A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  “I looked all over Nashville and couldn’t find the ones I wanted. But a lady who lives there gave me the name of a jeweler in New York, and he made them special to order. They have mother-of-pearl handles just like Pa’s.”

  “Thank you, Witty.” Emil grabbed him in a hug, as did Rufus and Benjamin in turn.

  But watching Tate, Rebekah knew he was getting far more pleasure from the giving than they were in the receiving, which was saying a great deal. And once again, she glimpsed a side of this man she hadn’t seen before.

  “Last but not least . . . ” Tate reached into his bag and felt around. Then his expression went slack. “I must’ve forgotten yours, little one.”

  Opal giggled, and Rebekah quickly gathered that this was part of the fun.

  “Oh, wait . . . Here it is!” Tate’s smile slid back into place. He handed Opal a small gold box. “I saw this and thought you’d like it.”

  Her eyes sparkling, she hugged his waist tight.

  Benjamin shook his head, grinning. “Hold on, bean sprout. Ya don’t even know what it be yet. Ya might not like it.”

  Everyone laughed again, then Opal slowly lifted the lid from the box.

  Her delicate chin began to quiver. “Oh, Witty . . . it’s the purtiest thing I ever seen.”

  Rebekah peered over, and felt her own heart do a little pitter-patter. An opal pendant set in gold—the gemstone sparkling blue-and-green fire—threaded on a delicate gold chain.

  “You bein’ too good to us, son,” Cattabelle whispered.

  Tate looked at his mother, then at the rest of his family. “That’s simply not possible, Mama.”

  Rebekah drank in the scene as everyone commented back and forth on what the other had gotten, when she heard Tate whisper her name. She looked over.

  He wore a sheepish grin. “Sorry I don’t have anything to give you.”

  Wanting to tell him how much this evening had meant to her, or better yet, wishing he would take her in his arms and kiss her the way she wanted him to do in that moment, she smiled. “You have already given me something, Tate. And it’s more precious than you can imagine.”

  The look in his eyes set something aflame inside her, and her face grew warm with the heat of it.

  “Time for beddin’ down,” Cattabelle announced, and Rebekah caught a flicker of mischief in Tate’s expression before she quickly looked away.

  She checked the clock on the mantel, not surprised to see it was nearing two o’clock in the morning. Her gaze drifted to the beds lined up against the wall, and as good as they looked, she wondered exactly what the sleeping arrangements would be. She’d never slept in the same room as a man before.

  But she had a feeling she was about to.

  23

  What be your front name?” Opal whispered in the dark.

  Rebekah smiled and told her. “And you’re welcome to call me by my front name, if you want to.”

  “I’m wantin’ to.”

  “All right then. Rebekah it is.”

  Opal giggled. “I like ya bein’ here.”

  “I like being here too,” Rebekah whispered, wondering if they were keeping the others awake. But the soft snores from nearby beds told her that was unlikely. Except for the silence coming from the sofa—where Tate was sleeping.

  “You’re right high-stocked with brains, hain’t ya, Rebekah? Just like Witty be.”

  Charmed by how the girl phrased things, Rebekah also heard a note of uncertainty, and longing in her voice. “Your oldest brother’s very smart, yes. But you are too, Opal. I heard you tonight, singing and telling stories with your songs. And the questions you asked at dinner, about Nashville, about life outside of Chicory Hollow . . . I think asking questions is a large part of becoming ‘high-stocked in brains,’ as you say. I’ve learned so much from asking questions. So . . . you’re already well on your way.”

  Opal let out a satisfied sigh, and Rebekah reached over and gave the girl’s arm a squeeze.

  Moments passed, and the ticktock of the clock on the mantel counted off the seconds, and Rebekah wondered if she’d ever get to sleep.

  “My feet are cold. What about your’n?”

  “Mine are too,” Rebekah whispered, feeling the cold air seep in around the edges of the loose-fitting window by her head. Her fingers and toes were like ice, despite having worn her stockings to bed.

  When Cattabelle learned she hadn’t brought a “go-away” satchel with her, the woman had kindly offered the loan of her flannel nightgown. But Rebekah, fearing it might be the only one the woman owned, had politely declined. But when Cattabelle insisted—and after catching Tate’s urging nod—Rebekah had accepted.

  The gown hit her about knee length, but she was grateful. Even if she was about to freeze to death.

  She smiled to herself, picturing how Cattabelle had ordered “the boys” onto the porch while she readied for bed. Rebekah had changed swiftly. First, because she was chilled to the bone. And second, because no curtains draped any of the windows. Only once she was abed did Cattabelle allow her sons entry again.

  Opal stirred beside her. “Do you favor spoonin’?” she whispered, her tone tentative.

  It took Rebekah a minute to comprehend what the little girl was asking, but when she did, she smiled again. “I certainly do,” she said softly. “Do you?”

  Not bothering to voice a response, Opal scooted over, giggling as she did, and curled up against Rebekah. Rebekah pulled the girl close, tucking the covers around them both.

  Opal whispered, “Mama said I’d best not ask ’bout spoonin’ ’cuz she hain’t sure about level landers. So I’d be much obliged if ya didn’t go tattlin’ on me.”

  “Not to worry. It’ll be our secret.”

  Opal snuggled closer. “Night, Rebekah.”

  Rebekah kissed the crown of the girl’s head. “Good night, Opal.”

  Within minutes, the child’s soft, even breaths told Rebekah she’d drifted off. But even being bone weary herself, sleep still felt far, far away.

  The room was quiet, save for the continued snores, the creak of snow-laden branches outside, and the gurgling of a nearby stream under its blanket of ice. Finally starting to get warm, she yawned and closed her eyes, doing her best to lure sleep nearer.

  Her thoughts turned to Nashville and she hoped the telegram had been delivered to Belmont as she’d requested. She didn’t want anyone worrying about her. Even though she was only four or so hours from Nashville, she couldn’t escape the feeling of being another world away.

  Here, in this cabin, it was still the eighteenth century, a world frozen in time, a hundred years behind the rest of civilization. And this was Tate’s home, as fantastic and unbelievable as that fact was.

  Lying there in bed, thinking about him and about the evening she’d spent with his family—even after all the regret she’d experienced over having boarded that train—she couldn’t fathom not being here. Not knowing about this side of his life. Even more, she couldn’t imagine not knowing him.

  And not having him in her life. . . .

  Rebekah awakened some time later, warm in her cocoon, thanks to spooning with Opal, who didn’t appear to have even moved. Unable to see the clock on the mantel in the dark, Rebekah slowly raised her head to peer outside. She didn’t want to waken the child. Or anyone else.

  Nighttime still ruled beyond the window, but the faintest cheery-morning twitter of a bird gave hint that dawn was on its way. The fire in the hearth burned low, the embers glowing white and red, and Rebekah thought she caught a whiff of coffee but quickly decided it was only her wish for it instead.

  A stirring from the direction of the sofa drew her attention, and she stilled. “Tate?” she asked softly. “Are you awake?”

  “Yes” came back the definitive whisper.

  So definitive, she got tickled and was afraid she might awaken Opal. But the child slept on. Rebekah raised her head again and saw the outline of Tate’s form. He was sitting up.

  She kept her vo
ice low. “Can you not sleep?”

  “I did for a while, finally. Then I woke up and couldn’t go back. Want some coffee?”

  “So I did smell coffee. I’d love some. Thank you.”

  He rose, crossed to the cupboard, then to the hearth, then . . . returned to the sofa?

  She eyed his silhouette. “You’re going to make me get out of bed?”

  “Only if you want coffee.”

  Hearing unmistakable teasing in his voice, she also sensed challenge, yet was a little confused. “Tate . . . I’m not properly—”

  He stood again, and she smiled smugly—right before he tossed a blanket toward her. It landed on the foot of her bed. This time, she felt an indisputable dare.

  She stared at the blanket, then at him, then slipped from bed, tucked the covers back around Opal, and draped the blanket around her shoulders. After all, she was wearing his mother’s flannel gown, which left everything and more to the imagination.

  She moved to join him on the sofa, but a soreness in her calves and leg muscles from trekking up the mountain made the effort almost painful. She ran her fingers through her hair, doing her best to make it presentable. She sat beside him—though not too close beside him—and covered her feet before the chill could set in, then wrapped her hands around the mug he offered.

  She shivered in response to the warmth and drank, relishing the heat and strength of the brew. “This coffee could have served itself.”

  He laughed. “Everyone’s a critic.”

  She smiled and took another sip. “It really is good. But how did you get up and make it without me hearing you?”

  “I typically wake up early, so I get everything ready the night before. All I have to do is slip the pot over the fire and add the grounds.”

  She studied him over the steaming cup, his face cast in shadow. “You have trouble sleeping at home too?”

  He shrugged. “On occasion.” Then he sighed. “Too often, I’m afraid.”

  “Thinking of the symphony?”

  “Thinking of everything,” he whispered.

  The melancholy in his voice tugged at her. “Anything I can do to help?”

  He turned and looked at her. “You already did.”

  Despite the soft snoring of his brothers across the room, and Opal asleep nearby, Rebekah suddenly felt as if they were very much alone. They’d been alone before. Often. In his office. In a carriage. But this felt different. They felt different.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” His voice was soft. His tone, honest. “Which is saying a lot, compared to how I felt when I first saw you in the woods. Or . . . heard you.”

  “You were angry with me. And with reason. But those men—Virgil and . . . ” She couldn’t remember the other’s name.

  “Banty.” Tate shook his head. “The younger of the Slokum brothers . . . You know why he’s named that, don’t you?”

  She waited.

  “It’s the way he laughs. He cackles like an old banty hen. Has for as long as I can remember.”

  Recalling that sound, Rebekah cringed a little, remembering what had happened. “Well, the name certainly fits.”

  As they sipped their coffee, the room, the cabin, being in these mountains, still felt so surreal.

  “You worry about your brothers working in the mines.”

  “I do. But with my father sick, and with the future so unknown, plus with Emil getting married . . . they need to work. We had the hog killing just before Christmas. That brought in a good amount. And come spring, they’ll have some crops again and the honey to sell. The symphony pays me well and my needs are few, so I help as much as I can.”

  Rebekah knew he helped far more than he let on, and in more ways than with money alone.

  A soft groan came from the next room, followed by Tate’s mother murmuring words of comfort that Rebekah couldn’t make out, but she sensed the tenderness and love in them all the same.

  “Thank you, Rebekah, for accepting my family the way you have.”

  “They’re wonderful, Tate. All of them. I’ve enjoyed every minute.”

  “Even the squirrel stew?”

  She rethought her declaration. “Almost every minute.”

  The first wink of dawn shone through the bare window, and she could see his face—and the way he was looking at her.

  He set his cup aside. “Thank you, too, for caring enough to follow me yesterday. That means a great deal.”

  She gave a nod. “You’re most welcome.”

  But a twinge of discomfort needled at her. And she realized why. Because she knew the real reason she’d boarded that train in Nashville. Yes, she’d been concerned about him, but she’d been more concerned about New York.

  “Although,” he continued, “next time, you could save a lot of effort by simply asking if the medicine you find hidden in my cabinet is mine or not.”

  “Yes, that would be easier.” She attempted a playful tone but didn’t quite manage it.

  He reached over and covered her hand on the sofa between them, and though it was a moment she would’ve more than welcomed hours earlier, the discomfort inside her only deepened.

  “Tate,” she began. But he wove his fingers through hers, and all desire to tell him the truth fled, replaced by another, much stronger, longing.

  “I haven’t told you what a help you’re being to me in writing this symphony. I never thought actually collaborating with someone on this would work, much less be something I would choose to do. You keep surprising me, Rebekah Carrington.” He reached up and fingered a curl on her shoulder. “And I’m not easily surprised.”

  She tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t. Which was just as well, because her heart was in her throat. He leaned closer, and she could all but feel his lips on hers, his hand cupping the side of her face as he—

  A loud snore erupted from the other side of the room.

  Rebekah jumped and quickly put distance between them, thinking that one of his brothers was playing a trick on them, and perhaps had even been watching. The very thought made her go hot and cold. But Tate only laughed.

  “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “They’re still asleep, I assure you. If they weren’t, we would’ve already heard from them. They’re not the least bit shy in that regard—as you’ve already seen.”

  “Yes,” she smiled, feeling a little foolish, and embarrassed. “I learned that early on. But they’re nice, not to mention talented. And they certainly seem to think a lot of you.”

  “As I do them.”

  He leaned back and rested his head on the back of the sofa, and she did the same. They stared out the window, watching the distant horizon gradually move from dark gray to purple, splashed with hints of pink and gold.

  “There’s a saying around here,” he whispered. “‘Never move so far away that you can’t see the smoke from your parents’ chimney.’”

  As if on cue, the fire in the hearth crackled and popped, and sparks drifted upward as wood succumbed to flame.

  “But you did. Move far away.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “How did you ever come to leave Chicory Hollow?”

  He looked over at her. “What you’re really wondering is how does a boy born here, in this place, end up becoming a conductor for a symphony? Even a newly formed one.”

  She found herself unable to argue.

  “It’s simple, really. It’s all due to my father, who shared his love of music with me and taught me how to play the violin and piano. And to a missionary by the name of Jacob Marshall. On one of Mr. Marshall’s early trips into the mountains, he heard me play the piano in church. We never had one at the house, of course. But the church I grew up in did, and I started playing at a very young age.”

  She didn’t know why, but she hadn’t figured him for a boy who’d grown up going to church. Or at least, she wouldn’t have before last night.

  “I was fourteen when Mr. Marshall met with my parents about me going away. He’d been visiting Chicor
y Hollow for several years, so they knew and trusted him. He said he’d recognized my talent early on and had spoken with a wealthy benefactor who had no children and who was eager to support ‘a poor but promising young musician.’ I was the same age as Benjamin is now.”

  “That’s when you left here?”

  He nodded. “I came home every chance I could. At first. Then as the years passed, as school and schedules grew more demanding, the trips got less frequent. Until about five months ago.”

  Instinctively, she knew. “When your father became ill.”

  He nodded. “I’ve made it home at least once a month since, sometimes twice. Before coming to Nashville, I had several offers to consider. I chose this one because it is closer to home.”

  Suddenly, it all made sense to her. “The weekends, and guest conducting. But you weren’t guest conducting, were you?”

  “I have actually guest conducted a few weekends, but as for the others . . . Well, if conducting my family counts, it wasn’t exactly a lie.” He sighed and gave her a look that said he hoped she would understand. “You know the world of orchestras, and how these things work. I could scarcely tell Mrs. Cheatham that I was traveling to Chicory Hollow to see my family, could I?”

  She studied his features, the fine crisscross of lines at the corners of his eyes. “It’s not right, Tate . . . how things work, as you said. But no, you couldn’t.”

  “Mr. Frederick Mason, my benefactor, died nearly five years ago. And Jacob Marshall, the missionary, passed on soon after. They were the only ones, besides my phonetics professor”—he laughed softly—“who knew where I really hailed from. And that professor is gone now too.”

  “Which made it easy to pretend.”

  “It was never easy, Rebekah. It’s still not.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  He took hold of her hand again. “It’s all right. I know what you meant. I just want you to know it hasn’t been easy . . . pretending to be someone I’m not, in that regard, while also trying to live up to people’s expectations. Especially when those people are greatly responsible for my being where I am, for my having the success that I do. It’s almost impossible for people to see the truth—much less embrace it—when they’re so intent on the truth looking and behaving a certain way.”