A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  “I do expect a lot, Miss Carrington. But I don’t expect anything from others that I do not demand of myself.” Knowing the masquerade was all but over, he owned up to the moment. “I admit, I came here today with the express purpose of asking you to be my assistant.”

  She frowned. “Me? Why would you think of me?”

  “Because . . . ” He actually felt his face heat. “When the driver and I were lifting your trunk onto the wagon, it slipped. And fell open.”

  She sat forward, her expression turning panicked. “Are my—”

  He held up a hand. “Everything is intact. It’s not as you packed it, of course. And you’ll find some of the pages a little worse for wear. But nothing was lost, I assure you.” He glanced at Mrs. Cheatham and sensed her silently urging him on. “Picking up the notebooks, I couldn’t help but notice what was within. It was . . . exquisite. You’re a gifted woman, Miss Carrington.” Not to mention, she’d been an avid concertgoer—in Europe! The woman had apparently lived in Vienna, judging by the number of symphony playbills she’d kept as mementoes.

  Vienna, Austria. The home of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart himself. Who better than this woman to be his assistant?

  Miss Carrington’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he wondered if she was thinking back to that day in his office when he’d said no to something she’d obviously desired a great deal.

  “I appreciate your offer, Maestro Whitcomb. But I already have a job.”

  Mrs. Cheatham rose. “If you’ll both excuse me, I need to check with Mrs. Routh about dinner. Maestro, would you care to join us?”

  Surprised that Adelicia Cheatham would give up so quickly, he felt his opportunity slipping away. “No, thank you, ma’am. The symphony calls and my small study awaits. But I appreciate your kind invitation.”

  “Perhaps next time, then.” She inclined her head. “Thank you again, Maestro, for your dedication to your craft and to our philharmonic, fledgling though it may be. This endeavor is near and dear to my own heart, as you well know. I want nothing less than a spectacular evening to dedicate the new opera house . . . for everyone involved. Whether it be May . . . or June. This new auditorium is not only important to Nashville, it’s important to this part of the country, and to its people. Because, as Miss Carrington and I were discussing just the other day, the world is changing so quickly. And we must take advantage of every opportunity that’s afforded us. Would you not agree, Miss Carrington?”

  Rebekah’s grip noticeably tightened on the arm of her chair. She briefly bowed her head, then lifted it and nodded. “Yes . . . I would.”

  Mrs. Cheatham laid a gentle hand to her shoulder, then left the door ajar when she departed. Tate stared after her, not quite knowing how she’d managed it. But if he wasn’t mistaken, Miss Rebekah Carrington was now his assistant. And yet . . .

  Though the silence from moments earlier had been somewhat uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to the pressure building in the room now. He’d wanted to leave here with Miss Carrington’s agreement to serve as his assistant, but he felt as if she’d been given no choice in the matter. Because she hadn’t.

  Miss Carrington rose, and he did likewise, feeling the tension roll off her in waves.

  “Miss Carrington, if I could—”

  “Allow me to see you out, Maestro Whitcomb.”

  She strode from the library into the entrance hall and retrieved his coat from the rack in the corner. She held it out and he quickly took it, fully believing she would’ve dropped it on the spot if he hadn’t.

  She reached to open the door, but knowing he couldn’t leave with the situation between them like this, he held it closed.

  “Please hear me out, Miss Carrington. That’s all I ask.”

  Footsteps sounded from the grand salon, and they both glanced in that direction. When no one appeared, Miss Carrington turned to him.

  “You do not want to work with me, Mr. Whitcomb. Such a collaboration will not produce the desired end, I assure you. And then we’ll both find ourselves in trouble with Mrs. Cheatham.”

  “Miss Carrington, if I don’t reach my desired end, my trouble will be far greater than with Mrs. Cheatham alone. And you’re wrong . . . I do want to work with you.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t forget . . . I’ve heard you play. I’ve seen your transcribing skills. And I know that you’ll give your opinion of my work without the slightest window dressing. Of that, I have no question.”

  He smiled in an attempt to ease the tension between them, but the stubborn set of her chin went unchanged.

  “I’ll pay you, of course. That’s understood. And we’ll work around your schedule for tutoring Mrs. Cheatham’s daughter.”

  She reached for the doorknob. “This isn’t fair,” she said softly, so softly he almost didn’t hear.

  “No, I suppose it’s not. But as someone very close to me has long said . . . life isn’t always just. But God, who sees everything, is. And He will bring good from it.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes so full of disappointment, he was almost tempted to release her from the obligation. But his own needs wouldn’t let him.

  “Good night, Miss Carrington.”

  “Good night . . . Mr. Whitcomb.”

  Not begrudging her that final jab, he took his leave and climbed into the carriage waiting at the foot of the steps.

  On the way home, he replayed the encounter over and over in his mind. And no matter how he looked at it, he could only see it one way. The way Rebekah Carrington saw it. He was the skunk in this scenario, and he doubted there was anything anyone could do—Mrs. Cheatham included—to change him into a mink in Rebekah’s eyes.

  Once home and sequestered in his study, he sat at the piano and played, the fire crackling in the hearth behind him. First Mozart, then Bach, then Beethoven. He willed the music—and the inherent talent and life within it—to wash over him. To fill him until it permeated every ounce of his creativity. He didn’t wish to drive out the music he’d learned to play as a boy, the music that flowed through him as surely as his ancestors’ blood. He only needed to silence it, for a while. Long enough for the masterpiece he knew he was capable of writing to be given birth.

  Because in the end, what was most important was the music. And despite his inability to grant Rebekah Carrington her dream, he was convinced she possessed the fire and the passion he needed in order to achieve his.

  Only now, he had one month less in which to do it.

  13

  Tate heard footsteps in the corridor outside his office and rose from his desk. But when Mrs. Murphey walked by, continuing down the hallway, he sat back down, perturbed. He raked a hand through his hair.

  Last Wednesday, when Rebekah Carrington acquiesced to becoming his assistant, he’d assumed she would start the next day. So he’d expected to see her on Thursday. Then Friday.

  After she failed to show up either day, he’d sent word to her over the weekend, asking when he could expect to see her in his office. He’d been surprised by her swift response, though not by its brevity.

  He’d opened the envelope addressed to him in perfectly formed script and pulled out a single sheet of stationery.

  Dear Mr. Whitcomb,

  Monday.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Carrington

  He smiled to himself again, recounting her candor. But now it was Monday and almost one o’clock. Another day was winding away, and he had no idea when she would arrive.

  Thankfully, Miss Endicott had taken her leave around noon—and had nearly taken his sanity with her. But under threat of Miss Endicott’s father withdrawing his funding, the young woman would be “assisting” him on Monday and Tuesday mornings, much to his chagrin. And lack of productivity.

  He returned his focus to the notes he’d made during the latest rehearsal, yet another source of frustration. He’d lost count of how many times he’d had to yell, “Anticipate!” to the wind section. They’d come in late after nearly every rest. And the violins and violas . . .
>
  He’d dismissed the rest of the orchestra and had kept the entire string section behind. Following rehearsal, he’d spoken with Darrow Fulton, his concertmaster, about the various issues in the sections. He found the man’s excuses as flat as his playing.

  Fulton had used the weather—the weather, Tate huffed—as his excuse for missing Mrs. Cheatham’s party. Tate had told him in no uncertain terms that if he missed an event again, he’d be looking for another orchestra with which to play. In which case, Tate would be looking for a new concertmaster. Not an easy hire, nor transition, to make. Especially among his current pool of musicians, if one could call them all that.

  So hopefully, the man’s erratic pattern of behavior would improve.

  Hearing the distant sound of a French horn playing—Mozart’s French Horn Concerto No. 4, if he wasn’t mistaken—Tate closed his eyes and followed along. He knew the piece well and pictured the musical notations in his mind. The concerto was beautiful, haunting in parts, and reminded him of the mountains back east. He could almost see the wispy, smoke-like clouds hovering over the forested peaks, shrouding them in mist.

  The music ended, the misty mountains faded, and Tate opened his eyes.

  His gaze fell to the calendar atop his desk, and he thought again of his promise to Opal that he would visit before another month had passed. Which meant he needed to head out of town again soon. Guest conducting, as Mrs. Cheatham had phrased it.

  Her opinion on the matter was clear. But . . . the truth was, she didn’t have all the facts on the matter. Nor did he desire her—or anyone else—to have them. It wasn’t in his nature to hide things, so these occasional trips were becoming more difficult to—

  Footsteps sounded again from down the hallway, but he didn’t rise. It could well be Mrs. Murphey or Mrs. Bixby again, or one of the musicians coming to practice in one of the back rooms. But when the footsteps halted abruptly just outside, he knew.

  He stood, watching, waiting for her to walk around the corner. He tugged on the sleeves of his coat, wondering why he was suddenly nervous. She was the one arriving—late—for her first day of work. Not him.

  Yet even as he shrugged off the anticipation, he was struck by the urgency of his circumstance, and by how much he needed this collaboration to be a success.

  And by how much he needed her.

  Rebekah took a deep breath, only steps away from his office. All the way here in the carriage she’d been fine. Still angry over being forced into this situation, yes. But nervous? No.

  So why now?

  She exhaled, knowing she could do this job. Practically speaking, she already had. She’d been Maestro Heilig’s assistant. Informally, of course. She hadn’t been paid for the work, and she’d worked in his office in their home, not in the symphony hall. And she’d never actually helped him compose either, she’d only copied pieces for him and discussed the music with him.

  Although, even then, their discussions were mostly her listening to him—learning, drinking in his knowledge and experience. So . . .

  Her stomach did a flip. Was she qualified?

  What if her prediction to Nathaniel Whitcomb about what would happen if this didn’t work actually came true? What if they failed? And Mrs. Cheatham turned on them both? She braced a hand against the wall for support.

  “ . . . adding such talent to the orchestra would be a phenomenal boon to us all.”

  Recalling what the man had said about the anonymous violinist who had played that evening helped calm her nerves, while provoking her ire at the same time. But to know that a man such as Nathaniel Tate Whitcomb considered her talent worthy . . . well, that meant something.

  Unless he turned out to be like the majority of musicians she’d known in Vienna. Men who made secretive weekend visits to opium dens or spent late night hours imbibing special potions they swore increased their creativity and ability to play. Laudanum and morphine were most popular, she’d learned.

  She’d never understood the attraction to concoctions or medications for enhancing one’s playing ability or inspiring the muse. Consistent practice and communing with nature were her remedies. Without any of the aftereffects.

  She pulled back her shoulders, determined. She could do this. She would do—

  “Miss Carrington.”

  She nearly jumped and looked up to find him standing there. “Mr. Whitcomb!”

  “Good morning, ma’am. I thought I heard footsteps.”

  “Yes. I . . . I was on my way to your office.”

  His dark hair was a bit disheveled and his blue eyes seemed especially intense. It took her little imagination to picture him atop the conductor’s dais, baton slicing the air, his well-muscled shoulders filling the contours of his black coat and tails as he held his musicians’ combined attention in the palm of his hand.

  “Well . . .” He gestured for her to precede him. “Right this way.”

  She’d been in his office before. But as she walked in, it all felt new to her.

  She remembered a grand piano but couldn’t have said definitively where it was placed in the spacious room. And though she’d read in the Nashville Banner about his awards and prestigious accomplishments, she didn’t recall seeing the framed evidence plastered all over the walls.

  She’d long held that someone who felt the need to proclaim their accomplishments so boldly must be trying to accommodate for some shortcoming.

  Or perhaps it was her own jealousy, rooted in the wish that she could have the same opportunities to do all that person had done, while wondering if she would have succeeded as well. Not wishing to examine that thought any further, she tucked it away.

  “May I take your cloak, Miss Carrington?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” She handed it to him, and noticed stacks and stacks of sheet music on a table in the corner.

  He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’m a little behind on my filing.”

  Rebekah nodded, assuming that would be one of her duties. Then it occurred to her . . . “Was filing not part of Miss Endicott’s responsibilities?”

  His mouth tipped in a half smile. “I believe the act of filing assumes that the filer knows the alphabet. So . . . the answer to your question is no.”

  Knowing he was joking, she laughed, then instantly regretted it. Not only because she felt as if it gave him the upper hand—and the upper hand was something she did not want Nathaniel Whitcomb to have with her—but also because it felt a little mean. She schooled her features.

  “Actually, I should tell you that Miss Endicott is still assisting me two mornings a week. As long as you understand that assisting can have a very broad definition. Now, please”—he gestured toward the two chairs in front of his desk—“have a seat. I thought we’d begin by discussing your experience and musical skills. There’s nothing more frustrating than two people working together with different expectations.”

  Rebekah could think of a few things. Like working for someone for whom you didn’t want to work. But for the sake of unity—what little there would be—she kept that to herself.

  He leaned back in his chair, the creak of worn leather marking the gesture. “You play the piano, I assume.”

  “I do.”

  “And would you say you play well?”

  Feeling as though she were being interviewed, and resenting it, Rebekah crossed the room to the piano and took her place on the bench.

  Her fingers were yet a little stiff from the cold, so she rubbed them together until they warmed. Tempted to play Mozart’s “Rondo alla turca,” as she had the other night on the Stradivarius, she refrained. But she smiled to herself, imagining what his reaction would be if she did.

  She began playing, her fingers flying across the keys.

  The piece she’d chosen wasn’t extremely well known, and she doubted Mr. Whitcomb would be familiar with it. But it was one of the most challenging she’d encountered. Before his untimely death, Robert Schumann, the composer, had been a colleague of Maestro Heilig’s in Vienna. Hence,
she’d become familiar with his work. Or with his masterpieces, as they were lauded in Europe.

  She only intended to play the opening bars of the opus, but she hadn’t played a piano in weeks, and this instrument was exquisite, so the experience was pure pleasure. Mrs. Cheatham had a piano in her central parlor, but Rebekah didn’t dare play it without permission, and she hadn’t yet scrounged up the courage to ask.

  Not wishing to push her point too far home with her newest employer, she cut the opus short, then turned on the bench to face him.

  He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded once. “I’ll take that as a yes. However”—he picked up a page of sheet music from his desk and brought it to her—“can you play a piece without having heard it before, and without previous preparation or study?”

  She took the music, placed it on the music rack of the piano, gave it a brief scan—and played.

  The delivery wasn’t nearly as crisp and polished as a moment earlier, but she got through the page with only a handful of minor mistakes. “I’m a bit out of practice with reading and playing on sight.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I noticed your tempo wasn’t quite on the mark on the fourth and seventh measures.”

  She looked up at him, and caught the gleam in his eyes.

  “Well done, Miss Carrington.”

  Against her will, and even as she told herself not to, a place within her responded to his praise.

  “I assume you can sing as well?”

  She eyed him. “Is that a requirement?”

  “The symphony I’m writing doesn’t include a vocal part. I’m merely trying to gain an accurate assessment of your abilities.”

  Not overly fond of being assessed, and especially not by him, she rose from the bench, wishing to be closer to eye level with him. “I can sing. But I’m certainly no Jenny Lind. If that’s a talent you wish for your assistant to possess, Mr. Whitcomb, then I’ll happily step aside and—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” The glint of a stubborn streak shone in his expression. “You’re more than qualified for the position. But one alteration is needed. We’ll be working closely together on a near daily basis, so I suggest we dispense with the formalities. My given name is Nathaniel, but I’d appreciate you calling me Tate. Likewise, may I call you Rebekah?”