A Note Yet Unsung Read online

  But to her dismay, he played the instrument disappointingly well—for a conductor. Conductors were infamous for boasting they could play numerous instruments well, when their actual talent more than stretched the definition of the word.

  Rebekah shoved open the door to her bedroom, a fraction of her earlier satisfaction evaporating as she did. The man had no idea what it was like to have doors slammed in your face for reasons that couldn’t be changed.

  A servant laying the fire in the hearth suddenly jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The usual girl who does this is ailin’, and I’m runnin’ a bit behind. But I’ll be done soon enough.”

  “Oh, it’s no worry.” Rebekah recognized her as the woman who’d delivered tea to her yesterday, the one with the friendly eyes and matching smile. Only, she wasn’t smiling today. Rebekah wished to set her at ease. “My name is Rebekah Carrington. I’m Pauline’s new music tutor. And you are?”

  The woman fingered her stained apron, her gaze darting to the door and back. “My name be . . . Esther, Miss Carrington.”

  “Well, it’s nice to make your acquaintance, Esther. And thank you for the fire.”

  Esther dipped her head and knelt again on the drop cloth, intent on her task.

  Rebekah watched her, the woman’s behavior so different from yesterday.

  Through the years, and with some prompting, Sally had shared with her about life as a servant—and about what life had been like as a slave. And even though Sally had insisted that Rebekah’s grandfather and father had been kind and decent owners, it was the first time Rebekah could ever remember being ashamed of her family. She hated what the war had done and what it had cost in lives, but she was so grateful that the late President Lincoln had declared freedom to those enslaved. Especially after she’d grown to love Sally as she had.

  “Have you been at Belmont long, Esther?” she asked, perching on the edge of the bed.

  Esther’s movements quickened. “Awhile, I guess, ma’am.”

  “I only arrived yesterday. But . . . of course you know that. Do you have family here in—”

  “All done, Miss Carrington.” Esther gathered the drop cloth, grabbed the bucket, and hurried to the door. “Sorry again for disturbin’ you, ma’am.”

  “I promise you, Esther, it wasn’t a . . . ”

  The woman closed the door softly, and Rebekah stared after her, the crackle of the fire accentuating her sudden exit. Unable to account for the change in the woman’s demeanor since yesterday, Rebekah rose. Apparently being a guest at Belmont was different than living here. Mrs. Routh, or even Mrs. Cheatham, might have a rule against house servants and employees of the family fraternizing. Herr Heilig did, after all.

  The fire swiftly devoured the kindling, and Rebekah added another log to the flames, already having learned that the chill in the room was stubborn to leave. She shed her skirt and shirtwaist, chemise and undergarments, and hurriedly slipped into her gown.

  Mrs. Cheatham had seen that her trunks were delivered from the opera house last night. When she’d left home before dawn yesterday morning, that had been the only place Rebekah could think of to send them. She’d hoped against hope that the kind Mrs. Bixby—and not Mrs. Murphey—would be the one there to accept them. And Mrs. Bixby had been, bless her.

  Because if it had been Mrs. Murphey, Rebekah was certain the trunks would’ve been sent straight back to her mother’s house. Or to the nearest rubbish pile.

  Only one of the trunks remained at the opera house—left behind due to its weight and the limited space in the wagon, Mrs. Bixby penned in her note. It was the trunk containing her books and folders of music, including the bound collections of musical scores she’d painstakingly copied through the years, along with orchestrations Maestro Heilig had generously allowed her to transcribe for her own personal library.

  She turned back the bedcovers, grateful again to have found a place to live. Mrs. Cheatham was a shrewd negotiator, and room and board was all the remuneration Rebekah would receive for giving Pauline violin lessons. Which meant she needed to find another way to earn money, either through securing a second job or teaching more students. But for now, at least, she was safe—and far away from Barton Ledbetter.

  A knock on the door drew her around.

  “Yes?” It was probably Cordina with the tea cakes the woman had promised to set aside for her. Rebekah grabbed her robe and cinched it at the waist as she opened the door. “Cordina, you’re the most—”

  “Good evening, Miss Carrington.”

  Rebekah blinked. “Mrs. Cheatham.”

  Her employer smiled, looking radiant amidst a bejeweled glow, diamonds at her neckline and waist, and on her tiara, all glittering white and gold in the oil lamp she held. “I’m sorry to bother you at so late an hour, but this cannot wait till morning. May I come in, please?”

  Rebekah felt her face grow warm. She’d expected Mrs. Cheatham to be pleased at her performance, but for the woman to come to her room . . . “Yes, certainly. Please, come in.” She stepped back and opened the door wider for Mrs. Cheatham to enter, then closed it in an effort to keep the heat in the room.

  Mrs. Cheatham glanced about, and Rebekah trailed her gaze. She’d taken for granted that no one would object to her repositioning some of the bedroom furniture. Now she questioned that call.

  Mrs. Cheatham motioned. “You prefer the dresser against that wall instead of nearer the window?”

  Hearing a sliver of displeasure in her voice, Rebekah hastened to explain. “I spend several hours a day practicing, and I enjoy looking outside when I play. It helps to break the monotony. But if you’d prefer, I’ll happily move it—”

  “No, no. It’s your room, Miss Carrington. You may arrange the furniture as you see fit.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  The woman moved toward the bank of windows, the lamp’s illumination dancing off the darkened panes. Rebekah watched her, sensing something amiss but at a loss as to what it might be.

  “Your performance tonight was exquisite, Miss Carrington. My guests were quite enthralled.” She glanced back. “Though, no doubt, you’re already aware of that, judging by their applause.”

  Rebekah warmed at the compliment. “I’m glad they were pleased. I remember you stating your preference for music when hosting dinner guests. And when I realized the ensemble had concluded, then saw the musicians coming downstairs—”

  A single dark eyebrow rose in a perfect arch, and Rebekah realized what she’d foolishly admitted.

  Her smile took effort this time. “I saw the musicians because . . . I was standing just inside the hallway.” She gestured toward the closed door. “I simply wanted to watch the guests as they left. Everyone looked so lovely.”

  Mrs. Cheatham stared. “Continue,” she said softly.

  “After the musicians came downstairs”—Rebekah decided not to mention having seen her employer frown—“I thought how pleased you would be if your guests departed to Mozart instead of the squeaky wheels of the carriages. So . . . I sneaked upstairs. But no one saw me,” she said quickly. “I made certain of that.”

  Mrs. Cheatham smiled and returned her gaze to the darkness beyond the window. “Mozart’s ‘Rondo alla turca.’ A most ambitious choice. And one masterfully executed.”

  Rebekah let out a breath, the tension inside her easing. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m so glad you’re pleased.”

  “Pleased isn’t exactly the word I would use in this instance, Miss Carrington.” Mrs. Cheatham turned back, her smile fading. “Don’t misunderstand me. Your skill is exemplary. You play with a passion that runs deep, yet with a tenderness that touches the furthest corners of one’s heart. Which makes what you did tonight . . . especially perilous for me.”

  Rebekah frowned. “Perilous? I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Your behavior tonight has exposed me to risk, Miss Carrington. Risk I neither sanctioned nor welcome. You see, after you finished playing, after the silence returned only to
be filled with thunderous applause, after everyone fawned over how we ‘saved the best talent for last,’ my guests demanded to know the identity of the master violinist. Including Maestro Whitcomb. So you see, Miss Carrington, if your attempt was to please me, you fell woefully short of your mark.”

  Rebekah stared, her joy quickly souring, replaced with a dread that tasted like ash on her tongue. She swallowed. If she lost this job—

  Suddenly, all she could see was Barton Ledbetter. All she could feel was the man’s hands on her and how he—

  “Mrs. Cheatham, I assure you, I believed with my whole heart that you would be pleased. It never occurred to me that what I did might reflect poorly on you. If I’d thought for one moment that—”

  “But that’s the problem, my dear. You didn’t think. You made the decision in an instant. With emotion as your guide, instead of logic.” With a sigh, Mrs. Cheatham placed the lamp on a side table. “While I do believe you wanted to please me, I believe the overwhelming motivation behind your actions this evening was to prove a point to Maestro Whitcomb. The man said no to your audition, and that hurt you. Deeply. So you wanted to show him up, so to speak. Prove you could play, even perform, as well as any man.”

  Mrs. Cheatham leveled her gaze, her blue eyes unwavering in their appraisal. “Would you care to contradict me on that point?”

  Rebekah broke out in a cold sweat and felt herself growing smaller inside, even as a shrill voice cried out from deep down that Mrs. Cheatham was wrong, that her reasons for playing had been completely innocent, even altruistic, and that Nathaniel Whitcomb had absolutely nothing to do with her decision to—

  But truth tightened Rebekah’s chest and only grew stronger as it surfaced, suffocating the smaller, less honest voice, until every other reason for why she’d done what she did fell stone-cold silent—

  Except for the truth.

  “You’re right,” Rebekah whispered, shame—and fear—adding a quiver to her voice. “I cannot contradict you. What Mr. Whitcomb did and said hurt me, and most definitely entered into my decision. But please believe me, Mrs. Cheatham. In that moment, as I was preparing to play for your guests, my most conscious thought was of how pleased you would be. And also of”—she blinked back tears, her voice tightening—“how wonderful it would be . . . to be heard.”

  For the longest moment, Mrs. Cheatham held her gaze. And the longer she did, the more Rebekah’s throat ached. Finally, Mrs. Cheatham blinked and her countenance seemed to soften.

  “I believe you, Miss Carrington.”

  Rebekah took a quick breath, a single tear slipping down before she hurriedly wiped it away.

  “I can see the earnestness in your eyes even now. But what I stated earlier is also true. I know what it’s like to be a woman in a world dictated by men. I know what it’s like to possess certain abilities customarily attributed to a man—abilities to conduct business, for instance, or argue points of law—and then to be set at naught, to be ignored or ridiculed, simply because you are a woman who possesses those attributes.”

  The silence lengthened, and Rebekah realized she was shaking. Whether from the cold or the aftermath of nearly losing her job, she couldn’t be sure. If she hadn’t lost the job yet.

  “Not that long ago”—Mrs. Cheatham’s voice took on a softer quality—“a dear niece of mine—you’ll meet her soon, I’m sure—told me that the world is changing, and with those changes are coming new opportunities for women. While Eleanor proved that statement true for herself, it came at a high cost. For her, and for me. In the end, it was a price I was willing to pay because . . . she is my niece. And family does not abandon family.”

  Clearly hearing what she was saying, Rebekah nodded. Exceptions were made for family. Of which, she was not.

  “So while changes are coming for women, and many of those changes I welcome, you must remember, Miss Carrington, that you are an employee in my home. And while so employed, you will conduct yourself with the utmost propriety and decorum. Because your actions are a direct reflection upon me. And as much as I admire your talent, allowing a female musician to perform—even anonymously—at one of my parties is unacceptable and would be found offensive by many.

  “Earlier this evening, in fact, at dinner, one of my guests, Mrs. Schaefer, questioned the maestro about his opinion regarding females participating in orchestras.” Mrs. Cheatham frowned. “Mrs. Schaefer fancies herself a suffragette and is quite a vocal supporter of Susan Brownell Anthony. And while I am in full favor of women being given the vote, I do not condone some of the methods the suffragette gatherings undertake to further their goal. The end does not always justify the means, Miss Carrington.”

  She retrieved the lamp. “This is my home, and you’re teaching my daughter. Hence . . . my ways, my rules. Do we have a clear understanding?”

  Feeling worn and bruised, Rebekah nodded. “Yes, ma’am, we do. Thank you . . . for allowing me to stay on.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Carrington. Now I’ll bid you good night.” She strode toward the door.

  Rebekah hurried to open it for her. “May I ask you one last question, Mrs. Cheatham?”

  The woman paused, the cold air from the hallway sweeping in like an unwelcome intruder.

  “How did Maestro Whitcomb respond? To the woman’s question this evening.”

  Mrs. Cheatham gave a soft laugh. “Maestro Whitcomb deflected it, actually. With humor and skill. He committed his opinion to neither side, therefore offending none of my guests. I view it as a deliberate kindness to me on his part. Even though you and I both know where he stands on the issue.”

  Rebekah nodded, also knowing that Mr.Whitcomb was likely looking out for himself too. If he offended potential donors, that meant no money for the symphony. Or its new conductor. So perhaps the act was less a kindness done for Mrs. Cheatham than it was for himself. Though that was scarcely an opinion she could voice.

  Mrs. Cheatham turned to go, then paused. “Every person employed here at Belmont is carefully scrutinized, Miss Carrington. The information you provided about your mother and your stepfather has been confirmed, as was the information about your recent return to the United States. It’s also been confirmed that you’ve had no dealings with the local officials here in Nashville, nor in Vienna.”

  Rebekah felt her eyes widen.

  “I share this with you because, although I don’t know what it is, my intuition tells me that you’re running from something. Or more likely hiding.” Concern deepened the woman’s expression. “I have entrusted the care of my daughter’s musical education to you, and in doing so, I am allowing you to have a relationship with one of the most precious people in my life. I need to be assured that the young woman now living in my home, spending four hours a day with my daughter, is of unquestionable character and has Pauline’s best interests at heart.”

  Tender steel threaded the woman’s tone, and again, Rebekah felt her throat tighten with emotion. “I pledge to you, Mrs. Cheatham, I do have your daughter’s best interests at heart. I’ll teach her well, and I won’t do anything to bring reproach upon you or your household. I give you my word.”

  Mrs. Cheatham nodded, then looked beyond Rebekah to the bedroom. “Another young woman, not so unlike yourself, once occupied this room while employed as my personal assistant. As it turned out, she was not what she appeared to be upon first impression.”

  Rebekah winced. “I take it . . . that young woman is no longer in your employ.”

  Adelicia Cheatham’s smile came slowly, if not almost with pleasure. “She most decidedly is not. One might say that life took Claire in a . . . very different direction. Rest well, Miss Carrington.”

  11

  Would it help if I massaged your shoulders, Maestro?”

  Tate paused, pen in hand, and looked up, irritated by the continued interruptions while also not believing what he’d just heard. “I beg your pardon?”

  Smiling coyly, Miss Caroline Endicott skirted around to his side of the desk. “You s
eem . . . rather tense, Maestro. And Papa said that as your new assistant, I need to do everything I can to make you comfortable and to”—she squinted as though the act of thinking demanded her entire focus—“foster an environment in which you are able to create and fulfill your duties to the symphony.”

  Tate sighed and laid aside his pen. Miss Endicott, your presence in this office over the past two days has made it the very antithesis of a creative environment, is what he wanted to say to the young woman. But since her father was on the symphony board and had recently made a substantial donation—hence, securing for his daughter the coveted position of “personal assistant to the conductor”—he managed a smile.

  She was trying her best, he knew. Problem was, her best was sorely trying his patience, and the frustrating orchestra rehearsal from earlier that morning wasn’t helping either.

  The odd collection of amateurs, college professors, and music teachers—most of whom thought they knew more than he did—made conducting nearly impossible. He felt more like a ringmaster in a circus than someone trained at Oberlin and Peabody.

  The orchestra wasn’t horrible. At times, they came close to sounding good. But they still had so far to go. Because good wasn’t good enough. Which reminded him . . .

  He must ask Mrs. Cheatham again if she had discovered who serenaded them on the violin at her house that evening. The woman had claimed having no responsibility for the event and had honestly seemed as surprised as he’d been. But enlisting the talent of such a violinist would make an enormous contribution to the orchestra. To have such a soloist to perform. A conductor’s dream.

  Sensing Miss Endicott’s growing impatience, Tate did his best to mask his own. “Miss Endicott, as I attempted to explain to you on Monday, I need to concentrate. And concentration requires a quiet, uninterrupted setting. So if you would—”

  Before he knew it, she’d slipped behind his chair and began kneading his shoulder and neck muscles.