A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  Mrs. Cheatham huffed a most unladylike breath. “One does not say one is sorry when they have committed no wrong. How many times must I correct you young women on that fact? Offering an apology for an offense and admitting you were mistaken on or not aware of a subject are two quite different responses to two quite different circumstances.”

  Rebekah stared, wondering where that outburst had come from, and who the other young woman was who had likely suffered a similar scolding. “I . . . appreciate your correction, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  If this woman’s intention was to put her in her place, she’d accomplished her goal—several times over.

  The clock chimed three times—a quarter of ten—and Rebekah’s thoughts turned to the family with six children and whether they still needed a governess—and if she could get to them before Mrs. Cheatham did. To that end . . .

  She stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Cheatham. You’ve been most gracious with your time this morning. But I refuse to take any more of it. Will you excuse me, please?”

  Mrs. Cheatham looked up at her, her expression inscrutable. “Yes, Miss Carrington, you may go.”

  Rebekah turned.

  “After you answer one more question.”

  Her back to the woman, Rebekah winced before smoothing her expression and turning.

  “I take it you play an instrument, Miss Carrington.”

  Having experienced one too many rebukes in the past hour, Rebekah kept her answer brief. “I do.”

  Mrs. Cheatham’s eyes brimmed with curiosity. “And what instrument would that be?”

  “The piano, of course, and the oboe. And the violin.”

  On admission of the latter, the woman’s expression actually warmed. “Indeed? And are you well trained?”

  Rebekah lifted her chin. “Exceedingly.”

  A slow, almost catlike smile curved Mrs. Cheatham’s mouth. “And do you still refuse to tell me the nature of your acquaintance with Maestro Whitcomb?”

  Mrs. Cheatham held her gaze, and Rebekah didn’t dare look away. To do so would make her look weak. And though she was beaten and bruised and couldn’t wait to be out of this house, she didn’t want Mrs. Cheatham’s last impression of her to be one of weakness.

  Hand on the doorknob, Rebekah knew full well what Adelicia Cheatham was really asking. “You want to know the topic of my meeting with Maestro Whitcomb.”

  A telling sparkle lit the woman’s eyes.

  “I went to see Maestro Whitcomb yesterday”—Rebekah let her own smile come slowly—“to audition for the Nashville Philharmonic.”

  8

  I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Cheatham’s eyes went wide.

  “I auditioned. For an oboe seat. I was not, however, selected.”

  “You . . . were allowed to audition for the Nashville Philharmonic?”

  Enjoying the look of shock on the woman’s face more than she should have, Rebekah held up a hand. “To be completely forthcoming . . . Mr. Whitcomb didn’t so much allow me to audition, as he didn’t immediately demand that I leave his office when I began playing. That came soon enough.”

  And she’d never forget his response. “But the fact remains, you are a woman.” Remembering how he’d looked at her when he’d said it—as though she were something to be pitied, like some poor, wet kitten left out in the rain—only rallied her frustration.

  Mrs. Cheatham rose from the settee, the skirt of her dress a sea of ivory lace as she crossed the room. “I don’t suppose you have your violin with you?”

  Not expecting, or quite following, this turn in the conversation, Rebekah glanced in the direction of the front hall. “No, ma’am. But I do have my oboe.”

  She shook her head. “I want my daughter Pauline to learn to play the violin. She’s been taking lessons for some time now, but she’s not progressing as I believe she should. Her teacher is, in fact, a member of the orchestra. But I get the sense he’s not as dedicated to her instruction as I would have him be.”

  Rebekah could well imagine that. After all, Mrs. Cheatham’s daughter was a girl. “How long has Pauline been playing?”

  “Two years. She started at the age of eight.”

  “I started at the age of four.”

  Mrs. Cheatham’s jaw tensed. “So you’re saying I was late in beginning her lessons.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m simply saying that your daughter has a lot of work ahead of her compared to other girls her age who’ve been studying longer. Your enthusiasm for her to learn, while a gift in itself, is incidental to her enthusiasm. She must want to learn for herself, or it will never happen.”

  “A good teacher can help instill that love, can he—or she—not?”

  Rebekah eyed her, wondering if she was correctly interpreting her meaning, and what that would mean if she was. “Certainly, they can. But that love will be challenged every step of the way. I enjoy playing the oboe. It gives me great pleasure. But when I play the violin . . .” She briefly closed her eyes. “It takes the pleasure of playing to an altogether different level. Even so, there are moments when the instrument can still be as much foe as it is friend.”

  Mrs. Cheatham laughed softly. “Not unlike husbands, from time to time.”

  Unprepared for such candor, Rebekah felt her mouth slip open, which only seemed to encourage the pertness in Mrs. Cheatham’s demeanor.

  “If I were to provide you with a violin, Miss Carrington, would you be able to play it?”

  Rebekah stared. “Well, of course. But I—”

  Mrs. Cheatham reached for a silver bell on a nearby table, rang it, and within the space of a minute, Mrs. Routh opened the door.

  “How may I be of service, Mrs. Cheatham?”

  “Bring me the red leather case from my trunk room, please.”

  Mrs. Routh hesitated, looking between them, her expression one of confusion.

  “The red leather case, Mrs. Routh,” Mrs. Cheatham repeated more pointedly.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The head housekeeper nodded. “I’ll get it right away, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Routh returned soon after and carefully laid a violin case on the settee beside Mrs. Cheatham.

  “Very good, Mrs. Routh. Thank you.”

  The head housekeeper closed the door as she left.

  Mrs. Cheatham smoothed her hand over the case. “Did you ever have opportunity to visit Italy while in Europe, Miss Carrington?”

  Rebekah nodded. “I did. Once. I went to Florence.”

  “Ah . . . The cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, the Palazzo Vecchio. Florence is divine, is it not?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is.” Rebekah’s gaze flitted to the case, guessing what was inside, and her curiosity was more than a little piqued.

  As if reading her thoughts, Mrs. Cheatham opened the latches. “Above all other instruments, the violin and cello are my most favored. Sadly, I do not play either. Though I do play the piano well, which is comforting to the soul. But there are places in the heart where only the violin can reach. Would you not agree?”

  Rebekah nodded, watching as she slowly lifted the lid. As she’d assumed, a violin nested inside, along with a bow.

  “I acquired this in recent months, having admired it from afar for some time.” Mrs. Cheatham ran a finger down the slender neck of the instrument, then lifted the violin from its cushioned vault and held it out to her.

  Rebekah took it, uncertain of the woman’s expectations.

  “She’s a thing of beauty, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she is.” Rebekah inspected the violin. Elegantly proportioned and fine in detail, the instrument was gorgeous. And old, by her guess. But well maintained. The original varnish, she felt certain, not shiny but matted, was in pristine condition.

  “I’d like you to play for me, Miss Carrington.”

  Rebekah eyed her.

  “Would it help, or hurt, if I told you this is to be your formal interview?”

  “My formal interview?” Rebekah realized she’d guessed correctly.

  “I want my dau
ghter, Pauline, to not only learn how to play—I want her to fall in love with this instrument. So far, that has not happened. And I believe time is running out. So . . .” Mrs. Cheatham waved a delicate hand. “Please, play.”

  Rebekah smiled. “Mrs. Cheatham, I’m honored that you would consider interviewing me as a tutor for your daughter. Truly. But . . . I need to seek a governess position. One that includes room and board. Because I need a place to live.”

  “But you said your stepfather and mother live here in town. Could you not live with them and . . .”

  Rebekah wasn’t certain why, but Mrs. Cheatham let the sentence fade. Perhaps the truth of her situation at home showed in her face. She hoped not. But whatever the cause, she was grateful the woman let the subject die.

  For a second time, Mrs. Cheatham gestured toward the violin. “Play, Miss Carrington.”

  Hearing the insistence in her voice, Rebekah took hold of the violin by the neck, accepted the bow from Mrs. Cheatham, and proceeded to tune each of the four strings.

  She cradled the instrument against her collarbone, suddenly a little nervous, aware of Mrs. Cheatham watching her every move. She started to ask her if she had a request. Then she thought of Demetrius and simply began to play.

  The violin’s resonance was breathtaking. She would’ve sworn the instrument was guiding her along, that it had played this song before and knew it better than she did. Even playing pianissimo, the sound was brilliant, like the purest light beaming down from heaven. The instrument had incredible power, and she played for a moment, then two, for the sheer joy of it, and because of the look of pleasure on Adelicia Cheatham’s face.

  Finally, Rebekah let out a sigh. “This is a splendid instrument, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  “Yes, it is.” Mrs. Cheatham’s mouth tipped as though she were contemplating revealing a secret. “And well it should be, Miss Carrington. It’s the Molitor Stradivarius.”

  Rebekah blinked. Then looked down at the violin cradled so casually in her lap. “This is the—”

  “It’s named after one of Napoleon Bonaparte’s—”

  “Generals. Yes, I know!” Rebekah’s pulse quickened.

  “Antonio Stradivari crafted it in 1697. The seller told me that the general owned it for many years. It’s rumored to have been in Napoleon’s possession as well. And I must say, it does my heart good to see someone who realizes its worth as much as I do.”

  Rebekah inspected the violin more closely, drinking in its beauty anew from the top of its curled scroll to the tuning pegs, down to the bridge, then the tailpiece. She’d read about this violin in her studies in Vienna. Masterful. And almost two centuries old.

  A little light-headed, she looked up. “May I play it again? Please?”

  Mrs. Cheatham laughed, then granted permission with the slightest nod.

  A little awestruck but mostly humbled, Rebekah cradled the violin against her collarbone again, reverently this time, and fought back emotion as she started to play.

  The music wrapped itself around her, and she gave herself to it. To the softness of the verses she knew so well, and to the swell of the chorus that seemed to be made up of many violins instead of just one. She felt a connection to all the musicians who’d ever held this piece of history and wished she knew who they were.

  She held the final note longer than usual, not wanting the song or the moment to end. But it did end, and when she opened her eyes and met Adelicia Cheatham’s watery gaze, she couldn’t help but believe she’d just been given a new beginning.

  Adelicia Cheatham was going to be the death of him.

  Tate grabbed the extra folder of music for the string ensemble from his desk drawer and shoved it into his satchel. He wasn’t playing this evening, but he knew musicians. Especially the amateurs.

  But he’d wanted a challenge in establishing an orchestra. And he’d gotten it.

  He checked his pocket watch. An hour, that’s all the time he had to get to the Belmont estate and see the musicians set up before guests started arriving.

  Usually, an hour would be ample. But with the lingering snow on the roads and the temperature hovering below freezing, it would take longer.

  And Mrs. Cheatham would be livid.

  His day had started coming apart almost before it began. First, when he nearly missed the train due to heavy rains, and then a downed tree had blocked the railway just outside of Chicory Hollow. Then to top it all, the train from Knoxville broke down halfway back to Nashville. The two hours spent stuck on the tracks was time he’d needed to prepare for Mrs. Cheatham’s party tonight. Why he’d ever agreed to coordinate this ensemble, he didn’t know.

  And yet, he had.

  The woman’s financial generosity to the symphony comprised well over half of their annual donations, and the symphony board had made it beyond clear that part of his job was keeping their major donors happy.

  So this was him working to keep Mrs. Cheatham ecstatic.

  He spotted an envelope on his desk chair, his name scrawled across the front, and he circled his desk to read it. His mood quickly went from bad to worse. He wadded up the stationery and threw it across the office. If Adelicia Cheatham didn’t do him in, Edward Pennington and the man’s overzealous symphony board certainly would.

  Tate strode from the opera house and climbed into the waiting carriage, the icy wind whipping his coat. He rapped twice on the door, and the conveyance lurched forward.

  The usual bumpy ride was made even more so by ruts that the cold and ice had clawed into the roads. The windows on the carriage doors were partially fogged, and he leaned back into the seat, weary from the quick two-day trip but grateful for the opportunity to go.

  He questioned again the wisdom of promising Opal he’d return within a month’s time. But she had a special way of bending his heart to her will, something not easily done.

  Every time he made the trip, he was reminded of how far away from the world here in Nashville a person could travel in only a few hours’ time. He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. The slight ache that had begun behind his eyes earlier in the day was steadily building.

  His thoughts raced a thousand different directions at once, but they swiftly narrowed to the one weighing most heavily on him. The prognosis for his—

  The carriage suddenly careened to the left, and Tate pitched to the side with it. His head and shoulder slammed against the wall, and the pounding in his temples exploded. His eyes watered from the pain. Ears ringing, he looked out the window in time to see a freight wagon passing within inches of them.

  The carriage came to a jerky halt, and Tate heard the driver yell some choice words to the pair of mares harnessed up ahead.

  “Sorry, Maestro Whitcomb,” the driver called down. “The gals, they’re a bit skittish with the snow and ice. I’ll have us out of here in a jiffy.”

  Out of here? Feeling slightly off-balance, Tate opened the door and peered down—and realized why. The left rear wheel was wedged a foot deep into a rut.

  “Maestro!” The driver appeared at the door. “If you don’t mind waiting off to the side here, sir, I’ve enlisted a couple of men to help me get her unstuck. Don’t you worry, though, I’ll still get you to Belmont on time!”

  Tate climbed out into the brisk wind. Adelicia Cheatham was going to eat him alive. Rubbing the soreness from his shoulder, he moved close to a gas streetlamp. Foot traffic was surprisingly heavy for this time of evening, especially considering most of the shop windows were already dark, shades pulled. He tugged his coat collar up around his neck, grateful again for Mrs. Pender, his widowed housekeeper, who’d made sure his clothing for the evening was freshly pressed and ready when he’d dashed home earlier to change. What would he do without her?

  Seeing the driver and his two enlistees struggling with the carriage, Tate finally decided they needed a fourth man if he wanted to make it to Belmont before dawn. So much for freshly pressed. He waited for a wagon to pass, then started across the street when someone
bumped him from behind.

  “Sorry, sir!”

  Tate turned to see a boy peering up and immediately checked his coat pockets, then remembered his wallet was in his satchel in the carriage. He’d had his first run-in with one of these little pilferers years ago, on the streets of New York. He’d learned quickly.

  “Got one last paper here, sir. A special edition. Let you have it for a dime.”

  “Papers cost a nickel, young man.”

  The boy grinned. “Guess I could let you have it for that.”

  “No, thank you. Not interested.”

  The boy’s grin faded by several dramatic degrees. “I understand, sir.” He bowed his head, a tattered red cap briefly hiding his face. “I was just trying to get some extra . . . so my sister could eat tonight.”

  Tate eyed him. “What’s your sister’s name?”

  “Lula.”

  “How old is Lula?”

  The boy blinked. “Four.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Seven,” he said, jutting out a cocky chin.

  “Where’s your sister now?”

  “At home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Few streets over.”

  “What’s the address?”

  The boy swiftly glanced away, then back again. “Two-ten Flour Mill.”

  Tate stared. He didn’t usually give these little pickpockets the time of day, much less engage them in conversation. The boy appeared to be slight of build by nature, but judging by his threadbare clothes, life had only helped that along. And yet the boy hadn’t learned how to lie. At least, not well enough. Maybe that was it. . . .

  Tate rubbed the back of his neck, the ache in his head still pounding. Maybe he saw something still worth saving in the lad.

  “When did you last eat, son?” Tate asked him.

  A layer of bravado fell from the boy’s expression. But it wasn’t softness waiting beneath.

  “Don’t need your charity, mister. Just wanted to sell my last paper.”

  Tate smiled. Yes, something definitely still worth saving here. He reached into his pocket, glancing toward the street to discover that the men nearly had the carriage righted.