A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  She prayed the world would be gentle. No, not gentle. She looked again at the man beside her. She prayed the world would be worthy.

  “I’ll leave you to focus,” she whispered.

  “No.” His hand closed around hers. “Stand here with me.” His gaze turned appraising as he looked her up and down. “You look . . . stunning this evening, Rebekah. That’s a lovely gown.”

  “Thank you. It was a gift from Mrs. Cheatham.” She peered down at the gown made of iridescent silver taffeta and silk. It shimmered when it caught the light, making it appear almost white. “She knows I’m still in mourning, but she thinks with all the work that’s gone into tonight, my grandmother would want me to shine a little.”

  The gently scooped neckline and sleeveless cut of the dress with its fitted waist suited her. As did the full skirt and low-heeled silver slippers. A far simpler ensemble than the glamorous off-the-shoulder affair many women in the audience were wearing, but she was thrilled to have it.

  Tate’s gaze held approval. “While I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing your grandmother, God rest her, I wholeheartedly concur with Mrs. Cheatham’s opinion.”

  Rebekah smiled in appreciation. She’d shared with him about finding the ribbon that bound the letters her grandmother had hidden. They’d discussed the possibilities of what it meant, and had come to the same conclusion—that they would likely never know for certain. As far as they knew, no one had seen Barton or heard from him. He’d simply disappeared that day after he’d tried to—

  No. She refused to think about that. Not tonight.

  She stared up at Tate, admiring him. And while she did appreciate his compliment, she also found his gentlemanly politeness irritating. Where was the Tate who had flirted with her? Sparred with her? Who’d swept her behind the ticket booth in Chicory Hollow and kissed her with a passion that made her lie awake at night and wonder at the mystery between a man and a woman.

  She knew he loved her. She saw it in his eyes every day, in the way he watched her when she was talking, or playing the violin, or helping him compose. Or even how he’d briefly taken her hand a moment ago. But how to get him to admit his love for her?

  Or more importantly, admit it to himself?

  She made a show of looking at him the way he had her. “You’re quite a handsome man yourself, Nathaniel. Then again . . . I don’t need to see you in black coat and tails to realize that.”

  He smiled, and the tension in his jaw lessened. His gaze moved over her face and settled on her mouth. An intensity lit his eyes, and a flush swept her from head to toe, leaving her slightly light-headed. She knew every one of his expressions—including when he read her lips as she was speaking. And this particular look, to her delight, had absolutely nothing to do with a lack of hearing.

  Maybe that other Tate wasn’t lost to her after all.

  “Maestro Whitcomb?” Mr. Cox, the stage manager, quietly approached. “Twenty minutes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cox.”

  Mr. Cox. Rebekah raised an eyebrow. “You remembered his name this time.” She did her best to look impressed.

  “I’m working harder to remember people, and their names. To notice them, compliment their work.”

  Her playfulness faded. “I think that’s wonderful, Tate.”

  “I would think you might. It’s a trait I learned from you.”

  More touched than she could say, she glimpsed the orchestra members filing in from the back of the stage, taking their seats and beginning to tune their instruments, and the weight of the moment set in.

  Judging by the deep breath Tate took beside her, he felt the same.

  “Would you look again, please?” he whispered.

  She did, and her heart clinched tight. She returned to his side. “Not yet. But I’m sure they’ll be here.”

  “Maybe something happened. Maybe the trip down the mountain was harder for him than they expected. Or maybe his health took a—”

  “No, Tate.” She could feel the turn of his thoughts. “Your father is fine.”

  “You know as well as I do, Rebekah, that if something had happened to him, they wouldn’t send word until after tonight. They wouldn’t want to do anything to—”

  “Your father will be here—with your mother and Emil. You just wait. When you walk onto the stage, they’ll be sitting right there. And I’ll be sitting right beside them.”

  He briefly bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

  Oh no . . . “You’re not feeling another one of your—”

  “No, I’m fine,” he whispered. “It’s . . . the usual tension.”

  She breathed a little easier. She’d prayed for him and for this particular night for weeks now and was grateful when she’d learned Dr. Hamilton was praying as well. The man said as much in a note to Tate earlier that week. It felt good to know she wasn’t alone in knowing—and caring—about what was happening to him.

  A silent, unexpected awareness quickened her pulse, and Rebekah lowered her head, humbled, and reminded . . .

  She’d never been alone. And neither was Tate.

  “Ten minutes, Maestro,” Mr. Cox said softly from behind.

  Coming from the other side of the stage curtain, a hushed cacophony of voices, laughter, and twitters of conversation, all charged with excitement and anticipation, reached through to them and seemed to electrify the air.

  “I need to take my seat,” she whispered.

  Eyes closed, he nodded.

  Struggling with what else to say to him, how to encourage him, she gave his hand a brief squeeze, and was almost to the rear stage door when she turned around and walked back.

  She took his hand and threaded her fingers through his. “Tate, I know you want your father here. You want him to hear what you’ve written for him. But whether or not he’s in the audience this evening or whether he’s”—her voice caught—“at home . . . somewhere else,” she whispered, thinking of her own father and of Demetrius, “he knows you love him, he knows you’re grateful for all he gave to you. So you walk out there and perform tonight as though he’s here. Because he is.” She placed a hand over his heart. “And always will be.”

  Saying nothing for a moment, Tate brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I wish . . . I had more to offer you.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “You have already given me more than I ever thought my heart could contain. Don’t you see . . . It doesn’t matter to me that in a few days, or weeks, or perhaps months you may not be able to hear me, or the world around you. That doesn’t change my feelings for you.”

  “But what kind of future can I offer you, Rebekah? Think about it. Who wants to hire a deaf conductor?”

  “You know as well as I that when Beethoven wrote his Ninth Symphony, he was almost completely deaf.”

  “I am no Beethoven, Rebekah.”

  “No,” she whispered. “You’re not. You’re Nathaniel Tate Whitcomb, son of Angus and Cattabelle Whitcomb of Chicory Hollow, Tennessee, and you have been brought to this moment in your life to do this. And I am so grateful to have been allowed to be here to witness it.”

  He pressed her hand on the place over his heart. “You have done more than witness it. I could not be doing this tonight, or have even finished the symphony, without you.”

  “And don’t you ever forget it . . . Maestro Whitcomb,” she said softly.

  A slow smile tipped one side of his mouth. “Do I hear an inflection of sincerity in that address, Miss Carrington?”

  She laughed. “Yes, but don’t let it go to your head.”

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then an even softer one to her lips. “No, my love. Only my heart.”

  38

  Her heart full, Rebekah paused on her way to the stage door and looked back at Tate, grateful for the darkness and the opportunity to watch him unobserved. She so wanted this night to be perfect for him. And for his parents to see, for the first time in their lives—though, prayerfully, not the last—what a magnificent
conductor their son had become, and how much he credited them with his success.

  She could hear Edward Pennington, director of the symphony board, offering the introductory welcome to the audience, and was amazed at the clarity of the man’s voice, even standing back here where she was. And they hadn’t even raised the curtain yet. She recalled Marcus Geoffrey explaining the acoustics of the building to her. It would appear he’d done his job well.

  But if she didn’t get to her seat soon, she’d be forced to wait until after the first movement.

  “Whoa, not too much there.”

  The deep whisper sounded as though it came from right beside her, yet Rebekah didn’t see anyone nearby.

  “It helps me when I play,” someone whispered back.

  A man laughed in a hushed tone.

  “A little helps you when you play. A lot will . . .”

  Rebekah strained to hear but couldn’t make out the rest. One of the voices sounded familiar to her, yet she couldn’t place it.

  “So you’re doing it, then?”

  “Of course, I’m doing it. I do this, and I can write my own ticket anywhere.”

  “Well, you best stop drinkin’ that or you won’t be writin’ anything. Much less playin’.”

  The shuffle of footsteps, and a side curtain moved, not six feet from her. Out stepped two men. A stage worker she’d seen on occasion. And . . . Darrow Fulton.

  Standing in the wings, Tate couldn’t see whether his parents were in their seats yet or not. While he knew that what Rebekah had said was true—about his father already knowing how grateful he was—he still wished them here.

  Listening to Edward Pennington drone on and on, Tate wondered if the man might speak all night. But he finally finished, and Mr. Cox gave Darrow Fulton his cue. As first violinist and concertmaster, Fulton preceded Tate onto the stage.

  Seeing Fulton, the audience applauded. Fulton paused and—as he always did—bowed with all the flourish of a European prince, then he turned and nodded for the oboist to sound the tuning note. The oboist played an A, pure and clear, and all the other instruments tuned to it.

  Tate wished he could be more confident in Fulton’s ability to play the violin solo this evening. During the final two practices, Fulton had managed to play all of the notes correctly, but there had been little feeling in the piece. That was Fulton’s problem—not connecting emotionally with the music he played. The man was brilliant, in one sense. And completely trammeled in another.

  Which was particularly bothersome, because, as Tate had told him the other day, the interlude in the fourth movement was the heartbeat of this symphony. Tate had considered, numerous times, assigning the solo to another musician, but Fulton was the most experienced violinist in the orchestra. If he could scarcely manage it, then the second or third chair could hardly be expected to do better.

  Darrow Fulton took his seat, and Mr. Cox gave Tate his cue. With a deep breath, Tate walked onto the stage.

  Applause rose like a clap of thunder, filling the heights of the auditorium. Though every one of his mentors had insisted a conductor walk onto the stage with focus straight ahead, oblivious to his audience, Tate couldn’t resist looking.

  But three of the second-row seats were empty. Save for Rebekah’s. His gaze briefly connected with hers, and it felt as though his entire world was tethered to the warmth of her smile.

  He paused beside Fulton, who rose. Tate shook his hand, which was clammy to the touch. Tate gave him a look that said he trusted Fulton’s nervousness would quickly shake out in the first movement.

  Tate stepped up to the dais and waited for the applause to quiet behind him. As he picked up his baton, an image flashed in his mind. It happened in an instant. He was back in the cabin, in his parents’ bedroom. His father was abed. Tate could feel the worn fiddle in his grip, and the prayer he’d prayed on his lips. Please, Lord . . . for him. Let me do this for him.

  He looked down at the symphony score lying open on the stand before him and saw, instead of notes, all the ins and outs of his life that had led him to this moment. All the people with whom his life had intersected in order for his path to lead him here. How incredibly unlikely it was that all of that would have happened to a boy born in the hills of Chicory Hollow. As the magnitude of that orchestration set in, the prayer returned. Please, Lord . . . for him. Let me do this for him.

  But even more, Lord Jesus—Tate briefly closed his eyes—may I do this for you. Because of all you’ve done for me.

  He raised his baton and the instruments lifted in unison, every musician’s gaze fastened on him, waiting, anticipating.

  And though Tate couldn’t remember ever having done this before, nor having even thought of doing it . . . he smiled at the men seated in a semicircle before him, and the light that had resided in their eyes seconds before paled in comparison to the eager excitement shining in them now. And with a flick of his wrist . . .

  Music poured forth.

  First the strings, then woodwinds, brass, and percussion. The music flowed through him, around him, and he could only imagine how it sounded as it swirled and soared behind him. Time seemed to stand still even as he was aware of the symphony’s progression.

  They were nearly to the middle of the first movement before he realized he hadn’t bothered yet to look down at the score. Then he saw them. Tabs in his music.

  The first one read: 1st movement, middle. And he smiled to himself. Rebekah. The woman knew him almost better than he knew himself.

  The first movement flowed into the second, then the third. And with the exception of some flatting by a musician in the first-violin section—he shot a glance at Darrow Fulton, whose face was bathed in sweat—the orchestra played flawlessly.

  Tate could hear every instrument. Every pianissimo, every crescendo. And as the fourth movement approached, his heart pounding with exertion and excitement, he felt both a shudder of anticipation—and of uncertainty.

  He saw movement in his peripheral vision and looked over. It was Darrow Fulton . . . wiping his face with a handkerchief? A face decidedly more pale than it had been moments earlier.

  Tate caught Fulton’s attention, his own gaze feeling daggerlike, and the man gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. Which Tate found far from reassuring. But at least Fulton was still committed to playing the interlude.

  The third movement built toward its finale, each section of the orchestra brilliant in clarity and tempo, until the movement’s final note pierced the air and hung suspended. Tate scanned the musicians, the metronome inside him counting off the final four beats. Then he gave the cue, and . . .

  Silence fell, save for the last, fading chord in C minor soaking deep into the fabric of the draperies and upholstered seats, the polished wooden floors, and the willing souls of those gathered.

  Tate took a breath, raised his baton, and the majestic, triumphant strains of the violin and cello in C major rose to life, followed by the clarinets and oboes, trumpets and trombones.

  He looked over at Darrow Fulton seated scarcely six feet away feet away and could see the man’s fingers shaking as he gripped his bow. Still, Fulton played, as written in this section, in perfect unison with the other violins. A good sign. The man was simply nervous about the solo. Understandable. But he could do it. Tate cued the brass section, then percussion, and the strength of the instruments soared, circling round and round him. Truly, this must be what it was like to live within the music.

  Filled with an uncommon joy and only measures now from the interlude, Tate looked back to the violins to see Fulton give him an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Tate’s heart all but stopped.

  Fury ignited his veins, hot and explosive. Only measures away from the interlude, and Fulton does this?

  Tate flipped to the next page of the score, reading ahead, his thoughts racing, colliding, twisting like a whirlwind inside him. He had no choice, he would simply have to proceed without the—

  From somewhere backstage—the strai
ns soft at first, then rising like the first blush of dawn—came the sound of home, of the hills and hollers, the mountains and the mist, the church in the meadow . . . and Vivaldi. Tate’s throat closed tight.

  He read confusion in the other musicians’ faces and quickly regained control. The interlude gradually escalated in strength and volume, the clarity of the grueling arpeggios both astounding and soul stirring, their rapidly ascending and descending notes each living their own distinct, yet brilliant life.

  And as he listened, he heard, as though for the first time in his life, the ethereal beauty of the violin. As if the curtain to eternity fluttered ever so slightly and notes, as yet unsung on earth, slipped through by the Hand of Grace. Judging by the faces of the musicians sitting before him, he gathered they shared a measure of his thoughts.

  Nearing the final movement of the solo—the measures he and Rebekah had collaborated on most—Tate cued each instrument section until, one by one, their volume fell away to a whisper. And the ghostly beauty beyond the curtains rose once again with a power and fluidity that—true to Mr. Geoffrey’s word—filled every corner of the auditorium . . .

  Before finally yielding again to the soft strains of misty mornings and the hills and hollers of home. Tate’s chest ached as he thought of his father, who he feared was listening from beyond the veil.

  “Come, thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing thy grace. Streams of mercy never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.”

  He couldn’t be certain, but he wondered if he heard the faintest chorus of voices behind him. Or maybe . . . they came from within.

  “Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above. Praise the mount, I’m fixed upon it, mount of thy redeeming love.”

  In his mind, he pictured a little girl, her auburn curls bouncing, as she wandered down to the slave cabins behind her house, drawn by a language that needed no words and that knew no boundaries. Not of rank or privilege. And certainly not of color.

  He smiled as he caught snatches of the chords and distinct rhythms from “Barbara Allen,” “Pretty Polly,” and “The Cuckoo,” and could all but hear Opal’s sweet voice singing along. But it was the dissonance of themes from “Wayfaring Stranger” that wove a cord around his heart and pulled tight, helped along by the memory of Rebekah’s voice as she sang that night in the cabin.