A Note Yet Unsung Page 26

  Mrs. Whitcomb beamed. “Rebekah, it be then. Now take off that coat of your’n. Wet as water, it is.”

  Rebekah relinquished the cloak, noticing Cattabelle’s faded calico shirtwaist and skirt, a stain-spattered apron cinched about her waist. Rebekah smiled her thanks, her own dark gray skirt and simple shirtwaist seeming extravagant by comparison.

  Tate’s mother appeared younger than Rebekah would have imagined, and was petite, a good four or five inches shorter than Rebekah. Cattabelle Whitcomb possessed clear, beautiful features, yet despite their delicateness, nothing about the woman seemed fragile or easily broken. Quite the contrary. She exuded a quiet strength. A strength Rebekah had seen before. So it wasn’t difficult for her to imagine from whom Tate had inherited that particular quality.

  Mrs. Whitcomb motioned. “Now set yourself down by that fire and dry out. I’ll have supper ready in no time a-tall.”

  “Actually . . . ” Tate motioned. “I’ll show Rebekah to the privy first.”

  “Thank you,” Rebekah mouthed and followed him down a short hallway. He opened a door, and she was pleasantly surprised to see an earth closet. No having to go outside in the freezing cold and snow. A basin of water, soap, and a towel occupied a rustic table in the corner. Astounding how something so simple could swiftly become so appreciated.

  She returned minutes later and joined Tate by the fire. She relished the warmth, along with the mother and son’s back-and-forth about Tate’s orchestra and life in the “big city.”

  “Before supper, Mama . . .” Tate glanced at the only other door, located opposite the one they’d entered through. “How is he doing?”

  The light in his mother’s eyes dimmed. But before Cattabelle could respond, the front door burst open and, along with a blast of cold air, in came what Rebekah assumed to be the rest of Tate’s family—three brothers, all younger, judging by their youthful looks, and a much younger sister, a beautiful little girl. They chattered and greeted Tate all at once, hugging him and clapping him on the back.

  But all greeting and conversation fell away when eyes turned to Rebekah.

  Cattabelle moved to stand beside her. “This here be Witty’s friend. From Nashville-way. Miss Carrin’ton be her proper name. These be my sons. Emil . . . ” Cattabelle pointed to the tallest and oldest-looking of Tate’s brothers. And the one who favored him most. “Then Rufus and Benjamin. And this little thang here, all o’ eight years, is Opal. She’s the least ’un.” Maternal pride colored the woman’s voice, her tone softening a degree when she said her daughter’s name.

  The siblings’ stares, already appraising, turned more so, and Rebekah found the attention a tad unnerving.

  “H-hello,” Rebekah said softly. “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you.”

  “She talks purty,” the young girl said. “Just like you do, Witty.”

  “Witty does talk mighty purty, don’t he?” Rufus ribbed, and Tate’s other brothers quickly joined in.

  “Purty as a flow’r come spring.” Emil made a silly face, which only encouraged the youngest brother to laugh all the more.

  Cattabelle smiled at Tate, who seemed to take it all in stride. Then she aimed a look at the boys. “Stop bein’ so fool-headed and give Miss Carrin’ton here a proper welcome.”

  A staggered chorus of howdy-dos followed, the boys ducking their heads almost in unison while Opal’s smile reached full bloom.

  Rebekah noticed Emil watching her in particular. He smiled at Tate, wriggling his brows, then gave his big brother a grin and a not-so-discreet shove in the back, to which Tate frowned and gave a subtle shake of his head in response.

  “Miss Carrington is also my personal assistant at the symphony in Nashville. She’s helping me prepare for the big performance this spring.”

  “Them’s fine wearin’ clothes,” the girl said, looking at Rebekah’s skirt and shirtwaist. “Is they boughten?”

  “Opal Nettie Whitcomb!” Cattabelle scolded. “Hain’t right to be makin’ such talk. You and your brothers get dinner done while we go thither to the other room.”

  Cattabelle motioned for Tate and Rebekah to follow her, but Rebekah hesitated. She was none too eager to lag behind and make conversation with Tate’s brothers, but she also didn’t wish to intrude. And she had a sinking feeling that the reason for Tate’s possessing so much laudanum lay just beyond that door.

  “Tate,” she whispered, “perhaps I should stay here and let you—”

  “You’re here now, Rebekah. He’ll want to meet you. And . . . I’d like for you to meet him.”

  Sensing deeper meaning in the words—I’d like for you to meet him . . . while there’s still time—Rebekah nodded reluctantly. All while yearning for the moment she could board that train and give Tate Whitcomb back his privacy.

  Which she never should have trespassed upon.

  Tate braced himself as his mother opened the bedroom door, uncertain what lay beyond it. He could feel Rebekah’s trepidation beside him as well, yet he was grateful, in that moment, that she was there with him. Her shock over what she had followed him into still showed clearly in her expression and demeanor—to him, at least—and he was eager to speak with her alone, to explain why he’d chosen to keep this part of his life hidden.

  And why she had to agree to do that as well.

  A single oil lamp rested on his parents’ bedside table, and his eyes swiftly adjusted to the dimmer lighting. The lamp’s meager flicker cast a burnt-orange glow about the small room, and his father, once a mountain of a man, lay still in the bed beneath a layer of quilts.

  He looked even older than the last time Tate had been home. How could someone age so much in a matter of weeks?

  “Angus?” Cattabelle cooed softly, laying a gentle hand to his father’s brow. “Witty come home to see us agin.” When his father didn’t stir, his mother glanced back. “Your pa, he’s been sleepin’ most of the day. I been feedin’ him the potion like you told me, son.” She glanced at the nearly empty bottle of laudanum on the table by the bed. “And he hain’t been hurtin’ near as bad, which be a blessin’ to us all. That last ’uns almost done for, but I been stretchin’ it out.”

  “I brought several more bottles this time, Mama. And can get as much as you need. So give him the full dose if he’s hurting.” He reached for his father’s hand, so large and callused, yet absent its customary strength.

  His father’s fingers gently tightened around his, and Tate realized his father was watching him. Seeing all the love and respect in his gaze caused a knot to form at the base of Tate’s throat.

  “Witty,” his father whispered, and it came out sounding more like a question.

  “I’m here, Pa.” He tried to swallow, and couldn’t. “H-how are you feeling?”

  His father gave a semblance of a smile. “’Bout like common, I reckon.”

  Tate felt a tug in his chest at the familiar response. “Are you in pain right now?”

  A slow shake of his head. “That potion you give me . . .”

  “The laudanum,” Tate supplied.

  His father sighed. “Makes me feel somethin’ akin to . . . floatin’ on a cloud, I guess.”

  Tate smiled. “That doesn’t sound half bad. I might need to try some myself.” His father laughed softly, and unable to resist, Tate cut a quick look at Rebekah.

  Her shy smile did his heart wonders, and he wished he could tell her that he bore her no ill will for having followed him. Not anymore. In fact, a part of him was almost relieved. It was nice for someone to know the truth about him. Made him feel more . . . real, in a way. Less like a fraud.

  He tried to continue speaking with his father, wanting to introduce him to Rebekah. But the laudanum did its work well, and his father quickly drifted back to sleep.

  They returned to the next room to find dinner on the table, and Tate’s mouth watered. His mother was a fine cook. But without question, this family meal would not fall anywhere on the scale of Rebekah’s usual fare, and he worried how she wou
ld react when she discovered what she was eating.

  Seated directly across the table from her, he spotted her eying the stew, then the hot corn pone, and he felt a twinge of discomfort, then guilt, when he realized it was shame he was feeling. Having been gone from these mountains for over half of his life now, he would’ve thought he’d moved beyond the struggle. This was his family, and this was his home. His upbringing here in Chicory Hollow had greatly contributed to the man he was now, and to the life he had. So how could he be even the least bit ashamed? Along with that thought rose a defensiveness within him against anyone who might make these people, who he loved so much, feel like less. Which he didn’t believe Rebekah would do.

  At least not on purpose.

  “Witty.” His mother’s blue eyes sparkled. “Won’t you raise up our thanks tonight, son?”

  Tate nodded and took hold of Emil’s hand, then reached for Rebekah’s across the table. As she took hold of Opal’s, he bowed his head, grateful his mother didn’t know how long it had been since he’d prayed aloud.

  “Heavenly Father, we thank you for this bounty and for a warm place from the cold. Thank you for the people gathered around this table, and be with the rest of our loved ones who aren’t. Be with Pa. Bring him healing . . . please, we ask. Through Jesus, our Lord and Savior . . .”

  Hearty amens sounded around the table, and then the usual frenzy of filling bowls and plates ensued—Emil, Rufus, and Benjamin taking the lead. Tate noticed how his brothers kept sneaking glances at Rebekah. Worse, Rebekah noticed too. Tate could tell by the blush in her cheeks.

  She had to be cold yet. Her clothes, like his, were still damp. Having brought nothing with her, she’d need to borrow something from his mother, which churned up yet another concern—the sleeping arrangements.

  “You ever been on land so uptilted before, Miss Carrin’ton?” Rufus asked, eighteen years old and a man, yet still a boy in many ways. Much as Benjamin, who’d only recently turned fourteen.

  “’Course, she hain’t, you half-wit!” Emil, the eldest of the three at twenty, shoved Rufus beside him. “She’s a level lander. Hain’t that right, Miss Carrin’ton?”

  Rebekah’s attention shot to Tate, question in her gaze.

  “Level lander,” Tate explained, “is how we sometimes refer to people who aren’t from these mountains.”

  “We got us other names for y’all too!” Benjamin smirked.

  Everyone laughed, and even Rebekah smiled. But thankfully, no one went into detail.

  “You’re right, Emil.” Rebekah held her bowl as his mother ladled a hefty portion of stew. “I’m not from the mountains, but I have been in them before. Not these, but . . . others.”

  Tate looked across the table, knowing how she could have responded—having lived in Vienna all those years, traveling in Europe—and his affection for her grew tenfold. She took a bite of stew, and he held his breath.

  She chewed slowly, as if attempting to decipher what it was she was eating. And he wished she would just chew, swallow, and not think about it.

  Opal tugged on Rebekah’s sleeve. “Corn pone, Miss Carrin’ton?”

  “Why, yes. Thank you, Opal.”

  “Gotta have ya some plum butter with it too, ma’am,” Opal chimed, motioning for Benjamin to pass the jar. “Mama makes the best in all the holler!”

  Tate relaxed, grateful for Opal’s unintentional distraction while he seized the opportunity to change the subject. “So tell me the news. What’s happened since my last visit?”

  “Accident last week.” Emil’s expression sobered. “Two miners got ’emselves near killed. It was bad, but it weren’t their fault. An explosion. Fuse burned too fast. Cheap line some of the coal minin’ companies are usin’.”

  “Are the men neighbors of ours?” Tate asked, looking beside him.

  Emil shook his head. “Don’t know ’em personal. They’s some of the outsiders who live in the company town.”

  Benjamin leaned forward. “I heard tell one of ’em got his leg blowed off. The other lost a hand and then—”

  “No coarse talkin’ at my table, son!” Cattabelle’s soft but serious tone brooked no argument. “You boys find out for me if them injured men got families, mouths to feed, and we’ll do our best to be of help to ’em.”

  Benjamin nodded, head bowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now . . .” Cattabelle turned her attention to Rebekah. “I wanna hear ’bout what all you do at that music hall with my Witty. He said you’re his . . .”

  “Personal assistant.” Rebekah smiled. “Which means that I help him with . . .”

  “Tate,” Emil whispered.

  Tate looked to his brother as Rebekah continued.

  “’Member me tellin’ ya ’bout the new mine that opened last spring? To the east of here?”

  Tate nodded, still half listening to what Rebekah was saying.

  “That’s where the accident happened,” Emil continued. “The men who run that ’un are worse than the others. Don’t care a wit for their workers.” Emil’s voice dropped lower. “They just bought the mine where Rufus and me work. We hain’t told Mama yet. Or Pa, of course. And we don’t aim to.”

  Tate glanced at his mother, who hung on Rebekah’s every word, and to Opal, who seemed equally enthralled. “I guess that’s best, considering,” he whispered. “But have the new owners said yet how things are going to change?”

  “Miners who live in the company town”—Emil lifted his cup to his mouth but didn’t drink—“part of their pay’s gonna start bein’ doled out in scrip, the bosses call it. Some kind of . . . minin’ company pay. Not even real money. And it’s gotta be spent at the company store that just hikes up the prices. New bosses say we all gotta bring our own tools now too. They won’t be supplyin’ ’em anymore. It’s plain thievin’, and it hain’t right. It’s hard work we do, and dangerous. Miners are gettin’ fed up with it. Some of ’em threatened to stop workin’ ’til the bosses make it safer. And more fair. Bosses told ’em they’d just fire ’em and hire all new workers. Now some of the miners are threatenin’ to take it out on the bosses themselves.”

  Tate hated that his brothers had started working in the mines in addition to running the farm. He already sent a good portion of his salary home as it was. But Emil and Rufus were of age—Emil to be married soon—and his brothers wanted to make their own way. Understandably. But that took money. Even in Chicory Hollow.

  “Have you and Rufus been in any accidents?” he whispered.

  Emil didn’t answer immediately. “Not as bad as that one.”

  Tate looked at him, and noticed the black coal dust embedded in the creases of his hands and under his nails.

  “Had a cave-in a few days back. Just down from where me and Rufus were. But we got all the men dug out. It’s just . . . the new owners are known for cuttin’ corners every way they can. Usin’ weaker beams to hold up the shafts, cheaper explosives. If they start runnin’ our mine like they do that other’n”—Emil drained his cup—“more bad things are gonna start happenin’. To us, for sure. But maybe to them too.”

  “Listen to me, Emil.” Tate leaned closer. “You and Rufus are smart. Too smart to get drawn into any violence against the mineowners. That’ll come to no good. But don’t be afraid to stand up to the bosses if they start asking you—or any of the other workers—to cut corners. Don’t do it. It’s not worth it.”

  “What are you two boys whisperin’ ’bout down there?”

  Tate looked up to see his mother eying first him, then Emil. Her eyes narrowed, and he wondered if she’d overheard part of their conversation.

  “You boys best not be connivin’ to sneak moonshine behind the barn. Like ever’one of you done before!” A telling twinkle lit her eyes, followed by a grin. “You may all be bigger’n me now, but I’ll still tan your hides!”

  Grinning, Emil pointed at Tate. “He’s the one tryin’ to get me in trouble, Ma. Said he bought some good white lightnin’ off Virgil and Banty on the way
up the mountain.” Emil’s gaze slipped to Rebekah. “Said Miss Carrin’ton liked it so much she bought her some too.”

  Tate smiled across the table at Rebekah, who laughed along with everyone else. And with that, the table banter fell into full swing again.

  Tate noticed Rebekah spreading plum butter on her bread. She tasted it, and her smile said more than words ever could. “This is delicious, Cattabelle. The stew is too.”

  His mother’s expression softened with gratitude. “Glad it’s to your likin’. I sent the boys out this mornin’ and they got two gooduns.”

  “I helped with the skinnin’!” Opal added, then shoveled in a mouthful of stew.

  “Pass the corn pone, please,” Tate said quickly, eager to change the subject again. “Have any of you had a chance to read that last book I—”

  “Skinnin’ hain’t worth nothin’ without there bein’ somethin’ to skin,” Benjamin retorted, always determined to put his younger sister in her place.

  Opal’s brow knitted, never a good sign.

  Rufus huffed and shot Emil a wink. “Like you did anythin’ to help, Ben. You missed everythin’ you shot at this mornin’. Was me and Emil who got them squirrels, and you know it.”

  “Was not!” Benjamin’s face reddened. “I’s the one who . . .”

  Tate watched Rebekah pause midchew, her face going pale. His older brothers egged on the younger, but his mother seemed not to notice, smiling through it all, accustomed to this after years of raising boys.

  Please, Rebekah . . . If he could’ve escorted her from the room right then, so she could spit out the bite of stew discreetly, he would have. Because he understood what she was experiencing. He knew both worlds. And squirrel stew was definitely not part of Rebekah’s.

  She coughed, reached for her cup of water, and drank, then refilled it from the jar on the table and drank again.

  “Too much pepper for ya?” his mother asked, smiling from down the table.

  Rebekah took a quick breath and met his mother’s gaze, and the moment seemed to freeze as Tate watched, helpless to intervene between the two women and knowing that neither would hurt the other for the world. Yet one could very easily hurt the other with a single word.