A Note Yet Unsung Read online

  A knock sounded on the partially open door.

  “Excuse me, Maestro Whit—” Mrs. Bixby’s eyes widened as she entered the office. “Oh, I’m sorry for interrupting. I—”

  “Please come in, Mrs. Bixby.” Tate stood and effectively removed himself from Miss Endicott’s grip. But in the process, he knocked a stack of sheet music to the floor. The pages scattered in disarray. Frustration mounting, he wondered if he would have to go back home in order to get anything done.

  “You’re not interrupting, Mrs. Bixby. My door is always open to you.”

  The older woman approached timidly, envelope in hand. “A letter just arrived from Mr. Pennington, Maestro. I knew you’d want to see it straightaway.”

  She handed it to him. He read it—and literally felt the pressure building inside of him. The director of the symphony board requested a meeting. And this, after receiving the latest report from the architect responsible for building the new opera house. That never boded well. And would bode even worse if Mrs. Bixby mentioned to anyone what she’d just witnessed. Not that he thought she would.

  Tate tossed the letter on his desk. “Mr. Pennington will be stopping by today, Mrs. Bixby. Show him in when he arrives.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  “And leave the door open as you go,” Tate added, noting the sideways glance Mrs. Bixby gave the younger woman as she departed.

  Hearing the shuffle of paper, he turned to see Miss Endicott picking up the strewn pages of sheet music.

  A quizzical expression lit her face, and she paused and held up a page of the orchestral score he’d been writing—or attempting to write. “Can you really read all of these notes at the same time? And then make them come together?”

  Tate looked at her, certain he could hear the strain of tiny little wheels inside her brain. But since she was his assistant, and he did need help . . .

  “Every instrument has its part, Miss Endicott. And it’s the conductor’s responsibility to bring them all together and make them one. It’s about timing, and rhythm, knowing the sum of the parts so well that their integration—what’s being played and what’s yet to be played—almost becomes like breathing. When walking down a familiar street, for instance, a person doesn’t have to consciously think about drawing each breath while also maintaining his balance as he places one foot in front of the other while he also converses with a friend. He simply . . . walks and talks. It’s much the same for a conductor.”

  She gazed up at him. “You’re such a gifted man, Maestro.”

  Seeing her doe-eyed look, Tate knew she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. But he had an idea that might prove her presence helpful after all, while also keeping her hands otherwise occupied. “You said you play the piano, did you not?”

  She blinked. “Yes, sir . . . I do.”

  “Very well.” He held out his hand, and she relinquished the sheet music. He crossed to the grand piano. It was an older instrument, but he’d recently had it tuned and it more than served for practicing. “I want you to sit here and play this opening for me. The first twelve bars. Play it, then wait until I ask you to play it again. Do you understand?”

  She looked down at the piano keys, then back up at him, and nodded.

  More hopeful in theory than in reality, Tate returned to his desk and picked up his pen.

  He’d been working on this symphony for over a year and had only two of the four movements completed. The third was partially written, but badly, in his estimation. It lacked the soul of the music he could hear deep inside him—if he could only draw it out. He had four months, at most, to finish it. Then a month for rehearsals before the opening concert at the new opera house. Hardly a schedule for success.

  With a whispered, desperate prayer, he focused. “All right, Miss Endicott . . . play.”

  She did. Only, the tune she played sounded nothing like what he’d written. Or at least he hoped it didn’t.

  “Stop, Miss Endicott.” He retraced his steps and checked the sheet music. “What were you playing? Because you certainly weren’t playing this.”

  She gazed up at him. “I . . . I play the piano, but”—she blinked—“I don’t read music all that well. But once I hear something,” she said quickly, “or hear it a few times, I can play it perfectly! Or close to perfect.” Her expression brightened, and she scooted over on the bench. “So why don’t you play it a few times, then once I learn it, I’ll play it for you!”

  Tate stared, the response that came to mind not suitable to say aloud, much less to a lady. He took a deep breath. Her “working” for him five days a week was out of the question. He was having trouble enough composing on his own. The music of his childhood kept intruding and all but drowning out the treasured influences of Beethoven, Bach, Pachelbel, and Mozart that he’d tried so hard to coalesce within him. “Miss Endicott, I will not—”

  A knock sounded on the door again, and he turned, bracing himself for the meeting with Edward Pennington. But it was Mrs. Bixby again.

  Only this time, her expression was frantic.

  “Please forgive me, Maestro Whitcomb. Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham sent a wagon for the last remaining trunk, but the trunk’s too heavy for the driver to lift on his own.” Her words spilled out one atop the other. “Now the driver says he’s leaving and that Mrs. Cheatham will not be pleased if he doesn’t bring it with him. I don’t know what to do. I couldn’t find anyone else. Would you please come and help him lift the trunk into the wagon, sir?”

  Tate’s breath left him, part laugh, part sigh, though he felt not a shred of humor. “What trunk are you referring to, Mrs. Bixby? And why did Mrs. Cheatham leave it here?”

  The older woman wrung her hands. “It doesn’t belong to Mrs. Cheatham, sir. It belongs to her governess, the young woman who was here last week. Oh, sir, please come quickly. I don’t wish to anger a woman like Mrs. Cheatham.”

  “Her governess? Do you mean . . .” But Tate didn’t finish the sentence, fearing Mrs. Bixby might implode on the spot, and already having a good idea to whom she was referring. He strode to the door, then remembered and glanced back. “That will be all for today, Miss Endicott. Thank you.”

  The young woman rose, nursing an injured look. “But I’m supposed to spend the entire day here. Helping you!”

  Undeterred, Tate took a backward step. “Which is quite generous. But I won’t require your assistance on Tuesday or Wednesday afternoons. Or on Thursdays and Fridays at all,” he added quickly, knowing he would likely hear from her father on the issue. “So I’ll see you again on Monday morning. Good day, Miss Endicott!”

  Not waiting for the argument her pouty lower lip promised was forthcoming, Tate caught up to Mrs. Bixby, who was already halfway down the hall. “You said the trunk belongs to—”

  “Miss Carrington, a young woman whom Mrs. Murphey directed to the advertised governess position at the Belmont estate. Miss Carrington sent her trunks with a note asking that I hold them for her. Which, despite Mrs. Murphey’s resistance, I was happy to do. Then the next thing I know, Mrs. Cheatham herself sends word requesting that the trunks be sent to Belmont. So the young woman must have been awarded the position!”

  So that’s why Miss Carrington was at Belmont. She was the children’s governess. Tate could well imagine her in that roll. Yet he could still hear her playing the oboe as she had that day in his office. Such control and emotion. Every note precise.

  “The wagon’s right outside that door.” Mrs. Bixby gestured.

  Tate strode ahead and opened the back entryway to see a wagon, driver on the bench, reins in hand.

  “Hold up!” Tate called, a cold wind rushing in. “I’ll help you with the trunk.”

  The driver looked back, and his already perturbed expression became more so. “I got to pick up another shipment ’cross town for Mrs. Cheatham. She said she had to have whatever that is today, and that place closes soon.”

  Tate met his glare. “It won’t take us long to load this. And like I s
aid, I’ll help.”

  The driver gave the lever at his side a hard shove and set the brake.

  “The trunk is just inside here,” Mrs. Bixby instructed.

  Waiting as the driver climbed down from his perch, Tate glanced beside him. “Mrs. Bixby,” he whispered, “what you witnessed back in the office . . . I promise you, it was completely—”

  “Innocent, Maestro. Rest assured, I know that full well. I’m getting up in age, and most folks think I don’t notice such things, but I do. I have a strong sense about people, and in the first moments of meeting Miss Endicott, I became fully convinced she was a coquette.”

  Tate blinked, surprised—and impressed. “Mrs. Bixby!”

  “I know I look sweet, Maestro. And I guess I am, compared to Mrs. Murphey.” She winked. “But she and I are apples that fell from the same orchard. Granted, mine fell a year or two later than hers, and from a more appealing branch.”

  Wanting to hug the woman, Tate settled for a wink instead.

  Once inside, the driver took one end of the trunk and Tate took the other. They lifted, and Tate quickly realized why the man had threatened to leave it behind. What did Miss Carrington have packed in there? Anvils?

  When they reached the wagon, they hefted the trunk to the back bed—when Tate felt a sharp pain in his ears. The world fell silent. All sound vanished. Then, almost as quickly, came flooding back again. His head spinning, Tate lost his grip on the trunk, and the corner hit the edge of the wagon. The trunk tipped and the top came open.

  Momentum took over and books and papers flew everywhere. The luggage landed in an upside-down heap on the ground.

  Mrs. Bixby gasped. “Oh, my gracious!”

  The driver cursed. “It weren’t my fault! And I ain’t got time to wait ’til this is cleaned up. I’ll be back for it tomorrow.”

  “Oh no!” Mrs. Bixby reached for him. “You must take it today!”

  Tate’s equilibrium quickly returned, and he blinked to clear his head. This episode wasn’t nearly as bad as the one at the Cheathams’ house the other night. Still . . . Somehow, he had to get more rest.

  He glanced at the mess at his feet, then bent to pick up a file still intact, bound with a leather cord. Papers peeked from the edges, and when he realized what was within, he felt the hint of a smile. “Not to worry, Mrs. Bixby. I’ll deliver this to Belmont myself.”

  “As long as your other duties would in no way interfere with Pauline’s lessons—four hours a day, five days a week, as we agreed—then I have no issue with your seeking additional employment.” Mrs. Cheatham briefly glanced down at the files on her desk. “But I do care deeply about what other employment you seek. And please assure me you’re not planning on opening a cafe, or restaurant, or some other such rogue undertaking.”

  Rebekah looked across the desk. “I can assure you, opening a cafe is nowhere in my future. I hardly know how to cook.”

  “Music to my ears.” Mrs. Cheatham gave a little half smile, then eyed Rebekah across steepled hands. “So tell me . . . How is Pauline progressing? What is your opinion on her level of skill with the violin at this juncture?”

  Rebekah smiled at her intensity. “We’ve only had four lessons thus far, so I hesitate to predict what her propensity will be. That will be revealed with time and observation. But I do find your daughter most enthusiastic about the prospect of playing the instrument.” Rebekah hesitated to share her next thought, however true it was.

  “Come, Miss Carrington. We shall have no secrets between us regarding my daughter. Say whatever is on your mind. I value straightforwardness in people, and most certainly in my employees.”

  Rebekah hated the fact that she was so easily read. She needed to work on that. “Pauline is a very spirited young girl, Mrs. Cheatham. And I believe part of her desire in learning to play the violin lies in the fact that, for a female, playing the violin is considered rather . . .”

  “Gratuitous?”

  Rebekah couldn’t help but laugh. “Bold is what I was going to say, ma’am. But I suppose, in most people’s minds, your description fits far better.”

  Mrs. Cheatham smiled, and it was a lovely thing to behold, so different from the first time Rebekah met her. The woman had to be in her fifties, yet she was radiant, still endowed with a measure of beauty customarily reserved for more youthful women. A sense of wisdom and grace surrounded her as well, one that only came with age—and that certainly didn’t come to all.

  For some reason, thinking about Mrs. Cheatham in this way made her think of her own mother. She’d mailed a letter to home, informing her mother that she was still in town and had secured employment. Rebekah had also promised to visit in the near future. But she hadn’t revealed to her mother where she was staying. Because she wouldn’t put it past either her or Barton Ledbetter to show up unannounced at Belmont and demand she return home.

  Something that would not be happening.

  “As I shared with you yesterday, Miss Carrington, it is imperative Pauline be ready for the girls’ spring recital in May. That is the primary reason you are here. You mentioned challenging her with more complicated music. Have you done that yet?”

  Rebekah shook her head. “But as soon as my music trunk arrives, I will. And I’ll be sure to let you know the outcome.”

  “The trunk should arrive today. I sent a driver for it.” Mrs. Cheatham rose and crossed the small library to the hearth. She stretched her hands toward the fire, and the crackle of wood succumbing to flame filled the silence.

  “What was your motivating factor in learning to play the violin, Miss Carrington? I doubt anyone was standing in the wings encouraging you to play that instrument.”

  “Actually, there was someone.” The words were out before Rebekah fully considered them, and they tore at the still-recent wound. How could she share with Adelicia Cheatham about Demetrius, about what he’d meant to her? She couldn’t. A woman like Mrs. Cheatham would never understand.

  Rebekah only hoped, as she had so many times in recent days, that Demetrius had known how much his life, his generosity, had changed the course of hers. Feeling Mrs. Cheatham’s continued attention, she hurried to expound.

  “It was my father,” she answered, still truthful. “When I was a young girl, he let me accompany him to hear the occasional visiting symphony. It was magical,” she said softly. “Not only that he considered it important enough to take me with him, but the way I felt walking along with my arm tucked into the crook of his. For as long as I can remember, he’d told me that God had planted the love of music in my heart.”

  Warmth filled Mrs. Cheatham’s expression. “There’s nothing like a father’s love for his daughter, and hers for him.”

  Rebekah sensed a deeper undercurrent in Mrs. Cheatham’s comment, one she understood well. “My mother, however, wasn’t in favor of my father taking me there, nor of my learning to play. She felt it was . . . gratuitous”—she gave a knowing smile—“a foolish indulgence for a daughter, one that would never come to any good.”

  Mrs. Cheatham turned toward the window, the panes icy with frost. “Almost as powerful as a father’s love . . . is the knife of a mother’s disappointment. Thankfully, to some extent, and with time, the former helps to overshadow the latter.”

  Rebekah stared, unable to see her employer’s face and equally unable to imagine a mother not being proud of such a daughter as Adelicia Cheatham. Strange as it was though, it heartened her to know that Mrs. Cheatham had apparently shared her experience in regard to parental favor—and the lack thereof.

  But it pained her more than she could say to think of carrying the weight of her mother’s disappointment for years to come. Not to mention how her mother must feel toward her now, since her daughter had left home during the wee hours that morning. Rebekah had promised Delphia she would be in touch soon, and she intended to keep that vow.

  “Pardon me, Missus Cheatham. You ready for your tea service, ma’am?”

  Rebekah turned to see Cordina in the do
orway and hoped the woman had made tea cakes again. They were addictive little delicacies, and it had been a while since lunch.

  “Yes, Cordina. Thank you.” Mrs. Cheatham returned to her seat.

  Cordina poured the tea and handed the first cup to Mrs. Cheatham, then paused. “You gettin’ one of them head pains again, ma’am? The neuralgia?”

  Mrs. Cheatham gently rubbed her temple. “How is it that you know it’s coming on almost before I do?”

  Cordina shook her head. “They’s comin’ more often these days, it seems. Want me to send for the doctor?”

  “No, I’ll be fine. It will pass.”

  Rebekah leaned forward. “My mother suffers from head pain on occasion. She takes a powder from the doctor. I could go into town for you, if you’d like, and get some.”

  “Oh, Missus Cheatham’s doctor give her some already.” Cordina handed Rebekah a cup of tea. “I’ll go fetch a powder for you, Missus Cheatham. Be right back.”

  Rebekah noticed Mrs. Cheatham didn’t argue. She also noticed . . . no tea cakes.

  They sipped their tea in silence, Rebekah feeling as though, over the past few moments, she’d been given a glimpse into an Adelicia Cheatham not seen by many. And she felt . . . honored.

  “Tutoring other children.” Mrs. Cheatham placed her teacup and saucer on the desk, the pain evident in her eyes. “I’m certain there are parents who would pay for your services in tutoring their children on the oboe. I’m willing to pen some notes to determine interest, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cheatham. I’d be most grateful for that.” Although tutoring other children wouldn’t fulfill her heart’s desire, she was certainly equipped for it. However . . . “There’s one problem. I don’t have transportation. I don’t mind walking in the least. I enjoy it, actually. But the time spent walking to and from town will greatly decrease my time available to teach.”

  “You’re welcome to make use of a carriage while you’re here, Miss Carrington. Or if you ride . . . ” Mrs. Cheatham paused, question in her expression.

  Rebekah nodded. “I do.”