A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  “Tate? Why Tate instead of Nathaniel? Or Nathan.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve always preferred Tate. Less formal, I guess. And now . . . Rebekah”—he took a seat on the piano bench and gestured for her to join him—“why don’t we get to work?”

  Sensing a definite challenge in his tone, she looked at the bench, then back at him, and claimed the narrow space beside him.

  “I’d like to begin,” he continued, “by requesting you play the opening movement of this symphony. If you can manage Robert Schumann’s Toccata in C Major, opus 7, one of the most demanding pieces ever written for the piano, I believe you’ll manage this quite well.”

  Giving her a look that said to think twice before trying to stump him again, he reached for a folder of music on the table behind them, and his thigh brushed hers. Warmth traveled the length of her body, like a rush of warm air on a frosty eve, and it swirled inside her, round and round, until finally settling in a tantalizing coil deep inside her.

  The effect was dizzying, and it took concentration just to breathe.

  He placed the music on the rack before them, attention focused, seemingly unaffected. “This is only the piano arrangement, of course, but it should give you a good idea of the theme of this symphony. And I welcome your candid opinion afterward.”

  Rebekah struggled to focus on the music instead of him seated so close beside her, and though she didn’t see a name or initials on the first page—or even a title, for that matter—she instinctively knew that this was his work.

  She glanced over at him. “I’ve been here fifteen minutes, and you already want me to play the opening to your symphony and then give you my opinion?”

  He matched her stare. “Precisely.”

  She looked at the music, then nodded and sat up straighter. “All right. But you’ll have to move over. I need more room.”

  Wordlessly, he did as she asked, which gave her immense satisfaction. And for the first time since having been forced into this arrangement, the potential of the opportunity began to take root. She would be assisting a conductor in composing a symphony. A symphony! One that would be played publicly.

  Granted, the conductor was Nathaniel Tate Whitcomb.

  She began playing and was pleasantly surprised. The balance of tension in the chords was quite good, and she quickly fell into the rhythm of the—

  “Stop, stop . . . You’re playing it too fast, Rebekah.”

  She stilled, hands poised on the keys.

  He tapped the sheet music. “Take note of the correct timing. It’s a fast tempo, with spirit, yes. But it’s not like you’re on a runaway train.”

  She took a deep breath, not caring for the sudden change in his tone—or his insinuation. “It says allegro con brio, and I’m playing it at the tempo in which it was written. It’s in two-four time. See it here?” She tapped the meter and rhythm notation on the page, much as he’d done, in the hope it would aggravate him as much as his comment was aggravating her. Then she smiled up at him. “Perhaps you meant to compose the symphony in four-four time instead?”

  The blue of his eyes hardened, and he turned his attention back to the piano. “Play it again.”

  Swallowing another retort, she did as he asked, starting over at the beginning. As she played the same measures again, her understanding of the theme began to deepen, and she found herself anticipating the direction the music was—

  “Stop, stop, stop!” He sighed. “You must play it with feeling. Not as though you’re simply reading and regurgitating the notes.”

  With the chords still resonating from the grand piano, Rebekah clenched her jaw, grappling for calm that was scarcely there. “I am playing with feeling. However, the emotion of any piece is always open to interpretation to some degree. So perhaps if you’d—”

  “Let’s give it another try. Shall we? And mind the notations in the music.”

  She bristled. The condescension in his tone—not to mention the manner in which he’d interrupted her—was more like that of a teacher with a first-year student than a fellow colleague desiring a candid opinion.

  However, considering who had arranged—or demanded—she be here . . .

  For the third time, she started over from the beginning.

  “Better,” he said as she played. Yet to her, it was the very same tempo she’d played before.

  She doubted he was even aware of it, but he was directing her with his right hand. Able to see him from her peripheral view, she tried to read at least a measure ahead in the music, while trying to follow his pace, while also trying to feel the music.

  And the music was quite beautiful, even if a tad awkward or . . . off at times. Already, she thought of a minor alteration he could make that would greatly enhance the—

  “Stop, stop, stop!” He gave an exasperated sigh. “You failed to fully realize the desired dynamic shift from bars thirty-two to thirty-eight. What you need to do, Rebekah, is—”

  “And what you need to do, Tate, is let me play!” She turned to face him. “You need to listen to the music you’ve created. Not the music inside you, but the music that’s on the page. Because the music on the page is what the orchestra members will have. That’s all! They won’t have the music that you’re hearing in your head. So if what you’re hearing doesn’t match what you thought you wrote, then perhaps you need to look again at what’s on the page!”

  She heard the strident quality in her voice, but the offended arrogance darkening his expression didn’t help her attitude. “Look at the construction of your theme. Granted, I’ll play the notes more skillfully once I have more than two seconds to look at the music before you demand I play! But if the desired dynamic shift still isn’t happening, perhaps you need to look at what precedes that shift. Because what comes before is as important as what comes after. And sometimes what you think is on the page is really still inside of you. So, while I know this may come as a shock to you, it could be the composer’s oversight in this instance—and not the musician’s!”

  The sound of someone pointedly clearing their throat stopped Rebekah cold. She looked up to see Mrs. Murphey standing in the open doorway, tray in hand, disapproval and anger lining her face.

  And Mrs. Bixby stood close behind her . . . smiling.

  14

  Your afternoon tea, Maestro Whitcomb!” With a loud clank, Mrs. Murphey plunked the tea service down on a nearby table and aimed a murderous scowl at Rebekah.

  Working to control his own temper, Tate stood to intervene, sensing the situation about to go from bad to worse. He had to deal with Rebekah Carrington—and would, once they were alone again.

  But for now, he had another woman to restrain.

  Mrs. Murphey took a step toward Rebekah as if about to address her—or throttle her—and he held up a hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Murphey, for the refreshment. I believe we can serve ourselves this afternoon.”

  On a day-to-day basis, Mrs. Murphey was a force to be reckoned with. But when properly riled, her talons came out. Never with him, of course. Only with those who dared treat the conductor with less respect than she deemed worthy. She was the gatekeeper, after all, and she performed her duties well. And anyone with eyes could see that she considered Rebekah an intruder to be eliminated.

  Only then did he notice Mrs. Bixby’s bright countenance. He gave the woman a furtive glance, wondering at the cause. But her smile only deepened as she took her leave with a very rankled Mrs. Murphey.

  Tate pushed the office door almost closed behind them, blurring the line of acceptable office decorum. But he preferred that no one else overhear the conversation to come.

  He turned to face Rebekah. “Well, that was unfortunate.”

  She stared for a beat. “I completely agree.”

  Despite the cool air in the room, he was overly warm and removed his coat. He tossed it over the back of a chair, then loosened his tie. “If we’re to work together, Rebekah, we must be able to speak to one another plainly, without tiptoeing around issues. But we�
��re going to have to do it respectfully. Do you agree?”

  She nodded, her features softening in what appeared to be contrition. “I do.”

  “Good.” He forced a smile. “I’m glad that’s clear between us. Because I’m more than willing to overlook your outburst just now. But in the future—”

  “My outburst?” She stood, the piano bench scraping the floor as she did. “You’re the one who scarcely let me finish playing a measure before you interrupted, ‘Stop, stop, stop!’” She spoke the words in a deeper register as though trying to mimic him, but it only came out sounding like some self-aggrandizing, pride-bloated buffoon. “And if you didn’t want my candid opinion, Tate, then why did you ask for it?”

  “I do want your opinion. But . . .” How to phrase this in a way she would accept? That wouldn’t send her traipsing out the door? He looked beyond her to the wall of awards and accomplishments, and wondered if those meant nothing to her. “Since I was a young boy, I’ve studied music. I’ve dedicated the greater part of my life to learning from the masters—Bach, Haydn, Mozart Beethoven, Schubert. I’ve pored over their work until I feel as if I now know it as well as they did. Likewise, I’ve apprenticed with the most gifted conductors of our day. I’ve tirelessly pursued every available venue to hone my talent, to get me to the place where I am now.” Tiny lines began to gather in her brow, and he hurried to finish before she aimed another assault. “So as I said, I do want you to share your opinion. All I ask when you do . . . is that you remember with whom you’re sharing it.”

  She blinked, stared for the longest time, and then slowly nodded. To his surprise—and pleasure—her expression lit with understanding.

  “I believe I see what you’re saying, Tate. You’re telling me that you’re the conductor and I’m not.”

  He let out a breath. “Those aren’t the exact words I would have chosen, but, yes . . . I’m the man charged with writing the symphony, and the man who has been trained to do such.”

  Her smile formed slowly, but still, he took it as a good sign.

  “And furthermore,” she continued, “you’re saying that, in order for this to work between us”—she motioned—“I must follow your lead.”

  Tate started to nod, then hesitated, wondering if he’d detected defensiveness in her tone. Yet she was still smiling. “Again, I believe we’re now on the same page, so to speak, Rebekah. And I appreciate your understanding and acceptance of the situation.” He gestured toward the piano bench. “Shall we get back to work?”

  He sat, but she made no move to join him.

  “Tate.” She looked squarely at him, as though he were a child of three instead of a grown man. “You . . . cannot . . . conduct me.” She gave a short, caustic laugh that acted like a hot poker to his pride. “Primarily, because I’m not in your orchestra. But more importantly, because two people cannot truly collaborate on something if one of them holds both the reins. That’s especially true in music. Each must hold a rein, and then work together to set the pace. How do you expect me to form my own opinions if I’m supposed to follow your lead? It makes no sense!”

  “It actually makes perfect sense. Because I am the—”

  “Conductor. Oh yes, I believe we’re all well aware of that, Maestro Whitcomb.” She took a step toward him, her expression resolute. “For the first time, I understand what my father meant when he warned, ‘Be careful of anyone who has to tell you who they are more than once.’”

  Tate stared, anger warring with thinning patience. Never had anyone spoken to him like this. Much less, a female. And to think, he’d once considered this woman nearly mute. And yet . . .

  Something burned within him, separate and apart from his anger. At its sharpest point was a scalding pinprick, and it literally stole the words from his tongue. His chest tightened, and all he could think about was how hard he’d worked to get to where he was and how much those accomplishments deserved to be respected. How much she should respect him for all that he’d—

  A knock sounded on the door. “Excuse me, Maestro Whitcomb?”

  Tate’s gaze locked with Rebekah’s, and he caught the subtle rise of her eyebrow, ostensibly at the mention of his title.

  “Come in,” he said, voice hoarse.

  Mrs. Bixby entered, wearing a smile that swiftly faded as she glanced from him to Rebekah, then back again. “Two quick issues, Maestro. First, Harold Endicott sent word that he’d like to speak with you about his daughter’s schedule. He feels that with Miss Endicott serving as your personal assistant sponsored by the symphony, she should work with you more than only on Monday and Tuesday mornings.”

  Mrs. Bixby slid him a surreptitious look he understood only too well. But it was the slightly raised eyebrow from Rebekah that goaded his temper.

  “Secondly, Maestro, and more importantly, the carriage is here to convey you to Mr. Cooper’s residence.”

  He frowned.

  “Mr. Washington Cooper, the artist commissioned by the symphony board for your portrait.” Mrs. Bixby signaled behind her. “For the hallway, Maestro. It’s the first of four sittings, sir.”

  Tate grimaced. He’d completely forgotten—and what a time to be reminded. “Tell the driver I’ll be right there, Mrs. Bixby. Please,” he added as the door closed, sensing judgment from Rebekah’s corner of the room—then seeing it confirmed in her eyes. “I’m afraid we need to cut our time short today.”

  She turned to retrieve her cloak and reticule, and muttered something beneath her breath.

  “If you have something to say to me, Rebekah, then say it loud enough to hear.”

  She gave him an odd look. “I said, ‘Yes, I gathered that.’”

  He found himself looking at her mouth, at the fullness of her lips, imagining their softness, which only frustrated him further.

  She crossed to the door and paused, an almost hopeful look on her face. “I’ll completely understand, Tate, if, in light of today—and the fact that I’m not your only personal assistant—you’ve decided it best that we not—”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon as planned. And don’t be late. We have much work to do.”

  Reality hardened the hope in her eyes, and she exited, wordless, leaving the door wide open.

  He gathered his work for the evening, stuffed it into his satchel, and left not two minutes behind her.

  He hurried past the portraits of the composers, the afternoon light falling across their faces, and he noticed similarities in their expressions he’d not noticed before. Each of them sat erect, head held high, unmistakable pride lighting each of their gazes. The same attribute seemed to puff each chest out full, vest buttons straining as though fearful of failing to meet their obligation. Likewise, each man’s chin was similarly lifted as if he himself had found ample reason to look down upon the rest of the world.

  Tate gave himself a mental shake, realizing the thoughts in his head sounded suspiciously like those of Rebekah Carrington instead of his own. He continued down the hallway and outside, determined to leave her behind for the day.

  He climbed into the carriage, a frigid wind whipping at his coat. Each of those composers had the right to be proud of his accomplishments. Yes, they were demanding and had leaned toward being harsh in their criticism—as he knew he could be on occasion—but excellence wasn’t born of coddling. Excellence was forged through fiery discipline. And regarding the conductors’ similar postures in the portraits, that could easily have been the result of the artists’ instruction during the sittings, rather than the conductors’ individual personalities.

  As the wind rocked the carriage, the wooden wheels seemed to find every pothole in the road, and Tate could still feel that hot pinprick inside him, like a match shoved dagger-deep and burning hot.

  “Be careful of anyone who has to tell you who they are more than once.”

  The memory of what she’d said only made the match tip burn hotter. And the way she’d looked at him when she’d said it . . . She’d been angry, no denying that. Ye
t she’d said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly. As if she’d been giving the statement considerable thought for some time.

  He leaned forward, the muscles in the back of his neck and shoulders corded tight. So Rebekah Carrington thought him prideful, arrogant. Did it really matter what she thought about him? As long as she helped him with his symphony, what concern of his was her opinion of him?

  He sighed and rubbed his temples, realizing he wasn’t doing a very good job of not thinking about her.

  He needed to go home again—that’s what it was. And he needed to go soon. At the end of the week. Being home always grounded him, helped him see situations—and people—more clearly.

  The carriage turned up a long drive and eventually stopped in front of a stately Victorian home. Tate followed a servant through the house and down a hallway into an artist’s studio, a corner room, the two outside walls comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows. And it occurred to him . . .

  Why would an artist choose to start his first sitting in the middle of the afternoon instead of in the freshness of morning light?

  A much older man seated on a stool in the corner turned to greet him. “Ah . . . Maestro Whitcomb. This is indeed an honor, sir.”

  “The honor is all mine, Mr. Cooper. The remarkable reputation of your work precedes you.”

  The gentleman smiled. “As does yours, Maestro. I attended the performance you conducted nearly a month ago and found it riveting.”

  Tate smiled to hide a wince. He’d found the performance painful. The group had been made up of music teachers from the surrounding area, and he’d conducted the ensemble as a favor to a donor. And with every out-of-tune note and missed entry, he’d regretted his decision.

  “Your hands were often a blur, Maestro. Either that, or my eyesight is failing.” Cooper laughed good-naturedly. “But even at so brisk a tempo, the myriad individual notes emerged with remarkable clarity. You exercised such control with the musicians. Especially for being so young a man, if you don’t mind my saying. It’s as though each instrument awaits your slightest movement before taking its first breath.”