Chapter 7 - MARK—A PRESENT FROM A FRIEND

Chapter 7

MARK—A PRESENT FROM A FRIEND

Sitting next to Livingston, in the rear of the bright green ballroom of Anya House, a few houses from my mother’s Grosvenor Street townhome, her favorite of all of Prahmn’s holdings, unnerved me. The crowded room was filled with gilt trim along the walls and seated men of science, even physicians from around the world, discussing important things like inherited diseases that sounded like the ailment that plagued our king.

“The Duke of Torrance has quite a gathering,” I said to my friend. “I wonder where he is.”

“A garish gathering, perhaps. But in a house this big, who knows.” Livingston folded his arms as if he weren’t impressed with the large estate with its multitude of rooms and gardens that had been pruned into a maze. “Sebastian, you are trying to avoid the answer to all your problems. You need a mistress.”

That was his solution to everything. I was beginning to suspect that was why his wife abandoned him. I looked away, wondering how he could have a mind for science and be a lecher.

“Don’t fret, my friend. I have arranged everything for you. I have picked out the perfect woman for you.”

“Livingston, please stop. Listen to the cure-all from the next speaker.”

He sat back in his chair. “Companionship is important. I’m convinced that the right one will rid you of shyness and free your mind so you can finish your song.”

It wasn’t a song or a hymn. “Sir, I’m composing a sonata. Maybe if you weren’t entertaining all the time, you’d know what I’m working on.”

“And maybe if you had other activities, you’d be finished with this masterpiece. It’s been a year.”

Time was not my friend. Between finishing up the design at Kenwood, visiting Dido’s painting, presenting ideas for Torrance’s music room, and being summoned by my mother or Prahmn to meet potential heiresses that they felt worthy of marrying into the Sebastian line, I was consumed.

The minute I mentioned the Harlbert’s Prize, Prahmn would talk of seminary. I was many things, but called to ministry was not one of them.

“And you’re a gentleman. You shouldn’t be working.”

Oh. Livingston had continued to prattle about . . . well, probably about a mistress.

Men clapped and jerked forward.

“Sebastian, are you afraid of women?”

“No. I love beauty. Women can be the most beautiful of creatures, but I’m terrified of causing my partner misery. I see that daily with my parents. And then there are your experiences.”

“You don’t marry a mistress. The arrangement is temporary. Think of it as training for when you find the lady you wish to have your name.”

I almost snorted. My friend could make sin sound elegant and purposeful. Oh, goodness, I sounded like a prude. Maybe I should think of the church. “Livingston, I must establish myself in music. That’s my world. My creation has to be right. I can’t be embroiled in foolish—”

“Then that is the problem: perfection. You don’t have any fun. How can you expect to write a perfect song if you haven’t lived?”

“I’m here, breathing. And it’s a sonata.”

“Yes, sonata. It’s impossible to create a perfect work.”

How could I explain the difference between right and perfect? I’d written dozens of stanzas, experimented with rhythm and varying timbres. None were what I sought. None would win the Harlbert’s Prize.

And these hands were not idle. Four music rooms, including the one here, I had spent my time designing and been paid handsomely. But a gentleman couldn’t speak of such things to my friend or Prahmn.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be a composer, Sebastian.”

My chest grew heavy.

No music.

No notes, sharps and flats, pouring out of my soul.

No hope of gaining Prahmn’s respect.

“I’m pathetic. What am I without music?”

Livingston didn’t say anything. Now he seemed to be paying attention to Mr. Carew.

No wonder when I asked the duke about the young woman on Ground Street, he kept changing the subject. Torrance must be protecting her from me. Such a shame, for her voice inhabited my dreams.

“Hey. Lift your head, man. You’ve not lost. You can do this. You can be a composer. Gain control. Mind over matter.”

The clapping began again. This time, people stood.

When the din died down a little, Livingston said, “I said I have a solution. Did you hear me? Will you trust me?”

A tortured man hadn’t a choice. “I surrender.”

“Good. Sebastian, meet her in—”

Applause erupted. I pointed to my ear and shrugged.

Livingston waited for everything to settle. “. . . Garden. I see you suffering. This is the solution. You meet her there. As soon as you feel comfortable, reach for and kiss her. Actually, do it as soon as you can string a cohesive sentence together.”

“What of her comfort? Am I to assume that she has feelings for me?”

“I’ve paid for her to be enthusiastic about you. For once, man, this is about you. Unless, you are . . . You’ve been with a woman, right?”

“Lower your voice. I don’t need the science community to look back at me as if I am strange.”

“Sebastian?”

“I’m not new. My brothers and I have been on excursions in the parts of town you frequent.”

Livingston sat back. “Good. You’ve been deflowered. However, if that’s not quite the truth, the courtesan I’ve picked especially for you will take care of that. Your creative stresses will be released. I cannot wait to hear about—”

“A gentleman does not talk about such things. Livingston, you are crude.”

He chuckled. “I meant tell me about the composition you will finally finish. You don’t have to mention anything about the woman or the pleasures you two enjoy. I want to know I was right. That sexual frustration or the fantasy you have with a painting is stopping your art.”

Maybe my philandering friend was right. Nothing I’d done worked. “I’ll have to keep designing music rooms to afford this mistress. You know I have a tendency to become attached to beauty.”

Livingston chuckled, then clapped like the others who’d been listening to Carew’s lecture. “You, my shy friend, will become a new man. And the Dowager Livingston’s music room needs to be refreshed. I’ll pay well, and my mother who loves music will enjoy the surprise.”

I sank into the stiles of my chair feeling uneasy and unprincipled. Nonetheless, if allowing myself to be compromised by a courtesan led to a finished sonata and changed my dull existence, so be it.