A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  Or rather . . . attempting to write.

  The philharmonic board had agreed to give him time to compose. But their directive was clear—they wanted a symphonic masterpiece in exchange. No pressure there.

  He could feel the lifeblood of the music deep within him, but the notes refused to find their way onto the page. At times, mainly in the wee hours of the night when the world was still and the muse stubbornly silent, he wondered if he could do it. Then wondered if, in the process, he might be going a little mad.

  For the umpteenth time that day, the dreaded tick-tick-tick of the infernal clock inside him rose to a deafening thrum.

  “After you, ma’am.” He gestured the young woman inside his office, eager to be done and on his way to the train station. He glanced at the clock on the mantel, then at the box from the apothecary in the corner, thinking of another place a world away.

  He could not miss the last train today.

  “Thank you, Mr. Whitcomb, for agreeing to see me.” The young woman flashed a nervous smile as she claimed the wingback chair opposite his. “Mrs. Murphey conveyed that you’re quite busy, so I appreciate your sparing the time for me.”

  He nodded and smiled, a useful gesture he was swiftly perfecting.

  “The way you describe what it’s like to conduct an orchestra, sir, the methods you use . . .” Her eyes widened. “I read this morning’s article in the Nashville Banner and found it most enlightening. Especially the section the reporter included about how you—”

  “Miss Carrington . . .” He held up a hand. “I’m honored you read the article. But . . . I’m aware of its contents. And you have only four minutes remaining. So perhaps it would be best to get directly to the subject at hand.”

  Her smiled dimmed, and the eager sparkle in her eyes dissolved to desperation. “Of course.” She clutched the brown leather satchel in her lap. “From what I’ve gathered, sir, you’re a forward-thinking man. A true visionary in terms of the symphony and conducting. The strides you’ve made are so admirable and . . .”

  Tate watched her as she spoke, gradually feeling more and more disappointed, yet unable to pinpoint why. Then it came to him. He’d somehow hoped for so much more from this woman. She was attractive—exceptionally so—with reddish-blond hair that set off keen hazel eyes. And her attire was quite elegant, even by Nashville’s wealthiest standards.

  But it was the intelligence in her expression, the way she held her head erect, and the direct manner in which she met his gaze—straight on, not in the least demure or simpering, as though she considered herself his equal—that had led him to hope for more. But as it was . . .

  She apparently needed some help. And though it was out of character for him, he decided to lend her a hand.

  “So having said all that, Mr. Whitcomb, I—”

  “Are you well studied in the area of music, Miss Carrington?”

  Her mouth, momentarily clamped shut, slipped open. “Yes, sir. I am. But what I’m trying to tell you is—”

  “And can you transcribe a concerto?”

  “Of course, but what I’m here to—”

  “And a good cup of coffee. Stout, not bitter. Is that also in your repertoire?”

  She searched his gaze. “Have you been listening to what I’ve been saying, Mr. Whitcomb?”

  He heard a spark of displeasure in her voice, and genuinely smiled. Intelligent and spirited. He wished now that the decision of whom to hire as his assistant was really up to him. The board insisted it was, but everyone knew the truth, which made the charade of meeting their daughters even more infuriating. The position would ultimately go to the highest bidder, and he had a good idea of whose daughter would be awarded the position.

  The very thought filled him with dread.

  “Of course, I’ve been listening, Miss Carrington. I was merely outlining some of the duties required of my assistant. However . . .” He regretted this more than she would, he was certain. “I’m afraid the position has already been filled. But,” he added quickly, “if you’ll leave your address with Mrs. Murphey, we’ll be certain to contact you should the situation change.” Which was doubtful, but a fellow could hope.

  He started to rise.

  “Mr. Whitcomb.” She lifted her hand. “I need to say something to you, sir.”

  More than slightly impressed with her assertiveness, Tate settled back in his chair, his interest sufficiently piqued.

  “I didn’t come here today, sir, to interview for the position of your assistant. However important and esteemed a position I’m certain that is.”

  He didn’t think he imagined the trace of sarcasm in her tone, yet he couldn’t account for it either. Had he offended this woman in some way? Apparently so, but . . . how? Eager to find out, he gestured. “Continue.”

  “I’m here . . .” She paused to open her satchel, then withdrew a case. “To audition for you. For the open seat of oboe. If you will allow me, Mr. Whitcomb.”

  There weren’t many ways to surprise him anymore. But this woman had managed to find one. “You want to audition for the open oboe chair?” As soon as he said it, he heard the disbelief in his voice and could well gauge what reaction that would draw from her.

  Her brow knit tight, and determination swiftly replaced the desperation in her expression. “That’s correct. I’m a fine oboe player and would appreciate the opportunity to audition for you. I know the formal auditions are officially over, but I only found out about them this morning.”

  She opened the case and began assembling the instrument, which looked slightly shorter than the usual oboe. The fingering system looked different as well.

  “Miss Carrington, I—”

  “Don’t decide anything until you’ve heard me play. Please,” she added softly.

  “Miss Carrington,” he said again, growing less impressed with her assertiveness as the seconds ticked by. All she’d said at the outset was merely flattery to prime the pump. He realized that now. But what she was asking was completely out of the question.

  He’d be run out of town on a rail if he allowed a woman in the orchestra. And if the continued success of his own career didn’t hold enough importance to discourage him from such a foolhardy consideration, the circumstances in his personal life certainly did.

  Regardless of his opposition to the idea of females being admitted to symphonies in general, for a host of reasons—not the least of which was what it would do to the already tenuous concentration of the current members under his direction—admitting a woman, no matter how talented, would be the equivalent of throwing away everything he’d worked so hard for—including the symphony he was writing for the upcoming inaugural concert.

  Seeing the intensity in her expression, he continued. “The Nashville Philharmonic is comprised solely of males, of which I’m quite certain you’re aware.”

  “Yes, sir, I am.” She continued to adjust the upper and lower joints of the instrument. “But things don’t always have to stay the way they are. Isn’t that what you said? In the article?”

  Now the woman was quoting his own words back to him?

  She withdrew a reed from a bottle of water and placed it on her tongue, holding it between her lips as she finished tightening the connections on the oboe. Tate had seen this simple gesture performed countless times by musicians, but watching her do it was different, and garnered his attention in a way the simple routine hadn’t before. Which made him infinitely grateful she wasn’t watching him as he was watching her.

  She held the upper joint, inserted the reed, and licked her lips, pressing them together intermittently as she did. “I’ll be playing Mozart’s Oboe Concerto in C Major.”

  “Miss Carrington.” Tate shifted in his chair, still mesmerized by her mouth. “I would prefer it if you wouldn’t—”

  She began playing, and he fell silent. Not because the music she played was so exquisite—though it was beautiful—but because he could see her fingers trembling as she played, yet the music itself reflected none
of that fear.

  She played pianissimo at first but with a deepness and clarity not only of note, but of soul. Her skill was hardly flawless, but he could feel her passion for the heart of the piece and wished Mr. Fulton was here to witness it too.

  This was what he’d been trying to describe to the man, but had failed, judging by Fulton’s confused expression. Darrow Fulton’s skill with the violin was exemplary. He was the finest musician among the fifty men who comprised Nashville’s newly formed philharmonic. Darrow simply didn’t love the instrument as a man with his level of talent ought. And the remainder of the musicians were ragtag compared to this. To her.

  Drawn deeper into the music, Tate could all but hear the orchestra’s accompaniment playing behind her, and Miss Carrington kept in perfect tempo. Her timing was excellent, and her vibrato . . . pure pleasure. She managed the descending arpeggio with practiced ease, and he closed his eyes and allowed himself to be carried along on the fluidity of the score.

  This particular concerto was a personal favorite, and he anticipated each shift—allegro aperto, adagio ma non troppo, and finally allegretto—and wasn’t disappointed once. Disappointment came only when she finished.

  And even then, the silence seemed to hover on the edge of the last lingering note, as though sharing his momentary regret.

  Not wanting to open his eyes yet, he did so anyway, and discovered hers still closed, the instrument resting in her lap.

  “Miss Carrington . . .” He spoke softly, aware of the rapid rise and fall of her chest and recognizing the blissful aftermath of having experienced the power of music flowing through her. Just as this music had flowed through Mozart a hundred years ago, and through myriad other musicians who’d performed the piece in the years between. Though he’d wager few had performed it with this woman’s skill and passion.

  Still . . .

  All he could think about was . . . What a gift. Followed by a second thought that stung even before it was fully formed . . . What a shame.

  Finally, she opened her eyes, their hazel color having taken on a deeper hue, and he read a singular question in her gaze—one he wished he didn’t have to answer.

  “Well done.” His voice sounded overloud in the silence between them. “That was . . . exquisite. Thank you.”

  She smiled, and he was surprised at how much he would have given in that moment to be deserving of such warmth and gratitude from her.

  “But,” he continued, the weight in his chest bearing down hard, “what you’re asking, as I said before, is not possible. I’m sorry.”

  She blinked, and the beauty of the moment faded. “But . . . you just said—”

  “I know what I said, Miss Carrington. And I meant it. Every word. But the fact remains, you are a woman. And women—”

  “Aren’t allowed to play in orchestras.”

  He let the silence answer for him.

  “Are you aware, Mr. Whitcomb, that the philharmonic societies of New York—”

  “—and Philadelphia have each admitted women into their memberships. Yes, I am aware.”

  “And yet?” she responded, incredulity edging an even tone.

  “And yet we are in Nashville, Tennessee. Not in New York or Philadelphia. And the fact remains that the majority of people in this city, and certainly those who have pledged to financially support the symphony, as well as those we hope to draw to the box office, are not of that same mind. At least not for the present. But who knows what the future will bring, Miss Carrington.”

  “It won’t bring anything new, Mr. Whitcomb, if those of us in the present don’t work toward change. Toward bettering our society and all of those who comprise it.”

  Tate studied her, admiring her zeal—and courage—while also wondering how on earth he’d ever gotten himself into this situation. He blamed the reporter and that blasted article. Nothing good ever came from speaking with a journalist.

  He rose from his chair, hoping she would follow his lead. She did, slowly, and with a sadness that caused his chest to ache.

  The clock on the mantel chimed the half hour, and he glanced over.

  Half past four?

  The last train left in one hour, and he had to be on it.

  “Miss Carrington, I offer you my sincerest apology, ma’am, but I must ask you to excuse me. I have a pressing appointment that I cannot reschedule. So again, accept my thanks for the pleasure of hearing you play, and know that I, most sincerely, wish you all the best.”

  The words felt patronizing coming off his tongue, and—judging by her injured expression—she took them as such.

  “I appreciate your time, Mr. Whitcomb. And I certainly don’t wish to detain you further.” She quickly disassembled the instrument and slipped it back into the satchel. “Good day.”

  Tate accompanied her as far as the hallway, though she didn’t acknowledge him, nor did he blame her.

  He retrieved his packed suitcase and portfolio from his office, grabbed the box filled with bottles of laudanum, and raced to the train station.

  3

  Rebekah hurriedly retraced her steps down the rear corridor of the opera house, disappointment clawing the back of her throat. “Accept my thanks for the pleasure of hearing you play, and know that I, most sincerely, wish you all the best.”

  Could the man have been more condescending?

  Gaze fixed on the exit ahead, she was grateful beyond words that Mrs. Murphey was nowhere in sight. Now, if she could only make it outside before the knot in her throat broke loose and—

  “Bite your tongue, Matilda Murphey! I wouldn’t wish being employed by that woman on my worst enemy, much less—”

  From an open side door, Mrs. Murphey stepped into the hallway, and Rebekah stopped abruptly to avoid colliding with her.

  Their gazes locked, and Rebekah found that even without words the woman could still wound.

  “Ah, Miss Carrington . . .” Mrs. Murphey’s eyes narrowed, and her expression dripped with unmistakable I told you so. “I take it your interview didn’t go as hoped?”

  Rebekah glanced at the door at the end of the corridor. So close, and yet still so far. “No, ma’am . . . It did not.”

  Another woman stepped from behind Mrs. Murphey, about the same age, it appeared. Rebekah sensed her focused attention and braced herself to meet it as she shifted to face her. But she found only kindness there.

  “Oh, my dear, are you all right?” The sweetness in the woman’s voice was nearly Rebekah’s undoing.

  “She’s fine, Agnes,” Mrs. Murphey supplied. “I tried to warn her about interviewing for the assistant’s position but she would have none of it. She insisted on wasting the maestro’s time.”

  “Well . . .” Agnes gave Rebekah’s arm a brief squeeze. “Who can blame a lovely young woman for wanting to improve herself with new experiences? Not to mention vying for a chance to work with such a fine man.” Her cheeks puckered as she smiled and winked. “But never you mind, dear, I’m sure you’ll find another position soon enough.”

  Eyes burning, Rebekah managed a nod. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “The name’s Mrs. Bixby, dear. And you’re so welcome.”

  “Well . . .” Rebekah dipped her head. “If you’ll both excuse me, I best be on my way.”

  She was halfway to freedom when someone called her name. The patronizing tone assured her it was Mrs. Murphey. The woman must have taken lessons in intonation from the maestro. Remembering what he’d said—“Well done. That was exquisite”—only deepened the ache in her throat. Why say such things when he didn’t truly mean them?

  Clenching her jaw to stem the tears, she turned back to find Mrs. Murphey smiling. Rebekah’s guard instinctively rose.

  “I’ve only recently—in the past hour, in fact—been made privy to a position that’s currently open. I thought you might be interested. Considering your lack of success here.”

  “Matilda, no.” Mrs. Bixby shook her head. “I don’t think—”

  “That Miss Carring
ton is qualified?”

  Agnes Bixby frowned. “That wasn’t what I was going to say at all. It’s only that—”

  Mrs. Murphey shushed her with a wave of her hand. “Do you have experience being a governess, Miss Carrington?”

  Rebekah looked between the two women, reading concern in one expression and irrefutable challenge in the other. Clearly, Mrs. Murphey had an agenda, and Rebekah was certain the woman didn’t have her best interests at heart. Far from it. But she needed employment and was willing to sacrifice her pride in order to gain it. Because employment was the only way to escape living at home.

  With him.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She lifted her chin. “I have experience, and references.”

  “Well, then . . .” The sparkle in Mrs. Murphey’s gaze turned almost catlike. “This is, indeed, your lucky day. Insomuch as you’re not averse to hard work, of course, and to truly applying yourself.”

  Imagining again the shock of white hair on the woman’s head, Rebekah added a face full of wrinkles to match. And maybe a wart or two. “I’m not afraid of hard work, Mrs. Murphey, and I am in need of employment. So if you’re privy to a position with a family, I’d be obliged if you’d share the information with me.” She only hoped it wasn’t the family with six children she’d read about in the Nashville Banner.

  “Oh, I’ll do better than that, Miss Carrington. I’ll write it down for you.” With a jaunt in her step, Mrs. Murphey crossed to the desk and put pen to paper.

  “I still think”—Mrs. Bixby came alongside them—“it would be best if Miss Carrington were to—”

  “It’s best to let her decide for herself, Agnes. If there’s one thing I’ve learned very quickly about Miss Carrington, it’s that she prefers to make up her own mind. Isn’t that correct . . . Miss Carrington?”

  Mrs. Murphey handed her the slip of paper. On it was a name and an address, neither of which were familiar to her.