A Note Yet Unsung Page 32

  “You knew him, Herr Heilig?”

  “Ja, I did. It was many years ago that we met.”

  As Rebekah played, she again thought of that night and of Chopin, and of the insights Herr Heilig had shared into the brief life of the gifted composer.

  Finishing the short piece, she played it again. But this time, she played as though Chopin himself were seated beside her, listening. And she tried to see and feel the music through his eyes.

  His opening measures contained graceful upward leaps, which became increasingly wide. But years of midnight playing made them effortless for her. The melody, occurring thrice more during the piece, varied with each repetition by more elaborate, decorative tones and trills. Her favorite parts.

  Yet Chopin’s unassuming genius lent the piece an almost waltz-like accompaniment that gave it a dreamlike quality.

  Masterful . . .

  Nearing the end of the opus, Rebekah played it as Chopin had written, his passion pouring onto the page, the final melody beginning softly, then ascending to a higher register. She played the octaves the same, and the music swirled and lifted around her, filling the empty opera hall. But she played as though every seat were full. Because she wasn’t playing for herself.

  “I want you to give your best to God every single time you play.” That’s what she’d said to Pauline. And she’d meant it.

  As the notes softened once again and the excitement in the music ebbed, Rebekah concluded the opus as calmly and serenely as it had begun. She sat in the silence until the final, fading note slipped into the past, then she played the opus again and again, finding fresh peace and wonderment not only in the familiar notes, but at the power within a composer’s pen.

  “Nocturne in E-flat Major, opus 9, number 2,” a voice said softly behind her. Close behind her.

  She didn’t turn when Tate eased in next to her on the bench. He said nothing, simply watched her play.

  After a moment, she chanced a look over and found his eyes closed. How had she allowed herself to begin loving this man? When had it started? And . . . how did she stop? If all went as planned—though it didn’t look fully promising at the moment—she was going to New York. And he was . . .

  She wasn’t quite sure what his plans were. To finish his symphony and then to build an exemplary orchestra—sans females—here in Nashville. Or it was more likely that one of the nation’s prominent symphony orchestras would lure him away from Nashville in no time. Whatever his plans were, though, she doubted very much that they included her.

  In fact, she realized now that, other than his kissing her—which might not have meant as much to him as it had to her—he’d never so much as even hinted at having any lasting feelings for her. Much less any sort of commitment. Oh, she’d been such a fool, even knowing musicians as she did!

  “Did you know that Chopin wrote this by the age of twenty?” he said softly.

  She looked beside her. “I did. Did you know he had a fear of being buried alive?”

  His blank expression was answer enough.

  “Prior to his death,” she continued, playing as she did, “he requested that his body be opened and his heart returned to Warsaw, where it now rests at the Church of the Holy Cross.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Completely.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Herr—”

  “Heilig,” he quickly filled in. “Of course. I’m certain Herr Heilig’s social circle encompassed many of Europe’s great contemporary composers.” He sighed. “What a life you must have lived in Vienna.”

  Rebekah said nothing. She simply began the opus over again for the . . . She’d lost track of how many times she’d played it thus far.

  “Rebekah . . .” He leaned closer. “You know Caroline Endicott is a notorious flirt.”

  “I gathered as much the first time I met her.”

  “She also has a very . . . enthusiastic imagination. And she’s my assistant only because it’s—”

  “Political.” Rebekah hid her heart behind a look of nonchalance. “Her father is on the philharmonic board and you must keep the board happy. I know how these things work, Tate. You don’t have to explain them to me.”

  “But I want to. And from the tone of your voice right now—and before—I believe I need to.”

  She hated being so easily read. “Tate, truly, you don’t owe me—”

  He took hold of her right hand and a dissonant chord sounded even as the way he touched her, the way he wove his fingers through hers, felt more right than anything she could remember.

  “Rebekah, I’m sorry for what happened. Yes, it’s political and I need to keep the board happy, and Harold Endicott is a major donor to the symphony. But in no manner are you any less important to me in all of this. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

  He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it, then held it against his chest. She searched his face. Could it be that he felt for her what she felt for—

  “I want you to know that”—he briefly looked away—“I’ll be writing the conductor at the New York Philharmonic. I know him. Crawford Leplin. Not an easy man to get along with, by any means. But your talent will be more than enough to impress him. He’s a seasoned conductor. And a good one. And since Leplin’s already admitted one woman into his orchestra, I’m certain your place is all but assured.”

  Rebekah stared, fighting back a knot of tears. So he cared for her. But . . . not enough. Or at least, not in that way. She was reminded again of what Mrs. Cheatham had said about seeking God’s desires for her life . . . no matter what she had to surrender. “And you will have to surrender. We all do. It’s part of the soul’s refinement.”

  So was this her surrender? She had to give up Tate in order to get New York? But how could that be, when he’d never been hers to begin with?

  She nodded, barely able to find her voice. “Thank you, Tate. I’d be most grateful.”

  “And, of course, I should add . . . I do want you to finish here. Before you go.” He gave a weak smile.

  She returned it. “Yes, of course. That’s understood.”

  He looked down at their hands, then relinquished hers.

  And just like that, he opened the door to her dream while closing the one to his heart.

  27

  Rebekah knocked on the kitchen door but didn’t see Delphia inside. Yet there was no sign of the carriage either, which meant Barton was most assuredly gone. The door wasn’t locked, so she let herself in.

  “Delphia?” she called out softly, feeling like a stranger in her own home. Or what had been her home. The stove still radiated warmth as she hurried by, the lingering scent of maple syrup hovering in the kitchen.

  She checked the remainder of the downstairs. No one. Then she crept silently upstairs to the bedrooms. Empty. All of them. Better than she’d hoped. Although she did want to see her mother again, she’d come here today with a different purpose in mind.

  She wanted to know what Barton Ledbetter had been doing in Chicory Hollow.

  She hurried back downstairs and to her father’s—or Barton’s—office and tried the knob. Locked. She tried it again, more aggressively, but without success. Her father had always kept the key in the drawer in the foyer table. She very much doubted Barton kept it there. Still, she checked.

  Nothing. However . . .

  She hurried back to the kitchen, hoping that what she remembered being in one of the cupboard drawers all those years ago might still be there.

  The drawer stuck when she pulled it out, as it always had. She rummaged, feeling toward the back, but no keys. Delphia had had a set at one time, she was certain. The ring had held a key to her father’s office, to the larder and the sugar chest, and then the second house key. She knew because she used to sneak the key to the sugar chest on occasion. A moistened finger dipped in the corner where no one would see was a sweet treat on any day.

  Rebekah shoved the drawer closed—and heard a telling jingle.

&nb
sp; She tugged the drawer out again, all the way this time, and pulled out a rumple of dishcloths wedged in the back. She smiled. Bless you, Delphia.

  Keys in hand, she hurried back to the office . . . but the clomp of horses’ hooves sounded out front. Heart in her throat, she crossed to the foyer and peered out the window by the door. A carriage stopped in front of the house. To her relief, it wasn’t Barton’s. But . . .

  A man got out. And started up the front walkway.

  Rebekah quickly stepped away from the window, knowing he could see her if he was looking. Same as he would see her if she crossed to the hallway now. She had no intention of receiving the man. This wasn’t her house, after all. And what if he was an associate of Barton’s? Any friend of his was someone she wanted nothing to do with. Thoughts racing, she pressed back against the door, keys in her grip.

  He knocked and it suddenly occurred to her, she didn’t even know if the front door was locked. What if he tried to—

  He knocked again, more forcefully this time, and she clenched her jaw, wondering now why she’d ever thought sneaking into the house was a good idea. But when Tate left early that afternoon for another of his portrait sittings, she’d seen her chance. And frankly, after what he’d told her yesterday, about providing a letter of recommendation to the conductor in New York—making his lack of meaningful feelings for her more than clear—she welcomed a few hours away from the office. Besides, she had to know what Barton was—

  A shadow darkened the window beside her, and she realized the man was peering in. Stone-still, she didn’t blink, she didn’t move, she didn’t breathe . . . as an eternity crept by.

  Finally, retreating footsteps. And she exhaled in a rush.

  She waited for the creak of carriage wheels before peering around the edge of the window. Nothing distinctive about the carriage that she could see. Or the man, for that matter. He’d been about Barton’s age, she guessed. Maybe a few years younger. But he was gone now. Which is exactly what she needed to be. Soon.

  But first . . .

  She hurried to the office, shaking off the jitters. The second key she tried gained her entrance, and she grimaced at the odor that greeted her when she opened the door—days-old cigar smoke and something sour. Stale sweat, perhaps, or bourbon. She looked around, the curtains open on the windows, the room awash in light. Yet the space was so much darker than she remembered.

  A decade had passed since she’d stepped inside this office. Back then, before Papa died, this had been a haven for her. The room had smelled of books, freshly sharpened pencils, her father’s sweet pipe tobacco . . . and love. But the years had erased every trace of that. Only the memories remained.

  Setting aside those memories, Rebekah set to work.

  What she was looking for, she didn’t know. Anything that would tell her what Barton was up to. What he’d been doing in Chicory Hollow. She started by looking through the papers on his desk, careful to return everything to its place. A bill of sale from a mercantile in Knoxville. Then another from Memphis. Yet the receipts didn’t list what was purchased, only the total amounts spent.

  She raised an eyebrow. Nearly two hundred dollars for each. What was he buying? If she were to ask him, he would most assuredly give her the same song and dance about his career being in “acquisitions and trade.”

  She found several bills of sale from a lumber company in Nashville, along with freight receipts from a railroad. But the first hint of any tangible evidence came when she uncovered a stack of scrawled IOUs written on scraps of paper, an amount of money listed on each, followed by a signature that was barely legible. She sighed. Well, those IOUs likely explained Barton’s evenings.

  But she could find nothing that included any mention of Chicory Hollow.

  She moved next to the desk drawers. Her father had kept them so neat. Everything in its place. How Barton ever found anything in this mess was beyond her.

  Finally, the bottom right drawer revealed loose bank receipts. Deposits and withdrawals for an account belonging to Barton P. Ledbetter, the name handwritten at the top by various bank clerks. Rebekah paused, seeing the amount of one of the deposits. Nearly seven hundred dollars. She looked at the date. Scarcely two months ago. And another deposit receipt dated two weeks earlier for nearly that same amount. Then multiple withdrawal slips.

  But she didn’t see a pattern of any sort. Where had all this money come from? And what was Barton doing with it?

  She flipped through more receipts, then reached for another batch when her attention fell to the receipt staring up at her atop the pile in the drawer. For an account belonging to Mrs. Ellen Carrington. A withdrawal of . . . over five thousand dollars! Rebekah read the date of the transaction and felt a punch to her gut. December 2, 1870.

  The day after her grandmother died. Oh, Nana . . .

  Rebekah could scarcely breathe. So that’s what had happened to Grandmother’s money. Just as she’d thought, Barton had taken every last—

  “Sarah, as I told you on the way home, you need to rest!”

  Rebekah froze at the sound of Barton’s voice coming from the hallway. How had she not heard them return? She had to hide, but—

  The office door. She’d left it open!

  Keys in hand, she raced to close it, and engaged the lock as noiselessly as she could. She returned to the desk and shoved the receipts back into the drawer, wincing at the creak as she pushed it closed. She scanned the room. The only place to hide was behind the door. And if he came in and closed it, then she would be—

  “But, Barton, dearest . . . I’m feeling some better now.”

  Her mother’s voice, muffled through the door, held an earnestness that tugged at Rebekah’s emotions.

  “Sarah, you said in the carriage that you were dizzy.”

  “Well, yes . . . I was. Earlier. But now—”

  “Have you taken your powder yet today? The one your doctor prescribed for your nerves?”

  “Not yet. But I will . . . if you think I should.”

  Rebekah squeezed her eyes tight, loathing the devotion and trust in her mother’s voice.

  “I do, Sarah. It will calm your nerves so you’ll feel stronger for this evening.”

  The clink of a glass. Where were they? In the parlor, perhaps?

  “But what’s happening this evening?”

  “Sarah.” An exasperated sigh. “How many times must I tell you? We’re going to enjoy an evening out together. We’ll dine at a fine restaurant I’ve been wanting to share with you.”

  “Oh, Barton! That will be wonderful.”

  Rebekah sensed her mother’s sincerity, and it pained her that her mother couldn’t see what kind of man she’d married. Rebekah held her ear to the door, straining to hear more, when she heard footfalls from the other side. She pressed back against the wall, holding her breath. But when a key slipped into the lock, her lungs emptied completely.

  The door opened and every nerve in her body went taut.

  “Barton?” her mother called. “I can’t find my powders.”

  Barton paused just inside the office, so close Rebekah could smell the cherry laurel on him. He cursed beneath his breath. “Coming, dearest . . .” And with a sigh, he closed the door.

  Rebekah bolted for the window, flipped the latch and shoved. It didn’t budge. Oh please . . .

  She tried again, crouching lower and pushing with all her might. The window inched open, complaining loudly as it did. But she paid it no mind. She pushed until her arms and shoulders burned, then climbed through the narrow space. She turned and, with her last ounce of strength, pulled it closed again, then crouched behind the shrubbery and checked the street, in hopes no one had seen her.

  Heart hammering, she waited long enough to catch her breath and then sneaked back around the house to the kitchen, mindful of the windows.

  She saw Delphia by the stove and quietly opened the door. Delphia turned at the sound, but Rebekah shook her head and pressed a finger to her lips. She placed the keys on
the worktable and whispered, “His office. Lock the window, please.”

  Delphia looked at the keys, then at her, and concern darkened her eyes. “You best be careful, child,” she whispered as Rebekah closed the door.

  Later that night, Rebekah lay in bed reliving every moment of being in that house that afternoon, and one thought rose above the rest. To her surprise, it wasn’t about her grandmother’s inheritance—the money was probably long spent anyway—or even what Barton had been doing in Chicory Hollow. It was about her mother.

  She had to find a way to get her mother away from Barton Ledbetter. The man had a hold on her somehow. Rebekah didn’t know what it was, or how he did it, but she was determined to find out. And to break the spell.

  Tate watched her as she sat at the piano playing and transcribing, grateful his desk chair afforded him an unobstructed view. She reached to rub her neck, and tendrils of her hair slipped loose from the pins, as most always happened by this time of the afternoon. She was easily one of the most talented musicians he’d ever known, and without question the most talented female.

  But something had changed between them over the past couple of weeks, ever since that day he’d joined her on stage as she’d played the grand. She’d looked so right sitting there on the bench, an entire opera house focused on her. And that’s when he’d known. What he was doing—allowing himself to grow closer to her, and her to him—wasn’t wise.

  Neither was it fair to her, considering all the unknowns in his future.

  Since then, they’d managed to recapture some of the ease with which they worked together. But in those moments when their hands happened to touch, or their thighs brushed as they sat together on the bench, he found it next to impossible not to show her how much he truly cared for her.

  She’d spoken twice in recent days about going to New York City, and he half wished he could retract his offer to pen her a letter of recommendation. Yet he knew he could never intentionally stand in the way of her achieving her dream.