“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.”
