Broken Harmony by Roz Southey

master.”
    “Damn it, it’s mere gossip!” I did not believe it, could not believe it. If it were true, Hugh was ruined. No parent would allow their daughters to be taught by him.
    “No, it’s true, master. Really.”
    I sent him off with a flea in his ear and a threat that if he spread the rumour further, I would turn him off straightway. The story was preposterous. Demsey was no scoundrel to take advantage
of a girl’s innocence, nor a fool to be trapped into a compromising situation; he had nothing but contempt for the silly girls he taught. Moreover (I had reassured myself greatly by this
time), even if the governess had been got rid of on some spurious excuse, even if Hugh had been trapped into some indiscretion, no family would allow the story to become known. The girl’s
reputation would be lost for ever.
    The obvious explanation occurred to me as I got up to leave. This was Nichols’s revenge for the attack upon him. He had spread these rumours to discredit Demsey. Well, it was none of my
business. Demsey had brought this trouble upon himself and he must deal with it. He had made it amply clear it was nothing to do with me.
    So I went off to the concert; the gentlemen played with spirit, George acquitted himself well and my solo piece was well-received and much complimented.
    “All in all, not a bad night,” said Mr Jenison, handing me my wages and George’s. He felt it necessary to point out that he had rewarded my services that day with an extra
payment of two shillings and sixpence. He was, after all, although he did not say so, saving ten shillings on the Swiss’s wages that night. I thanked him but he waved away my gratitude.
    “And thank goodness,” he said, “Mr Le Sac will be well for our next concert.”
     
    12
    CATCHES AND GLEES
    As I entered the Printing Office the following morning I encountered Nichols, counting through some coins as he walked. He sneered when he saw me. “In alt this morning,
eh, Patterson? Think a good deal of yourself now, do you? Applauded by all the ladies and gentlemen? Well, enjoy it while you can.”
    “Le Sac is on the mend, I take it?”
    He looked me up and down. “Compared to him, you’re a nobody.”
    “Oh, I quite agree,” I said cordially. “But at least I know my own limitations.” I smiled with meaning. “Some people never recognise their inferiority.”
    I was feeling, I admit, very pleased with myself and life. I had woken, late, to hear from Mrs Foxton that a lady had called for me and left her card. The card, on the table at the foot of the
stairs, read Mrs Jerdoun in flowing script; underneath, the lady had written in an elegant copperplate: Mrs Jerdoun much enjoyed the Scotch airs last night. I laughed at this reminder
of our argument over the value of music.
    Then Mrs Foxton had offered me the second-floor room at the end of the week when the present lodger vacated it. It would be a shilling a week extra but was a great deal bigger. So I had come out
in a good mood, determined to forget that parting comment of Jenison’s.
    Nichols leant closer. “I got Demsey and I will get you, Patterson. Make no mistake about that.”
    Suddenly chilled, I caught at his sleeve. “Is that an admission that the accusations against Demsey are untrue?”
    He laughed and shook himself free. “Ask the young lady.”
    Thomas Saint, the printer, watched him go, shaking his head. “I try to be Christian, Mr Patterson, but there’s a man I can’t abide.”
    “An acquired taste,” I said lightly. “Mr Saint, I wish to put an advertisement in your paper.”
    He lifted the sheet I gave him to the light, reading it barely an inch from his face.
    Proposals for Publishing. That favourite harpsichord piece played lately at the Subscription Concert, the Subject of the Rondeau, the favourite Song of Lewie
    Gordon.
    He stared into the air for a moment while his lips silently performed calculations, then named me the price. “I like a good Scotch tune