A Note Yet Unsung Page 9

  She did not consider herself an art aficionado, but living in Vienna had afforded her privileged exposure to centuries of European art and architecture that she never would have gained otherwise.

  “My name is Mrs. Routh. I’m the head housekeeper at Belmont. And you are?”

  Rebekah curtsied a second time. “Miss Rebekah Carrington, recently returned from an extended time of study and travel in Europe. Specifically, Vienna, Austria.” Phrasing it that way sounded so much better than “banished to Europe so as not to be ruined by a licentious stepfather.”

  “Sie sprechen also fließend Deutsch?” the woman asked.

  Jolted by the unexpected transition, Rebekah worked to catch up. She nodded. “Ja, Frau Routh. Ich spreche Deutsch.”

  “Et parlez-vous français aussi, Mademoiselle Carrington?”

  Rebekah had to smile, admiring the woman’s lingual versatility while also realizing she’d underestimated her. A mistake she wouldn’t make again. “Oui, je parle français, Madame Routh.”

  Without appearing the least bit impressed, Mrs. Routh gestured. “Follow me to the tête-à-tête room.”

  Rebekah shadowed her path, slowing briefly when she noticed another piece of statuary in the foyer, one resting on a draped table directly beneath a large portrait of a woman and child, presumably Mrs. Cheatham and her daughter. The sculpture was as beautiful as that of the young woman gathering grain, but it touched her in a way the first hadn’t.

  The sculpture depicted two sleeping children, their images flawlessly captured in smooth white marble, their ringlets and chubby hands rendered in exquisite detail by the sculptor. An inscription carved on the front, along the bottom, caught her eye. . . .

  Laura and Corinne.

  She peered down into the precious faces of the children and wondered whom the names belonged to. Whatever the answer to that question, she somehow knew this statue represented more than sleeping children. More likely a love that continued beyond the grave. A love with which she was well familiar.

  “Tea will arrive presently, Miss Carrington. Enjoy the refreshment until I return.”

  Hearing the implicit command in her statement, Rebekah nodded. “I’ll wait here, Mrs. Routh.”

  The door closed with a definitive thud, and Rebekah swiftly crossed to the fire burning in the hearth, removed her gloves, and laid them aside. She extended her hands toward the flames and flexed her fingers. Finally, they were beginning to thaw.

  Once her front side was warmed, she turned and backed as close to the hearth as she dared, the radiant heat gradually penetrating the layers of fabric to drive off the chill. Oh, heavenly . . .

  A knock on the door, and a servant entered carrying a silver tea service. A woman—petite, her dark hair tied back in a kerchief—wordlessly set the tray on a side table, poured a cup, and handed it to Rebekah.

  “Thank you,” Rebekah whispered.

  The servant—older, but not old—had friendly eyes and a matching smile. A memorable combination.

  “You’re welcome, ma’am. You need anything else, just ring.” She gestured toward a brass bell on a side table, then dipped her head and closed the door noiselessly behind her. All very efficient. Precisely how Rebekah imagined Mrs. Routh ran this entire household.

  Sipping her tea—hints of cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, and orange in the brew—Rebekah relished its warmth and let her gaze wander.

  While she found the tête-à-tête room cozy, even charming, she also decided it was a bit dizzying. Beautiful though they were, portraits inhabited nearly every inch of wall space and gave the room an overcrowded feel. Adding to that, every horizontal surface was covered with either crystal vases, miniature sculptures, gilded books, or decorative bowls, which only—

  Her quickly forming opinion lost all momentum when she saw the portrait on the wall directly behind her. Her breath locked tight in her lungs, and she had to remind herself to breathe.

  Guido Reni Sketching Beatrice Cenci.

  She knew the painting well, and the one to the right of it of Beatrice alone. She’d seen the portrait in Europe years earlier and—once learning the story behind the young sixteenth-century woman—had felt a sickening kinship with the girl. She also held admiration for her, because of what she’d finally done. Though Rebekah would be loath to admit it for fear of what someone might think.

  Paintings of young Beatrice were popular in Europe, and apparently had become so in America too. These two copies were especially good. Interesting that Mrs. Cheatham had them hanging in her home. Something Rebekah would never be able to bring herself to do. It would be a constant reminder of that night, and what Barton would’ve done to her, if not for Demetrius.

  Seeking a needed distraction, another object caught her eye—the family Bible—and she stepped closer to where it lay on a table before the hearth.

  Acklen was the name on the cover. Not Cheatham.

  So was Acklen Mrs. Cheatham’s maiden name? Or perhaps she’d been married previously. Rebekah gently lifted the cover of the thick leather volume and peered within. Her gaze fell on the name Joseph Alexander Smith Acklen, and beside his name the years 1816–1863.

  Feeling as if she were trespassing, she started to close the cover, but the names Laura and Corinne rose in her memory, and she wondered whether they were listed anywhere in the—

  Footsteps sounded outside the door, and Rebekah quickly stepped back from the Bible to the spot where Mrs. Routh had left her.

  Mrs. Routh opened the door. “Mrs. Cheatham has agreed to spare you a few moments. Come with me, please.”

  Both thrilled and terrified, Rebekah returned her teacup to the tray and matched Mrs. Routh stride for stride, careful not to fall behind.

  They cut a path back through the entrance hall and into a larger and far grander salon. Their heels clicked on the black-and-white, tile-painted wooden floor, and Rebekah glanced behind to gain a better view of a cantilevered staircase behind them. The staircase divided halfway up and spiraled to the left and right before continuing to the second-floor landing.

  So elegant.

  Mrs. Routh paused by a set of glass-paneled double doors, and Rebekah did likewise. The head housekeeper rapped softly on the glass pane, then turned the knob and indicated for Rebekah to precede her.

  Scraping together confidence, Rebekah stepped into the room.

  The moment she saw Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham, she knew with certainty that when Mrs. Murphey had given her this woman’s name and address, she hadn’t done so with her best interest at heart. On the contrary.

  Mrs. Murphey meant to destroy her.

  7

  The woman’s smile appeared so serene, so welcoming, yet it dripped with unmistakable censure. It had been a mistake to come here—Rebekah knew that now. But how to remedy it? She felt like a fly caught in a web, and had only herself to blame.

  Mrs. Routh stepped forward. “May I present Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham. Mrs. Cheatham, this is Miss Rebekah Carrington.”

  The way the head housekeeper said her name caused Rebekah to shrink inside, as though the woman was secretly referring to a conversation Rebekah wasn’t privy to. And Rebekah was fairly certain she hadn’t imagined the woman’s emphasis on the word this either.

  Rebekah curtsied as though being presented to a member of the House of Habsburg. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  Again that lovely, dangerous smile. “Thank you, Miss Carrington. Please, be seated.”

  She claimed a spot on the edge of the settee opposite the woman, making note of the exits in the room—the door at her back, then one on the left, though where the latter led she didn’t know.

  Exquisite ivory lace embellished Mrs. Cheatham’s dress, and Rebekah ran a hand over her own gray skirt and jacket, feeling underdressed and outranked.

  “Would you care for tea, Miss Carrington?” She gestured to the adjacent serving cart. “It’s my cook’s special winter blend of spices.”

  “I already enjoyed tea i
n your front parlor. And it was delicious. Thank you.”

  She gave a slight tilt of her head. “How reassuring to know that guests arriving at Belmont continue to be treated with courtesy and consideration.”

  Rebekah hesitated, thinking she heard a certain tone in Mrs. Cheatham’s voice. Then a sparkle lit the woman’s eyes, and Rebekah began to feel more at ease. “Yes, ma’am. Rest assured, you have no reason to question in that regard. And if I may add at this time—”

  With a delicate nod, Mrs. Cheatham granted permission.

  “—I truly appreciate the opportunity to interview with you. I’m most grateful and want you to know that, if I’m chosen, I’ll always give my very best.”

  “Indeed. How wonderful to know.” Mrs. Cheatham held her gaze for longer than necessary, then took another sip of tea before placing the delicate china cup and saucer on the table to her left. “Before we start, Miss Carrington . . . I would be most grateful if you would enlighten me on one matter.”

  Slightly taken aback, Rebekah nodded warily. “Of course, Mrs. Cheatham. If I’m able to do so.”

  The woman’s pleasant countenance suddenly lost a shade of its bloom. “Precisely why would one who claims to be so grateful for this opportunity arrive unannounced on my doorstep, without extending the least courtesy or consideration in regard to her visit prior to her arrival? No letter declaring her interest in the position or even her desire to be considered for such. I find this oversight a most curious oddity, Miss Carrington. One upon which I sincerely hope you’re capable of shedding light.”

  Wondering where all the air in the room had gone, Rebekah heard a tiny gasp, then realized it had come from her. She swallowed. “Mrs. Cheatham, please allow me to explain. I—”

  The woman lifted a single forefinger. Not even a hand. But Rebekah knew without question that to continue speaking would be a severe misstep. One she would regret.

  “The reason, Miss Carrington, that I granted you audience rested solely on the merit of your acquaintance with Maestro Whitcomb.”

  “Acquaintance . . .” Rebekah’s voice rose almost an octave. “With Maestro Whitcomb?”

  Mrs. Cheatham eyed her. “You are here this morning, are you not, at the recommendation of Nashville’s newly formed philharmonic? Of which Maestro Whitcomb is conductor. Hence, I presume you enjoy an acquaintance with him, and that he will vouch for your character and experience once I contact him. Which I most assuredly will do as soon as you leave.”

  Bewildered, Rebekah glanced at the door to her left, tempted to bolt. But racing from this interview and out of the mansion wasn’t an option, and it would scarcely improve her lot. But what would happen when Mrs. Cheatham discovered there was no acquaintanceship? That the man knew little to nothing of her.

  Feeling the heat of Mrs. Cheatham’s steady appraisal, Rebekah felt the sweat beading beneath her chemise. Most certainly, this woman wielded considerable influence over the prominent families in this city. Which meant that after this failed interview, the chances of gaining a position for governess anywhere else in this city would be precisely what her chances were for this one. . . .

  Nil.

  “Well, Miss Carrington? I’m waiting to be enlightened.”

  Rebekah’s gaze fell to the woman’s diminutive hands resting demurely in her lap, while her own were white-knuckled and aching.

  “Mrs. Cheatham, I’ve made a grave mistake in coming here to interview for the position of governess. I see that now.” She also saw the streak of warning flash across her hostess’s expression. “I sincerely regret having wasted your time, ma’am, and ask that you, please, allow me to take my leave.”

  “Position of governess?” Mrs. Cheatham’s eyes narrowed. “I filled that position yesterday, Miss Carrington.”

  Rebekah’s lips moved but no words came at first. “So . . . what am I . . .” She caught herself. “For what position was I interviewing just now?”

  “Music tutor. To my ten-year-old daughter, Pauline.”

  “Music tutor,” Rebekah repeated softly, finding the irony nothing short of rich. Tempted to tug on that thread, one look at Mrs. Cheatham’s stern expression made her think better of it. Besides, she needed a governess position, which usually provided room and board, not merely an agreement to give a child lessons once or twice a week.

  Her empty stomach chose that moment to rumble, and she quickly cleared her throat and pressed a hand to her midsection, hoping to mask the noise.

  “Again, Mrs. Cheatham, my apologies for having wasted your time.” She rose to leave.

  “Did you or did you not inform Mrs. Routh that the Nashville Philharmonic recommended that you contact me?”

  Not wanting to, Rebekah eased back onto the settee. “No, ma’am. And . . . also, yes.”

  “And why mention that—if, indeed, the stated referral is bona fide—if you were interested in the governess position?”

  “I assure you there was a referral. From Mrs. Murphey at the opera house.”

  She frowned. “And just who is this Mrs. Murphey?”

  “A woman who, I am quite certain”—Rebekah curbed a humorless laugh—“will gain enormous pleasure upon learning I came to see you.”

  Sensing Mrs. Cheatham’s mounting frustration, she hurried to explain. “Following my meeting yesterday with Maestro Whitcomb, Mrs. Murphey, who is employed at the opera house, wrote down your name and address, and encouraged me to contact you about the governess position. Looking back on it now, I realize I should have been more suspect. And you are right. I should have taken the time to write an introductory letter. But my personal situation is such that I need immediate employment, Mrs. Cheatham. And I simply didn’t realize at the time with whom, or where, I would be interviewing this morning.”

  “One’s place in society should hardly determine whether a person is, or is not, accorded common courtesies, Miss Carrington.”

  Rebekah bowed her head. “No. You’re right, of course. It shouldn’t.”

  “Clearly, you believe this woman did not have your best interest at heart. Why would that be?”

  “I honestly can’t say, other than I believe she took an initial disliking to me. Mrs. Murphey can be very . . . protective of Maestro Whitcomb.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Protective in what sense?”

  “Of his time.”

  “And she felt you were encroaching upon that? By your meeting with him?”

  Rebekah knew when someone was digging for the truth, and this woman was up to her elbows in dirt. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The clock ticking on the mantel sliced off the seconds, and Rebekah felt them piling up between them. Compared to this, trudging back into town through the snow didn’t sound half bad.

  “So . . . to summarize our last few moments, Miss Carrington. You came here to interview for the position of governess, which you learned about following a meeting with Maestro Whitcomb yesterday. Yet you have backed off your prior claim of an acquaintance with the man, even though you used his name to gain entrance into my home and to an audience with me.” She leveled a stare. “Which leaves me to wonder . . . why? And what it is you’re not telling me.”

  “I give you my word, Mrs. Cheatham, I’m not hiding anything. I simply came here to interview for a position. Although”—she took a deep breath, and exhaled—“when Mrs. Routh was about to turn me away earlier, I did mention Mr. Whitcomb’s name, thinking it might hold sway with her, and with you. And for that, I sincerely apologize. Yesterday was the first time I ever met the conductor. Our interaction was brief and . . . most uneventful, I assure you.”

  A single dark eyebrow lifted in silent, unmistakable question, but Rebekah wasn’t about to share why she’d been meeting with Mr. Whitcomb.

  She could well imagine how Adelicia Cheatham would react if the woman knew she’d dared to challenge Nashville’s new conductor about a woman’s place in an orchestra. A married woman like Mrs. Cheatham, insulated by such wealth, could never begin to understand what it meant to f
ight for every foothold in a world dominated by men.

  “Mrs. Routh told me you’ve been living in Europe. Am I correct in understanding, Miss Carrington, that Nashville was originally your home?”

  Rebekah nodded. “That’s right. I’ve spent the past ten years in Vienna pursuing my education and . . . being a governess.” She forced a tiny smile.

  Mrs. Cheatham responded with an even tinier one. “An education in Vienna. That’s quite an opportunity. Especially for one so young at the time.”

  “My father recognized my love for music early on. And also . . . my talent, he said. It was his wish that I study music more in depth once I was older. But since none of the American universities or music conservatories admit women into their ranks, he looked abroad. To Vienna.”

  “And very wisely so,” Mrs. Cheatham said. “I cannot imagine a better place in which to study music.”

  “My father died before I was of age to study abroad on my own, and my late grandmother”—speaking of Nana, remembering the sacrifices she made, stirred Rebekah’s emotions—“decided it would be best if I left earlier than planned. Shortly before the war started, as it turned out. And it was the right decision.”

  “Without a doubt.” Mrs. Cheatham regarded her. “Do you still have family here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My mother and . . . her husband. My . . . stepfather.” She could still see the door inching open as he’d tried to force his way into her room earlier that morning. And the stench . . .

  “I see. And do these people have names?”

  Rebekah blinked. “Yes, ma’am, of course. Mr. Barton Ledbetter and, my mother, Mrs. Sarah Carrington Ledbetter. But I wouldn’t expect you to know them, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  “I know a great many people, Miss Carrington, from many varied walks of life. I find it unwise to make presumptions about others. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Feeling the sting of yet another rebuke, Rebekah nodded, her pride rubbed raw. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You were not familiar with my name, were you?”

  Rebekah heard no pride in the question. Only curiosity. “No, ma’am. I was not. I’m sorry.”