Free Sword and Song by Roz Southey

looked, I thought, as if Alyson was about to discover the legal complications of running a large estate. And I thought
of Esther and her estates in Norfolk and Northumberland – the estates that must inevitably pass, if she married, to her husband. That was yet another reason – if one more was needed
– why I could not marry her. What experience did I have in such matters? I’d probably ruin her inheritance in months.
    I heard my name called and looked up the stairs to see the two lively middle-aged ladies of the previous evening waving down at me.
    “Mr Patterson!” one called. “We were saying how delightful it would be to have a few songs. Will you play for us?”
    I said I would. The ladies disappeared upstairs to ‘fetch the music’; I suspected this would occupy half an hour at least and took my bread and cheese out to the terrace to the steps
where I had been attacked.
    There was little to see. The gravel path at the foot of the steps was scuffed; a faint trace of blood on the bottom step was dried to a dull brown. I looked up at the windows of the house above.
One must be Heron’s. I’d been lucky; if he’d been given one of the rooms at the back, it might be all over for me.
    One thing was clear – the attack could not have been premeditated. No one could have guessed I’d decide to walk in the gardens. Someone must have seen me from the house, seized a
weapon, come out to attack me –
    But why ?
    I heard voices from the rose garden to my right. At least one of the musical ladies was there; they’d probably already forgotten the idea of singing. And a glimpse of part of the drive
showed me Alyson riding off on a spirited black horse, accompanied by Ridley and a cheerful young man in sombre clothing – the visiting lawyer, perhaps. It appeared that the various members
of the party were entertaining themselves very well without my help. This could be the easiest – if most tedious – fifteen guineas I’d ever earnt. Although it allowed me much too
much time to think about Nell and Bedwalters.
    I went to my room for the key to tune the harpsichord. A couple of disgruntled servants helped me move the instrument into a better light and I set to with some considerable pleasure. It was an
hour or more later before one of the musical ladies came hurrying into the room, her arms full of music.
    “Oh, pray, do forgive us, Mr Patterson!” The second lady came in behind her. “But you know how it is. You see someone you haven’t seen for years and find you have six
cousins in common you never knew about – ”
    “And then,” said the older lady with a mischievous smile,“they insist upon telling you all about them from cradle to grave, in the utmost detail.”
    “Particularly their illnesses,” said the first lady with a groan. “And they won’t listen when you say you have an appointment – Oh!”
    She broke off in surprise as movement in the doorway caught her attention. It was Esther, in the palest of yellow gowns, a book in her hand. She looked at me for a moment, with her coolest
gaze.
    “Dear Mrs Jerdoun,” said the younger lady. “Do join us. We are about to sing a few airs.”
    Esther shook her head. The lappets on her cap rippled against her neck. Why was she wearing so ridiculous a thing? She’d never cared for such conventional trifles. And it didn’t suit
her.
    I reddened as her cool, ironic gaze lingered on me.
    “No, thank you,” she said. “I was merely looking for a place to read – I thought the room was empty.” And she withdrew, the long fall of her gown swishing against
the open door.
    The ladies surprised me, both by their excellent voices and the serious manner in which they approached the Art. They were critical of their own performances where appropriate and insisted on
rehearsing several parts to get them just right. Even more surprisingly, they complimented me on my playing. An hour or more passed very pleasantly.
    We attracted some attention. One