A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  “It’s part of maturing, sweetheart.”

  Rebekah looked up from her plate to find her mother eying her from the foot of the table, apparently continuing the chosen topic of dinner conversation—her life.

  “Part of coming to terms with what’s most important.” Her mother arched a brow. “Which I hope you’ve managed to do despite being away from those who love you most. It’s so important to maintain one’s standards. People are always watching.”

  “Oh, I’m certain she has, Sarah.” Barton gestured, and a servant standing off to the side refilled his glass with bourbon. For the third time. “I’m convinced our lovely Rebekah has matured in that way. As well as in every other.”

  He lifted his glass in a silent and solitary cheer.

  Rebekah confined her gaze to the table, counting the minutes until she could politely excuse herself. Convinced the moment had come, she feigned a yawn, which encouraged a real one. “If you’ll both excuse me, I’m very tired from the journey and would like to retire to my room.”

  Her mother sat a little straighter. “I was hoping you might wish to take tea with me in the study. We have much to discuss regarding your homecoming. There are plans to be made. Barton and I have conversed at length, and—”

  “Plans?” Rebekah looked between them.

  “Yes.” Barton set down his glass. “Plans about what you’ll be doing now that you’re home.”

  Rebekah gave a short laugh. “Pardon me, Barton. But I don’t see how my plans are any of your concern.”

  “Rebekah Ellen!” Her mother’s face flushed crimson. “You will not speak to my husband in that disrespectful manner. Is that understood?”

  Clenching her jaw, Rebekah forced a nod.

  “Now . . .” Her mother tucked her folded napkin by her plate. “Much has changed in our circle of society, and you need guidance as to how to reenter that world. Never fear, there are still eligible gentlemen who are open to considering a woman who is . . . a little further along in years. But don’t let that concern you,” her mother added quickly. “I’ve already begun sowing seeds that I’m certain will bear fruit.”

  “Mother, I don’t mean to seem ungrateful but—”

  “Your mother has been preparing tirelessly for your return, Rebekah. And I know you’re not eager to disappoint her.”

  Feeling the walls closing in around her, Rebekah found herself swiftly growing to loathe Barton Ledbetter even more than she already did. Yet she checked her temper, knowing better than to cross him in front of her mother.

  “And yet, Sarah . . .” Barton leaned forward in his chair. “Considering all that Rebekah has been through in recent days, and all you’ve been doing—so unselfishly, I might add—I do believe it would be best if we save these discussions for tomorrow. Don’t you agree, my love? After all, we’re finishing dinner later than usual, and you do need your rest.”

  Feeling slightly ill and knowing it had nothing to do with the food, Rebekah watched her mother as Barton’s suggestion gradually found a foothold.

  “Of course, you’re right, Barton. As always. It’s best we wait. Rebekah, we’ll see to this tomorrow instead.”

  Barton rose and moved to escort her mother from the room. Her mother had always been a dutiful wife—Rebekah remembered that from childhood. But when had she ceased having her own opinions whatsoever?

  Whatever the answer, at least the discussion about the “plans for her life” had been postponed, and her plan was to make sure it stayed that way. But there was one more thing she needed to know. And though now likely wasn’t the best time to broach her next question, she doubted a right time existed.

  “Mother, before you go . . .”

  Her mother paused, her hand tucked into the crook of Barton’s arm.

  “Grandmother Carrington . . . she said she’d laid aside some money for me. On the event of her passing.” Rebekah smiled to soften the abruptness of the topic. “Do you know who I need to contact in that regard?”

  Her mother’s expression clouded, and then she peered up at Barton, who looked at Rebekah and sighed, with a little too much feeling.

  “Rebekah, I fear your grandmother spoke out of turn. Though I wasn’t going to share this with you, and wanted to spare you any embarrassment . . . upon your grandmother’s death, I was forced to cover her outstanding debts. Which I did happily, considering what a fine woman she was, and how special a part of this family.”

  His smile, meant to appear condoling, she knew, felt like a punch to the gut. Rebekah pressed a hand to her midsection, glad she was still seated. “Her debts?” Her voice came out small. “Grandmother Carrington didn’t have any debts.”

  “You’ve been gone a long time, Rebekah.” Barton’s deep voice gained an edge. “And it’s been a difficult few years. But don’t worry. I’ll take care of you—just as I take care of your dear mother.” He patted her mother’s hand and shifted to look Rebekah in the eye. “Perhaps tomorrow, Rebekah, you and I can find a few moments to speak at length about this.”

  Rebekah bowed her head and didn’t look up as they left the room, her hands trembling in her lap. He’d taken it. The money. He’d taken it all. But what could she do? She had nothing in writing from her grandmother. Nothing to substantiate her claim. And even if she did, where was the money now? Nowhere she could get to it.

  She pressed against the pounding in her temples. It would seem the bulk of her hope now lay with Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham at the Belmont estate. Because it certainly didn’t lie with Nathaniel T. Whitcomb.

  She had no doubt such a man had never had to work for anything in his life, that it had all been given to him on a polished silver platter. And though it wasn’t a charitable thought, she hoped that one day he would drink from the same cup of disappointment he’d served her earlier that day.

  And that she’d just been made to drink of again.

  Determined to put him out of her mind, she found Delphia and two other women—neither of them familiar to her—in the kitchen. Gone was the houseful of staff from before the war. At dinner she’d learned it was only Delphia now, along with two day servants. And Demetrius, of course, though her mother and Barton had not spoken of him.

  She visited with Delphia, Rosie, and Nissa as they worked. The playful banter between the women helped to lift her spirits.

  Once the dishes were washed and the kitchen straightened, the day servants left for the night. No sooner had the kitchen door closed than Delphia pulled a covered dish from the cupboard—and grinned.

  “The last of the pie!” Rebekah said in an exaggerated whisper. “You and Demetrius always saved me a slice.”

  “He always saved you a slice. I woulda eaten it soon as look at you.”

  Rebekah laughed, knowing that wasn’t true. “I’ve missed you, Delphia.”

  “And Lawd knows I’ve missed you, Miss Rebekah. It weren’t the same here without you. Weren’t the same at all.”

  “So where is he?” Rebekah accepted the sliver of pie on a linen napkin, unable to believe she still had room for it. But she did.

  “Where is who?”

  Rebekah turned to see her mother standing in the doorway and nearly choked on the bite of pie.

  Delphia rose from her chair and brushed the crumbs from her apron. “Somethin’ I can help you with, Missus Ledbetter?”

  “I thought you said you were tired, Rebekah.”

  Rebekah swallowed. “I was. I mean . . . ” She cleared her throat. “I am. I came in here to say good night to Delphia, and . . . we started talking.”

  Her mother’s gaze trailed to the pie plate, then back to her. “Who is it you’re looking for, Rebekah?”

  Rebekah placed her napkin on the table. “Why don’t we talk about this tomorrow?”

  “Where is who?” her mother repeated.

  “You know who,” Rebekah answered.

  Her mother looked pointedly at Delphia, who confined her gaze to the floor.

  “Mother, please. Let’s not play these g
ames. I just want to visit with him. To see how he is. Tell him about Europe and about how I finally—”

  “Demetrius is dead, Rebekah. He died shortly after you left.”

  As though suddenly seeing her mother from down a long tunnel, Rebekah stared, her world tilting. She shook her head, trying to bring it aright. “Th-that’s not true. That’s not possible.”

  “I told your grandmother when it happened that we should tell you, but she insisted”—her mother’s lips formed a thin line—“that it would be too much for you to bear. Then as time went on . . .”

  Her mother’s sentence trailed off into silence, and Rebekah looked over at Delphia, knowing she’d find reassurance and the truth. But the tears pooling in Delphia’s dark eyes told her just the opposite.

  And Rebekah felt her knees give way.

  5

  Delphia’s strong arms came around her, supporting her, as Rebekah collapsed into a chair. And through the pounding of shock and disbelief, one thought broke through.

  “You knew,” Rebekah whispered, peering up at her.

  “Of course she knew.”

  Rebekah heard her mother’s voice from somewhere in the room, and—even though she knew better—it struck her as peculiar that her mother wasn’t the one helping her, holding her in that moment.

  Delphia was.

  Why was it that those who had suffered most always seemed to be the ones who comforted best? “Sufferin’s a cruel teacher, Miss Bekah,” Demetrius had said to her on more than one occasion, using his nickname for her that still warmed her heart. “But she teaches you good, sufferin’ does. A wise learner’ll come to ’preciate her over time. But usually only after they’s on the other side of the pain.”

  “Rebekah, there was no point in telling you.” Her mother’s voice bled through the memory. “Besides, you always thought too highly of that man and his opinion. Need I remind you, he was only a—”

  “Don’t!” Rebekah half screamed, half cried. “Don’t speak about him. Don’t even say his name, Mother.”

  “Rebekah Ellen Carrington! How dare you address me in such a—”

  Rebekah stood, fury coursing through her so fierce it left her quaking. “Please leave the room now, Mother. Right this minute. Don’t speak another word, or . . . ” Her chest ached with betrayal and hurt. “Or I’ll leave this house and I’ll never come back. Ever. Do you understand me?”

  Face pale, eyes wide, her mother stared, unblinking, and Rebekah could see in her pained, shocked expression how much she’d wounded her. Which hadn’t been her intention. But what her mother had done, hiding the truth from her all these years . . . And what she’d been about to say about the man who had saved her from humiliation and heartache . . .

  Her mother did as Rebekah demanded, letting the door swing closed behind her, and Rebekah sank into the chair again.

  A heavy sob clawed its way up her chest. “You should have . . . told me, Delphia.” She had trouble catching her breath.

  Delphia brushed the hair back from Rebekah’s face, her look full of love and remorse. “How’s I s’posed to do that, ma’am? Just go against your mama’s say so? Your grandmama’s too?” She shook her head and hugged Rebekah tight. “Even if I did know how to write my thoughts onto paper, ain’t no way I coulda done that, Miss Rebekah. Not with them sayin’ I can’t.”

  Knowing she was right, Rebekah bowed her head. Nana had known too, yet hadn’t seen fit to tell her. But why . . . Why would they have hidden such a thing? She should’ve had a chance to grieve his passing. Then again . . .

  She could almost hear her grandmother’s voice. “You had just started your life there in Austria. There’s nothing you could have done. And he would have wanted you to be happy in your fresh start. Not looking back with regret and grief.”

  The image of Demetrius breaking through the barn door and pulling Barton off of her that night was burned into her memory. He’d thrown Barton into a stall as though the man weighed nothing at all. Then he quickly helped her back to the house, her shaking like a leaf, the bodice of her dress ripped open, her hair a disheveled mess. Grandmother met her sneaking up the stairs, and when Rebekah told her what happened, she’d moved Rebekah’s bed into her room that very night, claiming she needed assistance during the early morning hours.

  Not a month later, they’d departed for Austria.

  Rebekah took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she finally whispered, wiping her cheeks. “I know you’re right.” Then, slowly, the fog inside her began to clear. Once dispelled, it left a chilling question. Had Demetrius’s actions, how he’d protected her, cost him his life? Was Barton responsible in some way?

  Rebekah was certain that Delphia didn’t know anything about what had happened in the barn—because Demetrius swore he wouldn’t tell a soul, and his word was as binding as an oath.

  Trembling, Rebekah peered up. “What happened to him, Delphia? How did he . . . ” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Delphia settled into the chair beside her. And it seemed like a long time passed before she spoke. “Demetrius, he . . .” She glanced at Rebekah but couldn’t seem to hold her gaze. “He just didn’t come home one night. I didn’t know ’til next mornin’ come near six o’clock. Sun was up and the wood bin for the kitchen stove was still empty. Not like my big brother to be tardy like that. So I sent Sissy down to see ’bout him. Next thing I know, Big Ike from over at Belle Meade come knockin’ on the back door. Tells me he and some other men found my brother in a field on their way to town ’fore daybreak. Demetrius, he was beat real bad.” Her brow knit tight. She closed her eyes, tears squeezing from the corners. “And bleedin’ somethin’ fierce. Never knew so much blood could be in a man and him still drawin’ breath. I tended him, but . . .”

  Tears wove their way down Delphia’s cheek, and she looked away.

  Rebekah wiped her own tears, not certain she wanted to know the answer to her next question. “Did you find out who did it?”

  Delphia lifted her watery gaze. “There been so many killin’s, ma’am—back then, ’specially. And it ain’t like somebody gonna do somethin’ ’bout it even if you do know. That’s just the way of things.”

  Feeling as if she might be sick, Rebekah hurried over to an empty pail by the back door . . . and made it just in time. Her stomach convulsed as images filled her mind. “I should have”—she gasped for air, her chest and back muscles spasming—“been here. I should have . . . known.”

  Delphia came alongside and held her hair back as Rebekah’s stomach emptied a second time. Rebekah wiped her mouth on the handkerchief Delphia held out.

  “I’m so sorry, Delphia. You loved him so much. And he . . . loved you.”

  “That I did, child. And . . . I still do.”

  Moments passed, as did the nausea, and Rebekah eased back to the chair at the table. Her throat vile and raw, she sipped from the cup of water Delphia offered.

  “This ain’t been much of a homecomin’, has it, child?”

  Seeing the woman’s feeble smile, Rebekah returned it.

  “Truth be told, Miss Rebekah, up ’til Miss Ellen’s passin’, I’d been thinkin’ you might never come back. And I wasn’t blamin’ you one bit. It’s a hard world we livin’ in here.”

  Rebekah swallowed back fresh tears. “I’m grateful for the time I spent in Austria. But . . . I think it’s a hard world everywhere.”

  Delphia’s eyes held her gaze, some undefinable emotion in their depths. “Amen to that, child. Amen to that.”

  Later, in her bedroom, her emotions numb and her body wearier than she could remember, Rebekah changed into the nightgown she found hanging in the chifforobe. Delphia, or perhaps another of the servants, had unpacked her clothing. Although, if her plans went the way she hoped, she would only be packing them up again.

  She checked in the closet for the box her mother mentioned might be there. But . . . nothing. A couple of wooden crates containing clothes from Rebekah’s childhood but nothing from her grandmother
.

  A soft thump sounded from the hallway beyond the bedroom, and she quickly crossed to the closed door, her bare feet noiseless on the carpet. No lock on the door.

  She blew out a breath.

  She hadn’t seen Barton since dinner. Delphia had told her he went out almost every evening. Important business meetings was the explanation Delphia had heard him give her mother. Rebekah could tell from Delphia’s tone that she didn’t believe his explanation either.

  She’d never been certain about Barton’s exact profession. He claimed to be in “acquisitions and trade,” whatever that meant. She only knew that his occupation took him away at odd hours and that he oftentimes traveled, according to her mother’s letters through the years.

  Rebekah pressed her ear to the door, and listened.

  Only night sounds—the occasional sigh of the house as it settled, the squeak of a carriage passing by out front, a dog barking some distance away.

  Still . . .

  She grabbed the handle of one of her trunks—the one containing her books, judging by the weight of it—and dragged it across the floor, then pushed it up against the door.

  Her stomach still unsettled, the effort left her queasy, but she repeated the action with a second trunk, this one empty, and managed to situate it atop the other, then stood back. She needed one more thing.

  She scanned the room and her gaze settled on the appropriate item. She retrieved the empty silver vase from the mantel and placed it near the edge of the trunk. If anyone tried to open the door and force their way in, she would know it.

  Bone weary, she pulled back the covers, removed the bed warmer, and returned it to the hearth. She turned down the lamp on the bedside table and climbed onto the overstuffed down mattress, toasty warm where the bed warmer had been, but otherwise icy cold. The fluffy down rose up around her, and she curled her body into the warmth.

  Shadows danced on the walls, the wind outside swaying the tree limbs at will. As she lay there, emotions she’d struggled to keep at bay suddenly gained the upper hand in the dark.

  She hugged the second pillow to her chest and buried sobs into its softness. She hadn’t seen Demetrius in over ten years, but the comfort of knowing he’d been there—or, here—and remembering all he’d taught her, had given her strength.