A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  Becoming almost a part of the music rather than simply its conductor, he cued each section, and the music and volume built to a crescendo again, one last time. And he listened as closely as he could, struggling to memorize what he heard, knowing there would come a day—no, countless days—when he would close his eyes and reach deep within him, back to this moment, wanting to live in the midst of this music again.

  How much he’d taken for granted in his life, and how much he would miss. But also, how much he had to be grateful for.

  He turned the final page of the score and felt the turning of a page within him. As the last note faded, silence settled over the auditorium. Yet Tate was hesitant to lower his hands, to give permission for the moment—and this part of his life—to be over.

  Finally, he relinquished . . .

  And thunder broke for a second time as applause and cheers rained down. He turned and faced the audience. Their affirmation swelled and broke over him, again and again, in a bittersweet tide of gratitude and praise.

  He bowed at the waist, his gaze returning to the four empty seats in the second row. Then he straightened and, with a sweep of his arm, acknowledged the orchestra.

  “Bravo!” someone cried from an upper balcony.

  “Bravissimo!” another followed, which seemed to open a floodgate.

  Tate raised his arm, trying to quiet the crowd, knowing there was one more thing he wanted—needed—to do. But that only encouraged their praise. He bowed again. Then after another moment, he tried a second time.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out as the cheers and applause subsided. “At this time, I would like to invite the master violinist who performed the solo in the fourth movement to join me on the stage, so that we might show our appreciation.”

  Without delay, a round of applause rose again.

  Yet . . . no Rebekah.

  Tate caught a glimpse of iridescent silver in the shadows offstage, then saw her peering at him from behind a side curtain. Hidden from view of the audience, she smiled sweetly but shook her head, then laid a hand over her heart and pointed back to him. He knew what she meant.

  But this night was about so much more than him.

  He held out his hand to her, determined that she be part of this evening. Uncertainty in her features and violin in hand, she walked onto the stage. And like gushing water forced through a sieve, the applause suddenly fell to a trickle, then to nothing as disapproving gasps and murmurs filled the void.

  Until finally, only silence.

  Where seconds earlier joy and celebration abounded, now tension stretched taut, and Tate felt responsible for every raised eyebrow and dark look. Yet in some expressions—women, mostly, but even a few of the men—he read intrigue and even . . . awe.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my extreme privilege to introduce this evening’s master violinist . . . Miss Rebekah Ellen Carrington. Please join me in showing her our—”

  “This is beyond the pale!” came from somewhere near the front.

  “Disgraceful!”

  “Unseemly conduct!”

  The responses gained momentum and scattered boos joined in to form an unseemly chorus. Edward Pennington began the exodus, his grip on his wife’s elbow, then others from the symphony board followed as a hissing sound serpentined its way through the crowd. Groups of naysayers—a dozen here, a handful there—rose from their seats and filed toward the outer doors, from every section and every level of the balcony, parading their offended sensibilities like badges of honor.

  Rebekah started to walk offstage, but Tate grabbed her arm and gently pulled her back. With a wounded look, she pleaded with him to let her go. But as much as it hurt him to see her being hurt, he shook his head. Angry with the patrons leaving, he was even more so with himself for insisting she come out here. He should have known better. But she deserved to be recognized for her talent and all that she’d—

  Somewhere off to his left, someone began clapping.

  One brave, daring soul.

  And the auditorium fell silent.

  He looked upward, searching for who it was. And the instant he spotted her—Mrs. Adelicia Acklen Cheatham—a second person joined in, followed by a third and a fourth, their approval unwavering, even if greatly outweighed. Then he saw who was standing next to Mrs. Cheatham, and an ache of surprise and gratitude filled his chest.

  His father. With Adelaide Cheatham in her private box? Tate heard Rebekah’s soft gasp beside him just as he spotted his mother and Emil seated in the box as well.

  Tate lifted his hand to them, his father’s face brimming with emotion, love, and pride—an image Tate knew he would carry with him forever.

  As the applause continued and increased, he heard a noise behind them and turned to see all of the violinists tapping their stands with their bows, a time-honored tradition of showing appreciation and honor to the soloist. All of the violinists except Darrow Fulton, whose face was decidedly less pale, and instead was flushed with anger.

  Rebekah smiled at the musicians, her eyes brimming.

  “Encore!” someone called out from the auditorium, and a chorus of voices swiftly took up the cry. “Encore!” “Brava!”

  Tate looked over at her to find her already looking at him.

  “Miss Carrington, would you mind greatly if I were to conduct you in an encore performance?”

  “I would be most honored . . . Maestro Whitcomb.”

  He gave instructions to the orchestra, then turned and gave them to Rebekah. When he looked back, Darrow Fulton was gone. Tate’s gaze moved from the empty seat one over to Mr. Adams, the second-chair violinist. And Adams nodded, a measure of pride and gratitude in the act.

  Tate lifted his baton, knowing this encore would be the truer test—not of Rebekah’s skill. That had been established without question. But rather, whether the patrons would accept the vessel from whom the music they loved poured forth.

  The orchestra began eight measures before the interlude, then Rebekah joined. The gracefulness and beauty with which she played—her arms, her neck, the curves of her shoulders, the expressions on her face—were as moving and mesmerizing as the music itself. And it occurred to him that the curves of a woman’s body were much like those of a violin—both of extraordinary beauty.

  Watching her, Tate knew again that she’d been born to play this instrument. And based on a furtive glance behind him, the spellbound audience agreed.

  Nearing the end of the fourth movement, he cued the violins, then woodwinds—then tossed a sharp look back at the violins. They’d anticipated the decrescendo far too early this time. A mistake they rarely made. He signaled the musicians, demanding more, but their expressions simultaneously registered confusion.

  Then a pop sounded in his ears. And like a train moving farther and farther away, its whistle growing more distant by the second, the music faded until only a distant buzzing sounded in his ears.

  The orchestra was still playing. The violins bowed together in perfect unison, moving as one. The cellists, the horns, the percussion did the same. But he heard none of it. And yet . . . he did. He could hear it in his heart, in the faces of the musicians, and he could see it in the tears slipping down Rebekah’s face.

  Was this what it was going to be like? Alone within himself while in a room surrounded with people. A world within a world. And not a world he welcomed.

  He blinked—feeling outside of time—and realized that the orchestra had stopped. He couldn’t remember when or how, but his hands now rested at his sides, baton still in his grip. He laid it on the podium, the simple act so strange without its corresponding sound.

  Wondering why the audience wasn’t applauding yet, he felt a touch on his arm, turned, and saw Rebekah, then realized his mistake. Love and understanding spilled down her cheeks, and she gestured toward the auditorium.

  Tate turned to see every man and woman on their feet, clapping their hands, their faces jubilant, many tear-stained. He looked up toward Mrs. Cheatham’s box
and found her waving her silk handkerchief in the air, Dr. Cheatham clapping enthusiastically beside her. Tate watched his father laughing and applauding, his mother and Emil doing the same.

  And all of this . . . from music. Which God had gifted to him. And he, in turn, had gifted back to God. How odd then, for his gift to be taken at the precise time he’d finally learned that knowing the Giver was far more important than honing the gift.

  Another popping sound, this time painful, and Tate winced. But the pain subsided quickly, and he realized he wasn’t dizzy. Not in the least. Dr. Hamilton had said there would be stages.

  A sound like waves in the distance moved toward him, and he gradually recognized it as applause.

  He heard a soft whisper beside him. “Take a bow.”

  He turned and took Rebekah’s outstretched hand. “Only . . . if you take it with me.”

  39

  As the curtain closed to thunderous applause, Rebekah turned to Tate, still holding his hand, not wanting—or willing—to let go. He drew her into his arms.

  “Thank you,” he whispered into her ear.

  Head against his chest, she hugged him tighter. “Thank you. You were magnificent, Tate.” She drew back slightly, a little breathless, the music and exhilaration still flowing through her. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded, his expression full of emotion. And love.

  “And your parents! And Emil!” She laughed. “Your father heard it, Tate! He heard what you wrote for him.”

  He exhaled, his eyes misting. So much said in a single sigh.

  “Excuse me, Maestro . . .”

  Mr. Cox, the stage manager, approached, and Tate leaned closer to the man. A telling sign.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir,” Cox continued. “But we need to get you to the foyer. And, if I might be so bold. . . .” The older man smiled. “I believe Miss Carrington should accompany you.”

  “By all means she should, Mr. Cox.” Tate took her hand.

  Mr. Cox led them to a door just offstage that Rebekah had tried before when snooping around the new opera hall, but she’d always found the door locked. Using a key, he opened it and motioned for them to precede him.

  Before them, a long narrow hallway with a barrel ceiling stretched for what seemed like forever, the golden glow of oil lamp sconces providing ample light and a warm invitation. But it was what covered the walls and ceiling as far as Rebekah could see that rendered her speechless. She felt as though she were standing at the portal of heaven.

  “A secret tunnel.” Tate’s voice sounded overloud in the sudden stillness.

  Mr. Cox laughed and locked the door behind them. “To get from the stage to the lobby in timely fashion. Mr. Geoffrey thought of everything.”

  “I’ll say he did.” Rebekah ran a hand over the murals, reminded of those she’d seen on the kitchen walls at Belmont. “Do you know who painted all of this?”

  Mr. Cox beamed. “A lady by the name of Claire Monroe. She did quite a lot of the painting in this building, ma’am. A most talented artist, if I may say so.”

  “Yes,” Rebekah whispered. “Yes, she is.”

  An expanse of azure blue sky, as pristine and realistic as she’d ever seen captured with paint, extended down the corridor. Rays of sunlight broke through wispy clouds so authentic looking she would’ve sworn she felt a breeze and saw them move. And mountains in the distance so green and lush they looked otherworldly.

  Mr. Cox gestured. “Follow me, sir . . . ma’am. Lots of people are waiting to congratulate you both on the other end.”

  Tate squeezed her hand, and Rebekah followed, taking in the beauty surrounding them, and thinking of his parents and the pride she’d seen in their faces. Especially Angus.

  As she walked, she spotted angels dressed in white robes peering from behind clouds and even standing on distant mountaintops. Some of the angels were tall, others short. Some were thick, others thin. Various shades of hair color too. And—her admiration for the artist suddenly deepened—some were light-skinned and others dark. And without exception they were all smiling, laughing, even clapping. Then she realized . . .

  “They’re not angels,” she whispered. “They’re people.”

  Nearing the end of the tunnel, Tate slowed, and Rebekah soon realized why. He began reading the words written in elegant script on the wall . . .

  “‘Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses . . .’” His deep voice seemed more so in the hush of the tunnel. “‘Let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the”—his voice caught—“the race that is set before us.’”

  Threading her fingers through his, Rebekah read on silently, the Scripture passage somewhat familiar to her, but not one she knew well.

  “One afternoon,” Tate said softly, “I saw Mrs. Monroe standing here in the tunnel. She’d asked Marcus Geoffrey if she could paint it. He said yes, of course. And she asked me if I had any ideas. These verses were on my mind at the time. They’re some of Pa’s favorites that he taught me when I was young. That’s all I told her. And then she created all of this.”

  Rebekah reached out and brushed her fingers over the image of a black man standing on a distant hill, his expression bursting with joy, his arms raised heavenward. And she saw Demetrius clearly in her mind’s eye, as though he were standing there with her. Same as moments earlier that night as she’d played.

  Tate pulled her close and kissed her hair. “Demetrius heard you tonight, Rebekah. As did your father. I’m certain of it.”

  Tears in her eyes, she nodded.

  “Maestro?” Mr. Cox asked softly.

  Tate smiled. “Yes, we’re coming.”

  Mr. Cox slipped the key into the lock, then paused. He glanced back, yet seemed hesitant to meet their gazes. “While I have the chance, may I say to you both that tonight was . . . Well, special doesn’t begin to describe it. And to you, Miss Carrington, my mother, God rest her soul . . . was quite the fiddler when she was alive. She would have loved to’ve seen you up there, ma’am.”

  Rebekah gently touched his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Cox.”

  He dipped his head, then turned and opened the door.

  The first person Rebekah saw was Mrs. Cheatham, standing with Tate’s parents across the grand foyer, a sea of people between them. Rebekah’s eyes locked with hers, and Adelicia smiled. But the smile held a message, it seemed, though Rebekah couldn’t decipher it. And knowing Mrs. Cheatham, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  She followed Tate as he cut a path straight for them, both of them accepting congratulations as they worked their way across the crowded foyer and past the massive staircase where patrons continued to file down from the balconies. Only then did she think of the people who had stormed out of the opera hall earlier. That had hurt more than she’d thought possible.

  But, in turn, the joy that had come with playing, with giving God her best, and with feeling the love, warmth, and appreciation from the people who’d remained . . . Then seeing Tate’s parents and Emil there in the balcony!

  That more than soothed the hurt away.

  “Maestro Whitcomb!”

  Halfway across the foyer, Rebekah turned to see a distinguished-looking older man approaching, his features keen with earnest. A woman of like age followed. Tate let go of Rebekah’s hand and embraced the man, clapping his shoulder as though they were old friends.

  “Rebekah . . . ” Tate leaned close, giving her a look. “I’d like you to meet Dr. and Mrs. Ronald Hamilton.”

  Realizing who the man was, Rebekah was overwhelmed with gratitude. “Thank you, Dr. Hamilton, for what you did for Angus. And for your care . . . of this man here.” She looked at Tate, who was already looking at her.

  “It is I and my wife, Christine”—Dr. Hamilton gestured beside him, his wife’s expression full of kindness—“who are honored to have been here tonight. Truly, Maestro, if you’ll allow me . . . Beethoven being dead, only Nath
aniel Tate Whitcomb could make him alive again.”

  Tate shook his hand. “Thank you, sir,” he said, voice husky.

  “And, Miss Carrington . . .” Dr. Hamilton took her hand in his. “As you played tonight, my wife and I both whispered to one another . . . that we heard angels sing.”

  Rebekah hugged them both, and as they parted, Tate and the doctor vowed to keep in touch often.

  Rebekah followed Tate through the crowd toward his waiting parents, and seeing Angus, even at this distance, she was struck by how much taller a man he seemed. Then she realized, she’d only seen him abed before.

  Tate reached his family first and drew his father into a hug that Rebekah knew she’d remember the rest of her life. Just as she would remember every detail about this night. Angus whispered something to Tate she couldn’t hear, and Tate hugged him again, struggling to maintain his composure.

  But the closer she came, the more aware she grew of the weary set of Angus’s broad shoulders and the shadows of fatigue and prolonged illness lining his face. Watching Cattabelle and Emil, and even Tate, she sensed they saw it too. And even as she thanked God that Tate’s father was here tonight, she prayed for him—and for the days ahead.

  Seeing Tate with his father made her miss her own father so much. She wished her mother were here. She’d invited her, several times, but her mother had declined, saying she wanted to be home “when Barton returned.” There had still been no word from or news of the man. It was as though he’d vanished. Which, with everything in her, Rebekah hoped was true.

  “We’re so proud of you too, Rebekah,” Cattabelle said, breaking into Rebekah’s thoughts. “You looked so purty up there, darlin’. All shiny and sparklin’ like the first star o’ night. You started playin’ and Angus and me just took to cryin’.” Cattabelle drew her into an embrace that meant more to Rebekah than Tate’s mother could know.