A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  Not when she was the reason he was about to achieve his.

  They’d finished the third movement of the symphony, and he knew the accomplishment was largely due to her. She helped him in ways she didn’t even realize. Through hours and hours of transcription, and by playing back what he’d written, letting him hear how the music flowed—or didn’t. And her suggestions were always on the mark. Her years of study in Vienna had served her well.

  But even more than benefitting from her talent, he found her mere presence calming, reassuring. Having her in his life made him feel less alone as he faced a future that once held such undisputed promise, a future he’d never questioned being able to attain. He was Maestro Nathaniel Tate Whitcomb, after all. One of the most prominent conductors in the United States.

  A rueful smile tipped his mouth. One of the most prominent conductors in the United States—who might well be going deaf.

  He hadn’t said anything to her about it yet. But recalling what she’d said to him a while back, he wondered if she might suspect. “I do think that, at times, you could listen more carefully.” But she wasn’t one to hold back. If she suspected, she would ask him.

  She sat straighter on the bench, stretching her back, and her womanly curves drew his eye with little coaxing. He loved seeing the pout in her lower lip as she looked at the music on the stand, then at the stack yet remaining to be transcribed. Then, as always, she refocused her attention and returned to the task.

  Likewise, he stared at the empty page of sheet music on his desk. He’d had a headache earlier that morning, less aching in his temples this time and more ringing in his ears. And he still felt as though he were hearing through a tunnel.

  No word yet from Dr. Hamilton. But it had only been a little over two weeks. Tate told himself that the longer it took to hear back from the man, the better. But deep inside, another voice whispered something far different.

  Suddenly needing to move, to get out of this office for a while, he had an idea and rose from his desk. His chair creaked loudly as he did, but Rebekah didn’t look back.

  Sometimes, like now, she became so engulfed in the music that she seemed to forget he was even here. He walked up behind her and gently touched her arm. She nearly came off the bench.

  “Tate!” She peered up at him. “You scared me to death!”

  “I’m sorry.” He laughed, finding her reaction comical.

  “You don’t sound sorry.” She gave him a dark look, but her smile shone through and told him he was forgiven.

  “Could I tempt you to quit for the day? Or at least, for a while?”

  “But it’s only”—she checked the clock on the shelf—“half past three.”

  “I know, but it’s a beautiful day. I need to get out . . . and I want you to come with me. There’s something I’d like to show you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Does it involve rubbing your shoulders or making buttermilk spice muffins?”

  He laughed. “Are you ever going to let me live that down?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m not.”

  “All right then. Good to know where I stand.”

  She stretched her shoulders. “Does this outing involve stopping by a bakery for a doughnut?”

  He frowned. “A doughnut?”

  “I was speaking with Mrs. Cheatham’s niece, Eleanor, yesterday, and she told me about a bakery here in town that makes the best doughnuts she’s ever had. And I love doughnuts.”

  A while later, on a mission, they located the recommended bakery, and Tate ordered four doughnuts, along with two coffees. Amidst the aroma of freshly baked bread and the thrum of conversation, they ate them at a table by the window.

  The laughter of a little girl drew his attention, and he looked at what appeared to be a mother and daughter seated near them. The child’s gaze was centered on a doughnut on a small plate before her, and her high-pitched giggle was almost contagious. Was it really possible that a day might come when he couldn’t hear that simplest of sounds?

  The jingle of a bell sounded on the door as people came and went, and the rumble of carriages and wagons slipped inside from the street each time they did. Dr. Hamilton was right. Only when one of the senses was impinged upon did a person realize how precious a gift that sense truly was.

  He only hoped he wouldn’t have to learn that lesson firsthand.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  Rebekah’s voice broke through his reverie from across the table, and the light in her eyes, in her smile, somehow eased the heaviness in his heart. But it was her voice—the lilt of it, its warmth—that he found himself wanting to memorize and never forget.

  “I was thinking of how beautiful you are, Rebekah Carrington, and of how grateful I am that you came out with me today” was what he wanted to say . . . but didn’t. “I’m thinking we need to be on our way.”

  Once outside, he started to offer his arm. Then it occurred to him that if they were seen this way together, people might begin to talk. He didn’t care about it for himself, but he did for her.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, walking beside him.

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Conversation came easily, and when they’d nearly reached their destination, she turned to him. “Oh! I know where you’re taking me! I’ve seen the outside but not inside. It looks like something straight from Vienna!”

  He smiled. “It seems only right that with all the work you do for me, and for the symphony, you deserved to see the interior before the general public does.”

  They turned the corner and the new opera house came into view. While the exterior of the structure was impressive with its stone archways and Palladian windows, it was the interior of the building that he considered a true work of art.

  They entered via a side door, the front doors still locked to discourage curious passersby. Rebekah’s mouth slipped open as they wound their way to the front of the opera house.

  Tate spotted Marcus Geoffrey, the Austrian architect, across the marble-tiled foyer, and waved him down.

  Geoffrey’s handshake was firm. “Good to see you again, Maestro.”

  “Mr. Geoffrey.” Tate gestured beside him, knowing Rebekah would enjoy meeting this man and hearing the hint of Austria in his voice. “I’ve brought my assistant with me today. May I present Miss Rebekah Carrington.”

  Rebekah curtsied. “Mr. Geoffrey. It’s an honor.”

  “The honor is mine, Miss Carrington. But I feel as though I already know you. Mrs. Cheatham, my wife’s aunt, speaks very highly of you, ma’am. And that doesn’t happen with everyone, I assure you.”

  Rebekah laughed. “Thank you. That means a great deal. Please pass along to Eleanor that we found the doughnut shop she recommended. And her counsel was excellent.”

  Geoffrey smiled. “Ah . . . Mr. Fitch’s. I buy the man’s pastries by the dozens. I don’t think this building would be standing now without them. The crew has come to expect his doughnuts almost every morning.”

  “Would you mind, Mr. Geoffrey, if I give Miss Carrington the nickel tour?”

  “Not at all. But if you want the quarter tour, I have a few moments and would be happy to show you around myself. We completed the stage area yesterday, and I’m eager for you to see it, Maestro.”

  Tate gestured. “Lead the way!”

  Tate savored Rebekah’s excitement as Marcus Geoffrey showed them first the foyer with the grand staircase, then the side halls, and finally the stage area and auditorium. It made him feel as though he were seeing it all again for the first time.

  A break came in the conversation, and Tate took advantage. “Mr. Geoffrey assumed management of this project after the original architect was . . . relieved of his duties. And what was once a ‘functional but rather sterile building project,’ in Mrs. Cheatham’s words, now has the appearance of something plucked from the streets of Vienna.”

  “Oh yes . . .” Rebekah nodded, her head tipped back. “You’ve replicated the Vienna
Baroque style in such an exquisite manner. And the frescos on the ceiling. Beyond beautiful!”

  “Mr. Geoffrey,” Tate interjected, “Miss Carrington actually lived in Vienna for several years.”

  Marcus Geoffrey stopped in his tracks. “You lived in my homeland?”

  “I did.” Rebekah tipped her head back as she took in the vastness of the auditorium. “I lived not far from the Schönbrunn Palace, the summer residence of the Habsburg monarchy.”

  “The . . . Schönbrunn Palace,” Geoffrey repeated, looking a bit flustered.

  If Tate didn’t know better, he would think Rebekah had alarmed the man.

  “But, of course,” she continued, her voice turning a touch dramatic. “I was never invited to said palace. So, alas . . . I have yet to meet any of the illustrious Habsburgs.”

  Marcus Geoffrey laughed. “Well, I hear it’s not nearly as exciting as one might imagine.”

  They laughed along with him, and then Geoffrey continued the tour. Eventually, he led them onto the stage, where they stood facing the seats.

  “As some say,” Geoffrey continued, “this is the best seat in the house.”

  “Oh,” Rebekah whispered. “It’s so beautiful. My deepest gratitude, Mr. Geoffrey, for building such a magnificent venue in which to showcase music in this city. And my congratulations to you and your workers. You truly have brought the timeless beauty of Austria, of Europe, to Nashville.”

  Tate estimated that roughly half of the opera house’s almost four hundred and fifty gas lamps—which Geoffrey had told him earlier—illuminated the horseshoe-shaped auditorium, and their golden glow cast a softness over everything within reach. Tate’s gaze drifted over the sea of empty burgundy seats to the luxury promenade seating, and up to the balconies, tiered four high, all draped in shades of burgundy and gold.

  One thousand six hundred and thirty-six seats in all, Geoffrey had told him.

  Tate walked to the area on the stage where he imagined he would stand when conducting, and he could see, in his mind’s eye, each section of the orchestra—the instrument he played. First and second violins seated on his left. Oboes, clarinets, bassoons, and flutes directly before him. Violas to his right, flanked by the cellos. And behind the cellos, from right, curving back to left, the basses, tubas, trombones, trumpets, the hauntingly beautiful French horns, the majestic timpani, percussion, harp, and finally, the piano, nestled behind the first violins. He could see all of the faces behind the instruments as well.

  But mostly, he could hear each section, the rise and fall of each sound created as they joined together and became the music comprising the first movement of his symphony, then the second, and third.

  “The seating in the auditorium is slightly inclined, Miss Carrington,” Geoffrey explained behind him, “to ensure optimal visibility from all seats. In similar fashion, the stage walls slope slightly inward to help focus the sound toward the main house. Be careful what you say up here, because the acoustics are quite good. The auditorium’s horseshoe design allows even a whisper-low tone of voice from the stage to be heard in any part of the hall.”

  “Truly amazing.” Rebekah’s tone mirrored her admiration. “I especially love the balconies.”

  “We intentionally designed them to be shallow,” Geoffrey continued, “to avoid trapping or muffling the sound. The coffered ceiling and statue-filled niches—the statues chosen and purchased by our lovely Mrs. Cheatham, of course—also help provide excellent acoustics.” Geoffrey gave a seemingly satisfied, if not reflective sigh. “I’ve only been working on this building for roughly two years now. But in a way, I’ve been working on it all my life.”

  The last comment brought Tate back around. That was a sentiment he could echo himself.

  “The grand opening will be here before we know it, Maestro Whitcomb.” Geoffrey nodded his way. “But no cause for worry. The opera house will be ready come May! A month earlier than planned.”

  Tate forced an excitement he didn’t fully feel. “Yes, that’s a night we’re all looking forward to, Mr. Geoffrey.”

  Tate caught the discreet look Rebekah sent him, and knew he wasn’t fooling her. But she only knew a part of what was bothering him. Yes, they still needed to finish the fourth movement—which weighed heavily enough on him—but the question that haunted him most at the moment . . .

  Even if he was able to finish the symphony in time, would he be able to hear it? Much less, conduct it?

  When he arrived home that evening, he flipped through the mail waiting for him on the sideboard, and the return address on one of the envelopes jabbed him like a stab to the heart. DR. RONALD HAMILTON.

  Tate stared at the name, and his hand began to shake.

  Mrs. Pender, his housekeeper, had dinner prepared, and he ate a little, not remembering it. Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed, the still-sealed envelope in hand, trying to sort out the tumult of thoughts ricocheting inside him—the what ifs, the might have beens—until finally, he rose, envelope in hand, took the oil lamp from the bedside table, and went downstairs to the study.

  The hour was late, well past eleven, and he closed the door behind him, not wanting to awaken his housekeeper. But Mrs. Pender slept soundly, the older woman claiming she never heard his midnight sonatas.

  So he played. First Mozart, then Chopin, Vivaldi, Handel, Haydn, then his beloved Beethoven, the ivories cool and smooth beneath his fingers, the music wrapping itself around him like the faithful love of an old friend—all the while lifting his unspoken petitions to his heavenly Father, who held every moment of his future in His loving hands.

  He drank in the chords, both the dissonant and harmonious, knowing both were required to create music worthy of stirring the soul, music that would last beyond a lifetime.

  Not knowing how much time had passed, only knowing that he’d played until he had nothing left within him, he reached for the envelope, slid his finger beneath the sealed flap, and opened the letter.

  28

  That’s not what I wrote, Rebekah!”

  Hearing Tate’s frustration, something she heard often these days, Rebekah felt her own annoyance rising to match it. “Yes, it is. I’ll play it again for you.”

  Reading his notations on the sheet music, she repeated the measures exactly as he’d written them. Albeit, pounding the eighth notes a little harder than necessary.

  He said nothing for a moment, then blew out a breath. “Well, that’s not what I intended to write.” He shoved a blank score sheet toward her, the wick in the oil lamp beginning to smolder atop the piano. “The following is what I meant to write. Make note of it, please.”

  Biting her tongue, she listened, scribbling the notes frantically onto the staff while working to commit the rest to memory.

  He finished. “There. Did you capture all that?”

  She paused, pencil on the paper. “Does it look like I captured it all?” She glanced at the paper, then back at him. “Do you really think I can transcribe that quickly?”

  At least he had the decency to give her a somewhat sheepish look.

  Every afternoon for over the past two weeks, she’d finished her violin lesson with Pauline—who was improving at a rapid rate—only to rush to the opera house to find Tate already neck deep in composing. And in a very sour mood.

  But regardless of the hours and hours they’d spent working in recent days, they’d accomplished very little on the fourth movement. And each day it seemed Tate grew more tense. And restless.

  When they worked individually, she would glance over at times and find him staring into space, a look of near desperation on his face. At other times, when they worked together at the piano, as they were now, she could feel the tension pouring from him.

  Twice, she’d asked him if anything was wrong between them, if she’d done something to upset him. But he simply scowled and said, “No, of course not,” and went on.

  She was grateful that—except for times like these—they had again reached an
amiable place in their relationship. Her feelings for him had not changed. If anything, they’d grown stronger. But since he hadn’t given her any reason to hope for more, she continued to look for reasons not to love him.

  It didn’t help that the more she got to know him, the more she realized she’d misjudged him at the start—in some areas. But in the areas of stubbornness and an unyielding proclivity toward perfectionism, she’d greatly underestimated his thresholds.

  When Tate thought he was right, it was like moving a mountain to get him to change his mind. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on the momentary perspective—his instincts in composing were right most of the time, which kept her mountain moving to a minimum. And rarely was anything ever good enough for him. So she kept writing and playing and writing and playing until her head and shoulders ached and the joints in her fingers burned.

  But when they finally composed something he loved . . . those moments were golden. And she carefully wrapped the memory of each one and tucked it deep inside her.

  He squeezed his eyes tight and massaged the back of his head. “How late can you stay today?”

  She studied him, worried. “Are you having another one of your headaches?”

  “Yes. Now, how late can you stay?”

  “You ask me that every day. And every day, I answer the same.”

  He gave her an annoyed look she knew by heart.

  “I can stay until close to nine o’clock. Then I need to return to Belmont and prepare Pauline’s lesson for tomorrow.”

  “Today’s Friday. You don’t give Pauline lessons on the weekends.”

  She blinked. “You’re right. But I still need to be home by nine o’clock.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m exhausted!”

  He managed a smile, and she did too, which helped ease the moment.

  So tired she could scarcely hold another thought, she angled her head from side to side in an effort to loosen the taut muscles in her neck.

  He sought her gaze. “I have an idea.”

  She waited.