A Note Yet Unsung Page 5

  Rebekah slipped the piece of paper into her pocket. “Thank you, Mrs. Murphey.” The words came more easily than she’d imagined. “And to you as well, Mrs. Bixby. Your kindness is much appreciated,” she added softly, gaining a bit of satisfaction when seeing Mrs. Murphey’s frown.

  Eager to leave, she retrieved her cloak and hurried outside. She paused on the street long enough to slip into her cloak and wrap the woolen garment around herself. A cold wind bit her cheeks, making her eyes water, helped along by the memory of what Mr. Whitcomb had said. . . .

  “I meant it. Every word. But the fact remains, you are a woman.”

  Was it possible that a portion of his compliments had been sincere? That he’d considered her skillful—only . . . not skillful enough? Or was it solely her gender that had informed his decision?

  Whichever it was, she guessed it didn’t matter. Because in the end, whatever the reason, she hadn’t earned her place in the orchestra. And yet . . .

  It did matter. It mattered a great deal.

  She made her way down the street, frustration and chill quickening her pace. The thoroughfares were less crowded than earlier, the skies a touch grayer, and her outlook far less hopeful. How would she ever be able to overcome an obstacle she couldn’t change?

  The question wasn’t a new one for her.

  God had made her a woman. He’d planted the love of music in her heart from the very beginning, her father had always said. He’d recounted for her the many times he’d caught her sitting at her open bedroom window, late at night, listening to the music coming from the slave cabins just over the hill. God had gifted her with the desire and ability to play, an ability she’d worked for years to perfect.

  So why would the Creator have placed that love inside her if not for a purpose? And why put people in her life to help her toward that goal—dear Demetrius—if performing wasn’t part of God’s plan for her life?

  Thinking of Demetrius made her think of home, and home reminded her of decisions—and confrontations—that awaited. While she couldn’t delay returning home forever, she could at least postpone it one more night. She checked her pocket watch. It was too late in the day now to call on the family about the governess position. But tomorrow was Friday, so she would seek an interview bright and early in the morning. Best find a place to stay for the night.

  First, however, she needed to return to the train station to make arrangements for the trunks she’d left in the porter’s care. He’d made it clear she couldn’t leave them there overnight, but a man in his position would be able to recommend a reputable hotel or boarding room. She’d have him deliver the trunks there.

  She headed back in that direction, her satchel heavy in her grip, her mind churning.

  Nathaniel T. Whitcomb.

  Perturbed when her thoughts returned yet again to the man, a third suitable descriptor for him came to her, besides commanding and exceptionally handsome.

  The man was supercilious, most definitely thinking quite highly of himself. The way he’d stared at her, as though he couldn’t believe she would deem herself worthy to audition for him.

  The maestro, indeed.

  Then again, the one time she’d chanced to briefly open her eyes while she played, she’d discovered his own eyes closed, and his expression leaning toward what was almost certainly appreciation. Even pleasure. At least at the time. Until the flippant manner in which he’d chosen to end her audition. And her dreams.

  “I must ask you to excuse me. I have a pressing appointment that I cannot reschedule.” She laughed beneath her breath. A pressing appointment. At the very least, he could have been honest and simply asked her to leave.

  She rounded the corner, and the question that had reared its ugly head earlier returned with renewed vigor.

  What if she had been given this ability, this desire to play, for some purpose other than playing in an orchestra? What if scaling a descending arpeggio on her oboe—her fingers expert on the keys, the music flowing from deep within her through the instrument, born of her very life’s breath—was simply intended for her own pleasure? Or when she cradled the violin, holding the instrument firmly but gently, as one might hold a fragile bird—with enough conviction so it wouldn’t skedaddle away, yet gentle so as not to crush it—what if that was for her delight alone?

  Yet how did she balance that with the fact that when she played—the violin, especially—she felt more alive, purposeful, closer to God, and at home within herself than at any other time in her life?

  The shrill blast of a train whistle jerked her back to the present, and she paused for a second, waiting for her thoughts to catch up. She was only three or four blocks from the station at most.

  Wishing again that the afternoon wasn’t so far gone and she could call upon the family about the governess position, she pulled the slip of paper from her pocket and read Mrs. Murphey’s tight, even script.

  Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham. Belmont Estate.

  Rebekah stared at the name, searching the distant past for any shred of remembrance. She did the same with the estate, which seemed vaguely familiar to her. But . . .

  Nothing firm.

  Her grandmother, God rest her, had been faithful in her letter writing through the years. Remembering her handwriting—shakier as she’d gotten older—tightened Rebekah’s heart with grief. Yet she’d also been faithful not to share overmuch about Nashville and the families in their acquaintance. Which proved just as well. Because whenever Nana had shared, the majority of the news had included countless deaths of fathers and sons in the war, followed by the losses of family homes and property.

  Another blast sounded, and a telltale plume of smoke and cinders rose above the buildings in the near distance. Rebekah hurried on, mindful of the icy streets and eager to retrieve her luggage from the hold and secure lodging for the night.

  Winded, Tate reached the station platform just as the final train whistle blasted and sent a billow of smoke lofting into the late-afternoon sky. The gray clouds were beginning to make good on their threat, and a fine mist fell like icy lace over the plank wood beneath his boots. He paused to allow an elderly couple to precede him on the walkway.

  The detour he’d taken by his house had cost precious time, but after promising Opal he’d bring this—he patted his coat pocket—with him on his next trip, he couldn’t very well show up without it. Her smile would be worth it.

  A porter knelt to pull up the step, then saw him and paused, and said something to him. But the man spoke so softly, Tate couldn’t understand him.

  “Beg your pardon?” Tate offered, having seen the man before.

  “I said . . . You almost missed it, Maestro Whitcomb.”

  “That, I did.” Tate glanced at the name sewn on the front pocket of the man’s jacket, knowing he should be familiar with the employee’s name by now. “I appreciate you holding her for me, Mr. Barrett.”

  The man beamed. “My pleasure, sir. Headed to Knoxville again? Important symphony work, I imagine.”

  Tate briefly looked away. “The symphony keeps me busy.”

  Barrett nodded. “Nice article in the paper this morning, sir. I’m saving up to surprise the missus by taking her to one of your concerts. She’s always wanted to go.” His expression turned sheepish. “I’ve never been too keen on that kind of music myself, but . . .” He stood a little straighter. “No reason I can’t give myself a little extra culture for one night.”

  Tate laughed. “There’s a concert three weeks from tonight. An evening with Ries and Bach.”

  “They local fellows?”

  Tate smiled, deciding not to elaborate. “Visit the box office before the show. There’ll be two complimentary tickets waiting for you.”

  The man’s expression faltered. “No kiddin’, sir?”

  Tate clapped him on the shoulder. “No kiddin’, Mr. Barrett. Only thing is . . . now I’ll be nervous knowing you’re there.”

  Tate climbed aboard, the porter’s laughter following him inside. H
e kept his gaze averted from the other passengers and chose a seat toward the back, away from others. Not that any of them would recognize him. Anyone who might would more likely be traveling toward the back, in the first-class passenger cars—far from the bothersome soot and cinders.

  Hence, why he’d chosen this one.

  The air in the passenger car was frigid, and also ripe with humanity. So after stowing his bag in the overhead rack, he cracked open his window a little and settled in for the trip. Nearly four hours, but the distance and time traveling never bothered him. He’d always slept well on a train. And after the week he’d had, sleep sounded marvelous.

  He leaned back, crossing his arms and brushing an envelope protruding from his coat pocket—the note Mrs. Murphey had shoved into his hand as he left the opera house. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes.

  Guessing who the missive was from, he debated whether to open it now or leave it for later. But considering the donation the sender had recently pledged, he lifted the flap.

  The fine deckle-edged stationery confirmed his suspicions, and as his gaze moved over the page and down to the elegant signature in closing, he heard the woman’s genteel, yet somehow strikingly authoritative voice . . .

  Dear Maestro Whitcomb,

  It is with extraordinary pleasure that I congratulate you once again on your impressive accomplishment in being named the Nashville Philharmonic’s first official conductor. We are most honored to have you in our midst, and I consider it a privilege to partner with you in laying a firm foundation for our symphony. Your exemplary leadership coupled with lavish support from the most loyal patrons will be the brick and mortar of our success. But, of course, you understand that full well.

  Tate had to smile. Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham was certainly diplomatic—he gave her that. Better she simply say, “I’m giving the symphony exorbitant amounts of money and, in exchange, expect the new conductor to be at my beck and call.”

  Curbing a slight scowl, he continued on.

  Thank you for agreeing to be an honored guest at my upcoming dinner party, and also for your gracious offer to arrange a string quartet for the evening of this Saturday, only two days hence.

  Gracious offer? He still had no idea how she’d managed to rope him into doing it. In fact, thinking back on it, he couldn’t remember saying yes. She’d simply acted as though it were a given.

  If the woman wasn’t so rich, he would’ve been tempted to check his wallet when she’d left his office that day.

  Is there any more ethereal music than that of the violin and cello? If such a sound exists, it has yet to fall upon these ears. Please remember to include Mozart’s Spring Quartet, for it is among my favorites.

  You, of course, will be an honored guest, and I will consider it my personal duty to introduce you to everyone in attendance. While several of the guests have already agreed to partner with the symphony, many have not. We will combine our efforts to make converts of them yet!

  The event begins promptly at eight o’clock, so please arrive with your musicians no later than one hour prior, as my husband, Dr. William Cheatham, and I wish for the timeless strains of the masters to greet our guests as they step into the entrance hall. Is there anything more welcoming on a cold winter’s eve than the warmth of candlelight in a window and Beethoven beckoning you in?

  Personally, he could think of a few things. Yet there was a certain Mozart concerto—and musician—that came to mind as being exceptionally pleasing. Thoughts of Miss Carrington challenged his concentration as he scanned the last paragraph of the letter.

  In addition to Mozart’s Spring Quartet, Mrs. Cheatham requested several other pieces to be performed, but he gave her preferences little heed. The woman could command a performance, but not what instrumental pieces to perform.

  He had to maintain some control.

  He folded the letter and returned the envelope to his pocket as another woman took precedence in his thoughts. He welcomed the change, even if the similarities Miss Carrington shared with the author of the letter were a tad alarming. Both determined and decisive, the two women knew what they wanted and weren’t afraid to pursue it.

  But Miss Carrington’s pursuits were so far outside the boundaries of acceptable, not even the independent-minded Adelicia Cheatham would approve.

  Miss Carrington had entered his office with an agenda, yet left with it decidedly unfulfilled. Which had given him no pleasure. Where had she learned to play like that? With such precise yet fluid grace? At none of the conservatories he’d attended, that was certain. Women weren’t admitted, and rightly so. They would be a distraction. Just as she most certainly would be in his orchestra. She was . . .

  Exquisite was the word that came to mind. And it suited both her talent and her physical attributes. She was—

  “But I requested that you keep the luggage here, sir! I only gave you that address in the event that I—”

  “I’m sorry, miss. But it wasn’t me. I did like you said and set the luggage aside. Another porter must’ve seen it and had it delivered a while ago. Again, my apologies.”

  The conversation drifting in through the window caught Tate’s attention, but it was the exasperated sigh that brought his head around.

  It was her.

  He leaned forward to peer through the rivulet-streaked window, the icy mist having turned to rain.

  “I can arrange for a carriage, ma’am,” the porter continued, tone earnest. “Stand over there beneath the awning, and I’ll—”

  “No.” Miss Carrington shook her head. “I don’t need a carriage, sir. What I need is for my trunks to not have been delivered to my—” Her lips firmed. She closed her eyes, and Tate felt more than saw a shudder pass through her.

  The train lurched forward, and he fought the urge to get off and go to her. Try to help, if he could. Not that she would welcome his assistance. Not the way things had been left between them. And since someone else was waiting for him at the other end of the tracks, someone who would welcome him . . .

  He turned in his seat to watch her as the train pulled away. She bowed her head, her shoulders gently trembling.

  4

  Soaked from the rain and trembling with cold, Rebekah raised her hand to knock on the front door—

  The door jerked open.

  She steeled herself for the wounded—no, furious—expression on her mother’s face. But found herself instead staring into depths of deep brown love and warm concern instead.

  “Land sakes, child!” Delphia grabbed her by the arm and drew her across the threshold into a hug that would’ve crushed a slighter woman. “It’s about time, Miss Rebekah! We been waitin’ on you.”

  “I’m s-sorry for being late. And”—Rebekah’s chin shook—“for b-being so wet.”

  “A little water ain’t killed me yet, child.” Delphia’s breath was warm against her cheek. “Oh, it’s good to have you home, Miss Rebekah.”

  Unable to remember the last time she’d been hugged this way, Rebekah relished the warmth and the woman’s familiar scent—like warm sugar cookies and love. A savory scent intermingled with the sweet, and in a blink, Rebekah was carried back to earlier years.

  “But, Lawd . . .” Delphia held her at arm’s length. “I got one thing wrong for sure.”

  Rebekah searched her expression.

  “You ain’t no child no more. Is you, ma’am? Just look at them curves.”

  Rebekah smiled. “But you look exactly the same, Delphia. You look wonderful.”

  The woman’s grin shone bright when she laughed. “If by wonderful you mean fat and full o’ sass, then that I am.” She squeezed Rebekah’s hands. “Gracious, you chilled to the bone. You shoulda sent the porter to fetch the carriage.” Delphia shook her head. “But you here now, and that’s what matters. Now, let’s get that door shut ’fore the freezin’ moves in and gives us all the fever.”

  Rebekah stood in the entrance hall, regretting the water marks she was leaving and feeling even more like a stranger in this h
ouse than she’d feared.

  Crystal and bronze oil lamps flickered on mahogany side tables that had been shined to a high polish. The tables had belonged to her paternal grandparents, crafted from a tree her grandfather had felled when he and her grandmother first married. Rebekah remembered playing beneath the tables as a child, and the countless times her father must have clearly spotted her during their games of hide-and-seek, yet never let on.

  Odd, the childhood moments one remembered.

  Odder still that, though she knew better, she half expected her grandmother to walk around the corner at any moment, arms outstretched to greet her, smile at the ready. Still so hard to believe she was gone.

  The clock on the mantel faithfully marked time’s irrepressible march, while matching the cadence of a phrase repeating in her mind. I should have stayed in Vienna. I should have stayed in Vienna. I should have stayed in Vienna.

  And for the thousandth time, she attempted to silence the voice.

  She was here, home, with her mother likely only a room away, and all she could think about was leaving again. The distant relationship between them wasn’t right. She’d always known theirs was a different sort of kinship, and she hoped to change that now that she was grown. But how to begin such a long and uncharted journey? Especially when she wasn’t sure whether her mother shared that desire.

  “Give me that cloak, Miss Rebekah, and let’s start gettin’ you warmed up. I’ll tell Rosie to get a fire goin’ in your bedroom too.”

  Rebekah surrendered the sodden garment and waited, shivering, for Delphia to return. When she did, Rebekah’s earlier suspicion about her grandmother’s death rose again to the surface.

  “How did she die?” she asked quietly, hoping to get more details.

  “I found her in her bed upstairs. It was still early, sun just peekin’ up. Your grandmama always did like a cup of hot tea first thing. Said it helped her wake up with the day.” Delphia sighed. “Only, she didn’t wake up that mornin’.”

  “Had she been sick? Or not feeling well?”