A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  Delphia stilled and looked at her, then hurriedly hung the cloak on the coat rack. “Not that I recall, ma’am. But . . . you know how it is. All our days are numbered by the Lawd. It was just her time, I guess.”

  Not fully convinced, Rebekah nodded.

  A moment passed, and Delphia’s arm came around her waist. “But look at you now, Miss Rebekah . . . All growed up and lookin’ so much like her.”

  Rebekah’s heart lightened. “Really? You think so?”

  “Sure do. You got her smile and that way of lookin’ at a person that makes ’em feel listened to, like they matter. You both always had that way about you.” Her brown eyes glistened. “Not to mention you’s all filled out and ladylike. Not too skinny, not too plump. And them fancy clothes! Mmm-hmm . . .” Delphia shook her head. “Like you come straight from some kind of palace or somethin’.”

  “No palace. I promise. Although Sally and I did live a few streets away from one.” She smiled. “The house we rented was small. Only three rooms, but it was nice.”

  “Oh, that Sally . . .” Delphia’s expression softened. “I still ain’t believin’ what your letter to your grandmama said.” Delphia laughed. “Sally done gone and found herself a man! A foreign one too!”

  “More like Sebastian found her and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He has a family home they’ll be moving into soon.”

  “Awfully kind of you to let her stay, Miss Rebekah.”

  “Sally was the kind one. Leaving here like she did all those years ago. Leaving everyone behind.” Not that the woman had had any choice in the matter. Sally, twice her age, had been a slave in her grandmother’s household. But after Nana left Austria—having stayed several weeks to see them settled and Rebekah’s education under way—Sally had served not only as handmaiden and guardian, but eventually as confidante and dear friend as well.

  It was a relationship her mother would never have approved of. But Nana had, and that’s all that mattered.

  “Is . . . she here?” The question was out before Rebekah could call it back.

  The briefest shadow eclipsed Delphia’s kindness. “Missus Ledbetter, she restin’ for a bit. But you better know she’s all afire and kindlin’ to see you again.” As swiftly as Delphia’s laughter bubbled up, it settled. “But them trunks arrivin’ afore you did . . . well . . .”

  Delphia shot her a look that Rebekah had all but forgotten, yet instinctively understood. She would pay a price for choosing not to come straight home. Yet she wasn’t about to admit where she’d been that afternoon and what she’d been doing. Not even to Delphia.

  “She a proud woman, your mama. But she good too. Just don’t take too well to change. And surprises . . . well . . . they get her a mite flustered.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” Seeing Delphia’s frown, Rebekah lowered her head. “I’m sorry, Delphia. I . . .” She clenched her jaw, peering up. “I had some errands I needed to take care of in town. I never intended for the trunks to be delivered early.”

  Delphia brushed a wet curl from Rebekah’s temple, much as she’d often done when Rebekah was a child. “We all have us our own ways of dealin’ with things.” Wisdom deepened her gaze. “That’s one thing that ain’t changed through the years. And likely never will.”

  Rebekah nodded, sensing an answer to her earlier thought about altering the relationship with her mother. Only, it wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for.

  Delphia escorted her to her old bedroom, where a fire crackled in the hearth. With Delphia’s assistance, she changed into a fresh jacket and skirt—dark brown with deep blue piping. Not nearly as elegant as her now-wet traveling ensemble, nor as nice as her mother would be expecting, but nothing could be done about that.

  Rebekah fished through one of her trunks until she found her hairbrush and combs.

  “You need me to send someone up to help with your hair, ma’am?”

  “No, thank you, Delphia. I’ll manage. But before you leave . . . Is Demetrius here? How is he? I’m so eager to see him again.”

  Delphia paused beside the chifforobe. “Demetrius, he . . .” She smoothed a hand over the damp skirt, opening her mouth to speak, then her lips briefly firmed. “He ain’t here right now. But I know he’d like nothin’ more than to see you too.” Her smile held reminiscence, and a flicker of something that tugged at Rebekah’s heart. “Now I best get back downstairs to the kitchen. Get y’alls dinner fixed up.”

  As Delphia closed the door behind her, Rebekah settled at the dresser and did her best to set her still-damp hair to rights. So much for making a good impression upon returning home.

  The special haven of a bedroom she remembered from childhood was gone, stripped bare of every last memento, as though someone had tried to erase the memories—and her—from the home. In its place was a lovely bedroom with which she felt absolutely no connection, which made the once-cherished space seem even more lonely.

  Her styling efforts finally exhausted, she left the bedroom and paused on the second-floor landing, grateful to find it empty. She crossed to her grandmother’s bedroom. The door was closed, and she hesitated, wanting to open it, yet not wanting to all the same.

  The knob turned easily in her grasp, and the first thing her gaze touched was the old cherrywood rocker by the window—absent the colorful crocheted quilt that always occupied the seat or was draped across the back. Her focus went next to the bed, where the hand-stitched coverlet Nana had pieced together and sewn from several of Grandfather Carrington’s shirts always rested. Only, it wasn’t there either. In its place lay a simple white coverlet. Pristine. And sterile.

  In fact, the entire room was sterile. Absent of any of her grandmother’s things. It was as if Nana had never lived there. A rush of grief—and anger—swept through her. Why would her mother have gone through her grandmother’s things without her? She should have known that—

  “Rebekah.”

  She froze at the voice behind her. And despite all the mental and emotional rehearsing she’d put herself through in preparation for this moment, she still felt taken aback.

  Feeling his gaze, she turned—and quickly realized that distance had distorted her estimation earlier that morning. Barton Ledbetter was still an imposing man, with eyes darker than she remembered and more assessing. Sharp prickles needled up her spine as memories of that night rushed back.

  Watching the slow curve of his smile, she broke out in a cold sweat and her stomach knotted tight. She consciously unclenched her fists at her sides, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort.

  “Barton . . .” Voice tight, she still refused to call him Father, as he’d asked when he and her mother first married. Only one man would ever hold that distinction in her heart. So they’d settled on a first-name basis instead. “I didn’t hear you there.” His intention, no doubt. She glanced beyond him to the open door of the fourth bedroom across the hall.

  As though reading the question in her mind, he gestured, his smile turning oddly sheepish. “Some evenings when I arrive home later than planned, I find your mother already abed. So I stay in there out of concern for her rest.”

  “Of course.” Rebekah nodded, not believing him for a minute. Several reasons came to mind as to why a man would be out so late at night. None of them respectable.

  He moved toward her, and she tensed, the memory of his hot breath on her neck and the stench of liquor and sweat all too vivid.

  He stopped a few feet away, his gaze appraising. “Let me be the first to welcome you home, Rebekah. It’s been far too long, my dear, and the house far too quiet without you. This is a very happy occasion for your mother and me. One we’ve long awaited, I assure you.”

  She wasn’t fooled by his greeting or the oily sincerity of his tone. In fact, his falsity aligned perfectly with the kind of man she knew him to be. And with what he’d done to her—or would have done. If not for Demetrius.

  Demetrius . . . Thinking of him gave her renewed boldness.

 
“From my perspective, Barton, my homecoming is hardly a joyful one, considering the circumstances. Though I am looking forward to seeing Mother again. Speaking of . . .” She glanced toward what had been her parents’ bedroom, eager to be rid of his company. “Do you know where she is?”

  He didn’t answer her immediately. “I believe I heard her leave the room a few moments ago. She’s likely waiting for you downstairs. In the parlor.”

  Rebekah turned toward the staircase.

  “I must add,” he continued, “looking back on things now, I do believe your grandmother, God rest her, was right when she suggested you go abroad for your education when you did.”

  Rebekah paused at the head of the stairs. She didn’t look back but knew he’d moved closer, because she could smell his sickeningly sweet shaving soap. Cherry laurel. How she’d grown to hate that scent.

  “You know I didn’t agree with your grandmother—at first. And was adamantly against the decision, to be truthful. It hurt to see your mother so wounded. To have her only child taken so far away . . . But in light of the war and the horrific events that soon followed your departure, I believe it was best for you to be removed from this city. The years in Europe were far kinder than those you would have experienced here. And I can’t help but believe, especially upon seeing you now—such a striking and . . . beautiful young woman—that it was, indeed, for the best.”

  Unable to believe what he was saying, she slowly turned back—and found he’d all but closed the distance between them.

  She’d expected him to behave as if nothing had happened, as he’d done before she’d left. But for him to intentionally bring up the subject of why she’d gone away and then lay the wisdom of the decision on the war . . .

  It gave new meaning to the word gall.

  She stared up at him and, in the space of a blink, she saw him through the eyes of her younger self, and realized how she’d been so taken in by him at first. He was smooth, as her grandmother had once described him. Some might have called him handsome too. And he possessed a charisma that he used to cultivate trust on the one hand, while skillfully manipulating with the other.

  “If there’s anything I can do, Rebekah, to make this adjustment easier for you, dear, please don’t hesitate to make that known. You need time to heal, I realize. The news of your grandmother’s passing must’ve come as a great shock to you, as it did for us. It was so sudden. So unexpected.” He shook his head. “But the doctor assured us Ellen died peacefully in her sleep. Which is of great comfort. And not a bad way to depart this world, compared to some.”

  His false piety and pretension she could stomach. She was accustomed to that. But hearing her grandmother’s name from his lips ignited her anger. “Why have all of Grandmother Carrington’s belongings been moved from her room? And what’s been done with them?”

  “Your dear mother found it too difficult to deal with at the time, so I took care of it all for her.”

  “You took care of it?”

  His focus never left her face. “Yes. Understanding that your grandmother was always such a . . . gracious and benevolent woman, I made sure her clothing and belongings went to those in need. I’m sure you’d agree that that was what she would have wanted.”

  The news arrowed through her. “You got rid of everything? Her clothing? Her quilts? Her jewelry?”

  “Don’t think of it as having gotten rid of it, Rebekah. Think of it as . . . blessing those less fortunate. Much as she did for you by sending you abroad.”

  Her eyes threatened to water as she thought of all those pieces, those precious, tangible memories of her grandmother . . . gone. But she steeled herself, not wanting him to see how much it hurt her. “I don’t know what kind of charade you think you’re playing, Barton, but know this . . . You don’t fool me. Not anymore. I know what kind of person you are. I know what you’re capable of.”

  His expression turned pain-stricken. “My dearest, sweet Rebekah . . . I’ve obviously done something to offend you, child. But I’m at a loss as to what that could be.”

  Her face went hot. “How dare you stand there and pretend that—”

  “Miss Rebekah? You comin’ down, ma’am? Your mama, she waitin’ for you. Wantin’ to see her baby girl.”

  Hearing Delphia, Rebekah took a deep breath and steadied her voice. “Thank you, Delphia. I’ll be down momentarily.” Waiting for the telling retreat of the woman’s footsteps, Rebekah faced him again, every inch of her body tense and ready to strike. “I’ll say this once to you, Barton, and once only. Stay away from me.”

  She turned and took a step, only to find the floor wasn’t there.

  Realizing her miscalculation, she grabbed for the bannister—and missed. She fell forward, and saw the stairs rushing up to meet her. She braced herself for the impact—when an iron grip encircled her upper arm.

  Barton pulled her back against him. “There, there, child. I’ve got you.”

  Regaining her footing, Rebekah jerked away. “Let go of me!”

  He gave her quick release. Trembling, she glared up at him, furious with herself. And with him.

  “Careful, my dear.” His smile came slowly, even affectionately. “Best watch your step.”

  How did he do it? Not a trace of deceit in his eyes. No guilt or remorse either. Though she doubted he was capable of the latter.

  Heart pounding, she descended the stairs, the sickening scent of cherry laurel clinging to her clothes.

  The entrance hall lay ahead, the front door just beyond, and she wished more than anything that she could throw it open and keep on walking. But her love for a mother she scarcely knew anymore—and the love of a father that still beat steady and strong inside her—dictated otherwise.

  She stepped into the central parlor to see her mother sitting posture perfect in the wingback chair by the fireplace, in a pose strikingly similar to one Rebekah remembered from their final moments together before she’d left for Europe. And for some reason, the observation warmed her heart.

  “Mother . . .”

  Her mother turned, and her eyes lit. “Dearest Rebekah . . .” She held out her hands, and Rebekah went to her and knelt before her chair. Her mother squeezed her hands tightly.

  Her mother had never been one for displays of affection, so Rebekah counted this as near exuberance, and an indicator of better things to come.

  “I’m so grateful you finally decided to come home. You’ve been dearly missed.”

  “I’ve missed you too.” Rebekah’s heart swelled. “It’s good to see you again.”

  The last ten years had left some not-so-gentle reminders of their passing in her mother’s appearance. Her blond hair, slightly darker than Rebekah’s, shimmered in the candlelight as it always had. But through the soft curls at her temples, time had woven coarse strands of silver. And at the corners of her eyes and mouth, nature had left definitive quotes, as though determined to accentuate a lifetime bent toward the more negative, including fear and worry.

  “Although . . .” Her mother gently pulled her hands away, her smile waning. “I must admit . . . if you’d come home sooner, as I requested—many times—you could have seen your grandmother again. Which would have given her such great joy, as it would have given me. But as it is . . .” She sighed, her eyes glistening even as they narrowed slightly. “We must all learn to accept the choices we make and live with the consequences, however painful, must we not?”

  The warmth in Rebekah’s heart cooled by a degree, and disappointment knotted at the back of her throat. “Yes,” she finally managed. “As difficult as those choices—and consequences—may be at times.” She hesitated to broach the next subject, but decided it best to get it out of the way. “I went into Grandmother’s room just now, and saw that all of her things are gone. I wish you could’ve waited for me to—”

  “Your stepfather very kindly volunteered to take care of that difficult task. And you should be grateful to him, just as I am.” Her mother’s already perfect posture stiffened ev
en more. “You have no idea how I suffer at times, Rebekah. The aches in my head, in my back, the unsettledness in my stomach. I simply couldn’t face that dreadful undertaking. It needed to be done, and you weren’t here, so Barton saw to it. I should think you would show your gratitude instead of complaining.”

  A defense on the tip of her tongue, Rebekah bit it back, knowing it would only do more harm. “Do you know if he kept anything?” she asked gently. “One of her quilts? Her journal?”

  Her mother frowned as though only now considering these more personal items. She pressed a hand to her temple. “I can’t remember for certain. There may be a box somewhere . . . from your grandmother. Perhaps it’s in the closet in your bedroom.”

  “Dinner’s served, Missus Ledbetter.” A young woman stood in the doorway, offered a brief curtsy, and disappeared back down the hallway.

  Grateful for the reason to hope, Rebekah stood, only to find her hope short-lived when Barton entered the room.

  “May I have the honor of escorting you two lovely ladies to dinner?”

  With smile restored, her mother stood and accepted Barton’s invitation, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, gazing up at him. Rebekah walked ahead as though she hadn’t heard.

  Dinner was an awkward blend of stilted conversation and strings of overlong silences, but eating Delphia’s cooking once again was nothing short of heartwarming.

  While Austria’s Wiener schnitzel, goulash, flaky apple strudel, and their scrumptious Viennese culinary specialty, the Sacher torte, had more than satisfied, Rebekah had never forgotten Delphia’s skill in the kitchen.

  She spooned her last bite of Delphia’s warm sweet potato pie topped with candied pecans and fresh whipped cream into her mouth—no small feat after consuming fried chicken, field peas with potatoes, and pan-fried buttered corn—and she savored the sweetness and the memories it brought.

  How many nights had she crept downstairs after bedtime to find Delphia and Demetrius in the kitchen eating cold sweet potato pie? Right from the pan. She couldn’t wait to see him.