Only, he hadn’t been here.
Shouldn’t she have sensed something when he died? A distancing of some sort? An inexplicable sadness, perhaps. But she’d sensed nothing.
She used the corner of the bedsheet to wipe her face, then sat up in the dark, accepting that sleep was a distant wish. She wondered if her mother, in the bedroom down the hall, was able to sleep. But knowing the medication Delphia said she oftentimes took, Rebekah figured she was.
Her eyes adjusted to the dark, she slipped from bed and over to the partially unpacked trunk in front of the window, and withdrew the leather case from inside. The worn latches lifted without complaint, and as moonlight filtering through the window fell onto the violin and bow, she felt as if she were seeing an old friend again.
She lifted the violin from its velvet bed and tucked it against her collarbone. The very act brought comfort, as did holding the bow.
The chin rest formed perfectly to her contours, and she slowly drew the bow across the A string in a smooth up-bow stroke. She adjusted the coordinating peg and repeated the movement, listening, eyes closed, before doing the same with the remaining strings.
She stood in the silence, darkness huddling close, and heard—from a great distance away, across time and memory—the sweet strains of a song drifting toward her.
She moved to the window seat and sat cross-legged, as she had as a girl, and stared out to where the rows of slave cabins once clustered near the back of the property. The cabins were gone now, a row of clapboard houses having taken their place. Delphia was the only servant in residence and occupied a room off the kitchen.
But in the silvery light of winter, Rebekah could still see, in her mind’s eye, the outline of the rustic dwellings. No bonfire burned in the distance, no voices lifted in song. All was dark and quiet.
Yet the melody of the song filled her heart and mind, and she drew the bow across the strings and gradually joined in, the lyrics of the song carving deeper meaning into her heart in light of the present. “Come, thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing thy grace . . .”
She closed her eyes and was there again—listening to Demetrius play and sing—and she gave herself to the memory and the music, trilling effortlessly over ascending and descending arpeggios that once tripped her up and frustrated her to no end.
But now they poured from bow and strings with a beauty she knew didn’t originate from herself alone.
The music was a culmination of so many who had contributed to her life—Papa; Maestro Heilig; her somewhat reluctant violin tutor, Mr. Colton; even Darrow Fulton, who had fanned her already-competitive spirit to flame, unknowingly pushing her to accomplish what she might not have on her own. But the one person who had contributed most to her love for this instrument, to her affinity for the beauty a violin could create . . .
Demetrius.
As she played, she heard his patient counsel in each and every note. “You gots to keep your chin tucked against it, Miss Bekah. Right here. That’s it. Cradle it real gentle, like it’s the sweetest thing you ever did hold.”
And his voice, a rich baritone, like deep water coursing over smooth rock. She’d always wished she could sing more like he had, and like the Negro women did, with such convincing clarity and truth. Such strength and richness. Not like her own softer voice. Some things could be taught or trained, but other things were gifts from the Giver.
That’s what their voices had been to her, their songs—a gift.
As the music swelled in her memory, so did the sweet strains of the song she played, the lyrics as familiar to her now as the notes. “O to grace how great a debtor, daily I’m constrained to be! Let thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to thee. Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it. Prone to leave the God I—”
A loud thud sounded from across the room, and she went stock-still, then looked toward the door. The vase was gone. It was on the floor. And the trunks . . .
They appeared to be moving.
6
In a blink, Rebekah crossed the room and found the door inching open, the trunks proving to be a poor deterrent. “Who is it?” she asked timidly.
“Open the door, Rebekah. I want to talk to you about—”
Grimacing at the stench of liquor and stale cigar smoke, she shoved the door hard, and it slammed back into place. But no sooner did the latch click than the knob turned again. And this time, the opposing force grew in insistence.
Summoning strength, she put her back to the stacked trunks and braced her full weight against them, digging her heels into the carpet.
But still, the trunks moved.
“Miss Rebekah?”
Suddenly the momentum on the other side of the door halted, and the door closed with a thud. Muffled footsteps retreated down the hallway.
Her shoulder and back muscles burning, Rebekah refused to trust the supposed retreat and kept pushing, the smell of him, the very thought of his intentions, his hands on her, causing a bitterness to sting the back of her throat.
“Miss Rebekah?” came the voice a second time.
Delphia.
The staircase creaked beneath the woman’s steps, and Rebekah went limp with relief. She slid to the floor and rested her head in her hands, her heart still pounding.
“Miss Rebekah . . .” A soft knock sounded. “I’s just comin’ to see if you’s feelin’ all right, ma’am. You bein’ sick earlier and all.”
The concern in Delphia’s voice was like a balm, and Rebekah slowly found her footing. She started to push the trunks aside to open the door, then caught herself. What if Barton was somehow responsible for what happened to Demetrius? Would the man consider taking action against Delphia for interfering? He certainly seemed brazen enough. Not to mention persistent. Rebekah quickly decided she couldn’t take that chance.
“Yes, Delphia.” She spoke through the closed door. “I’m fine. I’m feeling much better now, thank you.”
“I can get you some tea, miss. Or some warm broth, if you think that’d be some help.”
“No, thank you. But . . . I appreciate the offer all the same. Thank you, Delphia. Truly.”
“Ain’t no trouble. I drank me some coffee earlier and just ain’t got the tiredness yet. I’ll keep an ear out for you. Come and fetch me should you need anything.”
Hearing Delphia’s retreat, Rebekah felt her own relief ebb. She moved closer to see the clock on the mantel. Half past one. A weariness came over her that seemed years in the making, yet she couldn’t give in to it. Not until she was out of this house and far away from him.
Only then did she realize how cold she was. She grabbed a blanket from the bed, wrapped it around herself, and then settled again on the floor, her back against the trunks.
Moments passed, and her chin slowly dipped forward. She snapped her head back into place and widened her eyes in the darkness, determined to stay awake.
She looked across the room at her violin on the bed where she’d hurriedly laid it, the contours of the instrument beautiful even in the shadows, and she tried to summon a remnant of the peace and warmth she’d felt only moments earlier.
But it was gone.
Hours later, Rebekah knocked on the bedroom door off the kitchen. The sun would soon be up and she’d determined to be gone by then. She’d tried to stay awake, but sleep had finally overtaken her. Her neck sore from sleeping propped up against the trunks, just like her backside, she wouldn’t begin to breathe easier until she was out of this house.
She knocked a second time. No response.
The knob turned easily in her hand, and as she opened the door, the oil lamp she carried cast a golden arc over the dark room.
The form in the bed stirred. “Who’s there?” came a rough voice.
“It’s me, Delphia. Rebekah.”
The woman yawned deeply as she sat up. “Lawd, ma’am. It still be dark. What you doin’ up ’fore the sun?”
Rebekah knelt by her bed. The fire in the small hearth had cooled th
rough the night, and the wooden floor was cold beneath her knees. “I’m leaving,” she whispered, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t need to stay here, Delphia. I can’t stay here. I’ve been living by my own leave for far too long to come back and try to make a home beneath this roof.”
Delphia squinted and rubbed her eyes, studying her for a moment. Rebekah sensed disapproval in the pause and hoped she wouldn’t offer argument.
“Do your mama know yet?”
Rebekah shook her head. “I left her a note, slipped it beneath her door. She won’t be happy with my decision, I realize, but it’s for the best. For everyone.”
Delphia pushed back the covers. “Let me get you some breakfast ’fore you—”
“No, I’m leaving now. But I do have a favor to ask. My trunks are packed. I’m only taking my satchel and a small travel case with me. As soon as you can, would you see that my trunks are delivered to this address?”
She laid the slip of paper on the bedside table, hoping the right person would be there to accept the trunks when they were delivered.
“Yes, ma’am. I get ’em moved down here ’fore the house even wakes. Then out the door first thing this mornin’.”
“Thank you, Delphia. I appreciate your help. You’ve always been”—her throat tightened—“so special to me. Same as your brother.”
“Oh, child . . .” Delphia took hold of Rebekah’s hand, hers feeling as rough and firm as a man’s. “You’s just like your grandmother. A good woman. And strong. Stronger than you look.”
With a weak smile, Rebekah prayed that was true. Because she needed every scrap of strength she could muster.
She rose, then paused. “My mother . . . Is she . . . ” How to ask the question. Yet she had to. She couldn’t leave her mother here without being certain. “Is she all right? With him, I mean? Is she safe?”
Delphia stared appraisingly. “I ain’t never seen the man lift a hand to her. Or his voice, neither. Mr. Ledbetter, he come and go as he wishes, and I don’t think much truth sticks to him. But I don’t think he ever hurts her. Nor will he, long as I’m here.”
Rebekah let out a breath and gave her hand a squeeze. “Thank you, Delphia.” She was nearly to the door when she heard her name. She looked back.
“You even know where you’re goin’, child?”
“No. Not exactly. But anywhere is preferable to here.”
Careful of the deep, frozen ruts in the road, Rebekah navigated her way between the two massive columns of chiseled limestone marking the entrance to the Belmont estate, not pausing to admire the display of wealth. Despite the two pairs of stockings she wore, her feet and legs were like ice, and her gloved hands ached with cold.
She was accustomed to walking, so the two-mile distance from town wasn’t the issue. It was the bitter cold seeping into her bones every step of the journey that left her feeling as though her limbs were about to snap clean in two. Even so, she had to admit the scenery was beautiful. The oak and poplar trees, their limbs winter barren, were laced in ice and glistened in the morning sun like cut crystal beneath a candelabra.
“Please . . .” Her breath puffed white. “Please let the governess position still be available.”
No doubt such an elite family would have received numerous applications for the job, all of them from well-qualified candidates. So somehow she needed to impress this Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham. Because she needed a job. And a place to live.
She was surprised to see a stag standing stone-still in the shadow of a stalwart pine, its antlered head lifted heavenward in a majestic pose. Only on closer inspection did she realize the beast was made of cast iron. And other animals—dogs, lions, and several deer, all cast from iron like their fearless leader—made appearances as she covered ground.
A soft brush of ice touched her cheek. Followed by another. And another. She paused long enough to look up. Then sighed. It was snowing?
She quickened her pace toward the bend in the road ahead, mindful of her step across the frozen ruts and eager to reach the house before her hair was a complete mess. She rounded the corner and spotted the mansion—still a good distance away, sitting atop a gently rising hill like a queen on her throne.
She blew an already damp curl from her temple and clenched her teeth in order to keep her chin from trembling. So much for making a good first impression.
She quickened her pace.
The estate’s residence appeared regal in its pristine winter setting, tall white columns framing the entrance to the reddish-brown home. Exquisite described it well, although it didn’t begin to compare to Schönbrunn Palace, the summer residence of the Habsburg monarchy, only blocks from their house in Vienna. She and Sally had strolled past that palace countless times, discussing the history of the royal family and imagining what wondrous splendors presided behind the palace walls.
What a life she and Sally had shared in Vienna together. Lonely at times, yes. But also exciting, and a privilege, she realized. Like another world away.
And one forever gone. For her, at least.
The road gradually widened, and Rebekah followed its curve as it edged the boundary of what would most certainly be lavish gardens come spring. It appeared they were designed in a circular pattern, the largest circle closest to the mansion, while its smaller counterparts descended downhill, diminishing in size.
She passed a large, all-glass conservatory and spotted greenery of plants and trees within, but couldn’t make out any detail due to the fog masking the windows.
Marble statuary dotted the expansive grounds. And numerous gazebos, their painted cast iron soft white against the pale of winter, stood silent in the cold, reserving their welcome for warmer days.
Finally, every part of her aching from the bitter cold and her teeth clattering, she climbed the front steps and crossed the limestone patio, watching for slick spots. She managed the last of the stairs up to the ornate front door and set down her bags, grateful for the shelter of an upper porch that extended over the entrance.
She brushed the snow from her cloak and, without benefit of a mirror, did the best she could with her hair and the rest of her appearance. She whispered a quick prayer—trying to ignore the feeling when it fell flat—and firmly knocked on the door.
A long moment passed.
She knocked a second time, and as the door finally opened, a heavenly brush of warmth and the scent of cinnamon and spice issued from within before the cold pushed back and won.
A woman dressed like a head housekeeper greeted her with a curious and even censorious expression. Her dark spectacles rested midway down her sharp nose—the precise angle necessary to peer ominously down at one’s prey and render a despicable little rodent weighed, measured—and doomed.
The woman looked past her, first to the left, then right, before her gaze settled decidedly on Rebekah’s satchel and travel case, then slid back to Rebekah’s eyes. “Good day. State your business, please.”
Rebekah swallowed. An image of Mrs. Murphey chuckling softly from behind her desk in the opera house eroded her fledgling confidence, as did the more sobering images of women and young girls loitering on street corners.
“I . . . I’m here to interview.”
“And do you have an appointment?”
The tone in which the woman asked the question answered it as well.
“I thought not.” Her smile was the very definition of condescension. “Mrs. Cheatham entertains candidates by appointment only. So may I suggest you make one, as required, and come back another day.”
As she started to close the door, Rebekah felt a surge of desperation—and impertinence.
“Pardon me, but I’m here at the personal behest of Mrs. Murphey at the opera house.”
The woman stilled, and Rebekah took that as her cue.
“Following my meeting with Maestro Whitcomb yesterday, Mrs. Murphey encouraged me to contact Mrs. Cheatham posthaste.” The embellishment—and reference about Nathaniel Whitcomb—felt somewhat false, wi
th reason. Yet when Rebekah saw the tiniest muscle at the corner of the woman’s eye flinch, she knew she’d found a chink in her armor. “However, if this isn’t a good time, as you indicated, perhaps I should come back . . . after meeting with other families who are interviewing as well.”
She gave a curtsy and turned, the reckless bubble of hope swiftly sinking inside her. Counting the limestone steps leading down to the patio—and trying not to panic over what to do next—she braced herself for the long, frigid walk back to town.
“Mrs. Cheatham is indisposed at the moment. So you may wait inside while I converse with her on the matter.”
Rebekah turned back, her hope cautiously buoyant again. The woman’s stern expression communicated displeasure, and Rebekah knew she was treading on very thin ice. But better thin ice than freezing water.
She climbed the stairs and stepped inside the entrance hall, already anticipating the warmth of the home and trying not to appear like the beggar she felt.
Sure enough, a fire blazed in the foyer hearth, and by sheer will alone she stayed exactly where she was instead of running over to it and kneeling to soak in its warmth. Her teeth resumed their clattering, and she realized then that her initial encounter with this woman must have temporarily scared away the chill.
But it returned with fierceness, and her cheeks burned like fire.
“Place your cases there, in the corner. And give me your cloak.”
She did as the housekeeper bid, taking in her surroundings. Mrs. Cheatham was apparently fond of statuary. A handsome piece crafted of white marble took center stage in the middle of the foyer—a woman kneeling as she gathered grain, looking upward, her gaze beseeching, all while apparently oblivious to her robe having slipped from her slender shoulder to reveal a rather shapely right breast.
Rebekah was tempted to smile. Quite a bold statement for an entrance hall in America. Yet the statue’s elegant face, her poised bearing, were simply stunning.
A Note Yet Unsung Page 8