A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  “See here, Maestro, I trust it’s clear to you that the philharmonic will not be responsible for the cost of this second assistant you’ve seen to—”

  “Rest assured, sir . . . ” Tate angled his body in such a way that Rebekah couldn’t see the other man anymore. But she could still hear their voices. As could others nearby, no doubt. “That fact was made immensely clear.”

  “And, frankly,” Mr. Endicott continued, “considering the board’s generosity in providing an assistant in the first place, we expect you to utilize my daughter’s time in the most productive fashion. And only two mornings a week scarcely seems—”

  “But you’d be amazed, Mr. Endicott, at the amount of productivity in those two mornings.” Tate shook the man’s hand. “Thank you again for coming this evening, sir. And for your generous support of the symphony.”

  With a glare, Mr. Endicott and his wife moved on, while Miss Endicott bypassed Rebekah and went straight for Tate.

  In the space of a curtsy, the young woman reframed her daggers into a blushing smile, while also not so discreetly arranging her bodice to reveal even more décolletage than was already visible. Which was saying something. Rebekah watched the display, partly amazed at the smoothness of the woman’s actions, while also keeping watch on Tate’s line of sight. From her peripheral vision, she noticed other men growing quite still, their attention openly transfixed on Miss Endicott’s plentiful assets. But Tate—

  His gaze never strayed from the young woman’s face.

  “Miss Endicott, so nice to see you and your parents again,” he said. “Thank you for your attendance this evening, and for your continued support of the philharmonic. It’s most appreciated.”

  Miss Endicott toyed with the taut laces of her bodice. “I’m willing to support the symphony in any way you desire, Maestro Whitcomb. As I’ve told you, many times.”

  Rebekah felt her own face grow warm even as her curiosity piqued. She was accustomed to seeing women flock to musicians following concerts in Vienna. She’d simply never been so close to the actual . . . flocking.

  Watching Miss Endicott fawn over Tate, she felt an unsettling twinge of . . . resentment. But when she realized what it was she was truly feeling, she couldn’t decide which was greater—her frustration at her own jealousy, or her sudden desire to slip her hand back into the crook of Tate’s arm just to see how the young woman would react.

  Yet she didn’t dare, not wanting Tate to misconstrue her intention.

  Thankfully, the Endicotts were the last of the board members and their families, and Rebekah moved off to the side as Tate swiftly became engulfed by others seeking an audience with him. No wonder the man thought so highly of his own opinion, with everyone clamoring after him like they did.

  But what was this about the philharmonic not covering her wages any longer? Tate had mentioned a benefactor, and she’d assumed it was the symphony board. Or someone on it. But if no one from the board was paying her, who was? Or worse, what if Tate had lost that funding and simply hadn’t told her yet?

  Worried, weary, and ready for home, she reached down and adjusted her right boot, the soles of her feet starting to throb. She’d opted to walk to and from Belmont more often in recent days and was paying for it now.

  She searched the dispersing crowd for Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham but didn’t see them anywhere. Adelicia had mentioned there was a chance they might not make it to the performance tonight. Rebekah sighed. So much for asking the couple for a ride home.

  “Rebekah, my dear girl. . . . What a surprise!”

  Hot prickles needled up Rebekah’s spine. She slowly lifted her gaze, already detecting the sickly scent of cherry laurel.

  “Barton,” she whispered. “W-what are you doing here?”

  He smiled and took hold of her fingertips, then pressed an overly warm—and lingering—kiss to the back of her hand. Her skin crawled, and she quickly drew her hand away.

  “I’m here attending the symphony, of course. As are you, I see.”

  His gaze shot to Tate, then back again. But Rebekah was already looking past him for her mother.

  “Is Mother here with you?”

  “You know better than that, Rebekah.” Barton smiled, his gaze leisurely moving over her. “Your mother doesn’t care for the symphony, nor does she prefer venturing out on such cold evenings.”

  “So you’re here alone?”

  Again, he smiled, a gesture that would’ve seemed innocent on anyone else. But on him, it looked vulgar. “At least I can tell your mother with whom you’re keeping company these days. Since you obviously don’t care enough to inform her yourself.”

  Rebekah knew better than to be drawn into an argument with him. Still, it was hard not to defend her actions.

  “Miss Carrington?”

  She turned to see Tate beside her and panicked as two very separate worlds were set to collide.

  “Maestro Whitcomb.” Barton Ledbetter extended a hand. “May I say what an excellent performance you conducted this evening. Magnificent in every way.”

  Tate inclined his head. “Your praise is appreciated, sir.”

  Rebekah felt both men watching her.

  “Rebekah, dear.” Barton raised an eyebrow. “Won’t you please introduce me?”

  Knowing it was wrong to hate someone, yet unable to equate her present emotion with anything other than hatred, Rebekah acquiesced. “Barton Ledbetter, may I introduce Maestro Nathaniel Tate Whitcomb. Maestro, Barton Ledbetter.”

  “Mr. Ledbetter. A pleasure.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Maestro.” Barton shot Rebekah a look. “May I ask, Maestro . . . Precisely how is it you know my daughter?”

  “Your . . . daughter?” Surprise thickened Tate’s voice.

  “Stepdaughter,” Rebekah corrected, feeling Tate’s attention. “Maestro Whitcomb and I know one another because I work here. In the symphony offices.”

  “Ah . . .” Barton nodded, looking between them as though having heard something more than what she’d said. “Well, it’s good to finally know where you’re working, at least. I’ll be sure to tell your mother. She worries about you so, Rebekah. It hurts her that you visit so infrequently.”

  Rebekah narrowed her eyes. “I bid you good evening, Barton.”

  The man hesitated, then bowed, the gesture looking foolish on him. “Good evening, my dear. Maestro.”

  Feeling sick to her stomach and eager to wash the scent of cherry laurel from her hands, Rebekah watched Barton exit the door, a rush of cold wind entering as he did. He joined a group of men waiting outside, and she could hear their laughter as they walked away.

  “Rebekah?”

  The way Tate spoke her name, softly, and with a question wrapped around it, made her wish she was already back at Belmont and safely in her room. “My father died when I was twelve,” she whispered so only he could hear. “My mother was grief stricken, as was I. But . . . she apparently couldn’t cope with the pain and loneliness. So five months later, she married him.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  “It must have been difficult to see someone else take your father’s place.”

  “That man will never take my father’s place.”

  “No, of course not. I didn’t mean to insinuate that—”

  “If we’re finished here for the evening, Tate, I’ll take my leave.”

  He held her gaze. “Certainly. I’ll call for the carriage.”

  “No need. I’ll arrange for my own transportation.”

  “No, I’ll take you home as I said.”

  “Thank you, Tate, but—”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He strode to the front door and stepped out. A waiting carriage pulled forward. Rebekah shook her head. The man scarcely had a need before it was already met.

  Tate returned. “Did you wear your cloak this evening?”

  Remembering, she glanced behind them. “I left it in your—”

  “I’ll fetch it. Again, wait here
for me. Please,” he added, as though sensing her frustration.

  Feeling ordered about and resenting it, yet not wishing to walk for blocks looking for a carriage willing to travel all the way to Belmont and back to town, she did as he said.

  He returned moments later, helped her into her cloak, then assisted her into the carriage. The compartment, luxuriously furnished and smelling of fresh cedar, provided shelter from the wind. But still, the air was frigid. Her breath puffed white, and she pulled her cloak about herself and kept her gaze confined to the window.

  He claimed the opposite bench, his long legs taking up more than a passenger’s fair share, and she angled hers so as not to touch him.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes, but she sensed the tension coming from him. It was his own fault, though, his addiction to laudanum. So she felt no pity.

  They rode in silence, and at times, she sensed him watching her in the darkness. She wanted to ask him about the money. If he couldn’t pay her, she deserved to know. But she hadn’t even earned a full month’s salary yet. So how could she? Yet how could she not? She needed to be earning.

  Only after they reached the turnoff to Belmont did he rouse fully. He leaned forward and angled his head from side to side, a gesture with which she was becoming familiar.

  The carriage stopped in front of the mansion, a soft glow illuminating the multicolored glass of the foyer sidelights, and she reached for the door latch. But he beat her to it.

  “Rebekah . . .”

  How was it he could say her name and something inside her went soft?

  “You’re right. I can oftentimes lose perspective when it comes to the caliber of my orchestra. And my temperament can, on occasion, be . . . mercurial. My expectations of my musicians and of myself are enormous. And while I won’t apologize for that, I do apologize for speaking to you in such a cavalier manner tonight. It was my own frustration with myself that fueled what I said to you . . . Words I should never have spoken. And while you are correct, again, in saying that I don’t give much weight to others’ opinions, I do, however, hold yours in the highest regard.”

  Though darkness hid the precise definition of his features, the sincerity of his tone tempted Rebekah to believe him. Even more, she found herself wanting to believe him. “I wish you could hear the music as others heard it tonight. As I heard it. It was . . . magical, Tate. Transforming, luminescent.”

  He said nothing for a moment, then sighed. “I appreciate that. But it could have been better.”

  She stared at him, sensing him doing the same to her, and the shadows in the carriage seemed to grow deeper. Finally, he opened the door, exited, and took her hand as she descended. His own hand was large and warm and strong, yet capable of such demonstrative grace, as she’d witnessed earlier that evening.

  He walked her to the door, then reached into his pocket and pressed a tiny velvet drawstring bag into the palm of her hand. “Here’s your first month’s salary.”

  Her hand closed around it. “But I’ve only worked—”

  “I know. But I’m also aware that I frustrate you. Greatly, at times. And I want you to keep coming back, Rebekah. I need you to keep coming back.”

  “So by your reasoning, if you pay me in advance, you think I’ll feel obligated to return.”

  “You’re a woman of integrity. If I pay you, I know you’ll return.”

  She stared at the velvet bag in her hand. “I overheard what Mr. Endicott said to you tonight. That the symphony isn’t willing to pay my wages.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Another benefactor has guaranteed your wages.”

  “May I ask who that is?”

  “You may. But I’m not at liberty to say.”

  She eyed him. “This is a lot of money, Tate. For which I’m grateful. But are you certain that—”

  “Don’t worry about your wages, Rebekah. They’re guaranteed. I give you my word.”

  He bowed and waited as she opened the door. She stepped inside, the foyer dark except for a single lamp burning on a side table.

  He returned to the carriage, and Rebekah pushed the door almost closed, still watching him, feeling admiration and a smidgen of—though she was loath to admit it—sympathy for the man.

  She watched the carriage until it disappeared from sight.

  Bone weary, she hurried through her nightly rituals and was asleep almost as soon as she laid her head on the pillow.

  Sometime during the night, a persistent knocking awakened her, and she sat up, her thoughts foggy, the room cold. The knocking grew more insistent, and she fumbled for her robe, managing to slip it on as she reached the door.

  She turned the latch and found herself squinting into lamplight.

  “Hurry and come quick, Miss Rebekah. It’s Missus Cheatham. She’s hurtin’ somethin’ fierce!”

  18

  Rebekah followed Cordina across the darkened grand salon to the staircase, the chill in her own bedroom nothing compared to the cold in this part of the house. “Is it the neuralgia, Cordina?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Cordina glanced back. “And it’s painin’ her bad. It come up right before dinner. And she’d planned on goin’ to that opera house tonight. I told her I’d send to town for the doctor, but she won’t have it. I made her some tea, but she ain’t drinkin’. And I’m not knowin’ what else to do. You said your mama suffers from it, so I’s thinkin’ you might could help.”

  Not certain she could, Rebekah hurried to keep up. “Isn’t Dr. Cheatham home?”

  “No, ma’am. He left early this mornin’. Missus Cheatham, she supposed to meet him in Murfreesboro tomorrow with the children. But I ain’t sure that’s happenin’ now.”

  Cordina held the oil lamp aloft as they ascended the stairs, and the shadows scattered before them. But with renewed bravado, they swiftly returned and enveloped the staircase below. Silver-spun moonlight filtered through rectangular windows spanning the length of the second-floor landing, and a ghostly light painted the gallery setting, reminding Rebekah of the night she’d played the Stradivarius.

  Cordina paused beside Mrs. Cheatham’s closed bedroom door. “I already give her a powder about half past one. It helped for a time, but now the achin’s back. Worse than before, she says.” Cordina set the lamp on a table in the hallway. “The light hurts her eyes,” she whispered as she turned the knob.

  Darkness blanketed the bedroom, its only contender a low-burning fire banked in the hearth. The embers glowed white-hot, and Rebekah quickly closed the door behind them to sequester the warmth.

  “Missus Cheatham?” Cordina whispered. “I got Miss Rebekah here with me, ma’am.”

  Rebekah moved around to the other side of the bed, feeling awkward about entering her employer’s bedchamber without a proper summons, yet wanting to help, if she could.

  “Miss Carrington” came a surprisingly weak whisper. “I’m sorry my troubles . . . have become a bother to you.”

  Rebekah leaned closer, taken aback by how much smaller and less intimidating this strikingly impressive woman seemed in this setting and circumstance. “It’s no bother, Mrs. Cheatham. Is there anything I can get—or do—for you, to help relieve the pain?”

  “I assure you”—a long sigh—“if there were, I would not hesitate to command it of you, Miss Carrington. No matter the hour.”

  Rebekah couldn’t help but smile. This was the woman she knew and had swiftly grown to respect.

  “I done tried rubbin’ her head earlier, but that ain’t helpin’,” Cordina whispered, gently smoothing the covers on the bed.

  “Have you tried drinking a little wine, Mrs. Cheatham?” Rebekah couldn’t remember ever having seen the woman partake, but she did remember that her own grandmother, God rest her, sipped muscadine wine, on occasion, when she had an especially bad headache.

  “No,” Mrs. Cheatham said softly, yet with a definitive note. “I have not. But I certainly will . . . if you think it might help.”

  Cordina was out of the room before Mrs
. Cheatham even finished the sentence. Eyes closed, Mrs. Cheatham never moved her head—or anything else—in acknowledgment of Cordina’s response. She lay perfectly still.

  Not knowing what else to do, Rebekah did know better than to talk.

  She moved to sit in a chair off to the side when she noticed an open door leading to another room. Curiosity trumped her better judgment, and she peered around the corner.

  It was another bedroom, smaller, and decorated in a more masculine feel than the bedroom in which she now stood. In the space of a second, her thoughts leaped ahead. Did Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham not share a bed? Though she was hardly an expert on the subject, she knew there were couples who didn’t share a bed. Or a bedroom, for that matter. And though she didn’t care to dwell on the whys behind their reasoning, she found it sad and rather counterproductive to the whole theme of matrimony.

  Or at least what she perceived it to be.

  But one thing was certain. . . . When she married—if she ever married—she wanted to share her husband’s bed. She wanted to share everything.

  She glanced back at the bed to make sure Mrs. Cheatham wasn’t watching her. She wasn’t. Nor had she moved.

  Rebekah yawned and pulled the collar of her robe closer around her throat, reminded of her early days in Vienna. She had awakened about this time nearly every night, her hands cramping due to having practiced the violin for upwards of six hours a day—a nonnegotiable demand from the Viennese tutor Nana had miraculously procured. But besides her hands hurting, her heart had ached for home. And for her grandmother, after Nana had returned home to Nashville.

  Sally had risen with her during those early hours and would rub her hands and forearms, gently kneading out the kinks and soreness, and singing to her in that deep, soulful voice until the aches in Rebekah’s hands—and in her heart—eventually subsided so she could gradually find sleep again.

  Sally’s mother had been a healer and, like her mother, had long held to the axiom that the head, hands, and heart were somehow connected. And that in massaging the hands, the soothing of those muscles encouraged the heart and mind to let loose of their worries. What a gift those middle-of-the-night moments had been.