A Note Yet Unsung Page 23

  The memory of them warmed Rebekah’s heart even now—and gave her an idea. She crossed to the fire and warmed her hands over the flames, rubbing them together, then moved back to the bed.

  “Mrs. Cheatham . . . ” she whispered. “If you’ll allow me, I’d like to try something I think might be of help.”

  “Please . . . Miss Carrington. Anything.”

  Rebekah gently took hold of her hand—it was cold to the touch—and pressed it between hers, as Sally had done. Then she applied slight pressure to the palm, massaging, working outward to each finger, pressing a little more firmly as she went, before moving upward to the wrist and forearm. Mrs. Cheatham’s hand and arm were stiff at first, but gradually relaxed until Rebekah supported their full weight.

  Rebekah moved to the other side of the bed just as Cordina returned with the glass of wine. With assistance, Mrs. Cheatham sat up and managed a few sips, then lay back down. Cordina set the wine aside, and Rebekah continued massaging, sensing her employer’s trust in the limpness of her arm and wrist.

  After several moments, Mrs. Cheatham sighed. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “From Sally, the servant who—”

  “—accompanied you to Vienna,” Mrs. Cheatham whispered. “I remember you telling me about her.”

  Rebekah shared about the nights she’d awakened with her hands hurting. “I quickly became convinced that Sally was right. Although, I still don’t claim to understand how one’s hands are connected to one’s head.”

  “Hmmm . . .” Mrs. Cheatham took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Well, whether it’s the wine or what you’ve done, or both . . . the pain has lessened considerably. Thank you, Miss Carrington. And thank you, Cordina. Now please, both of you . . . find rest for yourselves. As I will gratefully do.”

  After Cordina added another log to the fire and they made certain Mrs. Cheatham had everything she needed close at hand, Rebekah followed Cordina from the room. She was closing the door behind her when she heard her name and paused.

  “Yes, Mrs. Cheatham?”

  “There is one last thing you could do for me . . . if you’re willing.”

  Rebekah stepped back inside the bedroom and closed the door. “If I’m able, I’m willing.”

  “The Stradivarius,” Mrs. Cheatham whispered, her tone considerably more relaxed. “It’s in my trunk room. Light the lamp there, on the dresser.”

  Both honored and delighted, Rebekah did as she was asked and found the distinctive red case. When she opened the lid, it felt a little like seeing an old friend. A very old friend. Appreciating the feel of the instrument—and its history—tucked against her collarbone, Rebekah quietly tuned the strings.

  “Is there something in particular you’d like for me to play, Mrs. Cheatham?”

  “Anything soothing, my dear.”

  Rebekah didn’t have to think long. She drew the bow across the strings, and all the love and appreciation she felt for Demetrius quietly reverberated as the lyrics filled her mind.

  “Come, thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing thy grace . . .”

  Whether it was the darkness, or the stillness of the room, or the quiet brush with these oft unvisited hours of night, she felt as though the confines of the bedroom suddenly fell away, and she was playing to a much larger audience. Her throat tightened, and her eyes watered as she wondered if Demetrius could somehow hear her now. Or her father, who had managed to leave so much of himself behind when death had taken him.

  Tears ran down her cheeks and onto the violin, and while she felt protective of the instrument and didn’t wish to harm the finish, an almost tangible presence told her not to worry, that her tears would merely blend with those already shed upon the instrument through the years, and that the music would somehow be all the sweeter for it.

  Having sung all the verses in her mind, she played through the music one last time, more slowly, the vibrato of the instrument so pure, so clear, she still felt the resonance inside her chest after the last note faded.

  Quiet enveloped the room, and though she thought Mrs. Cheatham might have fallen asleep, a soft sniff revealed the truth.

  Rebekah returned the instrument to the protection of the case, pausing briefly to check for any residue of her tears—and finding none. She wiped her cheeks and went to stand alongside the bed.

  Mrs. Cheatham peered up, her expression thoughtful. “‘Tune my heart . . . to sing thy grace,’” she said softly. “Such a beautiful thought . . . for such a difficult undertaking.”

  Rebekah nodded, recalling something she hadn’t thought about in a very long time. “I once heard a minister say that every morning when he awakens, he asks himself, ‘Will I serve myself today? Or will I serve my Savior?’”

  “And do you ask yourself those same questions?”

  Rebekah glanced away, embarrassed to admit the truth. “Not nearly as often as I should.”

  Mrs. Cheatham laughed softly. “Sadly, that’s the response that could be given for most of our souls’ pursuits. Mine included. And yet, as more years gather behind me than before, questions such as those occupy more of my thoughts . . . and my heart.”

  Rebekah smiled, sensing no judgment in the statement, yet still feeling a firm tug on her conscience.

  “You were born to play that instrument, Miss Carrington.” Mrs. Cheatham looked in the direction of the violin. “I believe that with all my heart, and have since the first time I heard you. Talent such as yours is rare. And . . . is a gift. Not that you haven’t worked hard to hone that talent. I wouldn’t say that for a moment. But . . . someone else could spend her entire life learning how to play and not come close to the beauty you create at such a youthful age.”

  Rebekah bowed her head. “Thank you, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  As much as she appreciated the compliment, and didn’t doubt its sincerity, the sentiment left her feeling a little hollow when she thought of what she wanted to do with that talent, with her gift. And New York City . . .

  Movement on the bedcovers drew Rebekah’s attention, and she felt the warmth of Mrs. Cheatham’s hand on hers. “I know that playing like this, for me, and for yourself, is not your heart’s desire.” Her grip tightened. “But you must trust that the Lord has your best at the center of His heart, and whatever His plans are for your life, for this talent He’s given you, He will bring them to fruition in time.”

  She laughed softly and tucked her hand back beneath the covers. “The problem, as I have learned, is that His timing and His plans often do not coincide with my own. But even in that, Miss Carrington, I have discovered immeasurable and . . . unexpected blessing from His hand. And I’ve learned patience.” She sighed. “Patience beyond what I would’ve thought possible for such a stubborn soul.”

  Rebekah smiled.

  “Seek His desires, Miss Carrington, above all, no matter what you will have to surrender. And you will have to surrender. We all do. It’s part of the soul’s refinement. I wished I’d learned that earlier in life. That when we surrender . . . or when He takes something from us, His motivation always stems from love.” Mrs. Cheatham closed her eyes once again, her features relaxing. “Listen for His voice, for He will speak to you. And be ready when He does. Because oftentimes”—her lips firmed and the lines of her brow briefly knit—“not only is the cost one you need to have counted beforehand, but the opportunity He brings . . . will likely never come again.”

  Rebekah studied her expression, certain from Mrs. Cheatham’s tone that she was referring to a missed opportunity in her own life, and Rebekah could only wonder what it was. Then with her very next breath, she wondered if God truly did pay such close attention to the details of a person’s heart. Of her heart.

  Sadly, she’d never heard His voice in the way Mrs. Cheatham described. And she felt bereft because of it.

  “Now . . .” Mrs. Cheatham exhaled. “I believe I’ll finally be able to sleep, and would suggest you do the same. I’m planning to travel to Murfreesboro tomorrow and wil
l likely be gone for a few days. But Cordina, Eli, and, of course, Mrs. Routh are here to assist you, should you need anything.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  Rebekah turned down the lamp she’d lit and closed the door noiselessly behind her. Her cloth slippers were silent on the carpeted stairs, and she hurried back to her room, unable to get the word surrender out of her mind.

  The fire in her hearth burned brightly—thanks to Cordina, she guessed—and she snuggled back into bed, glancing at the clock as she did. Only two hours before she needed to awaken again.

  She nestled deeper into the feather mattress and cradled the pillow to her cheek. What might God call her to surrender, as Mrs. Cheatham had suggested? New York City was the first answer that came to mind, but she immediately rejected the possibility. Not simply because she didn’t welcome that intrusion into her life. But, more importantly, because—thinking about it on a grander scheme—it made no sense.

  Why would God demand the very dream he’d given her years ago? The dream her father had nurtured and that she held most dear. That was contrary to logic, and contrary to the doors that had recently opened in her life—if she could only manage to keep Tate Whitcomb from throwing away his own opportunities, to which hers were uniquely and inseparably linked.

  Thinking again about the bottles of laudanum she’d found in his cupboard and the telltale signs of his addiction—moodiness, irritation, headaches, short temper—she determined to help him. Albeit, her motivation wasn’t altogether altruistic, but in the end, he would thank her.

  He would have completed his symphony on time, and she would be on her way to New York City.

  Moments passed, and finally, she grew blessedly warm beneath the covers, and her thoughts drifted on a wave—about composing the symphony with Tate, about home and her mother, and about what Mrs. Cheatham had said in regard to listening for God’s voice.

  And the last thoughts she recalled, as though they moved toward her from a far-off shore . . . What if the cost of hearing God’s voice lay in surrendering what was most dear to her? Was that a price she would be willing to pay? And even more . . .

  Would God give her the choice?

  “You’re late, Rebekah.” Frustrated at her for cutting into their workday—a day already shortened due to his needing to leave for the train station in less than two hours—Tate didn’t bother looking up from the piano when she finally arrived to his office.

  But his real frustration lay in the fact that he’d been working since early morning and had little to nothing of consequence to show for it. The music simply refused to come, no matter how he tried to force it.

  “I know, Tate. I’m so sorry.” She tossed her cloak and reticule into a chair. “I sent word earlier. Did you not receive it?”

  “I did. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re late.”

  “Again, I apologize. I was up during the night, then had trouble going back to—”

  “You marked the opening six measures on page four in the first movement as needing to be more focused, more concise. What do you mean by that?”

  She stilled. “You’re reading my notes?”

  “Yes. You left them on the table there.” He motioned, pencil in hand.

  “I intended to go over those notes with you personally. And I’m fairly certain I conveyed that to you.”

  “You did. However, that was before you were nearly three hours late.”

  “Which I explained in the note I sent, and which I’m attempting to tell you now”—she pinned him with a look—“was due to my being up a good portion of the night. Then, following Pauline’s lesson this morning, Mrs. Cheatham asked me to help her with something before she and the children left today, so—”

  “Taking the time to explain why you were late, Rebekah, is only taking up more of our time together. Could we please simply get to work?”

  She opened her mouth as though to respond, then promptly closed it and took her place beside him on the bench. He sensed her frustration, but it didn’t come close to rivaling his.

  “First of all . . .” She turned to him. “Good afternoon, Tate.”

  He stared. “Good afternoon . . . Rebekah. Or good evening, as soon will be the case.”

  The smile she aimed was anything but sweet. “As you’ll see in my notes, my first comments are about the beauty of the first two movements you’ve written. I’ve made several notes about both movements, of which I’m guessing you’re already aware. But the main observation I have at this point, and which I’m referring to in the notes you’re referencing, is that I’d like to see your primary symphonic theme, which is quite beautiful—”

  She turned to the piano and played the opening measures of his symphony. By heart. And flawlessly. Impressed—and a little moved—he tried not to show it when she turned back to him.

  “—woven more intimately throughout the first and second movements. As we’re writing the third and fourth, we’ll work to be cognizant of maintaining that fluidity.” Her eyes suddenly brightened. “Something I thought of this morning during Pauline’s lesson was this . . .”

  Her hands moved over the keys and resulted in a brief—yet engaging—interpretation of the music she’d played a moment earlier. And he felt his irritation at her, and at himself for his lack of productivity, diminishing.

  She’d worn her hair up today, though he actually preferred it down. At least when she wore it this way, he could enjoy the slender lines of her throat and the way the tendrils of her hair teased the nape of her neck. He caught a whiff of lavender and vanilla and—whether it was the evocative scent or how soft he imagined her skin would be—he found it impossible not to imagine what it would be like to—

  “Now, I realize, Tate, that you may not like it. It might seem too . . . feminine to you. But imagine it with the timpani and horn, then the double bass.” She played the notes again as she referenced the various instruments. “Then the first and second violins come in, then the oboe, and cello. I think the variance could add great depth and movement to the entire piece. What are your thoughts?”

  He stared at her, knowing he dared not reveal to her what he was truly thinking about. “I think”—he cleared his throat—“that you’ve been working on this outside of the time you spend here.”

  She smiled. “Well, you have already paid me for the first month.”

  He laughed, the warmth in her expression vanquishing whatever irritation remained. His gaze dropped to her pert little mouth, and her lips parted as though she intended to say something further. Yet she didn’t. She just stared at him, same as he was doing to her. And the thought of those lips on his stirred him in a way he hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

  Knowing better, he indulged the fantasy, and his imagination proved most prolific where she was concerned—despite having failed him miserably that morning as he’d struggled to compose.

  He’d considered Rebekah Carrington beautiful the first moment he saw her. But the more he’d come to know her—and realized what depth of talent and character she possessed—the more attracted he’d become. And right now, all he could think about was taking her in his arms and—

  Suddenly aware of the lessening distance between them—and the potential cost of what he was about to do—he caught himself and turned back to the piano, seeing the keys, yet unable to focus on them. Writing this symphony took precedence before all else. It had to. Or all he’d worked for would be for naught.

  Steeling himself against his own desires, he cleared his throat. “Let me hear that rendition again, if you will . . . please.”

  She immediately did as he asked, acting as if nothing had happened, but the flush of her cheeks hinted at a different story.

  She played the rendition again with such feeling. And the second her hands left the keys, he reached over and repeated what she’d played, but changed the tempo slightly, and ended on an E-flat instead of a G.

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Good! That’s a much
more heroic key—majestic.” She reached for her notebook and a pencil.

  Tate looked on as she expertly drew a staff and the notes, capturing what they’d just written together, and admired her skill. Admired her.

  For reasons unknown to him, the image of her with her stepfather last night came to mind. There certainly seemed to be no love lost there, which made him wonder about that situation, and if the lack of warmth between the two of them hindered Rebekah’s relationship with her mother. How could it not?

  He had no plan to share his opinion with Rebekah, but the man had definitely rubbed him the wrong way. Nothing that he could pinpoint exactly. More a feeling he had, which he quickly decided was best kept to himself, despite her obvious dislike of the man.

  Tate watched her as she made notes. “Where did you learn to do this?”

  She finished writing before she responded. “While I lived in Vienna, I served as governess to the conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic.”

  Tate knew he did a poor job of masking his surprise. “The conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic taught you?”

  “I wouldn’t say that . . . exactly.” She set aside the notebook and pencil. “Over time, I came to help him in his office at home, and musicians from the orchestra would often come to him for lessons. And when they did”—she gave a little shrug—“I listened.”

  He laughed. “I think you did more than listen. Was this conductor Herr Heilig, by chance?”

  She frowned, and he gave her a sheepish look. “When your trunk came open that day and the contents spilled out, I noticed his name on several of the pieces of music.”

  “Ah . . .” She nodded. “He’s an extremely talented man. And though I’m certain he has no idea, Herr Heilig taught me a great deal. For which I’m most grateful.”

  With effort, he kept his gaze from wandering from her eyes. “As am I, Rebekah. As am I.”

  The remnant of the afternoon flew by, proving far more productive than he could’ve imagined. And before he knew it, he heard the clock on the mantel chime five times.