A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

“Actually . . . ” he hedged, “I have a plan.”

  “A plan is most certainly more definite than an idea.”

  He checked the time, then smiled. “Grab your cloak and reticule. I’ll pack up the music and notes.”

  As they readied to leave, Mrs. Bixby knocked on the door, her smile exuberant.

  “Maestro Whitcomb, a package arrived for you earlier but I didn’t want to disturb you while you and Miss Carrington were working. It’s something special I believe you’ll want to see.”

  “It will have to wait, Mrs. Bixby. We’re leaving for the day.”

  Mrs. Bixby blinked. “Of course, sir. I . . . I’m sorry for having interrupted you.”

  Rebekah shot him a look, and he stilled.

  “I apologize, Mrs. Bixby. It’s been a long day. Please . . . do share it with me.”

  The woman’s eyes softened, her excitement returning. “Since the delivery man told me who sent it, I took the liberty of opening it for you.” She held up a beautifully framed certificate. “Isn’t it handsome? It’s a gift from the assembled orchestra in Charleston, the one you guest conducted in the fall. And see here”—she pointed—“the mayor of the city signed it himself and extended his personal gratitude. I’ll have it hung for you next week with your other commendations.” Mrs. Bixby turned to admire the wall covered with accolades of one sort or another.

  Tate tugged on the sleeves of his suit coat. “I think we’ve hung enough of those already. Why don’t we put that one—”

  “In the hallway?” Mrs. Bixby volunteered.

  “I was going to say in a drawer somewhere. But . . . the hallway would be fine.” A boyish smirk tipped his mouth. “However, the drawer would be my personal preference.”

  “Oh, Maestro . . .” The woman playfully swatted his arm. “You’re far too humble.”

  Rebekah watched the two of them, wondering how he did it. One minute he could push the limits of a person’s patience to the brink and beyond. Then the next, he could be as kind and generous as any man she’d ever known. Well, except for one man, perhaps.

  She’d missed Demetrius so much recently. Odd, how those moments would sneak up on her, catching her unaware.

  She’d been to see her mother three times in recent weeks—aided by Delphia, who quickly let her know when her mother was home and when Barton Ledbetter was not. But each visit had been worse than the one previous. Her mother seemed to grow more reclusive and spiteful toward her by the week. Rebekah couldn’t figure out why, but she determined to continue the visits. And to get her away from Barton. Because she knew what kind of man Barton was, but also because after meeting Tate’s family and experiencing their love and acceptance, she wanted that between her and her mother. And as dear Demetrius had once told her, “As long as there’s breath in a body, a person can change.”

  As Tate escorted her from the office, she glanced back. “So no more additions to the Great Wall of Tate?”

  He frowned. “The Great Wall of Tate?”

  She shrugged. “I believe there’s some room on the opposite wall by the grand piano. We could begin another collection over there, if you like.”

  “What I’d like is to finish this symphony before the new opera house opens.”

  His sarcastic tone warned her to leave the subject be.

  A carriage was waiting on the street, part of his plan, she guessed, and he assisted her up the step. She arranged her cloak to cover her legs from the chill. March had arrived like a roaring lion, bringing colder temperatures and bouts of ice. She only hoped the month would depart like the proverbial lamb, leaving spring in its wake.

  She leaned her head back to rest, pleased when Tate claimed the space on the bench beside her. “Where are we going?”

  “Patience, Miss Carrington. Patience.”

  Smiling, she gripped the seat as the carriage lurched forward, the last vestiges of daylight begrudgingly giving way to dusk. “Only one more movement in the symphony, and then you’ll be done.”

  “Then we’ll be done. But the last movement, as we know, is always the most difficult.”

  She again wondered why that was. The old adage “Save the best for last” came to mind, and she guessed that figured into it. No composer—or writer, for that matter—wanted to weave a story only to have it fall flat at the end.

  They’d finished the third movement in two weeks. Two arduous weeks—working well into evenings and on Saturdays. Yet they’d worked equally as hard over the past two weeks and still had so little to show for it.

  A deep sigh left him. “The new opera house opens exactly two months from tomorrow. Nine weeks. Sixty-four days.”

  “Not that you’re counting.”

  A moment passed, and he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I need to get back home again soon too,” he said softly, almost so softly she couldn’t hear over the squeak of the carriage wheels. “I’ve let an entire month go by this time.”

  She leaned forward. “I know. But your family understands you’re busy. And that what you’re doing is important, and takes time. That it’s urgent. And as you alluded, time is flying by.”

  He nodded, staring out the window. “Which is all the more reason to get back there as soon as I can.”

  Moments later, the carriage slowed to a stop, and Rebekah peered out the window. She wasn’t familiar with this part of town, nor did she recognize the street. Parkwood Lane.

  “Since you’ve seen my home in Chicory Hollow,” he said softly, then climbed from the carriage and assisted her down.

  She’d never inquired about where he lived here in town. She’d never given it much thought, really. But looking up at the modest two-story brick home, she realized this wasn’t what she would’ve expected, based on his position with the symphony and her first impression of the man.

  Then again, having gotten to know him better in recent weeks and discovering how misleading first impressions could be, perhaps this did fit. The residence sat nestled between two larger, much more stately homes that all but threatened to dwarf this one, making it somewhat the wallflower of Parkwood Lane.

  Yet the home certainly wasn’t without its charms.

  A massive oak tree that had weathered at least thrice the winters Rebekah had seen in her lifetime stood the proud sentinel in the small front yard. Its impressive limbs, leafless still, stretched upward and out, portending an impressive canopy come summer, and was a perfect companion to the white porch swing that swayed to and fro in the chilling breeze.

  On the front door hung an evergreen wreath, a simple adornment, absent any decorative ribbons or berries. The exterior of the home lacked any sign of a woman’s touch. And oddly, that discovery pleased her greatly.

  Tate opened the front door. An older woman, her gray hair swept into a knot atop her head, shawl caught about her shoulders, greeted them in the narrow front hallway, oil lamp in hand.

  “Miss Carrington”—Tate closed the front door behind them—“May I present Mrs. Pender, my housekeeper, cook, and a woman without whom I could not leave the house every morning. Or at least, leave it in somewhat presentable fashion.”

  Rebekah nodded. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Pender.”

  “Pleasure be all mine, Miss Carrin’ton. I been hearin’ so much about you of late.”

  Rebekah shot Tate a questioning look.

  “Now, now . . .” His expression wasn’t so much bothered as it was a shade embarrassed. “Let’s not bore Miss Carrington with unnecessary details.”

  The woman’s cornflower-blue eyes sparked with humor. “Dinner be all ready for you, sir. So come on into the dinin’ room when you see fit. Oh, and the mail’s waitin’ there on the sideboard for you.”

  As the woman made her way down the narrow corridor, Rebekah didn’t have to wonder why Tate had chosen her as his housekeeper. She was a touch of home for him, and a welcome reminder of Chicory Hollow for Rebekah as well.

  Tate casually flipped through the envelopes, until he came to the last on
e. He paused.

  “Another commendation for the Great Wall of Tate?” Rebekah smiled.

  He looked over at her, and an emotion she couldn’t define flashed across his face. “It’s from a Dr. Clarkston in Philadelphia.”

  “Someone you know?”

  He tore open the envelope and scanned the letter, a smile the likes of which she hadn’t seen in a long time coming to his face. “He’s answering the letter I posted to him last fall. About my father.”

  Rebekah heard the hope in his voice. “What does he say?”

  A laugh escaped him. His eyes grew misty. “He says there’s a procedure he performs on patients with consumption. And he’s had great success. It’s not a cure, he says. It’s a relatively simple treatment that drains pleural effusion from around the lungs, and he says it usually prolongs a patient’s life. Sometimes for months, sometimes years.”

  “Oh, Tate, that’s wonderful. Does he say if he’s willing to come to Chicory Hollow?”

  Scarcely had she gotten the words out when the light faded from his face. “He says he performs the procedure in his office in Philadelphia, and that he’ll happily see my father there.” Tate shook his head. “My father wouldn’t live through a trip like that. He’s scarcely been out of bed in weeks. The letter from my mother a few days ago said breathing has become even more difficult for him.”

  “Perhaps you could write to this . . . Dr. Clarkston again, and ask him to make the trip.”

  “I did that in the first letter. And this was his response.”

  Sharing his heartbreak, Rebekah touched his arm. “Tate, I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded and gestured for her to precede him down the hallway.

  A dinner of roast beef with potatoes, both cooked fork-tender, along with field peas and buttered corn bread with honey inspired Rebekah’s meager appetite, and she ate more than she thought she would.

  But she could hardly say the same for Tate. He was quiet, and sullen.

  Mrs. Pender served dessert, and though the cake—apple butter cake, the woman called it—was delicious, Rebekah ate enough to satisfy etiquette, then set her fork aside.

  Mrs. Pender returned with the coffeepot and refilled their cups.

  “Dinner was delicious, Mrs. Pender.” Rebecca sipped her coffee. “And the cake was divine.”

  The woman beamed. “Got the receipt from my grandmama when I’s just a girl. ’Twas my fav’rite cake’a hers.”

  Tate tucked his napkin by his plate. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Pender. Your roast beef was legendary, as always.”

  The older woman smiled her thanks, then eyed his place setting. Her expression conveyed concern, but the firming of her mouth said she’d keep those thoughts to herself. “If there be anythin’ else you needin’, sir, just call for me.”

  Once the door closed behind her, Tate looked across the table. “Shall we get to work?”

  He started to rise, but Rebekah didn’t move.

  “Tate . . . something is wrong. I know it. I mean, besides your father. I wish you would confide in me. Maybe it would help . . . whatever it is.”

  He looked at her and for a fraction of a second, she thought she saw him waver, that he was going to open up to her.

  “Nothing’s wrong, Rebekah. I’m simply ready to get back to work. After all, this last movement isn’t going to write itself.”

  Hurt, yet doing her best not to show it, Rebekah rose.

  A grand piano took up the majority of space in the study, and though smaller than the instrument in Tate’s office at the opera house, it appeared to be of equal quality, and, therefore, she assumed, would possess a similar quality of sound. Maestro Heilig had always claimed that composing on a grand piano was a necessity. Apparently, Tate agreed.

  After warming her hands over the fire in the hearth, Rebekah took her place on the bench and began playing the “Ode to Joy” from Beethoven’s Ninth. She played it with less gusto than usual, the emotive chords feeling more melancholy than joyous at the moment.

  “Do you always warm up to something from Beethoven’s Ninth?”

  Rebekah stopped and looked over at him. “Is there something else you would prefer I play?”

  When he said nothing, she pulled their notes for the fourth movement from his satchel and spread them atop the piano. She read them through to refresh her memory with what little they’d written thus far.

  Deciding it best to move on, she propped the sheet music on the music stand and played the opening measures. “The beginning still doesn’t feel quite right, does it?”

  He sat down beside her on the bench. “It’s lacking something. But I still don’t know what.”

  He reached to play, and she scooted over a bit. He played the measures over and over again, eyes closed, and Rebekah watched his expression, almost able to feel the music moving within him. She recognized the concentration, the reaching deep within for something that lay just beyond his grasp. Though she didn’t fully understand the breadth of the process involved in writing an entire symphony, she could offer feedback, and occasionally had success with bridging measures and building tension within the score, but she wasn’t the composer. He was.

  At heart, she was a violinist. No other instrument, for her at least, could capture the strains of the soul’s deepest yearnings and desires, its bitterest disappointments and losses. If only she could lend her expertise in that area, then perhaps she would be more of a help—

  He stopped abruptly, rose, and stepped to a cabinet a few feet away. He withdrew a case, and Rebekah instantly knew where his instincts were taking him. The same place her own had taken her.

  He withdrew a violin, tuned the instrument, and began playing the opening measures. Only, he played them in C major, instead of C minor—and the notes took on a life of their own. It felt almost as if the veil between this world and the next lifted ever so slightly, and heaven, with the subtlest of breaths, shared a melody from a distant world awaiting. The beauty of it trapped her breath tight in her chest.

  The thrill of watching music being born tingled up and down her spine, and the tender strains of the violin—the emotion with which Tate played, determination in every movement—gave meaning to notes that had, until now, been dull and lifeless on the page.

  Warmth rose to her eyes as she watched him. Help him, Lord. Give him what he needs to do this. To finish well. For himself, yes, and his career, but far more, for you.

  The prayer hadn’t formed so much in her mind as in her heart, and as she listened to him play, she thought of New York City and of the world of possibility awaiting her there. And though she enjoyed contemplating that life, she could scarcely imagine leaving him behind.

  “Timpani,” he said, and she instinctively knew what he wanted. She found the correct sheet music with the timpani score and played the coordinating keys on the piano, imitating the deep, resonating drum.

  “Now the cello.”

  Reading the music, she played the cellos’ part.

  “And the clarinets.”

  She worked to keep up, wishing there were a way to capture what they were both playing as they were playing it, so they could go back and listen to it together later.

  “And again.” He started over from the beginning.

  She followed his lead, playing the various parts, as she could, then—

  The violin went sharp. Just a little. Tate kept playing, his brow furrowed, jaw tense with determination. Then it happened again, and he grimaced. Then lost the tempo.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Rebekah stopped playing. But Tate ignored it, continuing as though determined to find his way back.

  A second knock, more insistent, sounded.

  Tate stopped, strode to the door, and jerked it open. “Yes, Mrs. Pender! What is it?”

  The older woman, already slight in stature, appeared even more so with the darkness from the hallway framing her from behind. She held out a piece of paper. “This just come for you, sir. Man said it be urgent.”

 
Tate stared for a beat, then his gaze dropped to the telegram. He took it from her, opened it, then slowly turned back, his face drained of color.

  Rebekah rose from the piano. “Tate, what is it?”

  “It’s from Emil . . . about Pa. He says to get home as quickly as I can.”

  29

  Tate paused briefly when the cabin came into view. At least half a dozen horses were tied up at the posts, and dread settled heavy in his chest. Even at this distance, he could see through the windows to the people gathered inside. And he took it as a bad sign.

  He looked at Rebekah beside him. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For coming with me.”

  She touched his arm. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  “I meant to ask . . . What did you tell Mrs. Cheatham? When you left?”

  Her smile came softly. “I told her I had a friend who needed me.”

  Tate’s love for her deepened even as they stood there. How was it he’d finally met the woman he wanted to spend his life with at the precise time when the life he’d wanted to share with her was being rewritten?

  Before they could reach the stairs, the door to the cabin opened. He saw his mother’s tearstained face, and his world shifted. He hurried up the steps, dropped the satchels in his grip, and pulled her close.

  “Pa’s still with us, Witty. Lord only knows how, but he is.” She let go of him only to pull Rebekah into a tight hug. “Good to be layin’ eyes on ya again, sweet girl. Kind of ya to come all this way with my son.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Cattabelle. Though . . . I’m so sorry for the reason.”

  His mother nodded. “Yesterday we’s all thinkin’ he was done for, but he just kept on breathin’, like he hain’t ready to go yet.” Fresh tears fell. “I hain’t ready for him to go neither. Never will be.” She wiped her cheeks. “Come on in now. He’s been askin’ after ya, Witty. Your brothers and they wives, they’s all here earlier, but they done taken their leave.” She grabbed Tate’s hand, then motioned for Rebekah to follow.

  The main room was full. Mostly women and babes in arm, but some husbands had come along. Tate nodded to Trudy Robertson, Lilly Tatum, Harriett Javis, Mr. and Mrs. Coburn, and the O’Fallons and the Morrisons. Emil, Rufus, Benjamin, and Opal, her blue eyes red rimmed, sat at the kitchen table, dish after dish of food spread out before them. None of them eating.