Free Broken Harmony by Roz Southey

day to rain, for only the most ardent music-lovers turn out in such weather. And I would have to face Le Sac once more. Well, I would not be blamed for what had happened; it was
Lady Anne’s doing. She had been generous to me but for all that she was a shallow frivolous woman, as Le Sac must already know.
    I prepared myself with my usual care as was my wont on concert days, calling up the fellow on the floor below – apprentice to a barber – to shave me. He came with such speed and
readiness that it was obvious he knew the day as well as I and was ready to earn his fee. (I warrant he never told his master he earned it.) And while he shaved me, I turned over that other matter
which still unsettled me.
    I had not been drunk last night, neither had I felt ill. Moreover, the strange events only took place in Caroline Square and only near that house. I wondered what Esther Jerdoun had seen
– merely a man stumbling and falling? Surely if she had seen anything else, she would have commented upon it. Had the spirit in the square seen anything? (And would he make sense if I asked
him?)
    There was one solution to the problem – avoid that square. Avoid Lady Anne and her schemings too. But Lady Anne was not the only occupant of that house and I found myself reluctant to
avoid Esther Jerdoun. No, this would not do. A man may admire but he should not entertain preposterous notions which are beyond his reach, however pleasing they may be.
    I dressed neatly, though not ostentatiously, and supervised George’s preparations. He had spent the time while I was being shaved in leafing through the volume I had brought home from Lady
Anne’s.
    “These are much better, master,” he said with enthusiasm when I called him over. “When did you write these?”
    “They are not mine, you dolt.”
    “But it is your hand, master.”
    I should have been glad to own to the authorship of them if I had been able. I turned George round, brushed him down, and made him put on his tow wig. His own straggly hair showed beneath the
wig; I trimmed the ends and tucked them in. By all commonsense, he should have shaved his head entirely but his scalp was so scabby that it was patently out of the question. Still, he looked
presentable. I combed my hair (for like Le Sac I too wear my own) and we set out for the rehearsal.
    Hoult’s Long Room was engaged for a dinner on this night so the concert was to be held at the Assembly Rooms on Westgate. I had misjudged the time and we were almost late for the
rehearsal. I was surprised to be met at the door by the Steward. “Ah,” he said with a sigh of relief. “You’re here at last.”
    I was about to offer apologies when we heard loud voices from the upper room; I thought I recognised one or two directors of the Concerts. And was that Claudius Heron speaking more moderately?
That murmur certainly belonged to sly Mr Ord.
    “You had better go up,” the Steward said. “Try your hand with them. I can’t calm them down.”
    In trepidation, I went up, followed by George in an even worse state. “It’s him ,” he quavered. “He doesn’t want me here.”
    I emerged into the Long Room. The music stands had been set up at the end of the room in their usual places, with chairs for the two cellists and a stool for myself at the harpsichord. But only
Henry Wright hung awkwardly over his music, his tenor violin in his hand and an air of embarrassment about him. The other gentlemen were in huddle near the top of the stairs, each trying to speak
the loudest.
    For a moment, my arrival went unnoticed. Then Mr Ord darted forward and seized my arm. “Here he is! Now all shall be well.”
    A silence. “Good,” Claudius Heron said in his usual severe manner.
    “Is something amiss?” I asked.
    Mr Jenison (one of the minor scions of the celebrated family of that name and the prime mover of the Concerts) said, with ill-concealed irritation, “First violin’s ill.”
    “I understand,” Mr Heron