gleaming under a tricorne hat, slim figure so tempting in that outrageous outfit. And blue eyes settling on me with cool composure.
“Mr Patterson,” the lady said, nodding.
“Mrs Jerdoun,” I said, flushing.
It was two months or more since I had seen Esther Jerdoun, and she affected me not one whit less powerfully than she had before. At first consideration, there is nothing odd in this – what
is more natural than that a single lady (the title Mrs is of course honorary) and a single man should be attracted to each other? But she is a lady of ample means and I a mere musician of
none. She is a woman of thirty-eight and I a man of twenty-six. There is a vast gulf between us in social standing, in wealth and in age, and between us there can be nothing.
I looked up, trying to conceal my pleasure at seeing her.
“I trust you had a good journey, madam.”
“A weary one,” she said wryly. “And I return a good month later than I had hoped. Take my advice, Mr Patterson, and keep out of the clutches of lawyers. They are never content
with anything less than complete thoroughness. Every detail must be scrutinised at extraordinary length, every phrase debated with exquisite care.”
“But your inheritance is secured, I hope, madam?”
She sighed, controlled the shifting horse. “In part. But there is still much wrangling over some of the land. It drives me to distraction!” Her gaze searched my face. “You are
well, Mr Patterson?”
I was hungry, to tell the truth, very hungry.
“Very well, madam.”
“I was sorry to miss your benefit concert,” she said, then added sharply: “Have I said anything amiss?”
I must have given something away by my look, I supposed. “I did not have a benefit concert, madam. The gentlemen did not think – ”
I could not think of any polite way of describing the gentlemen’s conduct. The sentence hung unfinished between us.
“No benefit?” she said, at last.
“There was not time before Lent began and the entertainments ceased.”
“Then no doubt they will give you a benefit in Race Week?”
Awkwardly, I explained about Signora and Signor Mazzanti. Mrs Jerdoun sat above me on the tall horse, looking down, the wind blowing tendrils of her pale hair about her neck. Her face set into a
hard, unreadable mask.
“Indeed?” she said. “So the town will enjoy extracts from Mr Handel’s Italian operas? The audience will no doubt hang on every word.”
I winced. I doubt if more than half a dozen ladies and gentlemen of the town have enough Italian to say yes, no and thank you ; Jenison is proud of knowing nothing but English and
so are all his fellow merchants. I had a vision of the concert: Signora Mazzanti, statuesque and well-bosomed no doubt, letting the liquid syllables dance about the concert room, half the audience
looking on disapprovingly, the other half whispering desperately for translations. And Demsey, with his knack at foreign languages, sitting at the back of the room, guffawing over some joke only he
can understand.
“Well,” Mrs Jerdoun said. “We shall see. Good day, sir.”
And she urged the weary horse into motion again.
I had a drink at Mrs Hill’s in the Fleshmarket but had too little money to get drunk and sat in increasing sobriety while everyone else around me grew steadily more
inebriated. I kept seeing Tom Eade in my mind’s eye, that covered body being carried out of the alley. What had I to complain about in comparison to that?
The lodging house was dark when I let myself in and wearily climbed the stairs to my rooms. Esther Jerdoun would be wallowing in a hot perfumed bath by now, ministered to by her attentive maid,
slipping from water to scented nightgown and thence to solicitously warmed sheets in an antique bed. All I had was a single room, a table piled with music books, two chairs, one bed with a lumpy
mattress –
I paused outside the door, key in my hand. I could hear snoring.
I pushed open the door and there
“Mr Patterson,” the lady said, nodding.
“Mrs Jerdoun,” I said, flushing.
It was two months or more since I had seen Esther Jerdoun, and she affected me not one whit less powerfully than she had before. At first consideration, there is nothing odd in this – what
is more natural than that a single lady (the title Mrs is of course honorary) and a single man should be attracted to each other? But she is a lady of ample means and I a mere musician of
none. She is a woman of thirty-eight and I a man of twenty-six. There is a vast gulf between us in social standing, in wealth and in age, and between us there can be nothing.
I looked up, trying to conceal my pleasure at seeing her.
“I trust you had a good journey, madam.”
“A weary one,” she said wryly. “And I return a good month later than I had hoped. Take my advice, Mr Patterson, and keep out of the clutches of lawyers. They are never content
with anything less than complete thoroughness. Every detail must be scrutinised at extraordinary length, every phrase debated with exquisite care.”
“But your inheritance is secured, I hope, madam?”
She sighed, controlled the shifting horse. “In part. But there is still much wrangling over some of the land. It drives me to distraction!” Her gaze searched my face. “You are
well, Mr Patterson?”
I was hungry, to tell the truth, very hungry.
“Very well, madam.”
“I was sorry to miss your benefit concert,” she said, then added sharply: “Have I said anything amiss?”
I must have given something away by my look, I supposed. “I did not have a benefit concert, madam. The gentlemen did not think – ”
I could not think of any polite way of describing the gentlemen’s conduct. The sentence hung unfinished between us.
“No benefit?” she said, at last.
“There was not time before Lent began and the entertainments ceased.”
“Then no doubt they will give you a benefit in Race Week?”
Awkwardly, I explained about Signora and Signor Mazzanti. Mrs Jerdoun sat above me on the tall horse, looking down, the wind blowing tendrils of her pale hair about her neck. Her face set into a
hard, unreadable mask.
“Indeed?” she said. “So the town will enjoy extracts from Mr Handel’s Italian operas? The audience will no doubt hang on every word.”
I winced. I doubt if more than half a dozen ladies and gentlemen of the town have enough Italian to say yes, no and thank you ; Jenison is proud of knowing nothing but English and
so are all his fellow merchants. I had a vision of the concert: Signora Mazzanti, statuesque and well-bosomed no doubt, letting the liquid syllables dance about the concert room, half the audience
looking on disapprovingly, the other half whispering desperately for translations. And Demsey, with his knack at foreign languages, sitting at the back of the room, guffawing over some joke only he
can understand.
“Well,” Mrs Jerdoun said. “We shall see. Good day, sir.”
And she urged the weary horse into motion again.
I had a drink at Mrs Hill’s in the Fleshmarket but had too little money to get drunk and sat in increasing sobriety while everyone else around me grew steadily more
inebriated. I kept seeing Tom Eade in my mind’s eye, that covered body being carried out of the alley. What had I to complain about in comparison to that?
The lodging house was dark when I let myself in and wearily climbed the stairs to my rooms. Esther Jerdoun would be wallowing in a hot perfumed bath by now, ministered to by her attentive maid,
slipping from water to scented nightgown and thence to solicitously warmed sheets in an antique bed. All I had was a single room, a table piled with music books, two chairs, one bed with a lumpy
mattress –
I paused outside the door, key in my hand. I could hear snoring.
I pushed open the door and there
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