“Then you may take a horse. There are plenty of both.”
“Again, I’m so grateful. But I wouldn’t feel right about doing that without paying, Mrs. Cheatham.”
“Well, yes, of course. That’s understood. But not to worry, I’ll figure out an arrangement that’s equitable to us both.”
Rebekah smiled and nodded, hoping her surprise didn’t register too vividly on her face. But judging by the momentary gleam in Mrs. Cheatham’s eyes, she knew it had.
“I got your medicine for you, ma’am.” Cordina bustled back into the room, unfolded the medicinal paper, and sprinkled the white powder into Mrs. Cheatham’s tea. “You got a guest too, Missus Cheatham. Mr. Whitcomb just arrived. Says he brought a trunk with him that belongs to Miss Carrington here.”
Rebekah turned and looked behind her at the closed door that led directly into the entrance hall, then at the second door that led from the library through the family dining room and into the grand salon. The second was most definitely her first choice.
“How opportune!” Mrs. Cheatham drank the last of her tea. “We were speaking about that trunk only moments ago. Please show him in, Cordina.”
Rebekah stood. “I’ll leave so you can meet with him alone, Mrs. Cheatham. I’m sure you and Mr. Whitcomb have much to discuss.”
“I desire that you stay, Miss Carrington.” Mrs. Cheatham gave her a pointed look. “At the very least, I’m certain you’ll want to thank the maestro for personally delivering your trunk. And even if appreciation is not foremost in your thoughts, I believe in facing one’s challenges square on. It makes us stronger. Be those challenges situations . . . or people.”
Rebekah swallowed and sat down again, believing she’d faced enough challenges recently. Yet she could hardly refuse. Hearing footsteps behind her, she felt her guard rising. And she couldn’t decide which irked her more—having to show gratitude to Nathaniel Whitcomb after he’d been so ungracious to her . . .
Or actually having to call the man maestro to his face.
12
Please join us, Maestro Whitcomb.” Adelicia Cheatham gestured.
Tate claimed the chair to the right of Miss Carrington, not missing the passing look the young woman gave him, which held equal parts dislike and resentment. It was unfortunate, how their acquaintance began. Especially considering what he’d come to ask her.
All the way here, he’d tried to think of a way he could get back into her good graces. But there was only one thing Miss Carrington wanted from him. And it was something he could not grant her.
“Miss Carrington and I were enjoying a pot of tea, Maestro. Would you care for a cup?”
“Yes, Mrs. Cheatham, I would. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Mrs. Cheatham poured. “Do you take milk and sugar?”
“Neither, thank you.” He looked to his left again. “How are you today, Miss Carrington?”
“I’m well, thank you . . . Maestro Whitcomb. And you?”
Tate couldn’t help but smile. She’d practically had to force the title out, like shoving a button through a slit sewn too small. “I’m still a little chilly at the moment. But I’m well also. Thank you for asking.”
She turned her attention back to her cup of tea and, despite the warmth from the hearth, Tate felt a chill—coming from about two feet away. Considering the young woman’s aloofness, convincing her to accept his offer seemed next to impossible.
“So tell me, Maestro”—Mrs. Cheatham leaned back in the desk chair—“what brings you to Belmont? Other than to deliver Miss Carrington’s trunk, a task which falls decidedly outside the scope of your responsibilities.”
“You know as well as I do, Mrs. Cheatham, that the boundaries of a conductor’s responsibilities alter according to the needs of the symphony’s most generous donors.”
He raised his teacup in silent salute and drank, looking up in time to catch what appeared to be a silent exchange between the women.
Miss Carrington shifted in her chair. “Thank you, sir, for bringing my trunk all the way out here. That was . . . very kind of you.”
Tate marveled at how genuine the young woman’s behavior could appear when she deemed it necessary—if not for her eyes. Her eyes revealed all. “You’re most welcome, Miss Carrington. It’s my pleasure. May I also extend my congratulations to you on your new position here as governess. I failed to do that the other night, as I wasn’t yet aware.”
Miss Carrington paused midsip and, for an instant, looked like she might choke. She cleared her throat. “Actually, sir, I’m . . . not the governess. That position was already filled by the time I applied. I’m tutoring Pauline, Mrs. Cheatham’s daughter . . . in music.”
She cut a quick glance at Mrs. Cheatham, whose serene countenance revealed nothing. Yet he heard a definite note of caution in Miss Carrington’s voice.
Then it hit him—was Miss Carrington worried about him mentioning something about her audition with the symphony to Mrs. Cheatham? He’d never reveal such a thing, for both their sakes. If word ever got out that he’d even allowed a woman to audition—which he hadn’t, not technically. She’d simply begun to play—he’d be out of a job and on his way back east before he knew what happened to him.
“Tutoring, in music.” He nodded, looking from her to Mrs. Cheatham, then back again, and he quickly realized he couldn’t say anything about her playing the oboe because the only reason he knew about that was the audition. Treacherous waters, these. So best he tread carefully. “Well, congratulations again, Miss Carrington. I think it’s important that every child have an opportunity to learn about music. Because children grow up. And, hopefully, they’ll attend the symphony one day, and then, for my sake, at least”—he laughed softly—“they’ll eventually come to support it.”
“Hear, hear! Maestro.” Mrs. Cheatham lifted her teacup in his direction. “Well said.”
He glanced at Miss Carrington, but after the briefest of smiles, she averted her eyes and, therefore, kept her thoughts to herself.
But at least one hurdle he’d anticipated was out of the way. She was a music tutor in this household, not a governess, which meant a great deal more of her time should be open to use at her discretion. And he knew just how she could use it.
“So tell me . . .” Mrs. Cheatham quickly filled the silence while pouring him another cup of tea. “How is your symphony progressing? I trust you’re finding the time to compose amidst all else?”
His grip tightened around the delicate china cup. “I am. It’s taking more time than I first imagined. But . . . the piece is coming along well.”
“Splendid! That’s wonderful news.” Mrs. Cheatham smiled approvingly. “I’m eager to hear it.”
He tried to mirror her enthusiasm but fell short. Because well was a relative term considering his progress to date. Yet what else could he say to the woman? Her expectations were high, as were those of the symphony board. As were his own. After all, he wasn’t writing this symphony solely for the opening concert at the new hall.
At the heart of his endeavor was his desire to honor the man who’d first started him down this road. The man who had believed in him long before he’d ever believed in himself.
But regardless which motivation drove him at any given time—and they both did—time was running out.
“I presume”—query tinged Mrs. Cheatham’s tone, pulling Tate’s focus back—“that Mr. Pennington was in touch with you earlier today?”
“Actually, no.” He set the teacup on a side table. “He sent word that he wanted to meet, and I waited until finally leaving to come here. But he never came by.”
“Well, I’m certain he’ll be in touch soon enough.”
Something in Mrs. Cheatham’s expression didn’t ring quite true, and Tate felt an alarm go off inside him. “Do you happen to know what he wants to discuss with me?”
Mrs. Cheatham’s hesitance immediately answered the question.
“In fact, I do know, Maestro, as Mr. Pennington and I vis
ited yesterday afternoon. But since he’s the board director, he should probably be the one to tell you the good news.”
Tate felt his spine go stiff. Edward Pennington’s note hadn’t had an air of “good news” about it. And he was familiar enough with Mrs. Cheatham’s persuasive powers to know that the woman could wrap a dead skunk in silk and lace and pass it off as a mink.
“In his note,” Tate began, sensing Miss Carrington’s attention, “Mr. Pennington indicated he’d received the latest report from the architect. So I assume this has something to do with the new opera house.”
Adelicia Cheatham delicately firmed her lips. “That’s correct, Maestro. And . . .” She sighed. “Oh, I suppose I could go ahead and tell you since you’re here. Then you and Mr. Pennington can work out the details as you both see fit.” She withdrew a file from the bottom of a stack of folders on her desk but didn’t open it. “Mr. Geoffrey, the architect, and husband to my niece, Eleanor,” she added with obvious pride, “informed us yesterday that the project is moving along quite smoothly. So much so that he estimates the hall to be completed an entire month earlier than expected.”
Tate’s heart rate kicked up about five notches. Surely she didn’t mean—
“So I’m happy to report that we have the opportunity to host the opening concert earlier than planned.”
“May instead of June? That is completely unacceptable.” Tate rose from his chair, suddenly feeling caged and needing to move. “With all respect, Mrs. Cheatham, it’s impossible for my orchestra to be ready in that time frame. I don’t think anyone grasps the measure of work there is in . . . ” He took a breath, telling himself to calm down. But the idea that someone could make a decision that so greatly affected his area of responsibility, without even contacting him . . . “You should have heard the orchestra at rehearsal this morning. To say there’s room for improvement is being overly kind. The woodwinds kept coming in a bar late, and those that didn’t were flat. The horns couldn’t keep tempo, which threw off the clarinets, and the violin section is a disaster. The first violin played sharp thirteen times. Thirteen! And he’s my concertmaster!”
He blew out a breath, hearing the anger in his voice, a realization helped along by noting the intense disfavor in Mrs. Cheatham’s expression and the utter disbelief in Miss Carrington’s.
Mrs. Cheatham leveled her gaze. “Are you quite finished, Maestro?”
Again, Tate sighed. “I am. And please forgive me, Mrs. Cheatham, for speaking so freely. The past few weeks”—and years, he thought to himself—“have exacted a cost.”
“One which, I trust, can be recovered from.”
Hearing the not-so-subtle challenge in her tone, he nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Cheatham, most certainly it can be. And will be . . . with time and focus. And by my completing this symphony.”
“I appreciate that assurance and would ask, Maestro, that you take this next bit of counsel under advisement as you would from a friend.” Her smile reached her eyes. “Perhaps a way to increase your time would be to cease taking so many out-of-town trips, guest conducting on the weekends, as you’ve been doing. Yes, it increases awareness of the new opera house and what we’re doing here, but it appears that your time would be far better spent on first priorities.”
The comment stung more than he would’ve expected, and for reasons that Adelicia Cheatham couldn’t begin to fathom. Which was the only thing that kept his anger from resurfacing. “I appreciate that counsel, Mrs. Cheatham, and will certainly . . . take it under advisement.”
Not so much embarrassed as he was frustrated, he sneaked a look at Miss Carrington, and their eyes met. He would have given much to read her mind at the moment. Because not a trace of dislike or resentment lingered about her now. A keen watchfulness framed her lovely face, replacing the disbelief from moments earlier.
Tate suddenly remembered the mystery still needing to be solved. “By chance, Mrs. Cheatham, have you discovered the name of the violinist who performed the final Mozart piece at your party? Perhaps you checked your guest list and, through the process of elimination, derived the name of the gentleman. I can assure you that adding such talent to the orchestra would be a phenomenal boon to us all.”
Mrs. Cheatham’s gaze never wavered from his. “I fear I have no gentleman’s name to give you, Maestro. As I told you that night, I was as surprised by the performance as you were. And because you found no one when you went upstairs, I am of the opinion that the individual prefers to remain anonymous.” Her quick smile seemed to act as a bookend to the subject. “Now . . . as I said earlier, Maestro Whitcomb, Mr. Pennington and I met yesterday, and he informed me that the assistant position you requested has been fulfilled.”
Tate gave a humorless laugh. “Indeed, it has been. And if this assistant continues to help me the way she has this week, not only will I never finish this symphony, I seriously think only one of us will be alive come June. And I know it will be her. Because she will have talked me to death.”
Mrs. Cheatham’s laughter was abrupt but swiftly contained. “Remind me, if you would, who was awarded the position.”
Tate cast a look at Miss Carrington, not wishing to speak out of turn.
“It’s all right, Maestro. Rebekah Carrington is completely trustworthy. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be in my employ.”
Rebekah. So that was her Christian name. Thinking back, he did recollect she’d told him her name that day in the office. He simply hadn’t been paying close enough attention. “It’s Harold Endicott’s daughter.”
An emotion flashed across Mrs. Cheatham’s face that looked akin to mirth. “I see. . . .”
“You find this amusing, Mrs. Cheatham?”
“In truth, yes, a little.” Her eyes sparkled. “And yet, also . . . no.” Her expression sobered. “I understand the importance of having an assistant, Maestro Whitcomb. And the even greater blessing of having that person become like an extension of yourself. So . . . we must find that person for you.”
It took everything within him not to look over at Rebekah Carrington in that moment. But, oh, he wanted to. Because already knowing what he knew about her, combined with what he’d seen in that trunk—the collection of bound notebook after notebook filled with music, entire symphonies she’d transcribed in perfect penmanship and notation, her initials, REC, revealing the authorship, as if the trunk’s ownership hadn’t already—he was certain he’d found the perfect assistant.
Never mind the fact the woman could scarcely look at him, much less stand to be in the same room with him for more than five minutes.
She’d copied Haydn, Beethoven, Mozart, and Chopin in painstaking detail. For the experience, he supposed, learning their patterns, their methods, same as he’d done. And apparently she held a special appreciation for a certain Maestro Heilig’s work. Because she’d also copied numerous sonatas, cantatas, and concertos composed by him.
But he had no idea how to broach the subject with her without simply asking outright, which wouldn’t end well—that was guaranteed.
Movement outside the window caught his eye, and he turned to see what it was. As he did, he caught the pointed look Mrs. Cheatham leveled in Miss Carrington’s direction. Then, thanks—or perhaps, not—to the mirror over the mantel, he saw equally strong objection darkening Rebekah’s expression.
If that didn’t confirm the young woman’s true feelings on the matter, the firm shake of her head did.
Not wanting to let on that he’d seen, Tate looked out the window to find twilight settling over the estate. On the distant horizon, a flock of geese flew in formation against the dusky purple sky, their distinctive honking barely distinguishable. He wondered where they were headed, and if the destination would be as they had imagined once they arrived.
He shook his head inwardly at the frivolous thought, grateful no one else could hear it.
“Maestro Whitcomb?”
Hearing his name, Tate turned to find Mrs. Cheatham staring at him, rather intensely. “I’m sorry, ma’am. D
id you say something?”
“Indeed, I did. Though you apparently weren’t listening.” Mrs. Cheatham turned purposefully in her chair and gave him a look similar to the one she’d given Rebekah. Only this time, it had a conspiratorial quality to it. “I asked you, Maestro, precisely what qualities you’re looking for in an assistant.”
He stared for a beat, and it occurred to him that, the way Mrs. Cheatham was turned, Rebekah likely hadn’t seen that look. Then it registered with him what Mrs. Cheatham was attempting to do. And why she was doing it. She had a great deal invested in the new opera house—and in him. She was one of his biggest supporters.
So, in essence, she was protecting her investment. And he had no choice but to take all the help he could get.
He reclaimed his seat and sighed as though giving the question extensive thought. “Ideally, Mrs. Cheatham, my assistant needs to be someone who is accomplished at playing an instrument. The piano, for instance. Or the flute. Or even . . . the oboe.” He glanced at Rebekah but didn’t dare linger. “And he—or she—would need to read music well, and be able to transcribe. They must also express themselves with great economy. I find incessant talking a vexation to the spirit.”
He guessed Rebekah hadn’t uttered more than fifty words since he’d walked into the room. Which, when compared to Caroline Endicott, made her seem almost mute.
“And finally,” he continued, “my assistant needs to appreciate the difficulty of composing while also possessing the ability to tell me when something doesn’t sound right, or when they believe it could be better. I value honesty in a person, and their ability to collaborate. I seek someone who will speak their mind, who will feel comfortable sharing their own ideas. Yet who, in the end, will accept my final decision without question or rancor.”
Silence, heavy and thick, filled every inch of the library.
After a long moment, Rebekah Carrington turned to him. “You don’t expect much, do you, Maestro Whitcomb?”
Not surprising, he found a hint of sarcasm in her eyes that matched the subtle color of her tone.
A Note Yet Unsung Page 15
