A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  Tate offered a brief bow in response to the praise, knowing the man was being gracious.

  Cooper gestured. “If you’ll sit here in this chair, we’ll begin our first session. Which will consist of me sketching you, becoming familiar with the lines of your face, your stature.”

  Tate took a seat and suddenly became very self-conscious. All he could see in his mind’s eye were the conductors in those other portraits.

  “Turn toward me a little, please, Maestro Whitcomb. A bit more. There, very good. You have excellent posture, Maestro.”

  “Thank you,” Tate responded, but all he could think about was what Rebekah might say if she were there right now, watching him sit for the portrait.

  When he’d sat beside her on the bench, it had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep from staring at her. She wasn’t only an intelligent woman, gifted in music—she was a rare beauty. And when he’d accidentally brushed her thigh, he’d almost come off the bench. And probably should have, considering where his thoughts had taken him.

  He didn’t want to admit it, especially knowing how she felt about him, but he was attracted to her, and had been since the first time he’d laid eyes on her. He clenched his jaw, telling himself the same thing he’d been telling himself for years—

  A relationship didn’t fit with his career. It wasn’t congruent with the plans for his life. And certainly not now.

  People thought they knew him, when really, they only knew details about him. They didn’t know the truth. And neither did Rebekah Carrington. Nor could she.

  “You’re telling me that you’re the conductor and I’m not.”

  Recalling her pointed comment, Tate felt the pinprick within him jab deeper, and he suddenly realized what it was that Rebekah had done. She’d wounded his pride. No, she’d tried to annihilate it.

  “Very good, Maestro Whitcomb. Give me that stern expression we see as you conduct. The famous look that can wither at a glance.”

  Rebekah Carrington’s thorough dressing down had been uncalled for. But . . . she’d also been right about the music. The bars leading up to the shift were lacking. He’d sensed it all along but hadn’t known how to fix it. And she’d seen it immediately. She was brilliant.

  And—as much as it rankled him—she was right.

  He couldn’t be the conductor, not with her. How could she share her honest opinions with him if he was busy telling her how to play? And yet, how did he put that part of him aside? It was the very fabric of who he was.

  It was his pride that had refused to let her play, to let her criticize his work. How often had he told an orchestra member who’d complained about him being too hard on them that pride was the enemy of greatness?

  “Excellent, Maestro!” Washington Cooper smiled broadly. “The deep furrowed brow is perfect. The sign of a truly gifted musician. Quite Mozart-like, if you’ll allow me the comparison.”

  But Tate scarcely heard the man. All he could think about was Rebekah. And the passion, the fire she possessed. A passion and fire he needed. It seemed to simmer in every part of her being. And he knew, if she would work with him, if he could channel her passion—and didn’t throttle her somewhere along the way, or she him—he could finish this symphony in time.

  They could finish it. If she came back.

  15

  Still weighing the cost of disappointing Adelicia Cheatham if she didn’t agree to be Tate Whitcomb’s assistant—or his second assistant—Rebekah pulled her attention back to the primary reason she was at Belmont. Adelicia’s daughter . . . who stood close beside her.

  Rebekah placed the sheet music on the stand before Pauline, and the girl began playing. It was a familiar title, one from church—that had been played in the morning service that past Sunday, in fact—and Rebekah knew Pauline knew it well.

  But there was something lacking in the girl’s execution, and as Rebekah listened to her play the notes, she suspected she’d guessed correctly.

  Oddly enough, her guess had been helped along by the argument she and Tate had had yesterday in his office. And on their first afternoon of working together. That didn’t bode well.

  “Please stop, Pauline,” she said softly after a moment.

  The young girl huffed. “But I know how to play this. Why can’t I simply play it?”

  “Because you’re not playing it correctly.”

  “But I am, Miss Carrington. I know I am. I’ve played this many times before!”

  “You are playing it correctly, in one sense. The problem is, Pauline, you’re not playing the music as it’s written on the sheet before you.”

  The slight lift in the girl’s chin unwittingly revealed the truth. And confirmed Rebekah’s suspicions.

  “Do you know how to read music, Pauline?”

  “Yes, Miss Carrington.”

  “Splendid. What is the timing of this piece?”

  Pauline looked. “It’s in three-four meter.” Smugness tightened her tone.

  “Very good. And can you tell me what that means?”

  “It means . . .” The girl tossed her hair over one shoulder. “It means that the piece is written in three-four timing.”

  Rebekah suppressed a smile, having seen that same expression on a similar but more mature countenance in this very home.

  “And would you please define what three-four timing means?”

  Pauline stared at the music, her grip tightening around the neck of her violin.

  Rebekah gently touched her shoulder. “I think you and I have a lot in common, Pauline. Especially when it comes to playing the violin. Something I was able to do at a very young age was to listen to a piece of music only a few times, and then play it relatively well without looking back at the notes.”

  Pauline chewed the inside corner of her mouth.

  “That’s actually a very helpful and wonderful gift to have. We call it playing by ear. The notes and the tempo tuck themselves away inside you. It almost feels magical, in a way.”

  “So that’s a good thing,” Pauline said, but her expression held question. “A gift, like you said.”

  “It is. But as with any gift, it can also be a detriment, as I discovered when I began learning how to play the violin after having played the piano.” She thought for a moment. “Did your previous tutor teach you much about how music is written?”

  The young girl shook her head, briefly looking down as she did. “He said that sort of thing was unnecessary, that I played well enough because . . . girls only need to know how to play for parlor performances.”

  Rebekah’s face heated. “He said that to you?”

  Pauline nodded.

  “I had a violin tutor who said much the same to me when I was your age, Pauline. But we shouldn’t allow the ignorance of certain people in this world—men included—to define what we do or what we accomplish, should we?”

  Pauline peered up, studied Rebekah’s face for a beat, then smiled. “No, Miss Carrington. We should not.”

  “Very good, then.” Rebekah leaned closer. “God has given you a gift, Pauline. He gives each of His children gifts. And it’s our responsibility to hone those gifts, to study to be the very best we can be using those skills. Because we only want to offer Him our very best in return. Do you understand?”

  Pauline beamed. “You want to teach me how to play better than for only parlor performances.”

  Rebekah sought the girl’s undivided attention. “I want you to give your best to God every single time you play. Whether in a parlor”—an all but defeated dream raised its weary head—“or someday . . . in an orchestra . . . in an opera house.”

  Pauline’s smile faded. “But Mr. Fulton said women aren’t meant to play in orchestras.”

  Rebekah swallowed. “Mr. Fulton—Mr. Darrow Fulton—was your violin tutor?”

  Pauline nodded. “But I didn’t like him very much,” she whispered.

  She huffed. “I can understand why.”

  When Pauline snickered, Rebekah swiftly turned
her attention to the piece of music on the stand, not wanting to encourage more discussion on that front. If Darrow Fulton ever found out that he’d lost his tutoring position to her . . . She could already see the veins bulging in the man’s neck. If she did decide to work for Tate, she’d most certainly see Darrow on occasion at the opera house. Not a pleasant prospect any way she viewed it.

  Rebekah pointed to the sheet music. “All right, Pauline . . . You’re familiar with this title, I know. But when I transcribed this last night—”

  A knock on the door, and Miss Tindal, the new governess, peered in. “Please forgive the interruption, Miss Carrington. But I’m looking for Claude so we can start his lessons this morning. Have you seen him?”

  Rebekah shook her head. “No, I haven’t.” She glanced down at Pauline and caught a glint in the girl’s expression. “Pauline, have you seen your older brother since breakfast?”

  The girl briefly ducked her head. “You might want to check behind the sofa in the small study, Miss Tindal. Claude began reading a new book last night and rather likes it.”

  Miss Tindal shook her head, whispered her thanks, and closed the door. And Rebekah counted her good fortune that she wasn’t the governess. Claude, soon to be thirteen, would be attending boarding school next fall, as did his four older brothers and sister. But until then, he was a handful. One Rebekah was grateful she didn’t have to manage.

  Returning to the lesson at hand, she pointed back to the music stand. “As I was saying, Pauline, when I transcribed this last night, I made a few changes. Hence, how I knew you were playing by ear.”

  Pauline’s cheeks colored.

  “Let’s try it again. We’ll start from the very beginning.” Rebekah pointed to the time signature. “The number three means that there are only three beats in each measure in this piece, and the number four means that the quarter note equals one beat. So a measure in this piece can have, for example, three quarter notes, or a half note and a quarter note, or six eighth notes. As long as the notes in a measure total three beats. Does that make sense?”

  Pauline stared at the music, her gaze narrowing. “Three beats in a measure. No more than that. And the quarter note gets one beat.”

  “Excellent!”

  The lesson flew by that morning, and Rebekah had more fun than she could remember having in a long time. She almost felt as if she were teaching her younger self to play. But unlike the world she faced now, she prayed Pauline would grow up in a world that would afford more opportunities for women besides performing in parlors—

  Or anonymously from second-floor landings.

  Rebekah quickened her steps through town, still exuberant about Pauline’s lesson that morning, yet eager to put this next errand behind her.

  The bone-chilling air held the unique scent of winter, and the cold reached inside her cloak with icy fingers. She wrapped the garment tighter around herself in response.

  Her childhood home loomed ahead, and she fought the urge to turn and run in the opposite direction.

  But she’d made a promise. . . .

  However, she hadn’t promised to knock on the front door. Instead, when she reached the house, she slipped around to the back entrance by the kitchen, where neither her mother nor Barton would likely be. She saw no sign of the fancy new carriage and hoped that meant he was not home.

  She knocked on the door, peering through the window, and saw Delphia glance back.

  The woman’s face lit up, and her smile looked so much like that of Demetrius that Rebekah was reminded of his laughter, his generosity, the way he’d lived so unselfishly. And she found the weight of grief at missing him eased somewhat by dwelling on what a blessing he’d been, and how much poorer her life would be if she’d never known him.

  The door opened, and a rush of warm air wafted from the kitchen, pushing against the cold. It carried with it a sweet aroma wrapped in buttery goodness, and Rebekah hoped her initial hunch proved right.

  “Get on in here, child!” Delphia tugged her by the hand, then pulled Rebekah into a hug. “I been lookin’ for you every day, wonderin’ how you gettin’ along. Your mama told me you wrote her, said you got yourself a job and a place to live. But she said you didn’t spell out much about either of ’em.”

  Rebekah breathed deeply, wondering if the scents of home would always bring back such a flood of memories. Both good and bad. “I’m doing well, Delphia. Far better than when I left here that morning. And I do have a job, but . . . I’d rather Mother and Barton not know where I am. At least for the time being. In fact, to keep you from being put in a difficult spot should they ask, it’s probably best I not tell you either.” Seeing Delphia’s frown, she rushed to explain. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I do!”

  “You don’t have to say no more, ma’am. I understand. As long as you’re doin’ well, that’s all I need to know.” Delphia gave her arm a pat and turned back to the worktable, where cookies cooled on a rack. “Just took ’em hot from the oven not ten minutes ago.”

  “Your sugar cookies.” Rebekah’s mouth watered. Her hunch had been right.

  Delphia handed her a cookie on a napkin, and Rebekah didn’t hesitate. The sweet comfort melted in her mouth, its warm goodness acting like a tonic. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste, certain that, if it ever came to it, she could live on tea cakes and sugar cookies alone.

  “Your mama and Mr. Ledbetter, they ain’t home right now,” Delphia offered, as though reading Rebekah’s mind. “Your mama, she gone shoppin’ with two woman friends. Mr. Ledbetter said he needed the carriage, so they come by and pick her up earlier. Then he left out a while after. Don’t ever say where he’s goin’.”

  “How is Mother doing?”

  “She doin’ fine. Bit sick last week. Weak feelin’, she said. Wouldn’t eat much. But she’s stronger now. And missin’ you—that’s for sure. But she done had lots of years to get good at that.”

  The tenderness in Delphia’s expression convinced Rebekah she hadn’t intended for the comment to hurt. But still, it stung. “I’ll come back again soon, at a time when she’s here.”

  “And at a time when he ain’t.” Delphia gave her a look.

  For a moment, Rebekah wondered again if Delphia knew what Barton had done to her. Then the woman smiled and returned to minding the pot on the stove, and Rebekah decided she was imagining things.

  “I can tell you that I’m tutoring a young girl. For my job. I’m teaching her the violin,” she added softly, feeling an unexpected catch in her throat. “Just like he taught me.”

  Tears sprang to Delphia’s deep brown eyes. “Oh, Miss Rebekah, I can’t tell you how good it feels to hear that. If Demetrius could know somehow, it’d sure make him proud.” She stared at Rebekah for a moment, then shook her head. “I still ’member that night you sneaked down to the cabins to listen to us singin’. And I ’member the first time you picked up my brother’s fiddle too.” She laughed, deep and hearty. “Lawd, you made the awfulest sound, draggin’ that bow back and forth ’cross them strings. Like a polecat beggin’ to die!”

  Rebekah laughed along with her, wishing she had her violin here so she could play for Delphia, show her what she’d done with all the love and patient instruction Demetrius had invested in her. It would almost feel like she was playing for him.

  Almost.

  “This youngun’,” Delphia continued, “whoever she is, she got herself a good teacher.”

  “Thank you.” Rebekah smiled. “She’s quite bright and eager to learn. I believe she’ll do well.”

  Delphia paused, wooden spoon in hand. “We had us a pig roastin’ on the spit that night too. You ’member? You were just a little sprout of a thing.” She chuckled. “Demetrius, he was just standin’ there, turnin’ and turnin’, and you was just standing there, cryin’ and cryin’, feelin’ sorry for that poor ol’ mister pig. ’Til you got a taste of him—then suddenly you wasn’t so sad no more.”

  Delphia laughed and turned back to stir a pot on th
e stove. Rebekah smiled at the memory too, until another recollection crowded close, and her humor faded.

  After finding out about how she’d sneaked down to the slave cabins, her father had scolded her harshly and warned her never to go back. But when Mother had learned, she’d whipped her with a belt. Rebekah winced, recalling how the welts had burned on her legs. Days later, she’d seen Demetrius in the garden. “Miss Bekah . . .” His smile held welcome, like it always had. “Been thinkin’ ’bout you, child. You doin’ all right?”

  Rebekah remembered nodding while also tugging her dress lower, embarrassed by the welts still marking her legs. “I’m good, Demetrius. You planting today?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. Plantin’ corn and green beans and okra and melons. And some sweet taters too. ’Cause somebody I know likes them special good!”

  She giggled, loving the way his slouch hat rested just above his eyes, eyes that seemed to smile even before his mouth did. Much like her father’s.

  “Miss Bekah . . . you know what happened the other night,” he said softly, then scooped some freshly tilled soil in his hand, dropped a seed in the ground, and smoothed the dirt back over. “When your daddy found you at the cabins.”

  She nodded, then quickly looked down to make sure her shins were still covered.

  “Well, your daddy, he’s right. Young girl like you oughtn’t be roamin’ round at night on her lonesome. You gotta do like your papa says. He’s a good man. And good men, they’s hard to come by. And he loves you somethin’ fierce.”

  “But I like hearing you play, Demetrius. And I like all the singing too.”

  There went his smile again, reaching down inside her like a dose of sunshine on a gray April day.

  “Well, I tell you what. . . . How ’bout I start playin’ and singin’ a little louder so maybe you can hear it from the swing on the back porch.”