A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  “Thank you, Cattabelle,” she whispered, then noticed the woman’s dress. A simple homespun, but so beautiful. And it looked new. She thought she recognized the fabric as the material Tate had brought his mother—a floral print with a coordinating fabric in cobalt blue. “You look lovely tonight, Cattabelle.”

  “Yes, you do, Mama,” Tate whispered, lifting his mother off her feet when he hugged her. He looked over at Emil. “Thank you, little brother, for seeing our folks safely here.”

  Emil nodded, his expression filled with pride. “Sorry we got here a little late. We had some trouble at one of the mines.”

  Angus cleared his throat, and Rebekah caught the almost imperceptible shake of his head. She thought Tate saw it too.

  “Then the train outta Knoxville was runnin’ behind,” Emil continued, “so we had to wait. Pa ’bout got off and started to walk his way here!”

  Everyone laughed, including Adelicia, who stood quietly by, watching it all. Rebekah could only imagine what she was thinking. And how on earth had Tate’s family ended up sitting with her and Dr. Cheatham in their private box!

  “I take it you all have met one another,” Tate said, broaching the subject before Rebekah could.

  “Oh my gracious, yes.” Cattabelle smiled. “This nice lady here done saw us askin’ at the window for what tickets we’s supposed to have. The man, bless him, couldn’t seem to find ’em. We kept tellin’ him we was here to see our son lead the music. That’s when Mrs. Cheatham come over and swapped howdys with us. She was late gettin’ here too. Which was good for us, ’cause she helped get it all ironed out.”

  “I’m so grateful, Mr. and Mrs. Whitcomb, that we happened upon each other when we did.” Adelicia included Emil in her nod. “It was an honor for Dr. Cheatham and me to sit with you this evening.”

  “Oh no, ma’am.” Angus shook his head. “The honor was ours altogether. I felt like a king sittin’ up there lookin’ down.”

  Adelicia smiled. “And rightly so, sir, on such an evening as this. We’re all excessively proud of your son. As you are, I know.”

  Tate bowed in response to Mrs. Cheatham’s praise.

  “Miss Carrington?”

  Rebekah turned to see Eleanor Geoffrey and her husband, Marcus, along with another couple Rebekah didn’t recognize. Tate made quick introductions, deftly including Eleanor’s relationship to her aunt Adelicia as well as crediting Marcus with designing and building the opera hall.

  Rebekah looked more closely at Eleanor, detecting a subtle difference in her new friend that she couldn’t quite place. Then Eleanor happened to catch her eye—and smiled. And Rebekah knew. She grinned, overjoyed for the couple.

  “Next,” Tate continued, “may I introduce Mr. and Mrs. Sutton Monroe. Mrs. Monroe is an artist and is responsible for many of the paintings and frescos all around us tonight.”

  As hellos and congratulations were exchanged, Rebekah took the opportunity to tell Claire Monroe how much she appreciated the mural in the tunnel.

  “Thank you so much, Miss Carrington,” Claire said, a trace of France in her voice. “And it was such a privilege to hear you play tonight. An experience I hope to repeat many times in the future.” Claire glanced at her husband. “Now if you will excuse us, our son waits for us at home with my mother-in-law.”

  “And I’m betting he’s waiting none too patiently,” Sutton chimed in.

  “Miss Carrington, a word, please,” Adelicia said softly.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Cheatham.” Rebekah stepped off to the side, aware of Tate watching them.

  Adelicia looked at her for a moment before pulling something from her beaded evening bag. “Imagine my surprise, Miss Carrington, when this arrived for you as my husband and I were leaving Belmont this evening.”

  Mrs. Cheatham held out a piece of paper that Rebekah soon realized was a telegram. She read it . . . and could scarcely breathe. She laughed, then looked at Tate, who again was already watching her.

  His mouth gradually tipped in a smile.

  “You knew?” she mouthed to him.

  As his parents engaged Marcus Geoffrey in questions about the new opera house, Tate joined Rebekah and Mrs. Cheatham. Rebekah handed him the telegram.

  He looked up after reading it. “I told you Maestro Leplin would be a fool not to grant you an audition.”

  Rebekah hugged him. “It was your letter of recommendation that opened the door for me.”

  “Perhaps.” Then he looked at Adelicia. “Or it could have been someone else’s as well.”

  Rebekah turned. “Mrs. Cheatham?”

  Adelicia merely shrugged. “I’ve known Crawford Leplin for a number of years now. And while he’s very good, Miss Carrington, I’ll warn you . . . he’s no Maestro Whitcomb.”

  Tate laughed.

  “But did you see the date he wants me to audition? It’s only two weeks from now!”

  Adelicia waved a hand. “Two weeks is plenty of time to get to New York. After all, Pauline’s recital is this coming week, so you’ll be done with your most important work here.” Her expression all seriousness, the woman’s tone hinted at jest.

  Rebekah smiled. “Your daughter is doing splendidly, Mrs. Cheatham, and I’m certain—”

  “Maestro Whitcomb!”

  They turned to see Edward Pennington striding toward them, looking even more displeased now than he had when exiting the auditorium earlier, if that were possible.

  Pennington walked to within inches of Tate, his face and neck a bright crimson. “As director of the symphony board, it is my responsibility to inform you that the board has decided that your . . . talent is no longer needed here in Nashville. You are hereby—”

  “Mr. Pennington”—Mrs. Cheatham’s tone held polite censure—“this is neither the time nor place for such a discussion. May I suggest that we—”

  “And may I suggest, madam,” Pennington countered, “that you allow the men on the board to decide as they see fit!”

  In the space of a heartbeat, Adelicia Cheatham’s expression went from one of caution to outright warning, and Rebekah fought the instinct to take a backward step.

  “Mr. Pennington”—Adelicia’s voice was velvet and steel—“may I remind you that the Nashville Philharmonic exists solely because of the contributions of our patrons. Of which, if you will look around you . . .”

  Rebekah did, and noticed that the conversations closest to them—far fewer in number than earlier—had grown very quiet.

  “ . . . you will see that the majority of our contributors very much enjoyed tonight’s performance. So may I suggest yet again”—she raised her voice a bit when the man opened his mouth to speak—“that we pursue this discussion with all of our major donors next week.”

  Rebekah heard the not-so-subtle reminder lingering beneath the statement, and apparently so did Pennington. Because he glared at Adelicia, then at Tate, the muscles in his jaw cording tight, and with a huff, stalked away.

  Rebekah let out her breath and noticed that even Adelicia seemed to breathe a little easier.

  “Maestro Whitcomb . . .” Adelicia extended her hand to him, and Tate kissed it. “Thank you, sir, for a most enchanted evening.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  “It’s a wonderful blessing to have your parents here, Maestro. They’re fine people. And so very proud of you.” Emotions flickered across Adelicia’s expression, too many to count. “As you should be of them.”

  Tate held her gaze, then nodded. “I am, Mrs. Cheatham. Very much.”

  Adelicia blinked several times, then seemed to stand a little taller. “I’ll bid you both good evening. Miss Carrington, don’t be too late tonight. Pauline has a lesson in the morning, remember.” And with a look that told Rebekah Mrs. Cheatham would speak with her at greater length some time later, Adelicia took her leave and joined Dr. Cheatham, who waited near the door.

  Tate whistled low. “I would not want to be on that woman’s bad side.”

  Rebekah smiled, watc
hing Mrs. Cheatham walk outside into the beautiful spring evening, the patio full of lingering patrons still visiting with one another. “And I’m beginning to think that the woman doesn’t have a bad side, Tate. Only one that’s misunderstood . . . from time to time.”

  Tate moved to rejoin his family, but Rebekah caught his arm.

  “Adelicia Cheatham is a formidable adversary, Tate. But tonight has likely cost you your job.”

  He covered her hand on his arm. “We each have our own race to run, Rebekah. And part of mine . . . includes yours now. Wherever that takes us.”

  She loved him more than she could say. “Still, I—”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “May I suggest we pursue this discussion later, Miss Carrington?”

  Smiling despite her concern, she followed him back to his family, only to find them in deep whispers—that swiftly ended when Angus, Cattabelle, and Emil saw them.

  Tate looked at his brother. “What’s happened at the mine? Is it Rufus? Was he hurt?”

  “It’s none of the miners, son.” Angus ran a hand through his hair, a gesture Rebekah recognized. “It’s . . . one of the bosses. At least, they think that’s who he was. Hard to tell now, they say.”

  “They found a body.” Emil kept his voice low. “At the bottom of a deep ravine. Man was beaten real bad before his throat was—”

  “No coarse talkin’,” Cattabelle whispered, glancing around them. But the foyer was mostly empty.

  “Before they made sure he was good and dead,” Emil finished. “The body’s been out there a while. Nothin’ found on him, they said, but a ticket stub from Nashville.”

  Rebekah met Tate’s gaze and wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was. She was almost ashamed at even having the thought, much less hoping it was true.

  “Was he one of the bosses from your mine, Emil?” Tate asked.

  “Don’t know yet. I’m supposed to go by there tomorrow, as soon as I get back. But I had nothing to do with it, Witty. Honest.”

  The look that passed between the two brothers told Rebekah that Emil was telling the truth—but also that he knew who had done it. And yet, if the highlanders had judged that man at the bottom of that ravine as deserving of death—which seemed to be the case—no one would ever know what really happened to him.

  Tate was the first to speak up. “I think it’s best we get on back to the house.”

  Rebekah nodded, loving the touch of highlander she heard in his voice from time to time. As they crossed the foyer, she glanced over at the framed portraits of the proud masters lining one of the walls—Mozart, Handel, Beethoven, Bach, and Haydn. She’d been there the afternoon the workers had moved the portraits from the old hall and had rehung them here. Her gaze traveled to Tate’s portrait, a few feet away, the beginning of a new collection. A collection she feared would include another new conductor before the paint on Tate’s portrait had scarcely dried. But Washington Cooper had captured his likeness so well. Especially the warmth and humility that defined the man she’d come to know and love so dearly.

  They walked into the cool night air, and the breeze—laced with lilac and the hint of summer—seemed to wash away the ugly remnants of the conversation from moments earlier. A carriage was waiting.

  Tate opened the door and leaned to whisper in her ear. “I need to get my father home. He needs a good rest before tomorrow’s trip back home. I’ll take you to Belmont afterward.”

  She nodded, then glimpsed a boy loitering at the edge of the crowd of lingering symphony patrons. He drew her attention, first of all, because children usually didn’t attend symphonies. And secondly, because of his worn clothes, tattered britches and—

  The instant Rebekah recognized him, he reached into a man’s coat pocket. She grabbed Tate’s arm. “It’s him, Tate! It’s Billy!”

  Tate looked in the direction she pointed. “I don’t see any . . .” Then he stilled. “Why, that little . . . He’s the same kid who kicked me in the shin!”

  “Tate!” She gripped his arm tighter. “He’s taking that man’s wallet!”

  “Billy!” Tate called, and the boy froze.

  Billy’s head whipped around, and when he saw them, he smiled.

  “Emil! You see that boy in the red cap?” Tate asked.

  “You mean the one runnin’?”

  “That’s the one.” Tate grinned. “You up for a chase?”

  “Brother, when am I not?”

  40

  ONE WEEK LATER

  Rebekah stood beside Tate on the ridge, remembering the first time she’d ever looked out over these mountains. It had been nighttime then, unlike this morning. But either way, the vista moved her as few things ever had. The Appalachians inspired an indescribable feeling of vastness and eternity as mountain upon mountain layered the horizon, wisps of clouds trailing off the highest peaks, strewn like torn tufts of cotton held aloft by the wind. And above it all, a mantle of azure blue extended as far as she could see.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t wait for Emil,” she whispered, so only he could hear. She glanced over at the preacher and Tate’s family—all thirty-six of them, minus Emil—standing around visiting and waiting. She’d met his married brothers and their wives but still couldn’t recall all their children’s names, or keep straight who went with whom.

  She’d asked Tate jokingly the other day if this was all of his family, and he’d admitted there were more. He had aunts, uncles, and cousins scattered all over the area, and he’d heard about some relations on his father’s side in Georgia, although he’d never met them.

  Tate tugged a curl at her temple. “Let’s give him a while longer. He’s supposed to give you away, after all. He told us his business for the mining company would have him back in time for the wedding. And sometimes the train from Knoxville runs late, as we well know.”

  His gaze lingered on hers, then lowered to the laced-up bodice of the white wedding dress some of the women in the holler had sewn for her that week. Rebekah read pleasure and anticipation in his gaze and smiled. The gown, a simple homespun, was so lovely, and just what she wanted for this place, this day. And this man.

  She reached up and touched his face. “I wish your father could have been here.”

  Tate’s focus trailed to the hill beyond, where they’d buried Angus only a couple days ago. “He is here, Rebekah. I know he is. Same as yours.”

  She smiled and slipped her hand through the crook of his arm.

  Tate’s family had left for Chicory Hollow the morning after the symphony—his father clearly weakening. She and Tate had attended Pauline’s recital together on Monday morning—the girl gave an exemplary performance, and Rebekah had felt such pride in her student. Then Rebekah and Tate caught the last train for Chicory Hollow that afternoon, arriving only hours before Angus stepped into eternity, with all of his children gathered around his bed. Tate had handed her his father’s fiddle, and she’d played Angus’s favorite song as the family “sang him home,” as Cattabelle phrased it.

  Tate had read a poem at the graveside—one his father had written for his father—and he’d barely made it through. Despite the rugged demeanor of every highlander man who attended the funeral, there hadn’t been a dry eye among them.

  Tate pulled her closer and covered her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry you couldn’t convince your mother to make the trip.”

  “So am I. But she took the news better than I thought she might.” Rebekah focused on the farthest mountain peak she could see, still trying to come to grips with the news herself. It had only been three days since authorities from Chicory Hollow had confirmed the body as belonging to Barton Ledbetter. After getting Tate’s opinion, she’d decided it best to make the trip back to Nashville to tell her mother, and Delphia, in person. And she’d insisted that Tate stay with Cattabelle. The woman had just lost her husband. She needed her eldest son. The trip had made for a long two days in an already exhausting week, but it had been the right decision.

  “Mother’s cons
titution has grown so much stronger recently. I see more and more of the woman she used to be. Maybe Delphia’s right. Maybe those powders that Barton claimed were from Mother’s doctor weren’t anything of the sort.”

  “Whatever he did or didn’t do, he’s gone now. For good. And don’t you worry, between us, we’ll win your mother over.”

  Rebekah nodded. There’d been so much heartache in recent days. Yet also so much joy. How could the two abide so closely to one another? And yet they did. Like dissonance and harmony. It took both to make the whole.

  “William Angus Whitcomb!” Opal yelled, tiny hands on hips. “You give me back my doll right now!”

  Billy froze, doll in hand, and smiled. “How ’bout you come and make me!”

  The spark in Opal’s eyes, backlit by a grin, told the truer story as the two children took off running across the ridge. Tate and Emil had caught Billy that night following the symphony. And by the time Angus, Cattabelle, and Emil were headed back to Chicory Hollow the next day, it had been decided. With no one else to ask but Billy, they’d sat down with him, and the boy—fighting tears he’d tried in vain to keep inside him—had agreed to go live with them in the mountains. Even considering Angus’s passing, Billy would receive far more love and dedicated upbringing in these mountains than he would have if he’d stayed in Nashville.

  Plus Cattabelle had another boy to love on. And Opal, the brother closer to her own age that she’d always wanted.

  “I think I see Emil comin’!” Benjamin called out.

  “See?” Tate gave Rebekah a quick kiss on the lips. “I told you he’d make it.”

  “No kissin’ ’fore the vows is taken!” one of Tate’s married brothers yelled out, which only encouraged even rowdier comments from the others.

  Grinning, Rebekah felt her face go warm.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Tate whispered. “We highlanders aren’t nearly so proper as you level landers.”

  Laughing softly, she turned to watch for Emil, but Tate gently turned her gaze back to him.