A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  So, in fact, what Miss Carrington probably considered as a great slight from him, was really his effort to protect her, though he doubted she’d ever be convinced to see it that way.

  With all the confidence of a schoolboy at his first dance, he tucked the instrument against his collarbone, and felt the age-old stories about these violins—stories that had been passed down through the years—flooding his mind. Some musicians actually believed the instruments absorbed part of the talent of every musician who’d ever played them, and that’s why their sound was so rich and full of tone.

  Other musicians went a step further—a grand leap, in his opinion—and claimed that each Stradivarius absorbed a bit of the soul of each player and was, in essence, haunted. He’d heard outlandish stories of people claiming to have heard the strains of a Stradivarius only to enter the room and find the violin locked away in its case.

  Almost wishing that nonsense was true at the moment, and that the violin would just up and start playing, all by itself, Tate knew better. He’d internalized middle C since early youth, and he tuned the A string, using an upward stroke. Surprisingly, it was close to being in tune. Same for strings D, G, and E.

  He pulled the bow across the strings, listening, until a perfect fifth interval separated them all. If only playing the instrument would prove so easy.

  Needing something familiar, he chose a Mozart piece—Twelve variations of “Ah! Vous dirai-je, Maman”—as familiar to him as the keys of a piano upon which he’d played this song countless times as a boy. The words of the familiar English lullaby accompanied each note internally as he played.

  Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are . . .

  The resonance of the Stradivarius breathed new life into the simple tune and gave beauty to chords tentatively, even poorly, played. He grimaced, wishing there was a way out of this.

  Not only was he risking humiliation in front of Mrs. Cheatham and her guests—Miss Carrington included in that number—but three members of his symphony would witness his mediocre performance. He didn’t know which rankled him more.

  But hearing the final strains of Beethoven’s Serenade drifting through from the other side of the door, he knew he was out of time.

  10

  After butchering his way through Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 6 in B-flat Major—or at least that’s how it felt—Tate knew he’d chosen his career as a conductor wisely. Four instrumental pieces later, he also knew he was nowhere near worthy enough to play this magnificent instrument.

  As he did his best to keep up with the other musicians, the only complaint he had was that, at times, the other men played too softly. Why was it no one seemed to understand the proper application of pianissimo?

  By the time he played the final note of the second violinist’s part in Mozart’s Spring Quartet, his concentration was spent and the pads of his fingers ached from the lack of developed toughness, especially when he played vibrato. He’d never been more relieved to finish a piece of music in his life, and also to discover the pounding in his head had eased.

  He lowered his bow, and in the sudden quiet, the lilt of conversation rose from the first-floor parlors and grand salon, followed, a moment later, by the tinkling of a bell—the signal for the presentation of dinner, and for him to join the guests. The other three musicians would continue playing through dinner and dessert.

  As the men readied their next set of music, Tate realized that, though he’d appreciated their individual talent before tonight, his respect for that talent had deepened considerably over the past hour. He was certain, however, that their respect for him had lessened considerably. Not that he could blame them. He’d especially struggled with the arpeggios and tempos. How he wished he could play the violin better than he did.

  With more than a little relief, he returned the priceless Stradivarius to the sanctuary of its case, the bow along with it, and made sure the latches were securely fastened.

  He momentarily weighed the option of telling the musicians about it, then quickly decided it best he not. After all, it wasn’t his to share.

  He headed toward the bedroom he’d used earlier, then thought better of it and sought another bedroom. Finding what he was certain to be Mrs. Cheatham’s, he stepped inside, placed the violin on her dresser, and closed the door behind him.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and servants appeared with refreshment for the musicians, which Tate took as his opportunity to head downstairs.

  “Maestro Whitcomb?”

  At the top of the stairs, Tate turned to see Wallace, the cellist, looking at him with an odd expression. Same as that of the other two.

  “Maestro,” Wallace continued, his expression showing hesitance. “It was an honor to play with you tonight, sir.”

  Taken aback, Tate saw the other two men nod in agreement, which touched him more than he dared let on. “Thank you, gentlemen. But the honor was mine, I assure you.”

  Once downstairs, he was surprised to estimate nearly sixty people in attendance for the “intimate dinner party.” Then again, he was learning that Adelicia Cheatham never did anything on a small scale. The social events she hosted at Belmont were legendary—parties consisting of upwards of fifteen hundred to two thousand guests, he had been told.

  So, in those terms, he guessed this gathering was intimate.

  “Come, Maestro!” Mrs. Cheatham appeared at his side, still sparkling. “Allow me to introduce you to my guests.”

  “Your violin is quite something, Mrs. Cheatham,” Tate whispered as she led him toward the crowd, which earned him a mischievous smile. “I stored it in what I believe is your bedroom. On your dresser, ma’am. But I’ll retrieve it if—”

  “It will be fine, I’m certain. Now come, Maestro Whitcomb. We have much work to do,” she whispered.

  Mrs. Cheatham maneuvered her way through the crowd of elegantly clad men and women, speaking and commenting to each couple with the same ease in which he cued the various sections of an orchestra in a concerto. Her timing was impeccable. She never missed a beat. Or an opportunity to encourage hearty support of the new symphony.

  Conversation over dinner and dessert proved every bit as exhausting as he’d anticipated. And while he managed the social aspects of his job with outward aplomb, inwardly he craved the solitude of home. Namely, the small study with his books and piano.

  Still . . .

  He found his gaze scanning the faces, searching. But he saw no sign of her. She worked here. He knew that much from her own admission. Though, precisely what Miss Carrington did at Belmont, he didn’t know. She’d been carrying a tray, but as to its contents, he couldn’t say.

  Yet he did remember, in perfect detail, the softness of her profile, the curve of her cheeks when she smiled, and the provocative sway of her hips as she walked away.

  “Tell us, Maestro Whitcomb . . . Do you have an opinion on this controversial subject?”

  Tate blinked, and discovered the older woman seated across from him wearing a somewhat challenging expression, along with the rest of the guests around them. Having not heard a word she’d said before addressing him personally, Tate eased into a smile, not about to admit such.

  “Of course I do.” He laughed softly, feeling a number of eyes shift in his direction. “Although . . . after this slice of Mrs. Cheatham’s apple cake slathered in warm buttered rum sauce, I’m not altogether certain I can remember it.”

  Laughter erupted, along with scattered applause and a few shouts of “Hear! Hear!”—then conversation gradually resumed among the guests.

  Tate caught the faintest nod of approval from Adelicia Cheatham from her place at the foot of the table, and it pleased him to see her apparently pleased as well.

  But his curiosity was roused as to what controversial matter he’d avoided addressing.

  The next hour crept by even more slowly than the one previous, and when it finally came time to leave, Tate had to work to hide his true feelings when Mrs. Cheatham requested he
join her and her husband in bidding the guests good evening. “One last chance to make sure they remember the symphony,” she whispered.

  He almost wished he could run upstairs and play with the other musicians again. And play the three men did, to the enormous pleasure of the guests, who still seemed not the least eager to leave.

  Tate recognized the Beethoven piece as being the ensemble’s finale, and he hoped Mrs. Cheatham wouldn’t mind her guests walking to their carriages in the hush of night, unaccompanied by one of the masters.

  As conveyances slowly made their way up the long circular drive, couples clustered in the entrance hall and on the porch outside. Tate spotted Dr. Cheatham speaking to Adams, Wallace, and Peters before handing each musician an envelope. Good. The men deserved it. They’d played well.

  Seeing his own carriage approaching, Tate decided it wasn’t outside the boundaries of etiquette to take his leave as well. He approached his hosts and bowed at the waist. “Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham, may I say what an honor it’s been to—”

  Conversation fell silent around him as the exuberant strains of Mozart’s “Rondo alla turca” suddenly filled and enlivened the night air, and he felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. Each note was perfection, the challenging tempo a paragon, and every guest entranced.

  No one moved. No one said a word. He, himself, barely breathed.

  Never had he heard Mozart’s Turkish Rondo played so intuitively, so brilliantly on the violin.

  He looked around for Adams but saw only Wallace and Peters. So Adams had decided to finish the evening with a solo. Tate had no idea the man had that level of talent in him. Adelicia Cheatham would be over the moon. Speaking of their hostess . . .

  Tate sought out Mrs. Cheatham and found her standing, eyes closed, as though she were drinking in the timeless beauty of the music and the giftedness of the one playing. Then—

  Tate blinked. It couldn’t be. But . . . it was.

  Adams stood not ten feet from him, off to the right, his own violin case in hand. Tate slowly turned back toward the grand salon and the cantilevered staircase, and all he could picture was the Stradivarius where he’d left it—

  Locked away in its red leather case.

  The second the solo ended, thunderous applause filled the house, and Tate made for the stairs, slowed by the number of hands reaching out to shake his.

  “Well done, Maestro!” one man said, clapping him on the back.

  “Saved the best for last, did you?” another joined in.

  “Ending the evening with Mozart. Splendid choice, Maestro. Splendid!”

  Tate managed what he hoped was a gracious smile, all the while working to get to the staircase. He took the stairs by twos this time, not caring who saw. But when he reached the second-story landing, it was empty—save for the Stradivarius nestled cozily inside its open case on a side table.

  He looked up and down the landing, then took the liberty of peering inside the darkened family bedrooms.

  No one. All was quiet—as a ghost.

  He returned to the violin and stared down at it, recalling the stories he’d been told. He picked up the violin and the bow . . .

  And smiled.

  Unless ghosts had begun leaving behind the warmth of their grip, someone made very much of flesh and blood had been standing here seconds earlier, playing this violin. And whoever it was . . .

  He had to find him—and implore him to become part of the Nashville Philharmonic.

  Pulse racing, Rebekah pressed farther into the shadows in the corner behind the wardrobe, still able to see Mr. Whitcomb’s silhouette in the hallway.

  When she’d first heard the sound of footsteps racing up the stairs, she’d darted toward the closest bedroom, only to remember it was Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham’s. So she’d turned and beelined into one of the children’s rooms instead. Exhilaration fired through her veins, but she ignored her body’s demand for more air and took quick, silent breaths, certain she would be discovered at any moment.

  But oh . . .

  Playing that violin had felt superb. No, beyond superb. It had been sublime. And the guests’ response that followed, their applause . . .

  Her eyes watered with emotion. Overwhelming didn’t begin to describe it.

  The eruption of applause had felt like a sudden downpour after decades of drought, and she drank in the affirmation even now, partly ashamed that it meant so much, yet so grateful to have it.

  She’d always wondered what it would be like to play for an audience. Not in a recital setting, but a real audience who knew and appreciated music. She’d overheard musicians say that playing before an audience had an almost addictive quality. That once you performed and felt that connection, you wanted to perform again and again.

  And now that she’d tasted it, she understood.

  The retreat of Mr. Whitcomb’s footsteps down the stairs helped to loosen the tangle of nerves in her chest, and she finally took a deep breath and leaned her head back against the wall.

  She stayed put, already knowing how the carpeted floors in this bedroom creaked, telling more tales than a magpie. Plus, she’d read one too many dime-store novels in which the heroine emerged too quickly from her hiding place only to find the villain lying in wait. And regardless of how handsome Nathaniel Tate Whitman looked tonight, he was most certainly a villain.

  For her, at least.

  Moments passed.

  Finally, deciding it was safe, she emerged from hiding and crossed the bedroom to peer out a front-facing window. Two stories below, carriages lined the circular drive, their flickering headlamps illuminating the darkness, much like their cousin lanterns suspended from the trees.

  Then she spotted him, climbing into a carriage a ways down the drive.

  She felt a slow smile, watching Mr. Whitcomb and imagining again what must have been running through the man’s mind as he’d raced upstairs only to find the Stradivarius alone, tucked in its case, sans musician.

  What would he think if he knew she was the one who’d played? A woman!

  She’d listened to the string ensemble as the final Beethoven selection had drawn to a close, yet still the attendees lingered, laughing and visiting, waiting on their carriages. It was then she’d seen Mrs. Cheatham look pointedly in the direction of the staircase, and she knew what the woman was thinking. Because she’d heard her say as much. “I desire for music to greet my guests as they arrive at my home and as they depart from it.”

  Then not a moment later, she’d caught Mrs. Cheatham’s slight frown as the musicians descended the stairs, cases in hand, and the idea occurred to her. Yet as much as the thought of Mr. Whitcomb falling out of Adelicia Cheatham’s good graces appealed to her, she knew the success of this evening meant a great deal to her employer.

  Plus, she could only imagine how grateful Mrs. Cheatham would be if the guests departed to the memorable strains of Mozart instead of the dull clomp of horses’ hooves.

  She’d waited for the final guests to make their way into the entrance hall, then she slipped upstairs. It took her a moment to find the Stradivarius, while weighing the risk of what she was about to do. But the possibility of someone discovering her was next to nil. No guest would dare venture upstairs to the second floor where the family bedrooms were located, just as Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham would never abandon their guests. And with the couple’s children tucked away with their governess in another part of the home, the only person she’d had to worry about seeking her out was—

  The maestro. And sought her out he had. He’d almost found her too.

  Rebekah watched the line of carriages slowly circle the illuminated drive, Mr. Whitcomb’s among them.

  She’d gained glimpses of him throughout the evening—from behind a fern in the corridor leading to her bedroom. Mrs. Cheatham had never said she couldn’t show her face this evening, but it had been understood. And Rebekah wasn’t the least offended. She was merely Mrs. Cheatham’s daughter’s music tutor, after all. A person in employ.
Not a guest in this home, and certainly not a guest on tonight’s list.

  But—her smile deepened—she was a person in employ who had negotiated room and board with a family that was certainly one of Nashville’s wealthiest.

  Courting a satisfied feeling, she made her way downstairs, pausing briefly on the staircase to make sure no guests lingered. Then she hurried across the grand salon toward the corridor to her bedroom. A silver tray still laden with petit fours sat invitingly on a side table, and she sneaked a couple as she passed.

  Moist white cake with buttercream frosting. Divine.

  Already she’d discovered that Cordina, Belmont’s head cook, worked culinary magic with herbed pork roast and potatoes. And the breakfast of eggs and hot cakes with sausage that morning had been delicious as well. But one thing Rebekah didn’t understand . . .

  Why were her meals being served to her in her room? She wasn’t about to complain, but she wouldn’t have minded going down to the kitchen either, like the other servants and employees.

  Brushing past the corner fern, she thought again of Nathaniel Whitcomb and how he’d moved among the guests that evening with such skillful ease—chatting, smiling, offering what must have been the most witty repartee, judging by the laughter his remarks drew. And how the women had behaved. . . .

  She huffed. Shameless was the word that came to mind.

  Females, young and old, stared after the man as though he were Adonis in the flesh. Mr. Whitcomb was handsome, admittedly, and made quite the dashing figure in his black waistcoat and tails, but there was something about him she found distinctly off-putting.

  Perhaps it was his entitled upbringing, or prestigious education in the country’s most distinguished schools, or maybe the outlandish volume of awards and praise he’d garnered at so young an age. Or perhaps . . .

  It was the cavalier manner in which he’d laid waste to her dreams in one devastating blow. How she’d relished handing him the Stradivarius earlier, eager to put him in his place.