caught a glimpse of movement across the street.
The girl, Kate, hurriedly whisking herself out of sight into an alley.
‘Charles,’ Esther said as we turned into Westgate and walked up the hill. ‘I was thinking that you will need a music room.’
I stared at her blankly, still thinking of the girl and her dead baby brother. ‘The harpsichord’s in the library.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘But you have said yourself that it catches the sun too much there and goes out of tune. I was thinking: there is the boudoir my late cousin used to use; that would make an admirable music room. A little redecoration—’
‘No,’ I said.
There was a pause. Esther stared meditatively into the hedge of the Vicarage garden. The leaves dripped rain on to the cobbles. ‘The Ords’ redecoration brought it to mind.’
‘I know it did!’
‘I could send to London for wallpaper samples. And the harpsichord stool is very worn; we could do with new. Then shelves, of course, for your music.’
‘I have no wish for a music room,’ I said. ‘The library’s quite adequate.’ First a breakfast room, now this!
More staring into the hedge; Esther said, ‘Let me see if I have this right. You do not wish to take advantage of my money.’
‘I do not.’
‘You would much rather have nothing to do with it.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You would prefer me to continue to deal with it.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Very well.’ She smiled beatifically at me. ‘Then I think I will do the back parlour out as a music room. I will send to London for wallpaper samples and a new harpsichord stool.’
I opened my mouth, then shut it again.
‘Exactly, Charles.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘You cannot have it both ways.’
I said nothing.
‘You could of course refuse to use the room once it is done,’ she mused.
‘That would be petty.’ I sighed. ‘If I’d known you could run rings round me like this, I’d never have married you.’
‘Really? Is that true?’
I grinned at her ruefully. ‘No. Not in the least.’
She smiled and my heart turned over. No, I thought, not in the least.
Fourteen
A son should always reverence his father.
[
A Gentleman’s Companion
, August 1735]
I watched for Kate all the way home, to the extent that Esther started looking round too.
‘Have you seen someone you know, Charles?’
‘The girl,’ I said. ‘Kate. She seems to be following me.’
Esther smiled wryly. ‘An admirer! Should I be jealous?’
‘She still wants to be my apprentice.’
‘I think I will have that talk with Mr Orrick,’ Esther said thoughtfully. ‘Persistence should be rewarded.’
‘She’s the sort of girl who won’t ever be satisfied,’ I warned her. ‘Give her a little and she’ll demand a lot more.’
‘She sounds like a woman after my own heart!’ She gave me a mischievous look.
‘Esther,’ I said, ‘pray do not look at me like that in public.’
We turned into Caroline Square and started across to the house in the corner.
‘We’re nearly home,’ Esther pointed out.
I got up very late on Wednesday morning; if only Ord knew, he’d have to admit I had at least one characteristic of the better-bred. Although my reason for rising late would never have been admitted to in polite society; relations between husband and wife should be cordial, but never warm. I suspected that Ord, contrary to all expectations, was in love with his wife, but would die before he said so.
Esther was lazy and sleepy at breakfast, daintily feeding herself fragments of bread. When I asked what she planned to do that day, she murmured something about letters, which made me think the wallpaper samples would not be long in arriving. I went out, annoyed at having been manoeuvred into spending more money but immensely admiring of how it had been done.
If I was to make a success of my career as a musician to counter the wealth I’d acquired from Esther, I had, perforce, to spend the morning selling subscription tickets. But during the polite nothings I murmured to the ladies and gentlemen, under the repeated reassurances that Mrs Patterson was very well, thank you, my mind was busy with the question of that poor baby, and with Cuthbert Ridley and how the devil I could find out more about him. I could ask Heron, but not without confiding my suspicions, and they were too nebulous even for my satisfaction.
And in the way of these things, as soon as I decided to put Ridley out of my mind and think about him later, I encountered him in Nellie’s coffee-house when I went in for a bite to eat. The rooms were crowded with gentlemen sizing up their investments with the aid of the latest London papers; somewhere in those pages, I thought, were references to Esther’s securities, accumulating interest pound by pound by pound. I looked round for somewhere to sit, and saw Ridley.
I stared in astonishment, for he was engaged in animated conversation with one of the serving girls. His face was lit up, his eyes aglow and one of his hands rested on the girl’s back, very low down. She was, of course, encouraging him with all the sauce at her command, which was considerable; such girls depend on a shilling or two from fond customers. Claudius Heron had been right, I reflected; all the stuttering and wringing of hands had been mere pretence. There wasn’t a trace of it now.
The girl winked at me as we came face to face, then hurried past. I sank into the empty seat opposite Ridley. He’d taken, with considerable rapidity, to twisting his fingers together nervously.
‘And how do you like Charlotte?’ I asked, borrowing her wink.
He stared at me for a long moment, then the slowest and slyest of smiles started to curve his lips. ‘I’m told,’ he said, ‘you’re a newly married man. A rich woman. Related to a duke, they say.’
I wondered if he was one of those men who are only at ease with their social inferiors.
‘She’s related to an earl.’ In fact, Esther doesn’t recall ever seeing her noble relation; she was two years old at their last encounter. In addition to which, she is merely the daughter of a younger daughter of a younger daughter, which makes her particularly insignificant.
‘And twenty years older than you,’ he said, with an odd kind of triumph.
‘Twelve years.’
‘Pots of money, eh, Patterson? Don’t know another one for me, do you?’
Fortunately Charlotte came back at that moment; if she’d been half a minute later, I’d probably have hit Ridley. It was not so much what he said, but the expression on his face as he said it. A knowing slyness combined with immense enjoyment.
Charlotte put an enormous slab of pie and a tankard of ale in front of Ridley. I’d lay any odds he’d already had several tankards elsewhere. She’d brought me coffee, which she knows I usually take at this time of day, and smiled prettily at me.
‘Cold meats, Mr Patterson? We’ve a lovely apple preserve.’ And, still smiling, she bent to whisper in my ear, as if making an assignation. ‘Watch him, sir. I never met anyone I trusted less.’
She pranced away through the crowds, making sure we had a good view of her back. Ridley’s eyes lingered, I noticed. Well, that was hardly to his discredit.
‘Fifty would do it,’ he said.
I frowned. ‘Fifty what?’
‘Guineas.’ He held out his hand like a beggar. ‘It’s a real goer.’
‘A horse?’ I asked warily.
‘A grey,’ he said. I looked sharply at him but he was slicing up his pie with great dedication. ‘Everyone knows greys always win. And it’ll only cost you fifty guineas. Then we can run it. Start with the local races, work up to the big ones at York. It’ll wipe the board. Grey Lightning.’
‘That’s its name, I take it.’
‘Sired by Thunder.’
Miraculously, I’d actually heard of Thunder. It had won the big race at Newcastle only two months before. ‘I don’t want to own a horse.’
‘Could make you a fortune.’
I sipped coffee, watched as he dug his fingers into the pie and levered out big chunks of meat; he stuffed his mouth, licked his fingers clean. A gentleman passing glanced down at me, a cynical smile curving his lips. ‘But as you pointed out not a minute ago,’ I said, ‘I already have a fortune. Through my marriage.’
‘You can never have too much money!’
I disagreed with that, fervently, but that was none of his business.
Charlotte brought me a plate with meats and bread and the promised apple preserve, and took herself off again with remarkable speed for a woman who regards a chat with a man as the best part of her working day. I was tempted to copy her example; Ridley was remarkably unpleasant. But then I’d never know what had happened last Friday when the child died.
‘You like horses?’ I asked.
‘If they win!’
‘You rode up from London, I take it.’
He grinned. ‘Can you see me in a post chaise making polite conversation while the miles crawl by?’
‘No,’ I agreed. Charlotte was right; the apple preserve was delicious. I tried another tack. ‘What made you come back at all? If I had a chance to settle in London . . .’
He made a face. ‘Family.’
‘I’d have thought they’d be pleased to see you well settled.’
‘Want me under their eye.’ He leant across the table grinning, and lowered his voice. ‘Know my elder brother, do you?’
‘Only by sight.’
He gave me a significant look. ‘Coughing.’
‘
Coughing
?’
‘All the time.’ He dug in his fingers again, waved a piece of pie crust at me. ‘And blood in it. One of these days, there’ll be a notice in the paper.
Died of a painful and lingering illness
. . .’
I stared at him. Not shocked, because illness and death is part of the normal course of life, but surprised. ‘I’d no idea. But you have another brother.’
‘In Narva with my father. Nasty place, Narva. Like all these foreign places. Thieves and robbers everywhere. And then there’s the ships. Ships can founder, go to the bottom in a flash.’ He made a whooshing noise and gestured broadly with his hands, spraying gravy across the table. Heaven help any family, I thought, whose future depended on Cuthbert Ridley.