A Note Yet Unsung Read online

  He said nothing for the longest time, only looked at her. Then he laughed. Laughed. “My addiction? You think I’m addicted to . . .” He turned away from her, shaking his head. “Oh, Rebekah, you couldn’t be more—”

  “I saw the laudanum, Tate! Days ago. In the cupboard. Then after you left today, I looked . . . and it was gone. All of it.”

  He turned back, his expression firm, all humor having vanished. “Yes, it was gone. I took it because—”

  Something moved in the brush beyond the trees, and Tate lifted a finger to his lips, then took hold of her hand. She followed him, working to keep up with his long strides as a thousand questions ran through her mind. Foremost being where were they going? And who was this man she knew but apparently didn’t know as well as she thought she did?

  She made so much noise compared to him, her boots crunching over fallen limbs and leaves, her skirt catching and pulling on branches and underbrush, while he moved through the woods with scarcely a whisper.

  A loud crack sounded somewhere off to their right, and Tate stopped short. He pressed his mouth to her ear. “We’re going to be fine,” he whispered. “But we have a hard hike in front of us. Up into the mountains. Usually an hour or so. But with the snow, it’ll be closer to two. Maybe more. Can you do that?”

  Without hesitating, she nodded, not really knowing whether she could or not. And still needing to use a privy.

  “Tell me if you need to stop.” He glanced beyond her. “Just don’t need to stop until we cross the ridge, all right?”

  She nodded again, the cold working its way into her bones.

  She followed him, staying as close as she could, wishing he would take hold of her hand again. Not only because it had felt so nice, so safe, but because he was warm. Yet he didn’t.

  No matter how deep into the woods they walked, or how high they climbed—Tate occasionally stopping to help her over the larger boulders—she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Or maybe hunted.

  Neither possibility appealing, both sent shivers up her spine.

  Along with the uncertainty about their surroundings came fresh misgivings about him too. Whitcomb land? Won by a grandfather in a poker game? But that couldn’t be true. Everyone knew Nashville’s new symphony conductor hailed from back east . . . somewhere. New York or Boston or Philadelphia. One of those cities known for their lineages of blue bloods.

  She tried to remember whether, in the numerous articles she’d read about him since arriving in Nashville, anyone had mentioned where he’d been born. She’d thought she’d figured out who Nathaniel Tate Whitcomb—or Witty?—was, and would’ve sworn she knew the truth.

  But now . . .

  His bags in one hand and the shotgun tucked into the side of his satchel, Tate took hold of Rebekah’s hand with his other and helped her over a fallen tree. He held on to her a little longer just because he could, and also because she didn’t seem too eager to let go. Not a bad discovery, considering her earlier character assessment of him.

  He still couldn’t believe she’d followed him. The woman was certainly full of surprises. Problem was, he had a few surprises of his own. Ones he would’ve preferred to have kept hidden. Surprises that could cost him his job, his career. And he wasn’t altogether certain he could trust her with them.

  But what choice did he have? Leave her out here on her own? There wasn’t another train until morning, and the temperature was already below freezing and only getting colder.

  He glanced back. “We’re almost to the ridge. Then we can rest for a minute.”

  She nodded, her breath coming hard. Yet she hadn’t complained once.

  The snow had tapered off over the past half hour and the night sky was clearing. The patches of white dotting the ground would be gone by tomorrow afternoon, but for now, they made climbing in the dark a challenge. And in Rebekah’s heeled boots, particularly, he guessed. Still, they’d managed to cover a good distance.

  Addicted to laudanum. Visiting opium dens. That’s what the woman thought of him? What she’d traveled all this distance to prevent him from doing. And debauchery? He’d laughed earlier, but the more he thought about it, the less humorous it seemed.

  He’d come to admire and respect her, both personally and in regard to her musical talent. And he’d hoped she felt somewhat the same about him. But instead . . .

  She’d decided he was an addict. And a rogue.

  A while later, they crested the ridge, and his beloved Appalachian Mountains fanned out across the night horizon, layered one after another in the distance, their tree-lined peaks draped in deep lavender robes. And the stars, thousands upon thousands of them, dotted the night sky, their pinpricks of light paying homage to the thumbnail moon. It was a view he never tired of seeing. And never would. He only hoped the view would be here for years to come. Which he’d come to doubt would be the case with all the mining companies moving in.

  Rebekah paused beside him.

  “It’s . . . so beautiful,” she whispered, winded, hands on her hips.

  “Yes, it is.”

  They stood in the silence, drinking in the beauty of the night, cold though it was, and he felt a peace within him that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. A peace he missed.

  She turned to him. “Are we safe now?”

  “More so than before.”

  “Why? I mean, why now that we’ve crossed the ridge?”

  “Because this land is watched.”

  She went perfectly still. “Watched?”

  He held out his hand, knowing the less she knew, the better. “We don’t have that far to go.”

  Acting more than a little wary, she slipped her hand in his, and he felt how cold she was. He set down his bags and took both of her hands between his palms, and rubbed.

  She shivered. “How are you still so warm?”

  “It’s all that laudanum. And cocaine.”

  She ducked her head and looked away. But with his finger beneath her chin, he lifted her gaze back to his.

  “I’m sorry, Tate,” she started, but he pressed a finger to her lips. The warmth of her breath stirred him. He traced a feather-soft line across her lower lip, his imagination filling in the blanks he wished he could fill in himself.

  “Rest is over,” he said softly. “Time to get moving again.”

  “I hope wherever we’re going has a privy,” she said almost shyly.

  He smiled. “It does. Come on.”

  The trek downhill was tricky, and she slipped once, but he caught her. She was strong and quite agile for a woman. Although he knew she wouldn’t appreciate him phrasing it that way.

  They reached the old log bridge, and he felt her tense beside him. Winter melt had swollen the partially frozen creek, and the water ran higher than usual, and swifter. Water sprayed over the boulders in the middle of the stream where it wasn’t yet frozen, almost as if daring them to take a plunge.

  “I’ll cross first, leave my bags, then come back for you.”

  She nodded, her arms wrapped around herself, and he could well imagine her thoughts at the moment, though she was too proud to admit her fear. The “bridge” consisted of two uneven logs with an occasional board nailed roughly each step or two along the way. He’d crossed it a thousand times or more and had never stopped to really look at it. But he did now, seeing it through her eyes, and could only imagine what her reaction was going to be when she saw what was yet to come.

  He crossed the logs quickly, then came back for her.

  He took her hand. “It’s not too slippery. Just follow close behind me.”

  She didn’t move. “I . . . ” She shuddered, a cloud of white ghosting her face. “I don’t know how to swim.”

  Her voice sounded so small, so fragile.

  “Well, that’s good. Because I don’t plan on us going in.”

  She didn’t laugh. Her hold on him tightened.

  He led her forward, and halfway across, still holding his hand, she gripped the back o
f his coat as well. He didn’t relish her being afraid, but this more dependent side of her wasn’t altogether unattractive, and a protectiveness rose within him that rivaled any he’d felt before.

  Once on the other side, she exhaled a deep breath and relinquished her hold on him, much to his disappointment.

  Half an hour later, they reached the copse of oak and chestnut trees, and he paused, wondering again if he was doing the right thing. Bringing her here. If they hiked for another hour or so, they could make it to the old hunting cabin. There should be blankets and food stores laid up, if someone hadn’t already used them. He could build a fire, and they could pass the night there. Then come morning, he could take her back down the mountain and put her on the train.

  If she would even board the train once he got her there, which was doubtful, considering how strong-minded she was.

  But weighing the prospect of spending the night with her in a cabin, alone, in the deep woods, he knew it wasn’t an option. There was her reputation to consider. And even though it was a different world up here, some things didn’t change. So since he had no intention of compromising her in any way . . .

  He was forced to compromise himself and his world instead—and what precious little time he had left before that world changed forever. He only hoped she wouldn’t look at him differently after tonight, or judge those he loved most.

  Because despite the years that had passed since he’d first moved to the conservatory and into the world of the foreigners, he hadn’t forgotten the terms people had used to describe the community who lived in these parts—mountain folk, salt-of-the-earth people, highlanders. And the considerably less kind names—inbreds, simpletons, yokels.

  She had called Virgil and Banty imbeciles earlier, which wasn’t too promising. But those two brothers were imbeciles, so he could scarcely fault her for that.

  Looking over at her—her hair and cloak damp clean through, her hands near freezing, her breath coming quickly, puffing white in the cold—he knew there was only one thing to do.

  “We have a lot to talk about, Rebekah. And I’m sure you have questions. And will have even more, after tonight. I’ll do my best to answer them, later, as much as I can.” He hesitated. “You need to know . . . I never pictured sharing this place with you. Or with anyone else, for that matter. I didn’t think it possible. And I still don’t think it wise. But . . .”

  He took hold of her hand and led her through the all-but-hidden path in the trees and stopped on the other side when the cabin came into view. “Welcome . . . to my home.”

  21

  Shivering from the cold, Rebekah stared at the rudimentary cabin, then back at him. For the past near two hours as they’d trekked up and down heavily wooded mountains, she’d struggled to keep pace with him while also struggling to sort the fragmented pieces of events and details from this evening, trying to make sense of it all. And though what Tate just said had danced at the edge of her thoughts, she hadn’t been able to make it align with what she knew to be true about this man. And yet . . .

  “This is your home,” she repeated softly. “This is where—”

  “I was born and raised,” he finished for her.

  A dull ache started somewhere near the vicinity of her heart as awareness set in. She shook her head, her chin trembling. “I didn’t realize,” she forced out, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe as the enormity of the mistake she’d made—by following him, by trespassing into this part of his life, a place she wasn’t welcome—pressed down hard inside her. “I didn’t know. Or I would never have presumed to—”

  The front door of the cabin opened, and light poured onto the front porch, then trickled down onto what appeared to be stone steps. A woman stepped out into the night, her ankle-length skirt backlit in the soft glow of lantern light. Her form appeared so small in contrast to the vastness of the night and the surrounding mountains.

  “Witty?” she called into the night, the intonation of her voice almost musical. “That be you, son?”

  Instinctively, Rebekah took a backward step. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  Tate’s hand tightened around hers. “Rebekah, it’s all right. Or will be, soon enough.”

  She tried to pull away, but he held her fast.

  “Where are you going to go, Rebekah? Believe me, I’ve tried to think of another option. There isn’t one.”

  “This was so wrong of me. So . . . presumptuous.” She winced. “But based on how you were acting—the headaches, the irritability, how I found those bottles of laudanum in the cabinet—”

  “The headaches and laudanum I can explain. But the irritability, I guess that just comes naturally.”

  Unexpected tenderness softened his voice, which somehow made her feel even worse. He was looking down at her, and though she couldn’t see the precise definition of his features, she somehow knew he was smiling.

  “Tate, I’m so sorry.”

  “Come on,” he whispered, tugging her hand. “My mother already knows someone’s here. So unless you want her to get the Winchester, we’d better make ourselves known.”

  But Rebekah didn’t budge.

  He leaned closer. “Come on now. I promise they won’t bite. Although . . . apparently I can’t promise them the same of you.”

  Humored, she gave him a little shove, but apprehension still ruled. No longer able to feel her toes in her boots, Rebekah knew he was right. There was no other option.

  Tate held her hand until they got closer to the cabin. Then he gave it a quick squeeze and let go.

  “Mama!” he called out, then ran the rest of the way, taking the steps in twos. He wrapped his mother in a hug, her feet briefly leaving the porch. The woman’s laughter seemed to light up the darkness.

  The display was so full of affection, so natural—yet so foreign to Rebekah—that she couldn’t look away. Not even when the woman’s gaze trailed to where she stood in the yard.

  “Mama,” Tate said quickly, descending the steps. “I’d like to introduce Miss Rebekah Carrington. She’s my personal assistant at the symphony in Nashville. And she’s also . . . my friend.”

  Tate placed a hand on the small of Rebekah’s back and urged her forward. She felt warmth and forgiveness in the act. And in the title my friend. He’d said it so sweetly. Still shaking from the cold and damp, she gathered her wet skirt and cloak and climbed the stone steps.

  “Rebekah, may I present my mother, Mrs. Angus Whitcomb. But I can already tell you, she’ll insist you call her by her given name . . . Cattabelle.”

  Rebekah curtsied, feeling awkward and embarrassed and hoping it didn’t show. She knew her appearance must be horrendous, and shame chided her over intruding into such a private setting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you . . . Cattabelle.”

  “Howdy do, Miss Carrin’ton.” There was a quiet dignity and grace to the greeting. Mrs. Whitcomb stepped to one side, and lantern glow from the cabin revealed a kind, expressive face. “Best get yourselves on inside. Looks like it’s weatherin’ up to snow agin. Gettin’ worse us just standin’ here.”

  Rebekah glanced back and, sure enough, the snow had begun a reprise. Giving Mrs. Whitcomb a smile, she stepped across the threshold of the cabin and was greeted first by warmth. Her body shuddered in response, and she wondered if she would ever be fully rid of the chill in her bones. A discordant mixture of scents greeted her next—coal oil, leather, bacon fat, and tobacco—followed by the simplicity of the setting.

  The cabin was crudely built, made of roughhewn logs chinked with mud, and the initial furnishings she glimpsed were sparse at best, save for a gleaming black cast-iron wood stove hulking in the center of the far wall. Atop it, pots simmered and spewed. She caught the scent of meat cooking, and her stomach clenched with hunger. She couldn’t decide whether it was pork, chicken, or beef she smelled. But whichever it was, it smelled delicious.

  Pegs pounded into the logs held cooking utensils and various other pots and pans. A long wooden table with benches on either
side crowded the area in front of the stove, and in the center of the table sat stacks of wooden bowls and plates.

  If she didn’t know better, she might have thought she’d traveled back in time, into another world. She remembered seeing the austere drawings of her great-great-grandparents and had heard the stories about how they’d been among the first to settle the land around Nashville. How they’d lived in a cabin. This reminded her of those retellings, and of the pioneer spirit credited to them.

  Contrasting this austerity with the opulence of Belmont Mansion nearly overwhelmed her senses. It truly was like living in two different worlds. Then she turned—

  And her gaze stopped cold.

  Just behind a sofa and two chairs, three beds—all crafted from pine and adorned with patchwork pillows—lined the wall, side by side. Apparently the living area doubled for sleeping as well. She tried not to stare, but everywhere she looked—be it at the beds, or to the long-barreled rifle balanced atop what appeared to be an elk-horn rack, or to the multiple pairs of overalls hanging on a peg by the door—she felt as if she were staring at something she shouldn’t.

  So she looked back to Tate instead and saw him closing the door, then putting his bags aside. He watched her the whole time, an earnestness in his expression.

  He gave his mother another hug. “It smells good in here, Mama. I should’ve written ahead, though, to tell you I was bringing a friend. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s my fault.” Rebekah spoke up quickly. “I’m sorry for barging in like this, Mrs. Whitcomb. Cattabelle,” she corrected, seeing the woman’s telling smile. “I’m afraid I . . . surprised your son at the train station. I simply didn’t think through what an imposition my presence would pose. So, please, forgive me.” She shot a quick glance at Tate, hoping he knew the apology was intended for him as well.

  Warmth filled Cattabelle’s expression. “Miss Carrin’ton, hain’t no friend belongin’ to Witty be a stranger in this home. You’s as welcome here as any kin.”

  Touched more than she let on, Rebekah smiled. “Please, I’d prefer if you would call me Rebekah.”