A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  “Why don’t you wait for me out here, and I’ll be right back.” Opening the door, she prayed he wouldn’t bolt.

  Minutes later, she exited and didn’t see him. Her heart fell—until she spotted him standing down by the corner. Billy gave her a quick nod and joined her on a bench beneath a large oak tree.

  He tore into the bread and cheese, his little jaw working to get the food down to his belly. She handed him a bottle of milk, and he looked at it as if he held a treasure.

  He gulped and gulped, the milk running down his chin. Then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and tore off another hunk of bread.

  “Where do you live, Billy?”

  He shrugged. “I got plenty’a places.”

  She nodded. So much heartbreak in so few words. “And your parents?”

  “Gone.” He spoke around a bite of cheese in his mouth. “War took my Pa. But I ain’t never knew him. I’s only two when he died. And my ma . . . ” He took another swig of milk, then paused and stared at something off in the distance. “The cholera got her last year.” He blinked and went back to eating.

  He said it so matter-of-factly that Rebekah could only stare, and think of how far removed her own experiences in life had been from this boy’s. They’d both lost their fathers, but that’s where the similarities ended. How she wished she could give him an alternative. Or at least a job.

  A sharp whistle split the air and made them both jump.

  Rebekah looked in the direction of the sound and saw an officer running toward them, one hand on his cap, the other wielding a wooden club.

  “You there! Hold up!” he yelled.

  Rebekah looked around to see who he was addressing, then realized he was looking at them. She turned to Billy beside her, only to find the boy gone, the half-drunk bottle of milk on the bench in his place.

  A week came and went, and still no word from Tate.

  Seated at the piano bench in his office, Rebekah stretched her tired neck and shoulder muscles and told herself not to worry. It was a long way from his parents’ cabin to the telegraph office at the train depot, and he was going through a very difficult time, but she wanted to know how he was coping with it all—the loss of his father, the stress of finishing the fourth movement, all while dealing with his own personal tragedy. Had he told his family about his diagnosis yet?

  Somehow, she doubted it. Knowing him, he wouldn’t tell anyone else until he had no other choice. And would she do any differently?

  She’d nearly finished transcribing copies of the first movement for each of the fifty orchestra members. She’d started the process two weeks ago, but her trip to Chicory Hollow had slowed her progress. And since returning, she’d done little else. Four more to go and the task would be complete, then she’d start on the second movement straightaway.

  By now, she felt as if she could play the first movement—including each of the various instrumental parts—by heart.

  She looked at the clock. Three thirty. She usually worked until closer to five. Then she looked at her hands—her fingers stained with ink, her joints aching—and she decided she’d had enough transcribing for one day. The last four copies could wait until tomorrow morning, then they’d be ready to distribute to the orchestra. She looked over at Tate’s desk.

  When was he coming back?

  She retrieved her coat and reticule, extinguished the oil lamps, and closed the office door behind her, missing him, and wondering if he missed her.

  “If you can’t be in the orchestra, I guess you become the conductor’s assistant. Or one of them. That’s certainly the closest you’ll ever come to it.”

  Already knowing who it was, she turned and met Darrow Fulton’s condescending gaze, feeling his ever-present animosity for her simmering just beneath the surface. It occurred to her that this was the very spot, only steps away from Tate’s office, where she’d first seen him again after so many years.

  Up until now, she’d managed to avoid any personal confrontation with him, mostly by ducking into doorways when she was alone and saw him coming. The other times she’d seen him, Tate had been present. And Darrow Fulton didn’t dare do anything to cross the maestro.

  “Hello, Mr. Fulton. Is there something with which I can help you?”

  He looked her up and down, not in a lascivious manner. More as though he considered her as something to be scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “Is the maestro back yet?”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “When will he return?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  A slow smile tipped his mouth. “But you do know I’m playing the violin solo for his symphony. At the grand opening. Mrs. Bixby gave me a note from the maestro himself.”

  She looked at him. Really looked at him. And realized he hadn’t changed much through the years. All the girls she’d grown up with had thought Darrow Fulton so handsome, such a catch. Outwardly, to someone who didn’t know him, she guessed he could be considered such. But he’d shown her the truth about himself early on, and she’d never seen him as anything but cruel. And undesirable.

  “Yes, I know you’re playing the solo. You are the concertmaster, after all.”

  “Something you will never be, Rebekah.”

  Tempted, in a way, to tell him about her plan to go to New York after the opening of the new opera hall, she didn’t dare. Mainly because entrusting that kind of information to a man such as Darrow Fulton would be like casting pearls before swine. But also because—despite Tate’s repeated assurances—she wasn’t at all certain that Maestro Leplin of the New York Philharmonic would consider her good enough to warrant an invitation to join them.

  “I’m going to take my leave of you now, Mr. Fulton.”

  She attempted to step past him, but he blocked her way.

  She sighed. “Are you also planning to follow me home and break my bow again, Darrow?”

  “I didn’t care, you know, about your taking the tutoring position. It was a waste of my time anyway. I was only doing it for the money.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of why you were doing it. Thankfully, you didn’t do any lasting damage. Pauline is progressing wonderfully.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You were always so uppity, Rebekah. So confident and sure of yourself. You never did know your place.”

  “My place?” She didn’t know what possessed her, but she laughed. “Do you have any idea that it was your spitefulness and cruelty, your arrogance, the way you tormented me all those years ago, that pushed me to work harder than I ever would have . . . simply to be as good as you were?”

  “And yet you never measured up.”

  She didn’t answer immediately. “Perhaps not. But at least I grew up, Darrow. And I learned that while competition can, for a time, motivate you to become a better musician, it’s only when you truly fall in love with the music—when it nurtures you, regenerates you, and when you learn to respect the gift you’ve been given—that a door finally opens, and you get the chance to become the musician you’re capable of being. But you won’t ever be that musician until you step aside and become second. Because in the end, it’s not about the musician. It’s about the music. And honoring the One who gave it.”

  He laughed beneath his breath. “Says a woman who will never know what it means to be a member of a philharmonic.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. New York recently admitted their first female.”

  “And we all know how she managed to do that too.” A disgusting smile tipped his mouth. “And what . . . position she was playing.”

  Rebekah slapped him hard across the face. She wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised, him or her. Her hand stung, but the pain was nothing compared to the anger roiling inside her. “You’ve always been such a coward, Darrow. I didn’t realize it all those years ago. But . . . you were afraid. Afraid of being bettered by a female. And . . . ” She searched his gaze, his own features mottled with anger. “I think you still are.”

  She pushe
d past him, her body shaking, blood rushing in her ears. She bid Mrs. Bixby and Mrs. Murphey good day, attempting to act as normal as possible, and started walking in the direction of Belmont.

  She’d declined use of a carriage this morning and was glad now that she had. She needed to burn off some frustration. What a pompous, condescending—

  She clenched her jaw, not proud of losing her temper with Darrow, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret it either.

  The man had had it coming—for the last fifteen years!

  Late March skies boasted a cloudless robin’s egg blue, and the temperature hinted of spring. It felt good to walk. With each step, she felt her pulse returning to normal.

  She passed the street that led to her mother’s house and slowed. She hadn’t been by to see her in several days, so a visit was due. Although she dreaded the cool reception her mother would likely give her, returning earlier in the day to Belmont meant Mrs. Cheatham would likely be there. And though Rebekah wasn’t exactly avoiding her, she could tell Adelicia wanted more information about where she’d traveled the weekend prior, the weekend spent in Chicory Hollow.

  But Rebekah could hardly admit to it. Not when Tate had gone to such lengths to keep that part of his life private. So visiting her mother won out.

  With every corner she turned, she found herself searching for Billy, watching for a worn red cap. Though he’d left the half-drunk milk behind that day, he’d managed to take the bread and cheese with him. She hoped he wasn’t going hungry.

  Passing shop after shop, she couldn’t help but contrast life in Nashville with life in Chicory Hollow. Tate’s childhood home was another world away—and definitely a step back in time. Yet she liked it. Or at least liked parts of it. The natural beauty, the quiet. How in early morning the clouds hovered over the highest peaks and looked more like an artist’s rendering than reality. And she liked Tate’s family too. How they interacted and loved each other.

  But life in Chicory Hollow held a brutal quality too. Especially in light of what Tate had told her about the highlanders having their own ways of meting out justice. It didn’t take much imagination for her to picture what men like Virgil and Banty Slokum would do to someone who crossed them. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  She slowed as she approached the house. No sign of the carriage, which usually meant Barton was gone. As she always did, she opted to walk around to the back. Not seeing Delphia inside, she knocked on the kitchen door. Then Delphia stepped from the pantry and peered around the corner. The instant Rebekah saw her troubled expression, she knew something was wrong.

  Delphia opened the door. “Come on in, child.”

  “Is he here?” Rebekah whispered.

  “No, but the po-lice has been.”

  “The police? Why?” Rebekah stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

  “They come askin’ ’bout Mr. Ledbetter this mornin’. Wantin’ to talk to him. But he ain’t here, I tol’ ’em. Then your mama, she tol’ ’em the same. They left right after. Didn’t say nothin’ more.”

  “Where is he?”

  Delphia shrugged, stirring a pot on the stove. “Mr. Ledbetter, he comes and goes to the tune’a what pleases him. Don’t answer to nobody.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “Two days ago, I reckon. But I heard him come in late last night. He done gone again ’fore I’s up this mornin’.”

  Rebekah wished the man would go away and never come back. While she had no idea what the authorities wanted with him, she wasn’t at all surprised he’d done something worthy of their attention. “Do you think mother’s in a frame of mind to see me today?”

  “She might be . . . if she was here. She gone to have lunch with her women friends. One of ’em came by and got her, and she ain’t home just yet. But I’m glad you come by.” Delphia’s smile held a sparkle. “I got some things to give you. Letter come the other day. One of the gals who helps during the day, she reads—right good, too—and said it be for you.”

  Delphia handed her an envelope.

  Rebekah read the return address. “Oh, it’s from Sally! She told me she would write once she knew the plans for her and Sebastian’s wedding.”

  Delphia laughed. “Still can’t believe she went and got her a foreign man. Here’s the other thing.” She opened a cupboard drawer. “Found these when I’s cleanin’ the dinin’ room hutch last week. Stuck way in the back, in a servin’ dish we use only once a year, at Christmas. Only this past year, we didn’t do any celebratin’, seein’ as how your precious grandmama had just . . .”

  Delphia let the words fade as she pulled out a thick bundle of envelopes. She handed them to Rebekah. The envelopes, several dozen at a glance, were tied with a festive red ribbon, like something that might have once been used to wrap a gift.

  Rebekah’s eyes widened. “These are my letters . . . to Nana.”

  “I know.” Delphia winked. “Could’a blowed me over when I found ’em. You know I can’t read none, but I know a person’s mark. And I know yours right good. Plus that fancy stamp on the front always tol’ me your grandmama had gotten a letter from far away. Used to make her so happy. Mmmhmm . . . She’d read it time and again. Even read it to me. Least some of it. I come in late at night and find her asleep with one of your letters in her lap.”

  Rebekah thumbed through the envelopes, then paused. “You said they were in the dining room. What were they doing in there?”

  “That’s what I don’t know. Lessin’ they sprouted legs and walked ’emselves on in there. Mr. Ledbetter, he got rid of everythin’ from your grandmama’s room right after she died. If I’d known he was doin’ that, I’d’a got some things for you. Bless your grandma Ellen’s sweet soul,” she added softly, then gestured to the letters. “I knew you’d be glad to have ’em.”

  “Yes, I am. Thank you so much.” Rebekah opened her reticule to slip the letters inside when she noticed some writing on the back of the bottom envelope. She pulled the envelope out, and recognized her grandmother’s elegant script.

  Jesus, please help Rebekah learn the difficult piece of music Herr Vandal is teaching her. I don’t yet believe she realizes how much talent you’ve given her. And I think she’s scared, Lord. I can hear it behind her words. Give my granddaughter the courage she needs to embrace your will for her life, no matter where it leads her. November 26, 1866 (Psalm 18:2)

  Rebekah’s eyes filled with tears.

  “What is it, child? Somethin’ wrong?”

  Rebekah shook her head. “Grandmother wrote a prayer on the back—along with a Scripture reference.” She looked at the next envelope, which also bore her grandmother’s familiar handwriting. As did the rest. “It looks like she wrote something on the back of all of them, including the date.” She held them out for Delphia to see.

  Delphia ran a finger over the script. “Well, I’ll be . . . Almost like a visit from heaven, ain’t it?”

  “Yes,” Rebekah whispered. “That’s exactly what it’s like.” She slipped the bundle into her reticule, grateful, but still wondering how the letters had gotten into the dining room hutch.

  And who put them there.

  “Miss Carrington . . . is that you?”

  Hearing Mrs. Cheatham’s voice wafting from the small study, Rebekah paused in the foyer. She’d hoped to sneak in unseen, eager to spend the evening reading the notes her grandmother had written on the backs of the letters. Yet she knew she had no choice.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rebekah answered, and laid her reticule on the side table. She walked through the library to the small study, a fire blazing in the hearth. “How are you this afternoon, Mrs. Cheatham?”

  Her employer glanced toward the window. “Or perhaps we should say evening, Miss Carrington. It’s nearly dark.”

  “Yes, I had some errands to run after I left the opera house.” She’d quickly learned it was best to avoid the subject of her mother—or her home here in town. It only led to more questions.

  Mr
s. Cheatham motioned for her to sit, the gesture more of a decree than a request. Rebekah sat.

  “Have you been avoiding me, Miss Carrington?”

  Adelicia’s frankness caught her off guard. “No . . . of c-course not, Mrs. Cheatham. I’ve simply been keeping long hours.”

  “And most of them away from Belmont.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Transcribing Maestro Whitcomb’s symphony is taking far more time than I imagined.” Rebekah held out her ink-stained hands as though offering proof. “But I’m almost finished copying the first movement, then will begin on the second.”

  Mrs. Cheatham held her gaze, and Rebekah felt as though the woman could read her every thought.

  “As I’m sure you know by now, Miss Carrington, I value straightforwardness in people, and especially in my employees. Hence, I will be straightforward with you. And I want an honest answer. I believe I deserve that much.”

  Rebekah felt a slight shudder up her spine, wondering if this was about what she thought it was about. If Mrs. Cheatham pressed her for details about that weekend, wanting to know where she’d gone and with whom, Rebekah knew she’d have to tell her at least part of the truth. That she’d gone with Tate . . . somewhere.

  But telling only part of the truth would make the situation appear the exact opposite of what it had been—which was completely innocent. They hadn’t done anything wrong. But to anyone else looking on, it might appear as though they’d chosen to compromise their character.

  Which, judging from Adelicia Cheatham’s penetrating gaze, was precisely what the woman thought.

  32

  Miss Carrington, is the Nashville Philharmonic in peril of losing Maestro Whitcomb?”

  Rebekah blinked, the question from Mrs. Cheatham not being the question she’d expected. Thankfully so. Yet she still kept her guard up. Because with what she knew about Tate’s situation, she walked a fine line in how she responded. “Is the Nashville Philharmonic in peril of losing him?” she parroted, and instantly realized that was not a wise choice.