She paused, the memories thick around her. “So while I in no way mean to make less of the burden you’ve been given to bear, Tate, I do believe you’ll remember. I believe the music that you love, that you’ve studied and learned, and have brought to so many other lives will always be inside you. Just as your music will always be inside me.”
He didn’t speak for the longest moment, and then he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you . . . Rebekah.” His voice was husky, and halting. “Not only for . . . being here right now, but for everything you’ve done for me. You’ve . . . inspired me in ways I never expected. And could never have begun to imagine.”
She looked at him, the shadows playing across his face. “You’ve inspired me too, by allowing me to get a glimpse of what you do. I love what music gives back to me when I play. But playing is so different from composing, which is something I’ll never be capable of.”
“I beg to differ. You’ve shown you are more than capable.”
“No, Tate. I’ve been a . . . sounding board for you. I’ve helped bridge the gaps here and there. But the real inspiration has come from you. And your love for your father shines through every note. I see that so clearly now.”
He reached up and fingered a curl on her shoulder. “What would I have done without you?” he whispered.
She stared. “You speak as though I’m already gone. I’m still here. Right beside you.”
He cradled the side of her face, and his touch fanned her desire for him with a fierceness she’d not experienced before.
“I know you’re here, Rebekah,” he whispered. “And I appreciate all you’ve done. More than you know.”
Wondering if what she was about to do was completely proper, she realized that, at the moment, she didn’t fully care. Not when hearing the worry in his voice. She leaned close and kissed his cheek. She knew he cared for her. She felt it in his touch. In his voice. Even now, in the way he looked at her. Growing bolder, she kissed him on the corner of his mouth and caught the sweet scent of molasses on his breath. He’d had another of those candies.
“Rebekah, we—”
“Shhh,” she whispered, and brushed her lips against his, softly, slowly, as he’d taught her. And with something akin to a sigh, he angled his mouth to meet hers and kissed her deeply, slowly, as though trying to memorize what that was like too, so he wouldn’t forget. And faced with such an unknown future, she found herself doing the same. His lips held yearning she understood. And shared. She slipped her hands around his neck, and pressed closer to him.
Suddenly he drew back, breaking the kiss. He looked at her, his breathing overloud in the silence, his features lost to the shadows.
“Is . . . something wrong?” she whispered.
He raked a hand through his hair. “It’s late, Rebekah. We’d better get some rest. Morning will be here soon.”
She stared. “Tate, if I did anything—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Rebekah. I’m just . . . tired. And we both need to rest.”
His tone was curt, almost dismissive. She finally managed a nod and returned to bed. But couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d done something she shouldn’t have.
“Wait here for me?” Tate caught Rebekah’s eye. “I’ll send the telegrams and be right back.”
At her nod, he crossed to the telegraph office. She’d been quiet that morning, and no wonder as to why. He’d hurt her feelings last night. He never should have allowed that to happen between them. But when she’d leaned close and kissed him . . . at first, he’d been too surprised to move. Then as she’d grown bolder, he hadn’t wanted her to stop. If she only knew how hard it had been for him to distance himself from her, she might feel differently toward him. Then again, she might not.
But it was only due to loving her as much as he did that he’d been able to do it.
He penned the first telegram to Mrs. Cheatham and handed it to the clerk, then started on the next. What to tell Mrs. Murphey when he didn’t know what was going to happen himself? Before leaving Nashville, he’d informed her about his father’s illness and told her he was “headed east” to be with his family. Best word the telegram as vaguely as he could, while communicating the necessities.
Father’s condition worsened. Little hope. Assure board opening night on schedule. Returning soon.
He handed the second telegram to the clerk and counted out the coins. “The first goes to Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham at Belmont Mansion in Nashville, Tennessee. The second to Mrs. Murphey at the Nashville Opera House.”
“Got it, sir. I’ll send ’em right away.”
Tate thanked him and rejoined Rebekah by the passenger car, aware of the lingering hurt and question in her eyes. But he consoled himself, again, with the knowledge that what he’d done—and would do from this point forward—was for her best.
“Thank you again, Rebekah, for coming with me this weekend. And for delivering the notes to Mrs. Bixby. She’ll get them to the various section leaders.”
“You’re welcome.” She shifted the basket dangling from her arm. His mother had insisted on sending her with food, and he’d managed to slip in a little something himself. “Promise me you’ll let me know . . . about your father.”
“I will.”
“And, Tate . . .”
The sudden blast of the train whistle sounded, and he welcomed the interruption, sensing she was about to press him for more.
“Once you’ve finished transcribing the first two movements,” he continued, “we’ll distribute them to everyone.” He walked her closer to the door, able to tell by her expression that she knew exactly what he was doing. “I’ll review the third movement when I return, likely later this week, then you can get started on that. We have seven weeks before we need to begin rehearsing as an orchestra. Which means, considering the time each section will require to learn their parts before assembling as a group, I have roughly three weeks to finish the fourth movement.” That thought caused the weight in his chest to double in size. “I’ll continue to compose while I’m here, as I can, at the church.”
“And I’ll continue to work on the violin solo. You already have a wonderful start. It’s going to be a difficult piece, but Darrow Fulton can do it, I know he can. He’s quite brilliant when he puts his mind to it.”
Tate wished he had the same confidence in the man’s ability that she did. “One more thing . . .”
He pulled the envelope addressed to Maestro Leplin from his coat pocket and handed it to her. She looked at the name, then back up at him. He steeled himself to the injured look clouding her expression.
“I promised you a reference letter, Rebekah. As I said before, I know Maestro Leplin and can all but assure you that you’ll get an audition. But once he hears you, know that everything that comes your way from that point forward is due to your talent alone. Not to anything I will have said or done.”
He thought again of what she’d told him last night. That she’d first learned how to play the fiddle from a slave. It would seem that the seeds of their mutual love for music had both been planted and nurtured in similarly improbable ways.
“All aboard!” a porter called, his voice nearly drowned out by the final whistle blast.
Tate pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, and she looked up at him.
“I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong, Tate.”
The hurt and uncertainty in her eyes threatened to dismantle his resolve. “As I told you, nothing’s wrong. I . . . simply have a lot on my mind right now.” He stepped back to allow her to board.
And as the train pulled away, she looked out the window and he smiled, doing his best to hide the fact that she was taking his heart with her.
He could already picture her playing in the symphony hall in New York, could see her walking out onto the stage. She wanted—and deserved—the opportunity to play in an orchestra. And her best chance for that was in New York. In time, if life were fair, she would earn the position of first chair. Pol
itics would delay that for several years, perhaps a decade or two, but Rebekah was young. Not even twenty-four yet. She had her entire life before her, and he refused to be the one to stand in the way of her living it.
A stab of regret accompanied his recollection of first considering her too soft, too genteel to handle the company of a group of male musicians. While that might be true for most women, it was decidedly untrue about her. She could hold her own with any musician he’d ever known. And she deserved so much more than he could give her now. He was going deaf. Be it weeks or months, it was going to happen. Which meant he would lose his job, of course. Who wanted to hire a deaf conductor?
His career was ending just as hers was beginning.
The train now a distant spot on the ribbon of rails, he started back up the mountain, mindful of the gray skies overhead. He scaled a rocky climb, recalling how much more easily she’d managed the trek this trip. She was strong and intelligent, unafraid in the face of challenge. And stubborn. The way she’d questioned him about whether or not he’d sought out the best physician . . .
Nearly an hour later, having hiked hard and fast, his heart pumping, he paused by a stream and drank his fill, then rested for a moment on a felled tree. The last ascent to the ridge awaited, then home . . .
To wait for his father to die.
The heaviness inside him slowly worked its way from his chest to his throat and made it nearly impossible to breathe. He bowed his head as emotions he’d stuffed down deep for far too long refused to stay there any longer.
The sun broke through the clouds, and he lifted his face to the warmth, aware of the wind through the pines, the cry of a hawk somewhere off in the distance, and the beat of his own heart.
As he’d done countless times, he withdrew Dr. Hamilton’s letter from his pocket and read it again, as if the doctor’s words might somehow read differently this time. He paused toward the end, his focus catching on a phrase, and he read it again. “If you ever require anything from me, all you need do is ask.” So kind an offer.
Tate stood and tucked the letter back into his pocket, then started up the ridge. There was nothing the doctor could do for him, he knew. If only there were something Dr. Hamilton could do for his father.
Like silk catching on barbed wire, the thought snagged. If you ever require anything from me, all you need do is ask.
Tate searched his memory. What was it Dr. Clarkston, the specialist in Philadelphia had said? A treatment that helps prolong a patient’s life. But he’d used the word simple, Tate felt certain. And it had involved . . . draining the area around the lungs. Dr. Clarkston wasn’t willing to come all the way to Chicory Hollow. But Knoxville was scarcely an hour away by train, so perhaps—
He made it back down the mountain in record time.
Rebekah disembarked the train in Nashville feeling as though she’d left half of herself back in Chicory Hollow. She’d cried most of the way to Knoxville, then had opened the basket and found the piece of wrapped molasses taffy Tate had stuck inside. She knew it was from him because he’d drawn a picture of a squirrel on the wax wrapper.
She’d spent the remainder of the trip trying to figure out why he was acting the way he had. And the more she thought about it, the more it came down to two possibilities.
Either he truly didn’t feel about her the way she thought he did—the way she cared for him—or he was distancing himself from her because of the doctor’s diagnosis. If the former, she would somehow find a way to accept that, and move on. And the sooner she got to New York, the better.
But if the latter were true . . .
If Nathaniel Tate Whitcomb thought he was going to be rid of her so easily, the man clearly did not possess the intelligence with which she’d credited him—and he didn’t have an inkling as to how much she loved him.
Crowds pressed together on the station platform, trains arriving and departing, and passengers hurrying to reach their destinations. Someone bumped her from behind, and Rebekah tightened her grip on her reticule, having learned the hard way about pickpockets in Vienna.
“Miss Carrington, ma’am!”
Nearly to the steps exiting the platform, she heard her name being called, and turned. Armstead, Mrs. Cheatham’s personal driver, stood waiting by one of the estate’s carriages.
Bless you, Adelicia Cheatham.
Rebekah waved and made her way toward him when someone off to her right, a young boy, caught her attention. She looked over in time to see him reach into an older man’s coat pocket and relieve him of his wallet. The man continued on, none the wiser, as indignation heated her from top to bottom.
“You there!” she called, starting toward him, and the boy turned.
Rebekah froze. Recognition shot through her like an arrow striking its mark. For him, too, judging by the widening of his eyes.
His meager frame appeared even slighter than when she’d first met him upon her arrival to Nashville months earlier, and his threadbare coat now sported a rip at the collar and along the sleeve. The shrewdness she’d recognized—and even admired—in him had deteriorated to desperation, and seeing the fear and hunger in his eyes broke her heart.
“Stay there,” she called to him, trying to sound authoritative. “I want to talk to you.”
The boy looked down, expertly riffled through the man’s wallet, withdrew the money, then dropped the wallet and ran.
Rebekah gave chase.
She dropped her satchel and basket at Armstead’s feet—“I’ll be back!”—and kept running, mindful of the surprise in the man’s face.
Her only goal was to catch that boy.
31
Skirts hiked, Rebekah fought to keep up, reticule bouncing on her wrist. But maneuvering her way in and out of the crowds took her longer than it did the boy. He simply ducked and ran, squirreling his way through the sea of passersby like a streak of lightning. He’d had more practice at this, no doubt. But she wasn’t giving up.
On open ground, she would’ve given herself fairly good odds of catching him. But like this . . .
She spotted him about fifteen feet ahead of her, then saw him slip down an alleyway. Trying to think like a boy of seven or eight might, she knew she had only one option.
Winded, she doubled back to the alley she’d just passed and ran as hard as she could, heart pounding—when she heard the sound of someone else running equally as fast. She braced herself.
They reached the corner at the same time.
The boy, clearly shocked, his face all eyes, tried to slow down enough to turn when Rebekah grabbed him by the arm and held on. He fought and kicked, nearly landing a blow to her shin, but she moved just in time. And never let go.
“I’m not going to hurt you! I only want to talk.”
He struggled and tried to kick her again. She slipped behind him and grabbed him by his upper arms. They were so thin, even through the threadbare coat, that her fingers nearly encircled them. She held him with his back against her.
“If you kick me again,” she warned, “I’ll give you such a wallop!” Knowing she wouldn’t, she hoped she sounded like she meant it.
The boy stilled, but hardly relaxed. He was like a caged animal ready to strike. Or take off running.
“If I let go of you, do you promise not to run away? Or try and kick me again?”
He said nothing, but she sensed his keen little mind spinning.
The smell of his unwashed body and filthy clothing nearly overpowered her at this close proximity. “I promise I won’t hurt you. And I won’t turn you over to the authorities. I only want to talk to you for a moment.”
Finally, he relaxed a little.
“I’ve thought about you, you know,” she continued. “Several times, since first seeing you that day.” She turned him around to face her, keeping ahold of his arm while mindful of his feet. “My name is Rebekah Carrington. What’s yours?”
He hedged. “Name be William. But everybody calls me Billy.”
She smiled. “Then
Billy it is. Are you hungry, Billy?”
He eyed her. “This a trick to get my money?”
“First off, it’s not your money.”
He tensed.
“But I’m not going to take it from you. That would be much the same as me doing to you what you just did to the gentleman back at the train station. However, if I knew that man and could return his money to him, I would demand you take it back. But since that can’t happen—”
“I need this money. More’n he does.”
“While that may be true, it doesn’t make stealing right. There are ways to earn money. Like you do when you sell your papers.”
He grimaced. “Ain’t got that job no more. Got all my papers stole, so they won’t gimme no more to sell. And ain’t nobody hirin’. Leastwise, that’s what they say.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She glanced around them, gaining her bearings and wondering how she could help him. Then she had a thought. Armstead was still waiting for her, but this wouldn’t take long.
“Are you hungry?”
His gaze lit, then just as swiftly darkened with suspicion, and Rebekah’s heart responded.
“There’s a mercantile not far from here, Billy.” She glanced in that direction. “Let me buy you some food, and we can talk for a minute.”
Biting his lower lip, he cut his eyes to the right as though considering her offer, then looked back at her as if weighing whether or not she was trustworthy. Meeting his shrewd gaze, Rebekah prayed he would say yes.
He gave a simple nod, and then his eyes narrowed. “You run good for a girl.”
She laughed, pleased at the grin tipping his mouth. “I told you I could run.”
She pointed the way, and he followed.
The mercantile didn’t appear to be crowded for a Monday afternoon, but Billy seemed hesitant to accompany her inside. Rebekah caught him eying the owner through the window of the front door and swiftly guessed why.
A Note Yet Unsung Page 37
