A Note Yet Unsung
Page 1
© 2017 by Tamera Alexander
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3094-2
Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
Epigraph Scripture quotation identified NLT is from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC
Background photography by Alexander Levitsky/Shutterstock
Author represented by Natasha Kern Literary Agency
Praise for the BELMONT MANSION novels
A Lasting Impression
“This book is a full-on hit!”
—USA Today
“Tamera Alexander has once again written a novel rich in storytelling and history, peopled with living, breathing characters who made me laugh, and cry. Better than sweet tea on a veranda, A Lasting Impression is a winner. I want to live at Belmont!”
—Francine Rivers, New York Times bestselling author of Redeeming Love
“Pure reading pleasure! Tamera Alexander paints vivid scenes, not with oils on canvas but with words on the page, as she sweeps us away to the cafés of New Orleans and the hills of Tennessee. In Claire Laurent we find a true artist, ever doubting her talents, ever questioning her calling. And in Sutton Monroe we meet a hero whose bright mind is eclipsed only by his tender heart. A lovely story, sure to please anyone who treasures a good romance.”
—Liz Curtis Higgs, New York Times bestselling author of Mine Is the Night
“Beautifully written and brimming with ‘real life’ history, A Lasting Impression captures a slice of American history, and an era the South will not soon forget. Nor should we. As Director of the Belmont Mansion, I highly endorse A Lasting Impression and invite you to visit the home of Mrs. Adelicia Acklen to see, in person, the beauty and elegance that defines both Adelicia’s home, and this novel.”
—Mark Brown, Executive Director, Belmont Mansion, Nashville, Tennessee
A Beauty So Rare
“Alexander’s exquisitely written historical tale is filled with unforgettable characters, a romance that seems hopeless, and a close-up look at the aftermath of a war that nearly destroyed our country.”
—Booklist
“Bestseller Alexander will delight fans of . . . inspirational historical romance with the second Belmont Mansion novel.”
—Publishers Weekly
To Jack,
my little writing buddy.
It was so hard to finish this one without you.
We miss you still. . . .
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise for the BELMONT MANSION novels
Dedication
Epigraph
Preface
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
Author’s Note
Discussion Questions
With Gratitude to . . .
About the Author
Books by Tamera Alexander
Back Ads
Back Cover
“For the LORD sees clearly what a man does,
examining every path he takes.”
Proverbs 5:21 (NLT)
Preface
Music is an important part of our lives and comes in many forms. Most definitely, the term one size fits all does not apply when discussing the vast number of styles in this time-treasured art form.
As can be said pretty much across the board when comparing the mores of current society to those of times past, what was taboo then—be it for better, or worse—has now become the norm. In nearly every country in the world today, women are welcome to participate in orchestras, and their talent is lauded.
But such was not always the case.
In the nineteenth century, women were not allowed to play in orchestras or symphonies. They were considered too genteel and delicate natured for the rigors of practice and dedication required to master an instrument. (O ye of little faith . . . )
As I researched, I came across a popular opinion of the time that not only supported the preclusion of women playing in orchestras, but that also set forth that a woman playing a violin in public would be scandalous. Far too sensuous and suggestive. No proper woman would ever consider doing such a thing!
And from that . . . the idea for A Note Yet Unsung, a Belmont Mansion novel, was born.
Most of the novel you’re about to read is fictional, though there are certainly elements of real history and people woven throughout. For instance, there really is a Belmont Mansion in Nashville, built in 1853, that still stands today. And Mrs. Adelicia Acklen, a character in the novel, is the dynamic, born-before-her-time woman who lived there.
Adelicia had three defining loves in her life—art, nature, and music. So as I began writing the Belmont novels (of which you’re holding the third and final installment), their singular themes rose rather quickly in my thoughts: art (A Lasting Impression), nature (A Beauty So Rare), and finally, music (A Note Yet Unsung).
At times, as I wrote, it felt almost as if these stories and characters had been waiting for me to begin writing, and I’m so grateful they did. It’s been a pleasure and an honor to take these journeys with them.
In addition to Adelicia, many of the other characters in the novel were inspired by real people who lived during that era—people who worked at Belmont and who visited there. But the characters’ personalities and actions as depicted in this story are purely of my own imagination.
A bonus to this book! On my website (www.TameraAlexander.com) I’ve included links to all the music “performed” in this book. So if you want to listen as you read, please visit the book page for A Note Yet Unsung on my website and click the playlist tab.
I invite you to join me as we open the door to history once again and step into another time and place. I ho
pe you’ll hear the not-too-distant strains of Beethoven, Mozart, and other grand masters of music just as I did while I penned Tate and Rebekah’s story.
Thanks for joining me on yet another journey,
Tamera
1
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
JANUARY 12, 1871
Rebekah Carrington stood shivering across the street from her childhood home, satchel heavy in hand, cloak dusted with snow. She counted the strides it would take to reach the front door. How could such a brief distance feel so insurmountable, so much greater a course to navigate than the ocean she’d just traversed? She wished she could blink and be back in Vienna.
After ten years, Austria felt more like home than the city in which she’d been born and lived the first half of her life. But the letter delivered nearly four weeks ago, only days before Christmas, had changed every—
The front door to the house opened.
Rebekah pressed into the shadow of a nearby evergreen, its pungent pine needles sharp and prickly with cold. She lowered her head to peer through the icy branches—breath fogging, hanging ghostlike in the air—and her stomach turned with something more than hunger.
It was him.
How many times since leaving Nashville had she pictured the man?
Yet looking at him now, a decade later, through a woman’s perspective, he seemed so different than when she’d peered up at him as a girl of thirteen. Though thicker through the middle with age, he was still tall, standing nearly six feet, and still possessed a commanding presence.
But he wasn’t quite the towering figure her memory had conjured.
For years, recollections of the encounters—and that one night, in particular—had haunted her. With time and distance, she’d moved beyond it. She was no longer that young, naive girl, and she wasn’t afraid of him anymore.
So why was her heart all but beating out of her chest? She straightened her spine, pulling her courage up along with it.
Her stepfather climbed into a carriage, one far grander than what she remembered him and her mother owning years earlier. Perhaps a purchase he’d made with money he’d gained in a recent inheritance. That possibility only deepened her resentment toward him, and made her question, yet again, the untimeliness of her grandmother’s recent passing.
Not a word from Grandmother Carrington about feeling unwell, much less being ill, and then the shocking news of her “sudden and tragic death.” It didn’t make sense, and the ache of loss reached deep.
Rebekah eyed the carriage, and the silhouette of the man inside.
Barton Ledbetter was not an honorable man, she knew that well enough. But surely he wasn’t so devoid of morals that he would have dared to—
“Who you hidin’ from?”
Rebekah jumped and spun, her thoughts veering off track.
A young boy peered up from beneath the bill of a ragged red cap, his belligerent expression repeating the question.
She frowned. “I’m not hiding from anyone.”
The tilt of his head told her he thought differently.
“I was merely . . . considering my plans.” Hedging the truth, she found the tug at her conscience easily allayed by the fact that her actions were decidedly none of this boy’s business.
A half-empty sack of newspapers hung from a slim shoulder. And as though he sensed an opportunity, he whipped one out, rolled it up in a flash, and offered it to her as though presenting the crown jewels of the Habsburg family.
“Nickel for a paper, miss. Make it two”—a smirk tipped one side of his mouth—“and I’ll keep quiet ’bout what I seen.”
Rebekah eyed him. “And what exactly is it you think you’ve seen?”
“I caught you spyin’. On that family what lives right there.” He pointed to the house.
She looked back at the carriage. It was about to pass her! Her stepfather looked up, seemingly straight at her. And she froze. He and her mother weren’t expecting her until tomorrow. She’d arrived a day early due to fair weather while crossing the Atlantic, but—
She pressed into the spiky secrecy of the piñon pine, realizing she wasn’t ready to face him after all. She needed time to plan her next steps—steps that would take her away from him. And sadly, from her mother too. Unless . . . she could persuade her mother to leave with her.
The carriage continued, and only after it turned the corner did Rebekah breathe easier.
“Well, lady? What’s it gonna be?”
She turned back to find the boy still there, watching her, triumph in his expression. Recognizing an opportunist when she saw one, she leveled a stare. “You don’t even know who resides there, young man.”
“Yes, I do!” His tone and set of jaw were almost convincing. “That man there.” He pointed in the direction the carriage had gone. “Him and his wife. That’s their place. I see ’em comin’ and goin’ all the time.”
Judging from his meager height and frame, Rebekah didn’t think the boy more than seven or eight years old. He was on the lean side, as though regular meals were a scarcity, and his threadbare coat was tattered at the collar and absent its buttons. But he had a shrewdness about him she recognized. Similar to that of boys his age who’d grown up on the streets of Vienna. It was a savvy she both admired and pitied.
No child should be without a home, a safe place from the world. And yet having a home didn’t necessarily guarantee a child’s safekeeping, she knew.
An idea came to her, and she set down her satchel. She hadn’t been raised on the streets, but neither was she an innocent. She reached into her reticule, deciding that—either way this went—the decision about her homecoming would be made for her, and she would accept it.
“I’ll purchase one newspaper for myself.” She met his scowl with a firm stare. “Along with another. And I’ll give you an extra nickel if you’ll agree to do something for me.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s it you’re wantin’ me to do?”
“Deliver the second newspaper to that house across the street. Knock on the door, and when the housekeeper answers”—which Rebekah felt certain she would—“ask her to deliver the paper to Mrs. Ledbetter. If Mrs. Ledbetter is at home.”
A grin split his face. “Told you, you was spyin’!”
She stared. “Do you want to earn an extra nickel or not?”
He adjusted his cap. “What if she ain’t home? You gonna try ’n cheat me outta my money?”
“Not at all. You’ll still get three nickels either way. Do we have ourselves a deal?”
He held her gaze, then nodded once, slowly, as though considering another, unspoken, alternative. “I’ll do it, just like you said.”
Rebekah took the newspaper from him and pressed three coins into his grimy palm. His brown eyes lit, and she gripped the hem of his coat sleeve, having seen how swiftly these boys could run. “I warn you, young man, I’m fast on my feet. Keep your word or risk being chased down the street by a girl.”
He snickered. “You ain’t no girl. You a lady. And ladies, they never run.”
She narrowed her eyes. “This one does.”
His expression sobered as he turned, but Rebekah was certain she glimpsed a trace of amusement—and admiration—in his eyes.
From her niche behind the tree, she watched him pause at the edge of the street, waiting for conveyances to pass. She pulled her cloak collar closer around her neck as the flutter of nerves resumed in her stomach, same as happened every time she imagined seeing her mother again after all these years.
Her grandmother had managed to visit Austria every two years, staying a handful of months when she did. But her mother? Not once did she visit, despite Grandmother Carrington’s offer to pay. Which had hurt more than Rebekah had ever revealed in her correspondence. Growing up, she’d always been closer to her father, responding to his warm, patient manner. The memory of her mother’s attention in those earlier years, while consistent and plentiful, was tainted with the memory of her cooler demeanor and a propensit
y toward the critical. As though nothing Rebekah had done was quite good enough.
Still, Rebekah couldn’t remember exactly when her relationship with her mother had gone so awry. Sometime after her father died. But, no, that wasn’t it, though that loss certainly had changed their lives.
It was after her mother married Barton Ledbetter. That was when she’d become more solemn, distant. And . . . far more censuring.
They’d exchanged letters through the years, of course. Letters that had grown less frequent as time passed. Yet Rebekah still loved her and knew the affection was reciprocated, in her mother’s unique way. But the thought of seeing her again after all these years was an unnerving prospect.
She rubbed the taut muscles at the base of her neck, weary from travel and uncertainty. After having been back in the city scarcely two hours, she knew that Nashville—and her family home—would never feel like home again.
In a flash, the boy darted across the street, skillfully dodging a lumber delivery wagon and outwardly oblivious to the heated curses the driver called down on him. The boy headed in the direction of the house—then stopped cold.
Every muscle in Rebekah’s body tensed.
She gathered her skirt, debating whether she’d truly give chase over two nickels, despite her threat, but the boy glanced back in her direction and grinned—grinned, the little urchin—before continuing on to the front door.
Rebekah let out her breath and felt a speck of humor, even though she wanted to throttle his scrawny little neck.
She followed his progress and then found her gaze moving over the house, which had not aged well in her absence. Though her family had never been landed gentry, her father had inherited several parcels of land surrounding their home, which had allowed them to raise animals and keep a substantial garden. A nicety when so close to the city.
But after her mother remarried, Barton sold most of that property. Though where all the money had gone, she didn’t know. Now a mixture of clapboard houses squatted one after another along the street that had once been a country-like thoroughfare where low-limbed oaks, decades old, had lent such joy and adventure to childhood summers.
Rebekah pictured the rooms of the house as they were when she’d last lived there, and still found it difficult to believe Grandmother Carrington was gone. Oh, Nana . . .