Broken Harmony

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Authors: Roz Southey
elaborated, “that he was caught in the rain on his way home last night.”
    What a wealth of meaning there was in that simple sentence! First, a reminder that Le Sac had made his way to his hostess’s house on foot, which clearly marked him as inferior. Second, a
reminder of my own status, for I too had done the same. Third, Mr Heron had of course been warm and dry in his carriage, driven by servants – the mark of a gentleman.
    “Burning up with fever!” Mr Ord did not sound distressed but quite the opposite, almost merry. “Out of the question that he should play today. So you see,” his plump
fingers dug into the flesh of my arm, “we have no musical director.”
    Another silence. A stray slant of watery sunshine chanced through the windows and lit the empty music stands. The floor, polished for dancing assemblies, smelt of beeswax. I was conscious of a
great feeling of relief.
    “You must stand in, Patterson,” Jenison said. “Mr Wright, will you do me the kindness of fetching the music-books from their cupboard? I have unlocked it already. The programme
is decided. We will be short of violins, of course.” His gaze lingered on George. “Is this the boy?”
    His slight emphasis on the definite article suggested he too knew all George’s history.
    “Indeed,” I said, seizing my opportunity. “He has had a good solid foundation in music. He will do very well on the back desk.” They were all looking at me for direction,
I realised, and I felt a surge of exultation. “Perhaps Mr Heron,” I went on, bowing, “will consent to lead the band?”
    “Certainly not,” he said firmly. “Quite out of the question for a gentleman. Put the boy there.” But he was plainly pleased to have been asked.
    So we settled ourselves to rehearse. I ordered the harpsichord to its proper place at the centre of the band and sat down to make sure it had not gone out of tune in the moving. The gentlemen
shuffled music on the stands. At least the bad weather had kept all but the players indoors so we had had no spectators to witness our wranglings, and the petty humiliations that I suffered even in
this moment of pleasure. Jenison, for instance, would never have ordered Le Sac to play this piece or that; he would have made suggestions in quite a different tone of voice. It was perhaps
fortunate, therefore, that I had no quarrel with Jenison’s choice of music; he was an excellent judge and knew what audiences liked to hear.
    George settled himself in the leader’s place, a small figure compared to the gentlemen looming behind him. He cast me a sly look of satisfaction; I would have been better pleased to see
some nervousness there. But off we went into an overture by Mr Handel and to my surprise it went rather better than I had hoped. George played well and the gentlemen were agreeable to watching for
my nod. Even more fortunately, Mr Ord was not particularly familiar with the piece and, in his concentration, quite forgot to trill except upon the last possible occasion. The gentlemen seemed
subdued without their idol; I, on the contrary, was elated. I had not been fully aware of how lowering an effect Le Sac’s presence had upon me.
    In the middle of the rehearsal, we broke for wine that was carried in from the tavern opposite. When two or three gentlemen accosted Jenison to plead for their own favourite pieces to be
included in the programme, I took the opportunity to stroll across to Wright – who stood a little apart, regarding his tenor violin with some dissatisfaction.
    “Patterson,” he greeted me. “I cannot get any notes out of this thing. I’ve half a mind to give it up altogether – I’m sick of it.”
    Young Mr Wright is one of those gentlemen who never picks up his instrument to practise but nonetheless fancies himself a great expert. The instrument itself, needless to say, is to blame for
every fault; it is badly made, the bow-stick is too light or too heavy, the strings will not speak

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