A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  “I have never considered coyness an attractive quality, Miss Carrington. And, before this very moment, have never witnessed it in you. May I say, it is not becoming.” Her gaze, already stern, only grew more so. “I will rephrase my question. To your knowledge, does Maestro Whitcomb intend to accept a position as conductor elsewhere?”

  “No! Not at all, Mrs. Cheatham.” Relieved, she tried for a smile. “I give you my word . . . he is not. Please, ask himself yourself. He’ll be more than happy to allay any fears you have in that regard.”

  “I would ask him, Miss Carrington, if he would ever return from . . . wherever he is!”

  Knowing Mrs. Cheatham had a point, Rebekah found herself at a loss for what else to say without revealing Tate’s confidence.

  After a moment, a single dark brow rose in arched perfection. “Do you know where he is, Miss Carrington?”

  Rebekah hesitated, weighing her options, then realized her hesitation had already revealed her answer. Weary of secrets and of having to watch every word she said, she sighed. “Yes, ma’am. I know where he is.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . it’s not mine to tell you, Mrs. Cheatham. But . . .” Seeing the storm gathering behind her employer’s deceptively calm demeanor, she hurriedly added, “I can assure you it’s precisely where you would be if you were in his situation.”

  Adelicia regarded her for a moment. “And what situation is that, Miss Carrington?”

  Rebekah glanced down at her lap. Tate, please forgive me. “Maestro Whitcomb’s father is dying.”

  The air in the room seemed to grow thinner. Even the pendulum’s ticktock in the grandfather clock seemed to fade into hiding.

  “I see,” Mrs. Cheatham whispered, then looked away. “And . . . the maestro . . . he’s with his father now? And with his family?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The silence stretched between them.

  “And would I be correct in assuming, Miss Carrington, that he was the friend who needed you the weekend you were gone?”

  Rebekah felt her face heat, remembering what she’d told Mrs. Cheatham before she’d left, and how it must appear to her now. “Yes, ma’am, you would. But I can assure you that neither Maestro Whitcomb or I have undermined our integrity in any way. I simply happened to be with him when he received the news. And I volunteered”—she paused—“or rather, I insisted on going with him. But I give you my solemn vow, nothing untoward has happened between us.”

  Mrs. Cheatham held her gaze and—after what seemed like eons—the hint of warmth gradually slid into her features. “Your latter assertion, while greatly appreciated, was never a concern for me, Miss Carrington. The strength of your character and moral fiber was solidified in my eyes the night you played the violin at my dinner party.”

  Rebekah frowned. “I’m . . . afraid I don’t understand.”

  “With a word, you could have claimed responsibility for the performance that night, a performance that was talked about at teas and dinners for days and weeks following. Or you could have stepped forward when the maestro himself continued to seek the identity of the master violinist. But you did not. You did not seek fame in the moment, nor did you push yourself into the limelight for your own glory. You honored your word and kept the confidence I requested that you keep. And now, in return, I shall keep yours.”

  Retiring to bed early that night, Rebekah untied the ribbon from around the letters she’d written to her grandmother. She’d looked forward to this moment since Delphia had given them to her earlier in the day.

  She glanced at the hand-stamped dates on the envelopes and noticed they weren’t in chronological order. She considered taking a moment and reordering them, then decided to read them as Nana had bundled them instead. At least, she assumed it had been Nana.

  Dearest Lord, my precious Rebekah is still homesick. And my knowing that her heart is breaking, is breaking mine as well. Vienna is for the best, I know. I don’t doubt your guiding hand in that decision for a single moment. Especially knowing what I know now.

  She paused from reading. Knowing what she knew now . . . what had her nana meant by that? Wondering, Rebekah continued.

  You are Lord of Vienna same as you are Lord of Nashville. I know that. And my heart knows it too. Still, both Rebekah and I are hurting. Comfort and keep us close to you, Jesus.

  May 28, 1861 (2 Corinthians 1:3–4)

  Rebekah withdrew the letter from that envelope and read what she’d written nearly ten years ago now. She didn’t recall writing the words so much as she recalled the loneliness behind them. And she smiled at how she’d phrased her thoughts—most definitely like those of a young girl—and also at the tiny heart she’d drawn by her name at the bottom. Same as Nana had always drawn when closing her letters.

  Rebekah folded the stationery, slipped it back inside, and then paused, noting the Scripture reference. She did a quick scan of the envelopes. It appeared as though her grandmother had included one at the end of each prayer.

  Rebekah retrieved her Bible from her desk and flipped to the book of Second Corinthians. She scanned down.

  Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.

  Rebekah ran a forefinger over the verses, appreciating them more now than before, since they’d been special to her grandmother. She glanced back at the first envelope she’d read when Delphia had presented the bundle to her, and looked up that reference as well.

  Her gaze hovered over a portion of the verse.

  The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust . . .

  Again, the Scripture mirrored her grandmother’s prayer, and was a good reminder for Rebekah in her circumstances. Grateful for these insights into her grandmother’s heart, she moved to the next envelope.

  Dearest Lord, thank you for being with Rebekah during the recital. I can tell she’s pleased with how she performed, and that gladdens my heart in ways she will never know. But you do. She has so much of her father in her, which is good in one sense, yet troubling in another. Even from a young age, my beloved son hesitated to undertake anything he could not do well from the outset. While, as a mother, I appreciated his dedication and drive, I am now of the mind that this attitude greatly narrows one’s choices in life. Help my granddaughter to stretch herself, to reach beyond the comfortable. Give Rebekah the courage to risk the possibility of failure. And when she fails, be there for her. Because in those moments, perhaps more than any other, we are more prone to hear your voice and sense your presence. April 12, 1865 (Romans 8:28)

  Once again, she read the letter within. And reading it, she felt a touch of the original thrill she’d experienced over the recital she’d written to Nana about. She remembered that day so well. Because on that day, for the first time in her young life, she’d begun to believe that she was truly good at playing the violin.

  Already familiar with the Scripture reference Nana had noted, she didn’t take the time to look it up.

  The next envelope looked especially worn and well handled.

  Father, please bring a special man into Rebekah’s life. A man who loves you first, before anyone or anything else, and who will love my precious granddaughter as he loves himself. A man like her father, who will encourage Rebekah in her music. A man who will help her take steps closer to Christ, like my sweet Robert did for me. I miss him, Jesus, even after all these years. Please tell him I love him, until I can tell him again myself. August 8, 1868 (Proverbs 3:5–6)

  Tears welled in her eyes. Oh, Nana . . .

  Rebekah pressed the envelope to her chest. Hadn’t she found a man just like that? Hadn’t God brought them together? She saw it. Now if only Tate would.

  She read the letter within, and wondered how her grandmother had ever been prompted to pray f
or her future husband. The letter Rebekah had written contained nothing about a young man, or love, or that facet of life.

  Deciding to leave the Scripture references for another time, she read on, enjoying the insights into Nana’s thoughts and prayers, as well as the occasional prayer Nana included for herself and the minor aches and pains she lived with. Growing older seemed a challenge, to say the least.

  Halfway through the stack, Rebekah yawned, the events of the day and week catching up to her. She’d honestly thought she would read every one of the envelopes that night. But as she looked at the bundle and thought of what they represented—visits from heaven, as Delphia had said—she decided to savor them.

  Because after she read them, there would be no more.

  A few days later, seated at the desk in her bedroom, Rebekah finished transcribing the seventh copy of the second movement in Tate’s symphony. Only forty-three to go.

  Never would she have guessed that all the transcribing she’d done during her years in Vienna—both for herself and Maestro Heilig—would have prepared her to assist a conductor in actually composing a symphony that hundreds, if not thousands, of people would someday hear. If only all of life’s twists and turns were that transparent.

  If only she could somehow peer into the future and see that what she was experiencing in the present—especially amidst a sorrowful time—was all in preparation for something yet to come. How differently she would view her life then, witnessing God’s sovereignty with such clarity.

  Determined to remember that, she paused to let the ink dry, enjoying the satisfaction that came with finishing each copy.

  A knock sounded on the bedroom door, and she checked the time. Nearly half past seven. Hardly late, especially considering Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham were attending a dinner party and wouldn’t be home until well past midnight. Still . . .

  In her stockinged feet, she opened the door.

  “Miss Carrington, a telegram come for you, ma’am.” Cordina stood in the darkened hallway, oil lamp in hand, an almost mischievous look on her face.

  Rebekah grinned. Tate! It had to be from Tate. Finally. She waited. “And . . . where is the telegram?”

  Cordina blinked. “Oh . . . You got to come and get it, ma’am. The man, the one who brung it, he’s . . . waitin’ at the front door. Said he got to give it to you hisself.”

  Odd but . . . “All right, let me put on my boots. I’ll be right there.”

  Rebekah grabbed her boots and shoved her feet in, then hurriedly laced them, missing eyelets as she went and not caring. Tate had finally sent word! And it was about time. Though she understood, with all he must’ve been through in recent days. Cattabelle too. And the rest of his family. She wished she’d been there with them, wished she could have done something to help.

  She bustled down the dark hallway and across the grand salon, not bothering to bring an oil lamp. She now knew the house almost as well in the dark as she did in the light.

  She crossed the foyer and gave Ruth Gleaning—Mrs. Cheatham’s lovely, if not eyebrow-raising statue—a quick pat on the arm, then opened the front door. But . . . saw no one. She stepped outside to look, the night wind feeling especially chilly as she stood there in only her day dress.

  “Personal telegram for . . . Miss Rebekah Carrington.”

  Hearing his familiar voice behind her, she felt a rush of emotion and turned to see him standing in the doorway of the library. Half hidden by shadows, he could’ve almost been a figment of her imagination. But when she closed the distance between them, and he pulled her against his chest, the solid feel of muscle and man told her he was real.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, cradling her head, “for taking so long to get back, and for not sending you word as I promised I would do.”

  “I’ve only thought about you constantly. About your mother, Opal, everyone. All you’ve been through.” Rebekah drew back slightly. “My deepest condolences on your father’s passing, Tate. When . . . did it happen?”

  To her shock, he smiled and glanced past her.

  “Is there a place we can talk?”

  33

  Tate followed her into the small study, wanting to take her into his arms again, but resisting the temptation, remembering his promise to himself. He shed his coat and added wood to the waning fire in the hearth, then stirred the embers until the flames sparked to life again.

  He joined her on the sofa, eager to answer the questions in her eyes. “I’m pleased to report that—thanks to you, Rebekah, and to Dr. Hamilton—my father is very much alive and regaining his strength.”

  “Tate,” she whispered. “That’s wonderful! But . . . how? What happened?”

  “After seeing you to the station that day, I started back up the mountain and began thinking about Dr. Hamilton’s letter. Then I thought of Dr. Clarkston, the physician who wrote me from Philadelphia about the treatment for consumption—”

  Rebekah nodded. “I remember.”

  “And it struck me . . . If the procedure was, indeed, that simple, why not ask Dr. Hamilton if he would come and do it himself? I sent him a telegram on Monday afternoon, then went back down Tuesday to find he’d already responded and was on his way.”

  Rebekah’s watery smile said it all.

  “I know.” Tate recounted the events of recent days, feeling a tug of emotion himself. “Dr. Hamilton performed the procedure there in my parents’ bedroom, then stayed with us for two days following.”

  “In the cabin?” she asked.

  He nodded. “He slept right there on the sofa. I shared a bed with Benjamin. An experience I hope to never repeat again.”

  She laughed, and the sound was precious to him.

  “So the doctor knows, then. About—”

  “My family.” He nodded. “And as it turns out, the prestigious Dr. Hamilton was born in a small town about ninety miles south of here, in Fayetteville, Tennessee. He and his parents and six brothers and sisters lived in a two-room cabin similar to ours. Yet he also understands how . . . complex the world of the symphony can be.”

  “So he, too, has agreed to keep that part of your life private.”

  “Precisely.”

  Her expression radiant, she simply looked at him and shook her head, and the effect was like a tonic.

  A rap on the door, and Cordina peered inside. “Got a pot of tea and some warm tea cakes if y’all’s hungry. After that . . . telegram.”

  “Are we ever.” Tate rose and pulled the door open the rest of the way. “Thank you, Cordina, for cooperating with me earlier.”

  “My pleasure, sir.” Her eyes sparking with humor, the woman poured them each a cup, then closed the door as she left.

  “And following the procedure, your father’s health improved,” Rebekah prompted.

  “Not immediately.” Tate popped a warm tea cake into his mouth, then washed it down with a cup of tea. “Even though Dr. Hamilton removed a lot of fluid from around his lungs, my father’s health was weakened from the long struggle . . .”

  They sat by the fire in the small study and talked. An hour passed, and the conversation never waned. He only knew that he didn’t want to leave. And she didn’t seem in any hurry to be rid of him. He’d missed her more than he could have imagined, yet still held to his decision—painful as it was—that she deserved so much more than he could give her.

  “And though you haven’t asked me about it yet . . .” He reached for his coat, pulled the stack of sheet music, folded lengthwise, from his pocket, and held the pages out to her. “I finished it.”

  Her eyes lit. “The violin solo?”

  “The entire fourth movement.”

  Her mouth slipped open. “You didn’t!”

  He laughed. “I did.”

  She took the pages and began reading, her fingers tapping, counting off the time on the edge of the sofa cushion, her lips moving silently. She glanced up, her eyes wide. “This is . . . splendid!” Then she went back to reading.

  Tate watched her,
enjoying the chance to look at her, grateful for the opportunity to be with her. For as long as he could.

  “Tate, how did you do this? And so quickly?” Seriousness swept her expression. “I realize you’ve been working on this for months. It’s been simmering inside you. Still . . .”

  “I know it needs work. But being back in the mountains gave me the inspiration I needed.” As did being with you, he wanted to add, but didn’t.

  She straightened the sheet music, then held it to her chest. “I can’t wait to hear it. And the violin solo . . .” She flipped back a few pages. “Already, I can hear your father’s fiddle in it, and echoes of his favorite song. I’m reminded of Vivaldi, too, in the more grueling measures . . .” Her brow furrowed as she studied the notes more closely, as though hearing them in her head.

  “I admit, I was inspired by his Four Seasons.”

  “You’ve written some extremely challenging runs, Tate.”

  “Do you still believe Darrow Fulton can do it?”

  She looked up, and an odd expression flickered over her face. “Yes.” She nodded. “I believe he can. While aspects of his personality can be . . . challenging, he’s still one of the most gifted violinists I’ve ever known.”

  “I agree with you. On both counts.” He winked. “But before we give it to him, I’d appreciate your playing it through several times. I’m sure you’ll have ideas that will improve it.”

  She smiled. “I’d be honored.”

  The fire crackling and popping in the hearth drew her gaze, but then she looked back at him. And Tate knew what she was going to say before she said it.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked softly.

  “Overall . . . I’m well. I’ve had a couple of . . . episodes since seeing you last. Much as the ones before. But at least nothing seems to be getting worse.”

  A knock sounded again, tentative this time, before the door opened.

  Seeing who it was, Tate immediately rose and offered a bow. “Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham. Good evening, sir. Ma’am.”