A Note Yet Unsung Read online

  “Pardon me, Mrs. Murphey.”

  The woman’s head slowly came up.

  “I appreciate your counsel, but I still request that you ask the conductor if he has the time to speak with me. A few moments is all I require.”

  Mrs. Murphey stood slowly. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear enough, Miss Carrington. There’s no reason for you to expect that—”

  “You made yourself perfectly clear, ma’am. But I’m determined to speak with Mr. Whitcomb. So I can do that today. Now. Or . . . ” Rebekah raised her chin. “I can come back first thing in the morning. And every morning after that.”

  The woman’s lips thinned. “He’s a very busy man, with a most demanding schedule.”

  Rebekah set down her case. “Which is why I don’t wish to waste his time. Or yours.”

  Her sour expression only grew more so. “Very well. Remain here until I return.”

  Mrs. Murphey strode down the long corridor, her heels a sharp staccato in the silence.

  Rebekah let out a breath, relieved . . . but also not. She stood for a moment, letting the silence settle around her as the musty smell of the opera house tugged at a cherished memory.

  The image of her father dressed in his Sunday best, and she in hers, drifted toward her. She remembered that evening so well, although they’d entered through the ornate front doors of the building on that occasion. She’d never forget that night. Her first symphony. A traveling ensemble from New York, her father had explained. The experience had been magical, and changed everything for her. Her father had known it too.

  What she wondered, and guessed she would never know for certain, was whether or not it had been his intention for the experience to change everything. Most certainly, it hadn’t been her mother’s.

  Rebekah unbuttoned her cloak but left it on, still chilled, and let her gaze drift.

  Peeling plaster walls and warped wooden floors belied the once rich opulence of the building. Yet somehow, the rear corridor of the opera house still managed a regal air, as though the timeless beauty of Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert had seeped into the brick and mortar until it haunted the corridors and side halls with a presence she could all but feel and was certain she would hear in the stillness if she listened closely enough.

  A shame the structure was scheduled to be torn down.

  The article she’d read earlier recounted the city’s plans to have the old opera house demolished soon, then followed with a description of the new Nashville Opera House, as it was being touted, scheduled for completion that summer. The details gave every indication of the building being spectacular. But apparently, numerous mishaps had delayed the project’s completion.

  The most startling being when an upper balcony collapsed during construction. Several workers had been seriously injured, but thankfully, none killed. From the tone of the newspaper column, a bout of scandal had followed involving the city’s then mayor and his son, the architect first assigned to the project. Both father and son had lost their positions and, subsequently, a new architect—from Vienna, of all places—had been appointed to oversee the project.

  And any structure in Nashville involving an architect from Vienna was one she intended to see.

  As a young girl, she hadn’t thought anything about Nashville having an opera house—modest though the building was when compared to those in Europe—but it was quite an impressive claim for so modest-sized a city. Nashville wasn’t New York or Philadelphia, after all. But the delights of theater, opera, and symphony were still appreciated. Especially following such a dark time of war.

  The journalist had alluded to an “unnamed Nashville benefactor’s extravagant generosity” in the construction of the new opera house, which explained how the project was being funded amidst such a depressed economy.

  She glanced down the hallway, saw no sign of the gatekeeper, and so took a seat to wait in a chair along the wall. She pulled out her copy of the newspaper and perused the article again, eager for anything that might help her in her meeting with this Nathaniel T. Whitcomb.

  The reporter emphasized the conductor’s penchant for original scores and his leanings toward newer techniques, which she found encouraging. But that it took this much effort simply to get an audience with the man didn’t bode well for her chances. She only hoped—

  The reprisal of staccato heels drew her attention. But it was the utter consternation darkening the older woman’s face that dared her to hope.

  Rebekah started to rise.

  “Stay seated,” Mrs. Murphey commanded, her tone brittle. “The maestro is with someone at present, so you’ll have to wait.”

  Hope reared its encouraging head. But . . . the maestro?

  Rebekah searched the woman’s expression. Surely, even with all the acclaim he’d received so early in his career, the man had yet to merit the distinguished title. Still, Mrs. Murphey’s expression held not a hint of misgiving.

  Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty.

  Rebekah waited under the woman’s watchful eye.

  But when Mrs. Murphey stepped away from her desk, Rebekah furtively reached into her satchel, opened the bottle of water, and slipped a reed inside. Best to be ready, just in case. Her cherished oboe within wasn’t her first instrument, nor her favorite, but it felt like an old friend, and—in light of public opinion regarding women playing the violin—the oboe was a far safer choice for this audition.

  She rubbed her hands on her cloak, her nerves getting the best of her. Why was she so anxious? She’d auditioned for a symphony a thousand times—in her dreams.

  But could she do it when it really counted?

  Nearly two decades of playing or studying music—ten of those in Vienna—should have inured her to the panic in her stomach, especially considering her experience assisting one of Austria’s most famous conductors. But assisting a conductor with score preparation and copying musical scores in his home—following dinner and after completing her duties as the governess to his children—was a far cry from being directed by one.

  His dear wife, Sophie, once confided to her that Herr Heilig considered her quite talented—for a woman. But he also considered women to be “far too delicate natured for the rigors of an orchestra.” So Rebekah had watched—and learned—as much as she could, waiting for the day when she could prove to him that she was, indeed, strong enough.

  But that day had never come.

  “Miss Carrington?”

  Rebekah looked up.

  Mrs. Murphey nodded down the corridor. “The maestro is available now. Let’s not keep him waiting.”

  The sound of footsteps registered, and Rebekah peered down the hallway to see an older gentleman, hat in hand. He paused and glanced her way, his expression severe. Then, with a hasty gait, he departed in the opposite direction. She gathered that his meeting with the maestro hadn’t gone as desired.

  She only hoped she fared better.

  2

  Rebekah thought again of what she was about to do, and a knife of uncertainty cut through her. But this opportunity wouldn’t likely come again. At least not for her. She expelled the stale air in her lungs in exchange for fresh and removed her cloak, then draped it over the chair and reached for her leather satchel.

  “You did bring references with you, I trust, Miss Carrington?”

  Rebekah hesitated, then swiftly smoothed her features. “I’ve brought everything that’s required, I assure you.”

  She hurried down the hallway to avoid further questions, and felt Mrs. Murphey’s disapproval boring into her. But it was an uncanny sense of being otherwise observed that drew her gaze to her right.

  The eerily similar gazes of esteemed conductors, five in all, stared at her with resolute examination—Mozart, Handel, Beethoven, Bach, and Haydn—their portraits hanging in perfect symmetry, one after another. Each man wore an expression of triumph, as though having been deeply satisfied with his own accomplishments. And with good reason. Yet though their pasty complexions and slightly sa
gging jowls, captured with such detail by the artists, lent testimony to lives dedicated to perfecting their craft, a day or two in the sun would’ve done them all considerable good.

  She slowed her steps, her gaze settling briefly on Haydn, a favorite Austrian son and the composer honored on the special evening her father had brought her to the opera house. Symphony No. 94 had been performed. One of her favorites. She’d tried to tell her mother about the experience and recalled her mother’s response. “An indulgence that will come to no good end—mark my words.”

  Perhaps her mother would yet be proven right.

  But her father—familiar longing tugged at her emotions—had been the kindest, gentlest man she’d ever known, passing away far too soon and leaving a hole in her life and in her mother’s. Which her mother had filled too hastily and without knowing the true character of the man she’d married only five months after Papa died.

  An empty space at the end of the row of portraits drew her attention, and she moved closer to read the engraved bronze plaque, similar in size and placement to those beneath the other portraits: NASHVILLE PHILHARMONIC, NATHANIEL TATE WHITCOMB.

  Already they had commissioned a portrait of the man to hang beside the greatest composers in history? She shook her head. A dangerous undertaking to feed the ego of a symphony conductor, which that would most certainly do.

  Gathering her nerve, she approached the doorway on the left, the one the man had exited earlier, only to find another hallway, shorter, beyond it. She stepped around the corner, eager to exit the scope of Mrs. Murphey’s condescending gaze.

  She smoothed the front of her bustled skirt as she mentally rehearsed her audition piece. Mozart’s Oboe Concerto in C Major. She could play it flawlessly, and had, many times—alone in her room or when demonstrating proper technique to a young student.

  But never when so much was at stake.

  The partially open office door stood a mere four yards away, but her legs suddenly felt like lead.

  It wasn’t the audition she feared so much. She knew she could play. What she didn’t know, and couldn’t predict, was the new conductor’s decision. If he said no, where would she go? What would she do? Be a governess? Again.

  The weight of that possibility, and what it meant for her future, hung like an anvil about her neck.

  But anything was better than returning home.

  Beneath the weight of the moment, she paused, feeling self-conscious for not having done this in too long a time. If you’re listening, Lord, if you’re really as patient and generous-hearted as my father always said, then let this Mr. Whitcomb prove more open-minded than his peers. More like the conductor she’d read about in New York last year, or perhaps like Herr Dessoff, a true maestro from the Vienna Philharmonic. Help me to play with confidence. And please . . . please let him say yes.

  Lifting her head, she fixed her gaze on the door, covered the distance, and raised her hand to knock—

  “So you’re telling me your performance Saturday meets your definition of ‘playing with full emotion’?”

  Rebekah stilled. The voice coming from the other side of the door was decidedly male—and decidedly displeased.

  “Because if that’s the case,” the man continued, “I fear you’re one of the most emotionally trammeled musicians I’ve ever encountered.”

  “But, sir, I—”

  “I trust you’re familiar with the definition of mezzo forte?”

  Sarcasm thickened the rhetorical question, and the very air seemed to crackle with it.

  “Of course, I am, sir. But—”

  “Moderately loud is the meaning of the term. And yet you play as though the bars in question were marked pianissimo. I could scarcely hear you. You are the concertmaster! I expect you to display the leadership and ability a musician of your experience should possess. And to play as though you actually have an ounce of passion for the music, instead of merely regurgitating the notes on the page.”

  “But, Maestro, I’m quite certain that I, along with the other violinists—”

  “Did you or did you not hear what Edward Pennington, the director of the symphony board, said to us just now? Our performances must be sharper, better, more evocative.” An exasperated sigh. “Confirm with the section leaders that everyone received the new rehearsal schedule. Monday’s practice will now be at seven o’clock in the morning, and no excuses from anyone about the schedule conflicting with jobs. Each man made a commitment when I accepted him into this orchestra, and I expect each to live up to his word. That will be all.”

  Dismissal punctuated the man’s already sharp tone, and alarmed at the possibility of being discovered standing out here listening, Rebekah scurried to put distance between her and the office—

  When the door opened wide.

  A man strode from the room, face flushed, features dark with anger. But seeing her, he stopped.

  Rebekah knew instantly that he wasn’t Nathaniel Tate Whitcomb. Because this man was no stranger. She knew his face. Or more rightly, a younger version of it.

  His eyes narrowed, as though he, too, were sifting back through time to more youthful years.

  “Rebekah?” He said the name almost like a curse, surprise thinning his voice. “Rebekah Carrington.” He spoke with certainty this time, and even greater displeasure.

  But it was the look in his eyes—the animosity Rebekah remembered only too well—that caused the slender thread of hope she’d had for this audition to snap clean in two.

  “Darrow Fulton,” she said softly, the name resurfacing despite years of attempting to forget it. Her childhood nemesis, at least in a musical sense. The same age as she, he’d taken violin lessons from Mr. Colton just as she had, his hour coming always right before hers. And somehow Darrow still managed to be there to torment her as she was walking home.

  How many taunts had he thrown her way? How many bows had he broken? Her skill had never exceeded his, as Mr. Colton had always reminded her. The violin master had made it clear that he thought teaching girls was a waste, but her father’s generous payment for lessons had somehow served as adequate persuasion. But the fact that she’d been close to Darrow Fulton’s equal—at least at one time—had more than rankled her childhood nemesis. It seemed he had hated her for it.

  The scrape of a chair in the office beyond broke the tense silence between them, and Darrow briefly glanced back in that direction. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his features before his expression went hard again.

  “Finally back from Europe, I see. After all these years.” A smile formed, though not a friendly one. “Dear ol’ grandmother kicks the bucket and the money runs out.” He made a tsking noise. “Pity.”

  The emotion that had threatened earlier wrapped around her throat like a three-strand cord and pulled taut. But she kept her composure, choosing to focus instead on the abuse he’d inflicted in her youth. Only now she had the strength of womanhood—and perspective—to fight back.

  “I’ll tell you what’s pitiful, Mr. Fulton.” Her voice held steady despite the hammering in her chest. “That after all these years, it appears you haven’t changed. Not one bit. Now that is what I find most pitiful.”

  The creak of a door sounded.

  “Mrs. Murphey, I instructed you to—”

  Rebekah looked past Darrow and found herself staring at Nathaniel T. Whitcomb. Only, he looked nothing like she’d expected, or like any other symphony conductor she’d ever seen. This man wasn’t the least bit pasty or weak. And nothing about him sagged either.

  With a firm-set jaw, lean, muscular build, and piercing blue eyes, he seemed better suited for cross-examining a witness or ripping trees up by their roots than penning a sonata or conducting Beethoven’s Fifth. Except for the beard. The beard, a cross between neatly trimmed and days-old stubble, gave him an air of casual distinction that firmly placed him in the category of musician.

  Commanding was the first thought that came to her mind—exceptionally handsome was the second—and the com
bination threw her off-balance.

  Darrow Fulton brushed past her, giving her a look that said their conversation wasn’t over, and Rebekah swiftly found herself standing alone with the man who unknowingly held the bits and pieces of a dying dream in the palms of his hands.

  Not another daughter of a rich patron . . .

  Tate growled inwardly. How many of these vexatious creatures did they expect him to tolerate?

  When Mrs. Murphey had told him that a young woman was here to interview for the assistant’s position, he’d cut her off midsentence, tempted to refuse the meeting altogether. Time was scarce. And he was certain he’d already interviewed every young woman in the state of Tennessee.

  But he needed the funds the wealthy patrons supplied and knew what he had to do to mollify them—meet their daughters. Though granted, this particular daughter was particularly lovely and had an air of maturity the others thus far had lacked. His gaze lingered briefly on her high-collared shirtwaist and jacket.

  She wasn’t flaunting her womanly charms as the others had either. At least not yet. Sometimes the longer these meetings went, the more warm-natured the young women became.

  “I’ll grant you five minutes, Miss . . .” He couldn’t remember her name, if Mrs. Murphey had even told him.

  “Carrington, sir,” she supplied a little too eagerly. “Rebekah Carrington.”

  The last name didn’t strike a chord with him, but he was still becoming familiar with this circle of society, and the list of Nashville Philharmonic benefactors. The list was surprisingly lengthy, ranging from one-time givers to those more committed, though the list needed to be lengthier still, considering the construction costs of the new opera house and the plans for growth the board had proposed.

  Which meant the inaugural symphony in June—scarcely six months away—had to be an overwhelming success in every way. Winning the public’s support was paramount, as were lucrative ticket sales and, of course, excellent musical content.

  The musicians under his direction were fair at best. But what could he expect when he’d been handed an odd collection of music teachers, college professors, and amateurs to form Nashville’s first philharmonic? Despite numerous practices over the past few weeks, they needed to be so much better than they were. Same for the symphony he was writing.