A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  Grief was a strange thing. You could try to avoid it, keep it at arm’s length, even maneuver around it for a time, but grief was patient and cunning. And always returned. With a vengeance.

  She sucked in a soft breath, her vision blurring.

  The letter from her mother had been succinct, void of any detail other than “your grandmother passed unexpectedly, yet peacefully, in her bed,” and had spelled out in no uncertain terms that it was time for Rebekah to return home. Then her mother had effectively cut off her funds.

  Rebekah wiped her cheek. Dealing with the sudden loss of her grandmother—and benefactor, though of so much more than money alone—was difficult enough. But being forced to return to Nashville, and with the unequivocal expectation of her residing in that house again—with him—was unfathomable.

  She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t.

  Yet she didn’t have her paternal grandmother to side with her anymore. To insist on the importance of an education abroad. As if that had been the impetus behind her leaving for Vienna years earlier than originally planned by her father, God rest him. Her grandmother had believed her about the events of that horrible night. But her mother? “Certainly you’re confused, Rebekah. There’s no way he would even think of ever doing anything like that. You’re his daughter now. He’s simply trying to be a loving father. Something for which you should be grateful . . . instead of misconstruing.”

  At her grandmother’s urging, Rebekah hadn’t confronted him about it. They’d all acted as though it had never happened. At times she wondered if that had been the wisest choice . . . or merely the easiest.

  The boy rapped on the front door, three sharp knocks, and when the door finally opened, Rebekah’s heart squeezed tight.

  Delphia.

  The woman was still as round and robust as Rebekah remembered, almost as wide as she was tall. Even at a distance, the cook’s apron appeared perfectly starched and gleaming white, same as every day of Rebekah’s youth.

  Like pearls gliding on a string, her thoughts slipped to Demetrius, and she wondered if Delphia’s older brother was there or on an errand, or perhaps in the garden out back that he loved so much. In nearly every letter her grandmother had written, she’d included kind regards from Demetrius, oftentimes along with something witty he’d said.

  Of all the people she’d thought about since receiving her mother’s letter, she’d thought most of him. Demetrius was the one bright spot about returning. And she could hardly wait to show him what she’d finally mastered, thanks to his patient kindness and all he’d taught her.

  She reached into her cloak pocket and pulled out the wood carving she’d carried with her for nearly fifteen years now. The carving was of the dog she’d had as a child. The likeness to the cute little pug—Button—was amazing, as was everything Demetrius carved. He’d told her he simply saw things in pieces of wood and then carved until he’d set them free.

  Rebekah watched as Delphia stared down at the boy, hands on her hips, and it occurred to her that she hadn’t bothered asking the lad his name before sending him on this errand. Delphia took the newspaper from him—the boy talking as she did, though Rebekah couldn’t make out what he was saying—and Delphia slowly shook her head.

  So then . . . Rebekah sighed. Her mother wasn’t home.

  Part of her felt disappointment, while the greater part felt relief. So the decision was made. She’d just bought herself another day to work up the courage for her official homecoming, and to try to find another place to live, though the two dollars and twenty-four cents in her reticule wouldn’t stretch far.

  Grandmother Carrington had told her during her last visit to Vienna almost two years ago that, in the event of her passing, she’d laid aside some money for her. Rebekah didn’t know how much, but she was grateful. Even a small amount would help until she found a way to support herself.

  Delphia spoke to the boy again—this time glancing beyond him to the street—and Rebekah held her breath, waiting for him to turn and give her away.

  But he merely shrugged his slim shoulders and tipped his red cap in a way that drew a smile from the older woman. Something not easily done.

  The little urchin was a schemer and a charmer.

  When the front door closed, the boy retraced his steps to the street. He looked briefly in Rebekah’s direction and gave his cap a quick tug, his smile claiming victory. Then he took off at a good clip down the street.

  Rebekah watched him go, feeling a peculiar sense of loss when he turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Which was silly. She didn’t even know the boy.

  Yet she felt beholden to him in a way.

  The growling in her stomach redirected her thoughts and dictated her first course of action, so she headed toward the heart of town in search of a place to eat.

  But the Nashville she’d tucked into memory years earlier was no more. Everywhere she looked, she saw remnants of the heartache her grandmother had written to her about during those awful years of conflict. What few buildings she did recall seemed to have aged several decades in the past one, their brick façades riddled with bullet holes, the dirt-filmed windows cracked and broken or missing altogether. Such a stark contrast to the opulent wealth and beauty of Vienna.

  But what she found most surprising was the number of Federal soldiers walking past or standing grouped at street corners. She had no idea so many were still assigned to the city. Surely their continued presence wasn’t helping to mend any fences.

  Finally, nearly half an hour later, she discovered a small diner and claimed an open table by the front window, grateful to be out of the cold. Having had only a package of crackers since yesterday afternoon, she splurged on a breakfast of hot cakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon.

  By the time her meal arrived, she’d scanned the list of advertised job openings in the Nashville Banner, which left her more discouraged than before. She perused the first column again as she ate.

  The majority of openings were for factory positions, all of which sought experienced seamstresses. She could sew—if her life depended on it and patrons didn’t care if their garments fit properly. But an experienced seamstress? No one would ever accuse her of being that. And the pay—ranging from thirty to seventy-five cents per week, depending on experience—was scarcely enough to buy food, not to mention a place to live and the barest of necessities.

  The porter who had stowed her luggage at the train station warned her that life in Nashville would be far different than when she’d left. He hadn’t been exaggerating.

  December 2, 1860. The day she’d departed Nashville for Europe, and only a handful of months before war had broken out. And one year, to the day, following her dear father’s unexpected passing.

  The server returned and wordlessly refilled both Rebekah’s water glass and empty cup. The coffee was strong and bitter, and the steam rose, mesmerizing, as she sipped and searched the remaining listings with greater care.

  WANTED: EXPERIENCED CHEF FOR NEW HOTEL VENTURE.

  She perused the lengthy requirements for the position, secretly impressed with anyone who could meet such stringent expectations. She sighed. She couldn’t sew, she couldn’t cook.

  Why was it that what she knew how to do well seemed so useless? If she were a man, that wouldn’t be the case.

  As though poking fun at that very thought, a cartoon in a side column caught her attention, and she frowned. The sketch was an obviously satirical depiction of an all-female orchestra. Because the woman in the foreground, the most pronounced, was holding her trombone backward. Same for all the other female musicians with their instruments.

  Rebekah read the caption beneath the cartoon and her eyes narrowed. Ladies in Concert. She huffed. The illustration had been drawn by a man, of course. Of all the—

  Just below the cartoon was an article about the New York Philharmonic, a concisely written piece—only a few sentences long—that had originally appeared in the Washington Daily Chronicle, according to the first sentence.
It announced that the symphony there had recently admitted their first female, a monumental feat of which Rebekah was already aware. But that was all the article said. No musician’s name, no mention of what instrument the woman played. Nothing. And the article itself was dwarfed by the cartoon. Rebekah shook her head.

  Yet she was grateful to the journalist for including even that much. She looked for the reporter’s name and finally found it in almost minuscule print following the last sentence. SUBMITTED BY MISS ELIZABETH GARRETT WESTBROOK.

  Feeling a sense of womanly solidarity with Miss Westbrook of the Washington Daily Chronicle, Rebekah returned her attention to the list of job openings.

  SERVERS WANTED: YOUNG, ATTRACTIVE FEMALES ONLY. No description followed that listing, only a postal address. And it didn’t take her imagination long to fill in the blanks as to what requirements that job might entail.

  Just as she’d noticed the boys living on the streets of Vienna, she’d seen women, even young girls, standing on street corners after dark and loitering in alleys—and she’d glimpsed the same near the docks after disembarking in New York following the voyage. No matter the culture or continent, the baseness of human nature didn’t ever seem to change. Which was particularly disheartening, under the circumstances.

  She moved to the next column and felt a stab of melancholy at reading the last listing. A governess position. Now that, she was qualified for. She was good at it too, as the Heilig family would attest, if they could. She’d served their family for over two years. Though being a governess was hardly her heart’s aspiration.

  Especially considering—her eyes widened as she read—she’d be caring for six children. Six! She let out a breath. But the remuneration was almost a dollar per week, as well as room and board, and with less than three dollars to her name, she couldn’t be choosy.

  Not to mention the alternative staring her in the face if she didn’t secure a job immediately was ample motivation. So a governess she would be, again, if she could manage to get hired.

  She drained the last of her coffee, left enough money on her place setting to cover the meal and a little more, and stood. The young server, about her age, she guessed, was clearing dirty dishes from nearby tables, her apron soiled with stains. Her movements were efficient and experienced, but the stoop in her slender shoulders and the dullness of routine in her expression told a deeper, more touching story.

  And suddenly, being employed to teach a family’s children didn’t seem so poor a prospect.

  Rebekah gathered her reticule, newspaper, and satchel and crossed to the door, then remembered and returned for her cloak. Slipping her arms in, she acknowledged the truth hanging at the fringe of her thoughts. She should’ve stayed in Vienna. She should have searched harder for another way to remain there. She wrapped the woolen garment tightly around herself and shoved the buttons through the buttonholes, her frustration mounting.

  But there was no way. She’d searched, she’d tried, however briefly, in the time she’d had. That was why she was standing here now.

  She was almost to the door when a gentleman seated nearby opened his newspaper and gave it a good shake, then folded it back on itself. The noise was overloud in the silence, and Rebekah glanced his way. Then paused.

  A bolded caption caught her attention.

  She read it, then read it again, already telling herself she was foolish to feel hopeful. But the hope inside her paid no mind. With purpose, she returned to her table, withdrew the small glass bottle from her satchel, and poured the remaining water from her glass into it and capped the lid tight.

  Once outside, she searched her copy of the newspaper until she found the article. She quickly scanned the newsprint, a cold breeze stinging her cheeks and making it difficult to hold the paper aloft to read.

  Her lips moved silently as she devoured the text.

  She pulled her father’s pocket watch from her cloak and checked the time. Already half past twelve. She winced. She’d never make it. But she had to try.

  After all, it wasn’t as though she had anything left to lose.

  Winded, she stepped into the dimly lit hallway and closed the roughhewn oak door behind her, grateful to be out of the wind and cold. Her legs ached from the freezing trek across town, and her confidence lagged. If only she’d seen the article in the Nashville Banner earlier, perhaps her chances of leaving here with a yes might’ve held more promise.

  As it was, the advertised time for auditions had ended over an hour ago, and she could well imagine what conclusions a man such as Mr. Nathaniel T. Whitcomb would draw about a person who was tardy.

  Nathaniel T. Whitcomb. Even the man’s name bled blue.

  According to the newspaper, Mr. Whitcomb hailed from the highest level of society. No surprise there, considering his education at the prestigious Peabody Conservatory of Music in Baltimore, then later at the Oberlin Conservatory of Music. Whitcomb’s lengthy list of honors was impressive, and was made only more so considering his age.

  Only thirty-two. Nine years her senior.

  Quite a feat, she had to admit, even if begrudgingly. Yet if past experience proved true—and she felt sure it would—the man was guaranteed to possess an ego to match. That always seemed to be the way with male musicians.

  Conductors, in particular.

  But far more important than the man’s view on punctuality was his opinion about women in the orchestra. If only he was as forward thinking as the article had led her to believe. It indicated the Nashville Philharmonic was still in its infancy, and the newness of the organization could play in her favor. And surely it would help her case that the philharmonic societies of New York and Philadelphia had each recently admitted a female into their ranks.

  Still . . .

  The South had always been slower to accept change, especially when said change issued from the North. Years had passed since the war, but it was clear scars along those lines continued to fester.

  “May I help you?” a woman announced, her tone sharp.

  Startled, Rebekah turned to see a woman seated behind a desk to her right. The older woman’s dour expression proved a good match to the mustiness of the building.

  Palms clammy despite the chill, Rebekah approached, not having anticipated this particular hurdle—and silently berating herself for not. She was comfortable with symphony conductors, thanks to her experience in Vienna, but their gatekeepers . . .

  They were a dreaded lot. And this one looked particularly formidable.

  Best she phrase her request carefully, or she’d find herself back out on the street before she could blink. Her arm aching, she shifted her satchel from one hand to the other. “Yes, ma’am. I’m certain you can help me. Thank you.” Rebekah offered a smile that went unreciprocated. “I’m here to inquire about—”

  “The new position,” the woman said, her gaze appraising. “Allow me to guess. . . . You adore the symphony, and it’s always been your heart’s deepest desire to somehow be part of it.”

  The woman’s none-too-subtle sarcasm assured Rebekah she wasn’t to be trifled with, but it was her slow-coming smile that made Rebekah feel as though the outside cold had somehow worked its way into the room.

  Whatever her reason, the woman had apparently taken a disliking to her. Either that, or she simply didn’t like the idea of her applying for the “new position.” But were they even speaking about the same position? Instincts told Rebekah they weren’t, but she followed the woman’s lead.

  “Thank you again for your offered assistance”—Rebekah glanced at the nameplate on the desk—“Mrs. Murphey. I’m so grateful for your help. And you’re correct. I’ve long appreciated the symphony and would love to be involved with it. In fact, I—”

  “Precisely how did you learn about it? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Rebekah hesitated. “Learn about . . .”

  “The position for the conductor’s assistant,” the woman said slowly, as though addressing a daft child.

  Rebe
kah forced a pleasant countenance. She’d learned at a young age that lying was wrong, but there was also such a thing as being too forthcoming. She’d learned that the hard way.

  “Actually, Mrs. Murphey, I was speaking with someone this morning about Nashville, and we were discussing how much has changed in recent years. Then I read the article in the newspaper and learned about the new conductor and decided—”

  “That you’d try and beat the others to the head of the line.” Mrs. Murphey gave a flat laugh. “Well, you’re too late, Miss . . .”

  “Carrington, ma’am.” Rebekah forewent the curtsy she knew wouldn’t be appreciated. “Rebekah Carrington.”

  The woman looked her up and down, her gaze hesitating a little too long on Rebekah’s jacket and skirt peeking from beneath the cloak. Rebekah brushed a hand over her attire. Being in mourning, she’d chosen her dark gray panné velvet jacket with matching pleated basque skirt and bustle. It wasn’t her most elegant ensemble, but it suited her circumstances. And besides, the fashions in Nashville—at least what she’d glimpsed thus far—were considerably less elegant than Europe, and Vienna, specifically.

  “Well, Miss Carrington . . . It befalls me to inform you that scores of young women have already inquired about the position. Women from Nashville’s finest families, not to mention daughters of our most generous patrons of the philharmonic. So with that understanding, may I suggest you turn your attention toward other more promising employment opportunities. Good day to you.”

  Mrs. Murphey returned her focus to the papers atop her desk. But Rebekah didn’t move.

  Whether it was the woman’s abrupt manner or the paralyzing truth about her own dire circumstances, she knew she couldn’t leave without exhausting every last ounce of opportunity. And she didn’t care one wit about the assistant’s position. She’d come here with something far greater in her sights. Something that would turn the dear Mrs. Murphey’s already graying hair to a shock of white. An entertaining prospect at the moment.