A Note Yet Unsung Page 20

  She’d not yet visited the kitchen—spoiled with her meals always being delivered to her room—but she’d seen the servants coming and going from the staircase across from the family dining room often enough to know where it was.

  She opened the door and didn’t see Cordina. But another woman stood at a worktable, kneading a mound of dough. Her back to Rebekah, the woman didn’t turn, but Rebekah recognized her instantly.

  “Esther.” She spoke softly, not wishing to startle her.

  Esther turned and, despite fair warning, still seemed a little jarred. “Oh, Miss Carrington.” Esther glanced at an open side door, then back to Rebekah, wiping her hands on her apron. “Is . . . there somethin’ I can do for you, ma’am?”

  “Yes, please, there is. I wondered if Cordina has any tea cakes she could part with. I’d like to take some with me to the—”

  Only then did she notice the painted murals covering nearly every wall of the kitchen. Scenes of rose gardens with gazebos, the statues and fountains around Belmont, and the surrounding hillsides in their various seasons. There was even a scene of the servants’ brick houses all clustered together. She recognized them from having seen them while out on a walk.

  “How beautiful!” Rebekah felt as though she were looking through a series of windows. “Who painted these?”

  Esther’s gaze shot again to the door. “Um . . . I think it was a young woman who used to work here for Mrs. Cheatham, ma’am.”

  “Well, whoever she is, she’s extremely talented. These are works of art. Almost feels like we’re not even in a basement.” Rebekah smiled, sensing the woman’s unease and wondering if it stemmed from their last encounter, when the fire in her bedroom hearth was late being lit. “Esther, I hope you’re not still—”

  “About them tea cakes, ma’am. I’m sure Cordina has some. I’ll get them for you right quick.” Esther crossed to a cupboard, and Rebekah quickly gathered she didn’t wish to talk about it.

  As Esther wiped out an empty tin, Rebekah’s attention fell to the counter where the woman had been working. There, near the mound of dough, sat a little wooden bunny perched on its hind legs.

  Rebekah took a step closer. “That’s so cute! Is it yours?”

  Esther turned and looked but said nothing.

  “The reason I ask”—Rebekah reached into her pocket and pulled out Button—“is because I carry a little dog that looks a lot like—”

  “That’s mine” came a voice from behind, and Rebekah turned to see Cordina standing in the doorway.

  Cordina offered a quick smile. “Cute little thing, ain’t it? Got it some time back. Didn’t mean to leave it in your way, Esther.” Cordina snapped up the carving and tucked it into her apron pocket. “Now . . . Miss Carrington, what brings you down here, ma’am? Your lunch tray not get delivered?”

  “Oh yes, it was delivered. And was also delicious, thank you, Cordina. I simply came down to see if you had any tea cakes. Esther here was very kindly getting me some.”

  “Well, I’ll be happy to help you with that now, ma’am.” Cordina glanced in Esther’s direction. “Esther, we needin’ your help back there with packin’ bread. I’ll finish out here.”

  Esther dipped her head in Rebekah’s direction, set the tin on the worktable, and wordlessly left the room. Rebekah watched her go, reading what appeared to be relief in the woman’s expression, and feeling as though she’d gotten her in trouble somehow.

  “And now for some tea cakes!” Cordina opened a pie safe on the far wall. “How many you wantin’, ma’am?”

  “Could you spare a half dozen?”

  “You know I can. I always make extra.” Cordina flashed another smile. “I just wish I knew where you was puttin’ all these sweets. Lawd, I eat one of these things and ’fore it’s halfway down my throat, I can feel it on my thighs.”

  Rebekah laughed softly. “Well, they’re not all for me this time. I’ll be sharing them . . . with a friend.”

  Cordina handed her the tin. “Anythin’ else you needin’, ma’am?”

  “No, that’s all. Thank you.”

  “Well, you have yourself a good day, then. And come back hungry tonight. We havin’ chicken and dumplin’s and sweet bread puddin’.”

  Rebekah crossed to the door leading to the stairs and glanced back, unable to shake the feeling that something was amiss. “Cordina . . . did I do something wrong a moment earlier? In speaking to Esther? Because if I did—”

  “’Course, you ain’t done nothin’ wrong, Miss Carrington.” Cordina laughed. “I just need her help with the bread—that’s all. We busy back there makin’ extra loaves for a widows’ and children’s home in town, and it takes everybody’s hands and more to see it done.”

  Rebekah nodded. “Oh, good. I feel better, then. Thank you again for lunch . . . and for the tea cakes!” She waved as she walked out. And as she climbed the stairs, she was more convinced than ever that something was amiss. And that Cordina was hiding something.

  Because Cordina inquired about everything. And for the woman not to inquire about “the friend” she’d be sharing these tea cakes with was like expecting a bird to walk from Belmont to town. A bird had legs. It could happen. But never, in a million years, would it.

  And yet, it had.

  Which only made Rebekah determined to find out who Esther was. And why, apparently, Cordina had forbidden the woman to talk to her.

  The moment Rebekah stepped into the back corridor of the opera house, she heard the orchestra. February had ushered in an even colder chill to the wind and, half frozen, she stood stock-still and let the warmth—and sound—wash over her.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Rebekah turned to see Mrs. Bixby seated behind the desk, a welcome change to sour old Mrs. Murphey.

  She nodded. “It certainly is.”

  “Today’s lunch rehearsal is running long, Miss Carrington. For the concert tomorrow night. But you’re welcome to continue to the maestro’s office and begin your work, if you’d like.”

  Rebekah glanced at the door leading to the back of the stage. “Would it be all right if I were to sneak in and listen for a moment?”

  Mrs. Bixby’s eyes lit. “Of course, my dear. I do the same thing on occasion—when Mrs. Murphey isn’t present, of course. She frowns upon it. Says we might interrupt the ‘flow of the moment.’” She winked. “Which only makes me want to do it all the more!”

  Rebekah laughed, loving this woman more each time she was with her.

  She stood by the backstage door, waiting for the horn section to come in again so that any squeak the door might make when opening would be masked.

  She knew the symphonies the orchestra was performing tomorrow night because she’d seen the music on Tate’s desk. The first, and the one they were practicing now, Ferdinand Ries’s Symphony No. 5 in D Minor, opus 112. The next, Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos Nos. 3 and 4 in G Major were also familiar. She followed the music silently . . .

  And finally, in came the bassoons, trumpets, and French horns.

  She carefully opened the backstage door, not knowing how the orchestra members were situated and wishing to remain unseen. But she needn’t have worried. The orchestra was seated downstage center, several yards away, in their usual semicircle, facing the conductor, and dark curtains hung at staggered intervals in the wings providing ample places from which to spy.

  She tiptoed along the back and stopped at the edge of a curtain, which afforded her a view of the entire orchestra, including its illustrious leader. It was her first time to see Tate conducting—not counting how he silently conducted her at the piano.

  And he was . . . impressive, to say the least.

  Baton in hand, he sliced the air with a vengeance, sweat layering his brow. His piercing gaze darted from one section of the orchestra to another. Sometimes cuing, other times demanding more with a ferocious look. Then yet at other moments, he insisted on less, his hands, his expressions, his entire body leading, guiding. A dark curl fell
across his forehead, but he seemed oblivious to it, so focused, so consumed was he by his work.

  Rebekah found herself smiling. And . . . admiring.

  While she recognized the symphony by Ferdinand Ries, she didn’t know it well enough to name which movement they were playing, but she guessed they were in the—

  “No. No. No!” What started as a seething growl exploded into a roar. “How many times must I say it!”

  In the space of a blink, the music shattered. Discordant notes slammed into each other, then into sudden silence, and the air reverberated with the shock.

  Rebekah cringed and held her breath.

  Tate’s face flushed crimson. “Ries wrote the third movement as a forceful scherzo. Not a dirge!” He gripped the baton with both hands, and Rebekah feared he might snap it in two. “Violins, you were late! Horns, you were flat! And flutes”—he threw his hands up in the air and the baton went flying—“you weren’t even in the house. I heard nothing from you. Nothing!”

  Not a sound issued from the orchestra. Not a breath stirred. And Rebekah didn’t dare move either for fear Tate would see her and implode right then and there.

  But she’d heard the flutes just fine. They’d played pianissimo, but they had been playing.

  She looked across the orchestra, and her gaze quickly settled on the only member she knew—Darrow Fulton. He looked anything but pleased, which aptly described every other man out there as well. Or those whose faces she could see, anyway.

  She’d weighed the dreaded likelihood of running into Darrow since she was working at the opera hall now. But considering the duress under which she’d taken the job, seeing him hadn’t qualified as a big enough deterrent. But if he somehow revealed to Tate Whitcomb that she played the violin—something she’d sworn to Mrs. Cheatham not to reveal—and then if Tate put two and two together about the night of the dinner party—and that information somehow got passed along . . .

  That would not be advantageous for her personally, nor for her relationship with Adelicia Cheatham. So Rebekah planned to give Darrow Fulton an extra wide berth.

  Tate shoved a hand through his hair, not that the wayward curl paid any attention as it fell stubbornly back across his forehead. He drew in a breath, then exhaled through clenched teeth. “Gentlemen, we will start, yet again, at the beginning of the third movement. And may I remind you, lest each of your memories be as fragile as that of a small girl—”

  Rebekah frowned, not caring for the analogy.

  “—the final movement is a stormy finale, played in the typical rhythm of the Fate motif, and in obvious homage to Beethoven, of whom Ries was his favorite disciple, as we know. Or should! Hold that thought foremost in your minds, gentlemen, for it will alter the way you play. Whether you can hear the difference, matters not. For I most certainly will.”

  He bowed his head for a long moment, then finally looked up and lifted his hands. With military-like precision, the orchestra responded with instruments raised.

  The music started, and as it progressed, Rebekah found herself watching the oboe players. Several moments passed before she became aware of the sharp rise and fall of her chest. And of what she was feeling. Remorse. And also . . . envy.

  She tried to relinquish both. And managed the former more easily than the latter. She stayed through the third movement and well into the fourth, then tiptoed back into the corridor, not trusting her memory of how long the symphony lasted.

  By the time Tate returned to his office, she’d filed nearly a full stack of music—that the apparently filing-challenged Miss Endicott hadn’t completed. She hadn’t met Miss Endicott yet but wanted to—if only to see what she was really like.

  Tate walked in, went straight to his desk chair, and sat, head in his hands. She stole glances at him.

  Finally, he sighed and leaned back. “Good afternoon, Rebekah.”

  She made a point of looking up. “Good afternoon, Tate.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  She paused, wondering if he’d seen her backstage, and knew that honesty—or at least a version of it—was best. “I arrived a while ago. I heard the orchestra practicing. It sounded beautiful.”

  “It sounds as though we’re not ready. Because”—he huffed—“we decidedly are not.”

  “Do you think that perhaps you’re being too hard on yourself? And the orchestra?”

  He leveled a stare. “No. I do not.”

  Hearing finality in his tone, as well as the hunger for a fight, she gave him a simple nod and went back to filing.

  “Oh no,” he said, rising. “There’ll be none of that.”

  “None of what?”

  “None of this.” He bobbed his head up and down as though mimicking her, when all he did was make himself look like an utter fool. “You obviously have something to say. So why not say it?”

  “Because I don’t think you’re in a frame of mind to discuss it.”

  The smile that curved his mouth held challenge. “And what frame of mind might that be?”

  She set the music aside and stood. “You’re frustrated because your orchestra isn’t performing to your high standards. Which are extremely demanding. And understandably so,” she added, giving him a look that she hoped said the statement wasn’t a declaration of war. “And you’re tired. I can see it in your eyes. You’re likely not sleeping well because you’re worried about composing your symphony. No doubt, you often stay up late into the night writing.”

  A muscle twitched at the corner of his eye, as if confirming her supposition, while also revealing that her words were finding their mark.

  “You have three months in which to write two movements, of which the final movement is typically the most difficult—because it’s the culmination of the masterpiece you’ve struggled and clawed and sweated to pull from the secret places inside you. And all the while . . . ” She paused as her own story—different from his, yet not so different—subtly, unexpectedly wove its way into the moment and thieved a fraction of her voice. “All the while you’re living for the time when . . . your creation will finally take its first breath and stand in the light of day. Then you hope with all your heart—”

  The words caught in her throat as she relived the feelings she’d experienced that night as she’d played the Stradivarius, even though as an unseen, nameless ghost. And the tender intensity in his expression only made speaking more difficult.

  “—that people will receive it, and will respond,” she whispered. “And that maybe they’ll . . . somehow hear a portion of the beauty you first heard when the music was merely the faintest whisper inside you.”

  His gaze held hers, and though she told herself to look away, she could not. An undeniable tension held her there. A tension not so much unpleasant as it was . . . unsettling. Yet also enticing.

  But when his gaze dropped to her mouth and he took a step toward her, the tension snapped. And Rebekah blinked.

  Her heart racing, she looked down, not completely certain that what she’d thought was about to happen had truly been about to happen. Still, she looked at her hands, then at the piano, then at his feet. Anywhere but back in his eyes.

  “Thank you . . . Rebekah,” he finally whispered, his voice like velvet, so different from earlier when he’d unleashed his fury upon the orchestra.

  She smiled, then chanced a quick look up. A softness in his eyes replaced the intensity of seconds before, telling her it was safe now—but also confirming that what she’d seen . . . was real.

  “And just what is this?”

  She looked at where he pointed, aware of the sharp turn in conversation, and grateful for it. “Those are lemon tea cakes. From Cordina.”

  He raised his eyebrows in question.

  She nodded. “Help yourself.”

  Tate opened the tin and held it out to her first. She took one, then he did likewise. They ate in silence, and she loved the way he closed his eyes as he chewed. More descriptive than any words could convey.

 
When he opened them, there was a sliver of peace that hadn’t been there moments earlier. “So what did you think of the fourth movement?”

  She stopped chewing and politely covered her mouth. “You saw me?”

  He smiled. “Not until you turned to leave. How long had you been standing there?”

  She frowned. “A while.”

  His stare persisted, and she sighed.

  “I arrived right before the . . . thunder began.”

  He laughed. “And by thunder, I take it you mean my frustration with the third movement.”

  “So that was you being frustrated.” She nodded. “Remind me never to get on your bad side . . . Maestro Whitcomb.”

  “Oh, I daresay you’re capable of a little thunder yourself, Rebekah Carrington.”

  She looked over at him and saw both amusement and seriousness in his expression—and felt that tug of tension between them again. She reached for the tin. “Another tea cake?”

  He smiled and took one. “Don’t mind if I do.” As he ate, his gaze dropped to her dress. Gentleness moved into his features. “May I ask . . . are you in mourning, Rebekah?”

  Surprised at the question and, even more, that he’d noticed and would inquire, she nodded. “I am. My grandmother passed in December.”

  “I’m sorry,” he offered softly. “Was she especially dear to you?”

  Again, his question caught her off guard, as did the tenderness in his voice. “More than I can say.”

  He opened his mouth as if to respond, then simply looked at her, understanding in his eyes that needed no words.

  They worked for the afternoon in comfortable silence and sprinklings of conversation—Tate at the piano composing, and Rebekah at his desk transcribing the first two movements of his symphony for full orchestra with all instruments included.

  She’d only played the piano version before, and a fresh copy of a full instrumentation was needed. One that incorporated the recent notations and changes he’d made in the margins in the event that this copy was—heaven forbid—lost or destroyed. They also needed a cleaner copy from which to work together, and she appreciated the opportunity to study his work as she transcribed.