A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  She kept her own notes in a separate notebook as she went along, referencing the specific measure in the music in a column on the left with the corresponding notation in a column on the right. She’d brought the last few sheets of staff paper that she’d prepared before leaving Vienna, and it felt odd to be using it here now, so far from where she’d drawn it.

  A deep sigh from the piano bench brought her head up.

  Tate played a few chords, then stopped, then played, then stopped and put pen to paper. Then played again and sighed and rubbed his temples. She could almost feel the creative process emanating from him, and from this perspective, it didn’t seem nearly so glamorous or exciting as she’d expected.

  She returned to her work with a prayer on her lips. Both for him and this entire undertaking.

  Much like Beethoven’s Ninth, the opening measures of Tate’s first movement were dominated by the violin, viola, and cello. And as she transcribed the notes for the violin, she yearned to be able to reach for hers and play the part as written, but she settled for her imagination instead.

  Right on time, Mrs. Murphey delivered afternoon tea. “Here you are, Maestro.” She gave Rebekah a passing glance. “Miss Carrington.”

  Rebekah smiled. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Murphey. And thank you.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Murphey,” Tate muttered from the piano, his gaze never lifting.

  Mrs. Murphey looked at him and smiled with all the love and affection of a proud mother. “You’re welcome, Maestro. I’ll pick up your black coat and tails from the laundress tomorrow on my way in, as well as your shoes.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Murphey.” Again, he didn’t look up.

  But that didn’t diminish the glow of maternal affection shining in the older woman’s eyes. However, looking back at Rebekah did, and the woman departed with her usual dour countenance firmly recast.

  Rebekah could only smile. She glanced at the open door to the office, wanting to make certain Mrs. Murphey was out of earshot, then kept her voice to an absolute whisper. “I think she’s growing to like me.” She chuckled.

  But Tate didn’t respond. So she spoke a little louder.

  “I think Mrs. Murphey is growing to like me.”

  Still, nothing.

  “Tate!” she said in full voice.

  “Yes . . . thank you.” His pen never lifted from the page.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  He gestured for her to give him a moment, and she shook her head. This behavior, she was accustomed to. She’d seen Mrs. Heilig have a full conversation with her husband when he was seated at the piano, him giving occasional grunts and nods. Yet Maestro Heilig would later swear it had never taken place.

  Rebekah rose, needing to stretch and needing more paper. And needing tea. She poured herself a cup, then took it to him instead, setting it on a side table.

  Brow furrowed, he wrote feverishly, eyes squinted, shoulders taut. He was certainly a driven man of strong temperament, and one often short of patience. Add to that a disposition listing toward the irritable. But what musician couldn’t that describe?

  She waited until he moved to play again. “Where do you keep the supply of staff paper?”

  For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her.

  “Cupboard. Bottom. Oh! And write a note to Mrs. Bixby asking her to leave two tickets for a Mr. and Mrs. Barrett at the box office for tomorrow night. Complimentary.”

  Rebekah wrote and delivered the note and then relished a cup of tea and another of Cordina’s tea cakes before going in search of the paper. She rummaged through box after box, wondering how long some of them had been in there. She opened the final lower cupboard and saw a box sitting alone on a shelf. That had to be it.

  She pulled it out, but something clinked within, like glass, and she immediately stilled, hoping she hadn’t broken anything. She lifted the open flap and peered inside. Bottles. At least half a dozen. She lifted one and read the label, then read it again, hoping that somehow it would read differently. But it didn’t. And all the labels read the same.

  Laudanum.

  She stared at the bottles as everything she knew about musicians came crashing forward in her thoughts. Their weekend visits to opium dens. Specially made concoctions that purportedly increased creativity.

  No, no, no . . .

  Suddenly Tate banged the keys on the piano and she jumped. He said something beneath his breath she couldn’t quite hear but could imagine well enough based on his harsh tone.

  Disbelief and anger vied for control as she felt the dream of New York City slipping from her grasp.

  Gripping the bottle in her hand, she looked up to see him rake an impatient hand through his hair. Then he leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, and she thought of his irritability, his impatience, his continually being tired—and she knew.

  17

  Tate felt as though his head were about to explode, and listening to the symphony tuning on the stage didn’t help.

  Customarily, he lived for these evenings, the anticipation as he waited in the wings, only seconds from taking the stage, the shushed susurration of the audience drifting beyond the barrier of the thick crimson curtain. He’d walk on, stop briefly to shake hands with his concertmaster, despite Darrow Fulton not being high on his list at present. Then he’d step up to the dais, grasp his baton, and do what he’d been born—and had trained nearly his entire life—to do.

  Yet right now, all he wanted was to be far, far away from every jagged piece of noise that sliced at his inner ear like shards of glass rubbed against newborn skin.

  The previous evening, the ache in his head had finally dulled, and he’d been so grateful. But no sooner had that pain lessened than the sensitivity began. He only prayed it would cease before he took the dais. If it hurt this much to hear the orchestra responding to the oboe’s tuning note, he couldn’t imagine the pain he would endure once every instrument began playing at its full—

  He swallowed, the temptation to walk away almost overwhelming. But a conductor not taking the stage was paramount to turning in his resignation. Forever. No other symphony would ever—

  He blinked . . . and the punishing shards of glass suddenly fell away.

  His breath came quick, and he closed his eyes, his body flooding with relief at the absence of pain. He rubbed his temples, daring to hope, yet dreading taking the next swallow.

  But . . . he did. And his world stayed right.

  He tilted his head from side to side, only then feeling how tight his neck and shoulder muscles were. Maybe that was part of the problem. Too much work, too little rest. Hadn’t Rebekah said as much to him yesterday?

  Yesterday . . . He’d nearly made a terrible mistake with her.

  Not that kissing Rebekah Carrington would have been terrible. Quite the opposite, he was certain. But he needed her assistance to finish this symphony on time. So doing anything that would hinder or harm that goal was out of the question.

  However, thinking about kissing her—he pictured her smile, her lips, the sensuous curve of her neck—now that was a different matter altogether.

  Movement to his left drew his attention, and he saw the object of his thoughts—and curbed desires—standing only feet away, looking in his direction. He closed the distance.

  “Good evening, Miss Carrington.” Mindful of others around them, he opted for the more formal address and kept his voice soft.

  “Good evening, Maestro Whitcomb.” She followed his lead, her tone professional. She peered up at him. “How are you feeling this evening?”

  “Up until a few moments ago, not well.” Tate caught the gesture from the master of ceremonies and acknowledged it with a tilt of his head. “But I think I’m making strides toward the better.”

  Rebekah nodded, but something in her eyes offered silent dispute. Yet seeing his cue, Tate had no time to address it—or tell her how beautiful she looked. Even in colors of mourning.

  He walked to the edge of the curtain, s
tretched the muscles in his neck and shoulders, tugged on his coat sleeves, and strode on stage.

  He hadn’t taken four steps before the audience rose to their feet, their applause filling the rafters. And their enthusiasm buoyed his ruffled spirit.

  He paused and shook hands with Fulton, noting the man’s bloodshot eyes. Tate tightened his grip, with a look daring Fulton to make a mistake this evening. Tate already had his suspicions about the man’s habits outside the symphony. And while he respected a musician’s privacy, when what that musician did in private reflected negatively on the orchestra—or affected Tate’s own career—he gave privacy the boot.

  Which is just what he’d be giving Darrow Fulton, if the man didn’t start living up to his responsibility as concertmaster.

  Tate took the dais, turned briefly to acknowledge the audience’s applause with a bow, and focused once again on his score on the music stand. Head bowed, he drank in the momentary silence laden with anticipation, and focused every thought on the task before him.

  Already, he could hear Ferdinand Ries’s symphony in his head, perfect in tempo, in pitch, and in its intended purpose to honor the master, Beethoven himself. Now to do the piece justice, as well as bring deserved honor to Bach, later in the concert.

  Tate lifted his head, met the gazes of each section leader, one by one, then raised his baton. The musicians responded with instruments readied, and entered precisely on Tate’s cue.

  He’d all but committed the symphonies to memory through the years, especially the final movement in Ries’s masterpiece, his favorite of the four. He embraced each note, certain there were fewer pleasures known to man greater than that of music, and knowing how much duller the world—and his world, in particular—would be without it.

  Rebekah had intended to take her seat in the audience before the symphony began, but curiosity had prevented her. She’d wanted to see how Tate was faring, especially after what she’d discovered yesterday.

  And when she’d seen him standing there, waiting to go on, she’d known something was wrong.

  His grimace, the way he massaged his temples, the shadows beneath his eyes were all too familiar. And seeing the signs only further stoked her anger. She’d watched countless musicians in the Vienna Philharmonic squander money on similar addictions, risking their talent and position, throwing away opportunities she would’ve given her eyeteeth for. And for what?

  An empty, fleeting feeling of euphoria. Or so she was told. Selfish was what it was. And idiotic.

  And yet to look at Tate now—which is why she’d remained backstage, to watch him—he seemed perfectly fine. Or more than fine. He was doing precisely what he’d been created to do, and he was doing it splendidly.

  Watching the passion with which he conducted—the emotion in his face, his gestures, the intensity in his gaze—drew her to him in a way she couldn’t describe. And didn’t want to explore, much less encourage.

  The musicians responded to him too. Though conductors were famous for being stingy with their praise, and Tate certainly followed in that vein, when the music did please him, when he thought it worthy, his expression conveyed his affirmation in a way words could never capture.

  And as Rebekah watched the musicians watching him, she saw sheer joy reflected in their eyes when their conductor’s merest look conveyed pleasure.

  The opus moved into the second movement, and she listened as the music soared and filled the opera house. Then just as swiftly, the tempo slowed, the notes caressing the listener with tones so sweet and tender, stirring the heart.

  Stirring her heart.

  The second movement concluded on a definitive, resonating chord, and the third began with equal energy, the wayward curl on Tate’s forehead having long since broken free of any attempt to be tamed. Only when the third movement drew to a close and the fourth began did Rebekah notice how her feet ached.

  She shifted her weight from foot to foot. That’s what she got for standing for so long. Having seen a chair on her way in, she tiptoed back toward it but found it occupied by one of the stage workers.

  She swallowed a sigh.

  At least from this perspective she had a better view of the orchestra. And of Tate. She heard one of the trumpets go flat and, at the same time, saw Tate grimace and send the offending horn a withering stare she felt all the way from where she stood. What would it be like to be on the receiving end of such a glare? Unnerving, to say the least.

  But she would risk it, and far more, for the chance to play with a group of musicians like this, to perform in front of such an audience. And to be conducted by a man like Tate. Not that she wanted him to know that.

  With mastery worthy of a maestro twice his age, Tate directed the finale with vigor and precision, and Rebekah stared in slightly begrudging wonder, realizing now that everything the newspaper articles reported about him . . . was true. He really did possess extraordinary talent and musicianship, which he demonstrated yet again in the second half of the concert with Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos Nos. 3 and 4 in G Major.

  The Nashville Philharmonic—comprised of approximately fifty men—wasn’t as large as the one in Vienna. Nor were they all professional musicians, she’d learned. The ad hoc quality of the ensemble bothered Tate, she knew. Yet the sound and energy he drew from the group—that he inspired them to deliver—was astounding, more likely proving a credit to his ability as a conductor than to the musical talent of the orchestra members themselves.

  When the final note from Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 faded, Tate cast a glance over the orchestra, then lowered his arms, and the audience rose in a standing ovation.

  Not looking particularly pleased, though not scowling either, Tate indicated for the orchestra to rise, then he turned, bowed, and succinctly left the stage.

  Rebekah met him as he came around the corner. “Tate, that was—”

  “As though we’d scarcely practiced at all, I know.” The rigid set of his jaw matched the steel of his tone. “It’s a wonder the audience didn’t get up and march out during the second movement. When I turned a moment ago, I fully expected to find half of the seats empty.”

  Rebekah frowned. “I believe you’re being the slightest bit unreasonable. And completely unrealistic. Yes, there was a mistake or two. But the philharmonic was splendid, and you conducted masterfully.”

  “Says someone who knows nothing about conducting.”

  The remark landed like a blow, and Rebekah took a step back.

  As though sensing the wound he’d inflicted, Tate moved toward her.

  But she put up a hand. “Don’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Rebekah. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I—”

  “No. You did mean it.” She looked into his eyes, despising this side of him, and wondering how many people—if any—had ever spoken truth to the man. “You’re an enormously talented conductor, Tate. But what you hoard in talent you sorely lack in perspective and temperament, and in common decency. And, obviously, in respect for others’ opinions.”

  Struck by the magnitude of his perfectionism and stubbornness, she felt her last hope of New York fade to nothing.

  “Forgive me, Rebekah.” He winced and rubbed his temple. “But while I appreciate your opinion of tonight’s performance, it’s my own I must live with.”

  A laugh void of humor slipped past her lips. “Are you listening to yourself? In the same breath, you say you appreciate my opinion while also saying it’s essentially worthless.”

  He glanced at others around them. “May we please continue this conversation somewhere else? Later, and in private?”

  “I doubt we will. But fine.” Rebekah turned to leave.

  “Miss Carrington.”

  Struggling to contain the wave of hurt, she looked back.

  Tate gestured toward the hallway. “Would you please accompany me to the foyer?”

  She blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

  “The philharmonic board and their wives would like
to meet my . . . other assistant. They’ve heard about you, and”—he gave a quick nod to a gentleman standing off to the side watching them—“I told them you would be here.”

  “You told them—” Rebekah clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached.

  “Please, Rebekah.” Tate placed his hand on the small of her back and leaned close. “My head is splitting. Simply do this, and then I’ll take you home.”

  Wanting to tell him he only had himself—and his addiction—to blame for the ache in his head, she finally nodded. “I’ll do it. But I’ll find my own way home.”

  He offered her his arm, and wishing she could wring his neck instead, she accepted.

  Once in the lobby, she spotted Darrow Fulton and two other violinists moving in their general direction, and with nowhere to hide, she braced herself for the encounter, knowing it wouldn’t be pleasant. And with so many other people around.

  “Fulton!” a man called over the buzz of conversation and patrons exiting the hall.

  Darrow turned in the direction of the man’s voice and raised a hand in response, then headed toward the exit where he waited. Rebekah breathed a sigh of relief, at least for the moment.

  As Tate made introductions, she smiled and graciously greeted couple after couple, forgetting their names almost as soon as Tate said them, and knowing she’d never remember all their faces. Except for one couple, and a beautiful young woman standing beside them. Instinctively, she guessed who the young woman was even before Tate made introductions.

  “May I introduce Mr. and Mrs. Harold Endicott”—Tate tilted his head in polite deference—“and their eldest daughter, Miss Caroline Endicott. Likewise, allow me to present Miss Rebekah Carrington.”

  Rebekah curtsied, amazed that Miss Endicott could maintain a smile while shooting such daggers with her eyes. “It’s my honor, Mr. and Mrs. Endicott. Miss Endicott.”

  “The pleasure is ours, I’m sure.” Mrs. Endicott sniffed and turned her head as though catching scent of something foul, while Mr. Endicott reserved his severe countenance for Tate alone.