‘Now, Charles,’ she said, reprovingly. ‘Do not despair. It says here the violin has no strings.’
‘Then how the devil does he play it?’
‘He sings the notes.’
‘
Sings
?’
‘He imitates the sound of the violin. Oh, and the flageolet,
and
the trumpet. And many other instruments besides. It says he sang the overture to Mr Handel’s opera,
Giulio Cesare
.’
I seized my coffee dish. It was, thankfully, very strong coffee.
Esther regarded me sympathetically. ‘I know such things can hardly be regarded as
musical
—’
‘
Hardly
? Not at all!’
‘It will attract the audiences,’ she pointed out.
‘That’s the most depressing thing of all!’
‘But if you can get them to listen to Richard Nightingale, perhaps later they will enjoy something more worthwhile, Corelli’s music, for instance, or Geminiani’s?’
I sighed. ‘One can always hope.’
I looked at Esther –
my wife
! – as she scanned the letter for any further information on this paragon of musical virtue.
My wife
: how strange that still seemed. Three weeks was not remotely enough time to become used to it. Or to its consequences.
Three weeks ago, walking into All Hallows’ Church with Esther on my arm, I had been ecstatically happy. It had been a quiet wedding, with my patron, Claudius Heron, to support the bride, and my friend Hugh Demsey to support me, the only other witnesses being the organist of All Hallows and his cat, which had wandered in and stayed to wash in a patch of sunshine. We repeated the correct words after the glowing young, romantically inclined curate, accepted congratulations from everyone present, excluding the cat, and went back to Claudius Heron’s elegant home for the wedding breakfast. In the pleasure of good food and good conversation with friends, I’d even forgotten to be nervous about the inevitable intimacies of married life until the carriage set us down in front of Heron’s country mansion, loaned to us for a short bridal trip. And, thankfully, there’d been nothing to be nervous about.
That was not the problem. If it had merely been a question of love, and compatibility, there’d have been nothing to worry about, despite the differences in our ages – I’ve just turned twenty-seven, Esther’s twelve years older. But there’s more than age between us; there’s status and there’s wealth.
I expected the disapproval of the ladies and gentlemen; a musician, a mere tradesman, marrying a lady who’s related, however distantly, to an earl! What I hadn’t bargained for was my own reaction.
Three weeks after the ceremony, immediately after returning from the bridal trip, I’d moved from my lodgings into Esther’s house in Caroline Square. With its drawing rooms, dining room, breakfast room, library, half a dozen bedrooms, several dressing rooms and the servants’ quarters besides. And a garden. I’d lived previously in one room. I’d had no servants. I’d sent out for my meals or gone to the tavern for them and I’d never had to walk further than a yard or two for my violin or music books. And now, for heaven’s sake, I had a room solely set aside for the eating of breakfast! Why the devil could we not simply use the dining room?
The sunshine shone through the windows from the garden and glinted on the strands of hair escaping from the confines of Esther’s elegant lace cap to lie across the curve of her neck. Every time I looked at her, I felt a pang of longing and pride that almost overwhelmed me. And every time I looked at her, I saw the jewels in her ears and at her throat, the fine fabric of her dress. And then I looked at the shabby cuffs of my coat.
Esther put the letter down, cleared her throat. ‘Charles,’ she said carefully. ‘You cannot grumble over every little expense. It is a small sum to pay for a letter.’
I gripped my coffee dish. If I could have talked myself out of this ridiculous annoyance, this strange sense of unreality, I would have. I wanted to. No – I wanted to get back to the old easiness I’d felt in Esther’s presence, before the question of money raised its ugly head. Had there ever been a time like that? ‘I was thinking of the coat you wanted me to buy,’ I admitted.
‘I mentioned two coats,’ she said. ‘And new breeches. And some shirts.’
‘No, no,’ I protested, seizing on the diversion. ‘I bought three new shirts only a month ago.’
‘Only three?’ she said, wincing. ‘Charles, you need at least seven – one for every day. More would be better. I will see to it.’
‘
You
will?’ I said blankly.
She looked surprised. ‘Linen is always the wife’s responsibility.’
‘Well,’ I said, speaking before thinking and bitterly regretting it the moment the words were out of my mouth, ‘it’s your money.’
‘No,’ she said evenly, ‘it is not. When we married, my money became yours.’
‘I didn’t earn it.’
She took a moment to fold the sheets of the letter away. ‘So you intend that when we go out together, I will be dressed expensively, and you will be wearing your old shabby clothes just to prove you are not taking advantage of my wealth?’
I looked at her. She held my gaze steadily. The vision was just too ludicrous; I laughed ruefully. ‘That would merely draw attention to the situation, would it not?’
She leant forward, reached out for my hand, her fingers warm on mine. ‘People will gossip about our marriage, Charles. They
will
believe you married me for my money; that is inevitable.
We
know it is not true. Surely that is all that matters?’
I wanted to respond. I wanted to say
yes
. I couldn’t bring myself to do so. ‘I hope to earn a great deal more this year,’ I found myself saying. ‘The tickets for the subscription series are selling well and the concert directors will be paying me more.’ That was true, but not to the extent I was implying; five shillings extra a year was never going to make me rich. ‘And I can make more money,’ I hurried on, seeing Esther draw back and her smile fade, ‘if I take on an apprentice.’
A virulent green gleam shot across the table and climbed to the top of my coffee dish. I jerked back, startled. Coffee splashed on to the tablecloth. ‘Master!’ the spirit said with an indignant squeak. ‘
I’m
your apprentice.’
Esther sighed, just audibly. George, who died in this house a year ago, at the age of twelve, had been in life my apprentice, and in some ways, I felt responsible for his death. Which adds a degree of guilt to my feelings towards his spirit. I gritted my teeth. ‘You’re dead, George,’ I pointed out. ‘You can’t play in concerts and earn me money any more.’
‘You don’t need another apprentice,’ he said obstinately, like the sullen boy he’d been when he died. ‘You don’t, you
don’t
!’
‘This is a private conversation, George,’ Esther said. ‘Please leave us.’
The gleam flickered uncertainly; the green colour faded slightly. George adores Esther with the intensity of a boy’s first crush; he told me only a few days ago he was pleased he died in her house so he could stay with her ‘for ever and ever’. From the moment I moved in, he’s been annoyingly offensive, giving me directions to rooms I already know, introducing me to servants I’ve been acquainted with for a year or more, and generally trying to give the impression he’s the man of the house. In short, showing every sign of jealousy.
Fortunately, mixed in with his adoration of Esther is a healthy dash of adolescent bashfulness which means one disapproving word from her is enough to send him into agonies of guilt. That alone, thankfully, has kept him out of our bedroom at nights.
‘
Now
, George,’ Esther said.
He mumbled, ‘Yes, mistress,’ and shot off. I watched until the gleam slid out of the room under the door.
Esther said quietly, ‘You are still distressed by that incident on the Key.’
Reluctantly I sat back. ‘Yes.’
‘The Constable and the coroner both concluded it was an accident.’
‘Tell that to the mother.’
She nodded. ‘But no blame can attach to her. She was very drunk, admittedly, but there was no way she could have kept hold of the child.’
‘It was intentional,’ I said. ‘He deliberately ran into her.’
‘Charles—’
‘I don’t say he intended to kill her, or the child, but he did intend to hurt them. He was venting his anger on them.’
Esther plainly chose her words carefully. ‘I was wondering if perhaps—’
‘Yes?’ That came out rather more belligerently than I’d intended.
She continued more decisively. ‘Over the past year, Charles, you have been involved in four puzzles, and you have proved yourself expert in unravelling the truth. But I am beginning to wonder if that has led you to start seeing mysteries where none exist.’
I took a deep breath. I would not argue with Esther over yet another matter. ‘You’re not the only person to say so,’ I admitted. ‘The coroner plainly thought so, and the new constable. But I’m not imagining this, Esther.’
She sat back. ‘Very well. Then why not see if you can find any trace of the fellow? Would it not set your mind at rest?’
I saw that leather bag again, jolting at the back of the saddle. The intertwined initials:
CR
. I’ve always hated leaving puzzles unsolved. Of course, why hadn’t I thought of that before? I drained my coffee dish and pushed back my chair. ‘You’re right. And if I can find nothing, at least I’ll feel I’ve tried.’
She hesitated. ‘You will not forget you have to see lawyer Armstrong in the next few days. About the Norfolk estates, that business with the tenant of the Home Farm.’
I dipped to plant a kiss on her forehead. ‘You deal with it.’
‘Charles, I can’t. Not any longer. It’s your property now.’
‘I’ll sign the papers when you’ve sorted it out.’
‘Mr Armstrong will expect to see
you
!’
But like a coward I was already at the door.
Three
Clothes bespeak the man.
[
A Gentleman’s Companion
, February 1732]
Walking across town towards the Key, my conscience pricked me horribly. I was behaving like a boor, and Esther’s forbearance only made matters worse. At least she wasn’t trying to insist I wear a wig; I find them abominably itchy and much prefer wearing my own hair.
I hesitated, then steeled myself and detoured to the shop of Mr Watson the tailor, at the foot of the Side, where that winding street opens out a little. It was a cramped shop in one of the oldest, most creaking houses in town, but it was elegantly done out. I fancied I smelt money the moment I walked in.
I was served by the man himself, who was dressed in the height of fashion: a reddish-brown coat with huge cuffs and bright buttons. He irritated me before two minutes were out by revealing he’d been expecting me. ‘Sooner or later,’ he said, with a smirk. ‘How
is
Mrs Patterson?’
‘I want a new coat,’ I said shortly.
He seemed almost gratified by my rudeness, bowing much lower than he had on my first entrance. If he’d not been the best tailor in town, I’d have walked out there and then. My fingers were itching; a voice in the back of my mind was repeating endlessly,
You can’t afford this. You can’t afford this!
Watson reached up to the highest shelves and brought down the most expensive, and impractical, satins and silks. ‘If I might venture to guide you—’ He unrolled a bolt of silk with a flourish. ‘With your colouring, sir, you would look very well in puce.’
‘I would not,’ I said shortly. ‘I want a light-brown coat with green cuffs, exactly like the one I’m wearing.’ The voice in my head was saying that puce was a dreadful colour but surely there was nothing wrong with that nice dark plum over there . . .
‘And a waistcoat?’ Watson suggested, unrolling another bolt.
That picture of going out with Esther in her splendid best and me in frayed cuffs came back to haunt me. I took a deep breath to steady myself.
‘In dark green, to match the coat.’
‘And embroidery?’ he asked brightly, his smile a trifle relieved, as if he thought he was winning a battle against a difficult customer. ‘We have some very fine embroideresses—’
‘Plain.’
‘Bumble bees are the latest fashion . . .’
‘Plain,’ I said. ‘With the smallest buttons you have.’
I left the shop having ordered two coats and the waistcoat, with the prospect of a bill larger than any I’d ever received in my life. To be paid out of Esther’s money.
Preoccupied, unhappy, I turned towards the Key.
There was no fog today. Sun glinted on the metal fittings of the pulleys, on the iron bands of barrels piled outside a tavern. Few ships were moored, and there was a lazy, desultory air about the place. The ship involved in the rescue of the woman had been allowed to depart, delayed by only a day. I couldn’t even be sure I could identify the spot where a child had lost its life before it was aware enough to know the world.
I walked through groups of aged sailors swapping tall tales of peril and audacity, passed Jas Williams’ chandlers’ shop, which was doing good business. That was where George had grown up, wheezing over every flour barrel and pestering his father for a fiddle. Not that George had ever grown up of course; he’d been murdered while in my charge, and it was only that thought, and the guilt that accompanied it, that gave me any patience with him at all.
On the corner of one of the most disreputable chares, I found the lodging house next to the Old Man Inn, and called for a spirit I knew that had died there. It came, a faint gleam on a windowsill, apparently pleased to meet me again. ‘Mr Patterson, sir! You’re keeping well, I hope?’
‘Alas,’ I said with mock sadness, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice. ‘Married.’
The spirit burst out laughing. He’d been the landlord of the neighbouring inn in life, and he had a landlord’s laugh, round and from the belly. ‘Cheer up, sir. There’s good things about marriage as well as bad!’