She grinned. “Or maybe from my room. If I open my window.”
He nodded, gave her a handful of seeds, and moved on down the line. She followed, dropping seeds into the waiting beds like he’d taught her, and then watched as he covered them, tucking them in to sleep.
“About your mama,” he said after a while, his voice extra quiet, as though someone else might be listening. But there was no one else in the garden. “I’m sorry what she done to you, child. It weren’t right. You let Delphia put some of that salve on again tonight. It’ll help the sting. And the healin’ too.”
She nodded, embarrassed that he’d found out about her getting a whipping—while also not. Because, somehow, him saying that what her mother had done was wrong . . . made it not feel so bad.
“I made you somethin’, little one.”
He reached into his shirt pocket, then held out his hand, wriggling his eyebrows. Smiling, she presented her open palm, and he dropped a piece of wood into it. Only, it wasn’t just plain old wood. It was—
“Button!” She gave a little squeal. “It’s my dog Button!”
Demetrius laughed, and even that sounded like music. “I picked up a stick of wood the other day and just saw that cute little dog of yours in there, peekin’ out at me. Him with that cute, round nose. So I carved and I carved until he finally came crawlin’ out.”
She held the wooden dog close to her face and kissed its nose, then threw her arms around Demetrius’s big, strong neck. Next to her father’s hugs, his were the best.
The clank of a metal spoon on the cast-iron stove jarred Rebekah back to the present, and part of her wished she could stay back there in the garden, in her memories with Demetrius a little longer. As the years passed, she’d learned just how right he’d been about the whipping.
That incident had shown her how different in temperament her parents were from each other. She recalled Papa slipping into her room the night after her mother’s whipping, and he’d kissed her forehead. The welts on her legs still throbbed, and she’d pretended to be asleep, not wanting to risk making him as angry as her mother had been—not yet understanding at that young age that such a thing wasn’t possible of her father. He’d knelt silently by her bed, head bowed, and had stayed there for some time. She’d peeked at him in the dark, watching him, and—even confused and hurting—she’d felt so loved.
As she’d grown, she’d become familiar with her mother’s tendency toward worry and hysterics, and she’d come to believe that her father had been praying as much for her mother that night, if not more, than he’d been praying for her. But one thing was certain . . .
Her mother never whipped her with a belt again.
“You wanna sit yourself down and have some vegetable soup, Miss Rebekah? It’s all but ready.”
Rebekah checked the time and shook her head. “I need to be going. But first . . .” Thinking better about what she’d said to Delphia before, she found pen and paper in a drawer and wrote down the Belmont estate address. “I want to leave you with the address of where I’m working. And living.” She handed her the piece of paper. “If there’s an emergency or if Mother gets sick, and you need me, simply give this to someone you trust, and they’ll be able to contact me. Please, hide it in your room. Put it somewhere Mother or Barton won’t find it, should they look.”
Delphia studied the address as though she could read it, then she tucked the piece of paper into her pocket. “Yes, miss. I’ll hide it good. But ’fore you go, let me box up some of them cookies. You can eat ’em later on and think of me.” She winked and packed a small tin full.
Rebekah took the tin and hugged her tight. “Between these cookies and the lemon tea cakes a woman makes where I’m living, I’ll be forced to start letting out my skirts any day now.”
Delphia’s smile faded. “Lemon tea cakes, you say?”
“Yes. Most of the time she makes them with lemon. But the vanilla are no less scrumptious.”
A shadow eclipsed Delphia’s expression.
Sensing she’d hurt Delphia’s feelings and not wanting to appear ungrateful, Rebekah cradled the tin to her chest. “But, never you fear, your sugar cookies are still my favorite!”
“This place where you stayin’, Miss Rebekah, are you—”
The telling squeal of hinges on the front door all but leached the oxygen from the room. They stared at each other, unmoving.
“Delphia!” Barton’s deep voice bellowed.
Rebekah reached for the door. “Thank you, again. I’ll be back soon to check on Mother.”
Delphia nodded, the unease in her features deepening. “You take good care, Miss Rebekah.”
Rebekah hurried down the pathway to the sidewalk, then took the long way around the block to avoid having to walk in front of the house. With each step, the unrest she’d sensed from Delphia became more disconcerting. Until she reached the corner of Fifth and Pine, and something even more disconcerting wrestled her attention—and won.
She looked down the long thoroughfare to the opera house at the other end of the street, and knew she had no choice. In the end, whether or not she was brave enough to go against Adelicia Cheatham’s wishes had little bearing on her decision. Because she needed money for whatever the future held after she prepared Pauline for the May recital, which would arrive before she knew it. And when that time came, she had no idea what she was going to do next.
But she did know the next step she needed to take.
With determined strides, she closed the distance to the opera house, hoping against hope that Tate Whitcomb wasn’t as gifted at negotiating salaries as he was at conducting orchestras.
But she’d done her fair share of dickering at the street markets in Vienna—she’d watched Sally and learned—so she planned on driving a hard bargain. Because she needed every penny she could get. Part of her wished she knew what Miss Endicott was being paid. Because certainly, based on what Tate had said about the young woman to Mrs. Cheatham, she should be paid at least as much.
“Get your paper, right here!” The hawking of a newsboy drew her attention. “Read all about the Grand Central Depot bein’ built in New York City! Biggest in the country! Opens this fall!”
Rebekah looked across the street, hoping to see the same young boy who—
But it wasn’t him.
This boy was older and dark-haired. Nothing like the slim young lad she’d met weeks earlier. Still, the chance to read about New York drew her. She crossed the street, paid her nickel, and stepped to the side to peruse the front page article about the new railroad depot.
While in New York, she’d seen the construction in progress, and the depot buildings were nothing short of magnificent. As was the rest of the city. What would it be like to live there? A place that was thriving and growing, instead of wounded and barely limping along. But New York was a world away, and beyond her grasp.
Resigned, she folded the paper, tucked it beneath her arm, and retraced her steps toward the opera house. The innocent question within her from moments earlier repeated itself. But this time, with a skitter of hope . . .
What would it be like to live in New York City? Far from the daily reminders of a war fought—and lost. Far from Barton Ledbetter and his lecherous designs. And where the philharmonic had recently admitted a woman into their ranks.
“Well done, Miss Carrington. That was exquisite.”
She paused beside the opera hall and stared up at the aging structure. Tate Whitcomb’s responses to her oboe audition returned—but in a new light.
Based on his comments at her audition—coupled with those he’d made about the mysterious violin soloist at Mrs. Cheatham’s—she’d started to believe he’d meant what he’d said. He truly considered her talent worthy of playing in an orchestra, even if her gender prevented it, in his opinion. So if the New York Philharmonic hired one woman, why wouldn’t they hire another? Especially if her talent proved worthy? All she needed was money enough to get there and then some to live on.
“You came back.”
Upon seeing her, Tate Whitcomb immediately rose from behind his desk, astonishment—then relief—chasing across his features. His response did something curious to Rebekah on the inside, but she tried her best to appear unmoved—and to not forget her bargaining points.
She removed her cloak and placed it in a chair alongside her reticule and the tin of cookies. “You thought I wouldn’t?”
“I had my doubts.”
She nodded. “So did I.”
“But you reconsidered.” A smile barely touched his mouth.
“I did.”
He held her gaze, and the relief in his expression slowly gave way to gratitude. “I’m so glad.”
Thrown a little off-center by this new, more humble side, she knew better than to trust it. Tate Whitcomb needed her help—that was the reason for the change. And it was likely temporary, at best. But she couldn’t fault him for it. Her reason for returning was no less selfish. She needed him. Or rather, needed his money. Speaking of which . . .
Broaching the subject felt just shy of vulgar, but if she didn’t look out for her own interests, who would?
“We haven’t discussed salary yet . . . Tate.”
His brow furrowed. “Oh yes. I should have addressed that with you yesterday. The salary is six dollars per month.”
Rebekah hesitated, certain she’d misunderstood him. “Six dollars?”
“Yes . . . unless you find that sum inadequate. In which case, I can appeal to the benefactor for more, but I doubt that—”
“No . . . that amount is adequate. Thank you.” Six dollars a month was far more than she’d hoped for—and suddenly her dream of New York City appeared considerably brighter. And not so out of reach. So much for trying to out negotiate the man.
He moved from behind his desk. “Of course, that will include coordinating advertising and ticket sales with Mrs. Murphey and Mrs. Bixby. And the time necessary for you to transcribe the symphony—once it’s finished—for all members of each section of the orchestra. Which will be quite an undertaking.”
“And which gives us even more incentive to finish the symphony as soon as we can.” She glanced at the handwritten sheet music on his desk, assuming that’s what he’d been working on. “You told Mrs. Cheatham it’s coming along well. Are you nearly finished?”
His eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t say nearly finished, exactly.”
The uncustomary trepidation in his tone piqued her curiosity. “So, what would you say?”
He glanced away briefly, then his attention wandered back. “The first two movements are completed. And the third is partially written, but it’s only—”
“You still have two movements to write? In five months?”
He winced. “Actually more like three months, since the new opera house will be finished earlier than estimated, and we still must leave time for transcribing and, of course, for the orchestra to practice.” He gathered the sheet music and crossed to the piano. “So let’s not waste another minute, shall we?”
Laughing beneath her breath, Rebekah felt a weight settling around her shoulders. Even though it wasn’t her symphony, she’d now become yoked to this man, and therefore his success—or failure—reflected directly upon her. And her future.
She sat beside him on the piano bench, keenly aware of him. The way his rolled-up shirt sleeves revealed sun-bronzed arms, and his hands, large and strong, not the typical hands of a pianist, yet most definitely the hands of a conductor. Decisive, in control. Her gaze drifted to his profile, his dark hair and closely trimmed beard, those discerning blue eyes.
The aroma of bayberry and musk wafted toward her, and she breathed in the masculine scent, grateful beyond words that he didn’t use cherry laurel.
At this close proximity, she could see the faintest flecks of silver in his bearded jawline, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine how distinguished and even more handsome a man he would become as the years passed. She wondered if the portrait commissioned of him would capture the way his—
“I would suggest that we . . . ” He turned to her as he spoke, and paused.
Horrified that he’d caught her staring, Rebekah jerked her gaze to the piano keys. She felt his attention lengthen and—growing more self-conscious as it did—she began playing the opening measures of the “Ode to Joy” from the final movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9, a piece she often chose when warming up.
“What is it you wanted to suggest?” she asked over the music, trying for a casual tone.
“I was going to suggest that you play the first two movements of my symphony in their entirety, unhindered, then give me your opinion on what needs to be changed. If anything.”
She stopped playing midmeasure, knowing Beethoven would have been furious. “And by unhindered, you mean . . .”
“That I won’t stop you.”
She looked over at him, doubtful.
He smiled. “Not even once.”
“Do you think you can do that?”
His smile faded. “I honestly don’t know. But I’m willing to try.”
She laughed, then took the sheet music from him and propped it on the music rack. “May I remind you that, except for the first thirty-something measures, I’ve never seen this music before in my life. So please don’t—”
“I will offer no criticism, Rebekah. Nor will I interrupt.”
Admiring his grandiose intentions, but quite certain they would prove futile, she began playing. Reading ahead, she anticipated the first page turn, but he beat her to it, and turned at precisely the right time.
The music increased in difficulty and demanded her undivided attention. Feverishly reading, she found that to compensate she had to play more slowly through measures written at a faster tempo, which stirred her frustration. Especially because she knew how annoyed he must be.
She hit a wrong note and grimaced. “Sorry,” she whispered, continuing on.
He said nothing, simply turned the pages at the exact timing required. But she sensed him playing the piece internally alongside her. Every note, every crescendo, every decrescendo. And she found it both beyond irritating—and stimulating.
He turned the next page, and she glimpsed the last few bars. The first movement ended in an abrupt coda. With pulse racing, her eyes devouring the notes and fingers flying across the keys, she built toward it, trying her best to play it exactly as he’d written, and as his right hand—unbeknownst to him, she felt certain—silently conducted at his side.
She played the last chords with solid resolve, arms aching, and looked next to her, a little out of breath. “So . . . was that as hard as you thought it would be?”
His eyes narrowed, and then he looked over—and smiled. “You have no idea.”
16
A week later, Rebekah pushed Pauline especially hard during their practice, all while Tate Whitcomb’s symphony played in the back of her mind. She could hardly wait to get back to the opera house to continue working on the third movement.
She and Tate had made some progress in recent days. But mainly, they’d reached a personal truce—which was an accomplishment in itself. They’d celebrated that first afternoon by eating the entire tin of Delphia’s sugar cookies. She’d made a mental note to bring some of Cordina’s tea cakes today, if Cordina had them ready.
Watching Pauline as the girl played, and listening closely, Rebekah determined what the issue was. “Your grip on the violin is diminishing your vibrato.”
Pauline looked up at the ceiling and sighed for at least the tenth time that morning. “But I’m holding it precisely where you taught me to hold it, Miss Carrington.”
Rebekah smiled. Such a little Adelicia. Rebekah had quickly learned the young girl was the spitting image of her mother in every way, including stubbornness. “That’s true, in one regard. But you’re not holding it as I tau
ght you. When you hold your violin and bow, you need to do it subconsciously, without even thinking about it. As though they were both extensions of your body. For instance, when you pick up a brush to brush your hair, you don’t give any thought about how to hold it. Or how you’re going to work the bristles through. You simply . . . brush. But it wasn’t always that way. You had to learn. Holding a violin is much the same. It isn’t a natural feeling at first, I realize. Here, let me show you again.”
Pauline surrendered the beautiful instrument, and Rebekah cradled it against her collarbone, then let both arms rest at her side.
“Trust your head, Pauline. It’s quite heavy enough to hold the instrument without chin pressure. Do you see?”
Pauline smirked. “That means your head is heavy enough too!”
Smiling, Rebekah demonstrated her meaning by first playing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” while gripping the violin tightly, then by cradling it correctly. “Using the right form not only frees your hands to make music, but it frees you on the inside to feel the music, and therefore your vibrato will come through more naturally. Does that make better sense?”
Pauline nodded. “I want to try again.”
Rebekah returned the instrument, impressed, not for the first time, with the child’s enthusiasm, which was such an integral part of learning. And which made the occasional sighs and ceiling glares not nearly as tiresome.
Pauline cradled the instrument and played the assigned music from Vivaldi. But this time, with a noticeable difference.
“Excellent, Pauline! Now, continue to the end.” Rebekah stood back and listened, watching the girl’s form as she played, and loving moments such as this—the exhilaration that accompanied actually seeing someone learn. Especially the violin.
Two hours later, Rebekah was thrilled that the lesson went far better than she had expected.
Before leaving for the opera house, she returned to her room, where a tray lunch sat waiting, as usual. She made quick work of the cold pork roast and cheese, along with a thick slice of Cordina’s honey buttermilk bread slathered with butter, then hurried downstairs to the kitchen to ask about the tea cakes.
A Note Yet Unsung Page 19
