Sedition (27 page)

At Manchester Square, Harriet shut the front door and told Spencer to lock it. There seemed something ominous about the veiled girl and Harriet did not like ominous things. Marianne tripped down the stairs, humming. She winked at Harriet, the first of the leery winks for which she eventually became known. Harriet murmured something, then made her way slowly up the stairs, collected some new shoes, came down, and quite forgot to make the beguiling entrance into the drawing room that she had planned.

It hardly mattered. Monsieur was not looking. “Ah, Mademoiselle Harriet,” he said from the depths of the pianoforte when he heard the door click shut. He was fiddling with one of the dampers to calm his temper. What was the matter with Marianne that she wouldn’t rest until he had her again and again? She could not enjoy it, for he took no trouble, not even to enjoy it himself. And the questions she asked, as though his person were some new kind of musket. How did it fire? How did it recharge? English girls of her sort were vulgar vulgar vulgar. He finished his work. “Are you ready to play?”

Harriet pulled herself together and wafted over. “A girl was here,” she said. “She came from the pianoforte workshop and needed to know if we were satisfied with our instrument.”

Monsieur started. “What did she look like?”

“I don’t know,” Harriet said. “She was heavily veiled. I wanted to see her face but she ran away.”

“I expect that was Annie.” Monsieur wondered whether he should tell Harriet about Annie’s lip. He decided against it. He sat next to Harriet. “She is the daughter of Vittorio Cantabile, the pianoforte maker.” He opened the music. “She is a fine player herself,” he explained, though he could not, and did not try to, explain what business Annie could possibly have in Manchester Square. He tapped the music. “Variation 27. Begin.”

“Annie,” said Harriet, not beginning.

Monsieur tapped the music again. “Annie. That is her name. Come along, mademoiselle. We have not long until the concert and you are not yet ready.”

Harriet opened her mouth, nearly saying “Oh, but I am, Monsieur, you’ve no idea how hard we all practice when we’re not here,” but Alathea had been insistent on the pact of secrecy over the extra hours they put in. Harriet stopped thinking about Annie and thought instead about Thomas, then about Monsieur. She must concentrate on what must happen within this allotted hour. She began Variation 27, the ninth canon, proficient enough to set the semiquavers tripping and the ornaments adding intricate vivacity. She shifted her knees so that her dress fell between. Everina had suggested that. She raised her chin to expose her smooth neck. Georgiana had suggested that. Her hair was already bound up. Her earrings danced. “Come on, Monsieur,” she thought. “Come on. I’ve already caught Thomas today. What’s the delay with you?”

Monsieur could tell that Harriet was not concentrating on the music. He himself was finding concentration hard. He was slightly sore from Marianne and it was not just she who irritated and alarmed. All the girls’ behavior had altered. Like Marianne, Everina had turned questioner, asking how she might improve her technique, by which she did not mean at the pianoforte. He preferred her giggle to her questions. Then there was Georgiana. No matter what he said or did, she worshipped him, and when he took her, which he found himself obliged to do just often enough to spare her the indignity of begging, the whole operation moved him less than washing his hands. Harriet was still untaken, though he could see from her dress today that for some reason she was no longer unwilling. And Alathea. His brow furrowed more. Still irresistible. Still sensational. Monsieur wondered whether she was some kind of a witch, since sex with her drained the pleasure from sex with any other. His frown turned into a sigh. Perhaps he would never tumble Harriet. Perhaps he would hand back a fifth of Cantabile’s money and leave her be. Perhaps, for his next assignment, he would go to the East, where girls were kept in harems and never let loose on music masters.

“Monsieur?” Harriet had finished.

“That was good, Mademoiselle Harriet, very good.”

“I’d like to practice Variations 4 and 5 now,” she said.

“Ah, your great entry.”

“Yes, and my hands get in such a muddle in 5. You must help me.”

“You must try on your own.” Monsieur edged away.

“Very well.” She began. Her left-hand G was confident enough, but she faltered over the right-hand run and put the wrong finger of her left hand on the treble B. She stopped to correct, started again poorly, and everything collided in the last six bars.

“Try again,” Monsieur encouraged.

She tried again. The same. “Can you show me, Monsieur?”

He did not want to. There was a small battle of wills, which Harriet, by easing along the pianoforte stool and sitting determinedly expectant, won. Monsieur touched the keys. Harriet at once set to work trying to drum up the pulses she had felt at least once before in his presence. That she felt no such pulse today did not alter her determination. Business was business. Tightening her lips, she leaned down, straightened the pink bows on her shoes, and made her move. She went first for Monsieur’s ear, into which she breathed, as Alathea had suggested. No response. She breathed harder and placed a hand on his knee. Still nothing. She tried a more direct approach. She seized his left hand and placed it on her breast. Monsieur snapped it away and continued playing. Harriet took a deep breath and plunged both hands into his lap. At that, Monsieur leapt up and flung her hands back, knocking his knees against the pianoforte frame. She expected him to shout and was perfectly prepared for that. She could shout too. She deserved his attention, just as the others did. He said nothing. Harriet stood. They were about three feet apart.

“Monsieur, is there something the matter with me, or is there something the matter with you?”

“What can you mean, mademoiselle.”

“Come now, Monsieur. You know what I mean.” Harriet knew she sounded like her mother.

Monsieur folded his arms. “Mademoiselle Harriet. Do you want to be married to Mr. Thomas Buller?”

“Of course.”

“Then let us concentrate on the pianoforte.”

“But, Monsieur, that’s exactly the point. Thomas won’t care about the pianoforte, not now, not ever. He will care about other things, though, and I know you’ve been teaching these things to the others. Don’t I deserve to know them too?” She blazed a little. “You wanted me badly enough before, and I hardly think it boasting to say that I’m more of a beauty than Everina or Marianne. What’s the matter with me? Do you hate the color of my hair?” She loosed it to drift over her shoulders. “Isn’t my skin soft enough?” She seized his hand again and pressed it against her cheek. “Am I too thin or too fat?” She ran his hands down her body.

Monsieur pushed away. Those stupid, blabbing girls. He must think quickly. “You are very pretty, mademoiselle,” he said, “every part of you. Teaching you these … these things, would be a pleasure. But it is for Mr. Buller to be the master. I am sure he will be an excellent guide.” He was astounded at this statement, which he had never imagined himself making.

Harriet grew cross. “Thomas Buller only knows about horses.”

“I only know about pianofortes.”

“Monsieur, you’re a liar.” Harriet’s color was high, and she had never looked more delicious, with her dander up and her defenses down, and all barely enclosed in that rose-pink dress. Yet he must put an end to this. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “please. Please. We are business partners, are we not?

“Business partners must be honest with each other. Trust, Monsieur, is at the heart of business.”

He sat down and, for safety, took both her hands in his. “Mademoiselle Harriet. My dear business partner. Listen to me. I do not deny that my lessons with the others have not been restricted to the pianoforte, but those lessons are over.”

Harriet removed her hands from his. “Oh, Monsieur,” she said, a little world-weary. “You think it’s as easy as that? You think that because we’re young and a few of us are silly you can give lessons, withdraw lessons, teach some and not others?” She shook her head. “You can’t. What you give to one you must give to all.”

“Mademoiselle Harriet.”

“Stop repeating my name. Why should you have the others and not me? Lord above, I’ve made it easy. Look at me!”

He looked at the floor. “And what will you do if I refuse? Call your mama?”

“Of course not.” Harriet was effortlessly equal to this. “I’ll tell Georgiana you laugh at her and that all your kind words, all your cooing and my-little-doveing, have been false. It would finish her.”

A flash. “You would not do such a thing, mademoiselle. You are too kind.”

“I am kind,” Harriet said, sensing victory, “but I also like to get what I want. Come along.” She gripped his left hand and ran it between her legs. “Is this a good way to start?”

“Mademoiselle,” said Monsieur rather pitifully. “I am tired. I have just had Mademoiselle Marianne.” He regretted the words as soon as he said them.

“You see!” cried Harriet. “Those lessons aren’t finished at all. You can rest afterward. From what I gather from Alathea, it doesn’t take long.”

Ah, Alathea, Monsieur thought. She knew how to hurt a man. “That entirely depends,” he said, trying not to sound injured.

“Well, it can’t take long today,” Harriet said, “because we’ve wasted so much time already. I suppose the time it takes is something to do with age?”

“Is that what Mademoiselle Alathea says?”

“I think she said something about age, and you’re no longer young.”

Monsieur was nettled. Harriet thought this a lively sign. She moved her hands. “Is this right?” she asked. “Or this?”

It was extraordinary, to Monsieur, to be taken by an untouched girl, as though he were the virgin. Extraordinary and, he could not deny it, arousing. He shifted slightly to allow Harriet to place his hands, and her own, where she would. He mumbled answers to her questions in a tone as polite as her own. “A little to the right, mademoiselle.” “Perhaps a little softer.” “Yes, undoing the buttons would be a good idea now.” “No, this is quite usual.” (This last after the buttons were undone and Harriet gave a gulp of surprise.)

“What next?” she asked.

“This,” he said, guiding her fingers.

“And for me?”

“This,” he said, guiding his own.

“Oh,” Harriet said. “Oh. Oh. Oh. I see.”

For the finale, he carried her to the sofa though she, in effect, was carrying him, since she was far from passive. Concentrating hard, she followed his movements. Occasionally, her murmurs gave way to brief groans or yelps, once an “ouch.” She persevered. When Monsieur felt the oncoming full cadence, he withdrew into his handkerchief, and when all was over, he stood, did up his buttons, and tossed the handkerchief into the fire, where it spat and smelled unpleasant. Despite the previous chafing from Marianne, he had enjoyed this.

Harriet tidied herself more slowly. “Thank you, Monsieur,” she said, as though they had just signed a contract.

“Mademoiselle,” Monsieur replied.

Harriet went straight to her room. The whole affair was messier than she imagined, and more peculiar. She was worried about stains on her dress. She supposed she could tell her mother it was her monthly courses. She had had two shudders (she had counted) and suspected these were not the fizziness Everina had described. It would be galling if Everina turned out better at this than she was. Still, even now, with this first session under her belt, she had something to show Thomas on their wedding night. She hoped he would appreciate it.

EIGHTEEN

With all the girls now tumbled, and with their constant tumbling demands, Monsieur’s days were exhausting. He returned to Cantabile’s barely able to manage his supper. He forgot entirely that Annie had been to Manchester Square and even had he remembered, it was hardly important. December came. Only the short time left until the concert—a week—and Cantabile’s failure to pay the fee Monsieur felt he deserved twice over stopped the flagging music master from feigning illness (hardly feigning—some days he really did feel quite sickly) and vanishing in the night. He had never gritted his teeth so often.

Dress fittings for Harriet, Georgiana, Everina, and Marianne took up the hours not spent at the pianoforte. Alathea kept their practice going with unremitting intensity. In Manchester Square, work began directly after Monsieur left. In Stratton Street, there was a strict timetable, which Alathea ran with the precision of a Bach cantata, angry if the girls were late or said they must leave early. She left it to them to placate, confuse, and mislead the parents. It was she who must be accommodated, not they.

Very occasionally, if they could snatch an hour in the early evening, she and Annie sat sewing Alathea’s concert dress in Alathea’s bedroom. After so much practice with the girls, Alathea declared herself too tired to play, so they came straight up to the top floor and remained there, door locked. Annie never saw Sawneyford. She never said she had been to Manchester Square and spoken to Harriet. She did listen very carefully when Alathea spoke of America: how they would get there (Alathea assured Annie that passages were cheap and plentiful); how they would live (Alathea gave Annie the much-thumbed Pantisocratic Society pamphlet she’d brought from the Salutation and Cat); how life would be. Alathea spoke of this new life with a passion Annie had not seen before. Alathea gripped her needle, but Annie did not grip hers because above all Alathea’s grand protestations and plans hovered Harriet’s perfect face, and this face was a question mark. “You really think Alathea will stay with you? You really think she loves you?” Alathea’s new lack of reserve, far from reassuring Annie, fueled her doubts further. This chattiness did not seem genuine. As she sewed, Annie began to strengthen and reinforce her own armor. Her silvered core would protect her when the American dream came to nothing. With her armor on, even with Alathea hammering at the door, Annie could be queen of her own castle, drawbridge up.

It took Sawneyford ten days to recover physically from Alathea’s assault. The doctor assured him nobody would know what had happened to him. After all, there was nothing to see. Sawneyford believed him. It was that, or kill himself. A fortnight later he was back in the City, yet not quite. Perhaps nobody could see his deficit, but Sawneyford knew, he knew and he could not forget. So clerks, stewards, office boys, tradesmen, journeymen, jaggermen, naval spies, military spies, agricultural spies, builders, speculators, banking men, Lloyd’s men, opportunists and hangers-on, crooks and enthusiasts—all his usual acquaintance—were avoided. He did not visit the barber to be shaved. He went nowhere near his office, with its flicking thumbs and clicking abacuses. He went nowhere near the V & B. Instead, he hunched in alleys and crouched in corners, scuttling like a rat amid the City’s jingling heave and ho. Scuttling was his distraction from the horror—more than a distraction: it was his lifeline. He had to scuttle. He had to scuttle in the City. The City was his place of safety.