A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  “Tell you what . . . ” He pulled the change from his pocket. “I’ll take the paper, and I’ll give you an extra nickel . . . for Lula. But I want you to promise me that you’ll—”

  In a flash, the boy snatched the coins from Tate’s hand and ran. Or tried to. Tate overtook him easily and grabbed him by the collar of his coat. The boy fought and squirmed, pummeling his chest with clenched fists—still full of coins, no doubt. But the boy was no match for him.

  “Hold still!” Tate commanded, gripping him by the shoulders. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He leaned down.

  The boy lunged for him, teeth bared, but Tate kept him at arm’s length.

  “Listen here, you little culprit! There aren’t many people in this world who will care enough to help you. Best not make enemies of those who would. Do you understand me?”

  The boy gentled, then lowered his head. “Yes, sir,” he said softly. “I understand.”

  Tate took a breath. “Now—”

  “Maestro Whitcomb! Your carriage is ready, sir!”

  Tate glanced behind him. “Thank you, I’ll be right—”

  Pain exploded on his shin, and the boy wriggled from his grip and took off down the street. Holding his leg, Tate stared after him, wishing he could give chase. But losing a few coins didn’t begin to compare to the price he would pay for being late to Adelicia Cheatham’s party. Hopefully, the kid would buy himself a couple of meals. And maybe one for Lula.

  He limped back to the carriage, his head pounding anew. The driver opened the door for him, and he climbed in.

  “Get me to Belmont within thirty minutes and there’ll be a generous tip in it for you.”

  As the carriage lurched forward, Tate spotted a sign in a mercantile window across the street, the words illuminated by a gas streetlamp. Flour Mill. Two dollars and ten cents.

  He smiled to himself as he rubbed his shin.

  9

  Just shy of half an hour later, the carriage rounded the circular drive leading to the steps of Belmont Mansion. An elderly Negro man dressed in a dark suit, shaved head gleaming in the lantern light, hurried to open the door.

  “Welcome to Belmont, sir. The name’s Eli. If there’s anything I can do for you this evening, please let me know.” The man spoke with distinction, his Southern accent thick, yet every syllable perfect.

  Tate gave him a quick nod, handed a double tip to the driver, and strode toward the mansion, which was lit up like an evergreen at Christmas. Light warmed every window, and the lanterns dangling from decorated poles and strung from tree to leafless tree caused the snow blanketing the grounds to sparkle like diamonds.

  Mrs. Cheatham’s desired effect, he felt certain.

  He’d been to the mansion only once before, but once was enough to realize how wealthy this woman was. She’d remarried in recent years, he understood, after the deaths of her first two husbands. And from what he’d been told, she’d entered marriages two and three already a very wealthy woman. And had only grown more so through the years.

  Tate lifted his fist to knock on the door, but the Negro man—Eli—got there a split hair of a second before him and opened the door wide. Tate nodded his thanks as he entered the house, still uncomfortable with such close attention from servants, even after all these years. A man could transplant himself from one world to another, but his roots had memories that reached deep inside, and over time those memories tended to find their way back to native soil, to home.

  And standing here in the opulence of this mansion as the newly ordained conductor of the Nashville Philharmonic, his own roots were tugging hard, reminding him of who he really was—and who he wasn’t.

  “Maestro!”

  Tate looked up to see Mrs. Cheatham floating toward him in a haze of expensive lace, silk, and diamonds—diamonds in her tiara, on her hands, at her waist. Everywhere he looked, the woman glittered.

  “Maestro Whitcomb, you’re here! Thank goodness. I feared something had gone awry and you weren’t coming.” Her tone was cordial, but her eyes held a shade of displeasure.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Cheatham. I’ve faced numerous delays today, but all is well now.”

  She glanced past him. “Did the fourth musician not travel with you?”

  “Fourth musician?”

  “Yes, only three have arrived thus far. You promised me there would be four. By definition, a string quartet must have four players. Must it not, Maestro?”

  The ache in his temples spanned to the back of his head. “Of course it does, Mrs. Cheatham, and I’m certain the other musician will be here any moment.”

  “I certainly hope so. Because I made special mention in the invitations about the music tonight. If that part of the evening falls flat, I fear it will negatively influence my guests’ desire to be more deeply involved with the symphony. And that is something neither of us wants to happen. Especially at this crucial outset.”

  “I could not agree more, Mrs. Cheatham. Now if you’ll point me toward the minstrel gallery, I’ll see who is missing.”

  She led him through the entrance hall to the grand salon, and to the cantilevered staircase ascending to the second floor. The familiar sound of stringed instruments being tuned drifted downward.

  “Maestro, you remember my husband, Dr. Cheatham.”

  Tate turned to see the man walking toward them. “Yes, of course. Good to see you again, Dr. Cheatham.” He offered his hand, feeling the seconds tick past.

  The older man’s grip was firm. “You as well, Maestro Whitcomb. I must say, my wife has spoken of little else but your ensemble this evening. Your musicians, as well as your own presence here tonight, is an honor for us. One we’re eager to put on display.”

  “The honor is all mine, Dr. Cheatham. Thank you, sir. And thank you, Mrs. Cheatham.” Tate bowed slightly at the waist. “We’ll begin playing well before your first guest’s arrival. You have my word.”

  Wanting to take the stairs in twos, he instead took them as would a cultured maestro—mainly because his shin still ached. When he reached the second-floor landing, he saw his cellist, his violist, and one violinist—then the empty chair. He didn’t even try to hide his frustration. “Darrow Fulton. Where is he?”

  The three men looked at one another. And finally, Wallace, the cellist, spoke up. “Good evening, Maestro. We don’t know, sir. We’ve been here for almost an hour and haven’t seen him.”

  Tate checked the time. Scarcely fifteen minutes before guests were scheduled to begin arriving. He raked a hand through his hair, his frustration fueled by exhaustion and the constant ache in his head.

  He gestured to Adams and the violin the man held. “I don’t suppose you have an extra one of those in your back pocket, do you?”

  Adams gave a timid smile that quickly faded. “No, Maestro, I don’t.”

  Tate blew out a breath. Just as well. Of all the instruments in the orchestra, the violin was the most beautiful—and exasperating—to him. He’d never come close to mastering it, though he’d tried for years.

  His skill had excelled early on with the piano, which, as it turned out, was integral with his chosen path. Give him a violin, and he could manage to find his way through a sonata, though not without foibles. Which he would prefer not to display in front of members of his orchestra, be they amateurs or not.

  Best find Mrs. Cheatham and get this over with.

  He pictured telling her the news, and then he imagined Edward Pennington, the symphony board’s director, arriving tonight only to find everything was not as it should be—which Pennington had so forcefully stressed needed to be the case in the note he’d left on the desk chair earlier.

  Tate didn’t know for sure, but he suspected Pennington had voted for the other candidate for the conductor position. Yet somehow, when all the cards were dealt, Tate ended up with the winning hand.

  But, as conductor, he still served at the will of the new symphony board. And it wasn’t unheard of for a conductor to come and go before his portrait wa
s even hung in the gallery—and he hadn’t even scheduled the first sitting for his yet.

  He aimed a look. “Gentlemen, the three of you begin playing in eight minutes.”

  Adams frowned. “But, sir, the opening piece calls for two violins. How will we—”

  “Eight minutes!” Tate glared, then took the stairs back down again in search of Mrs. Cheatham.

  Amidst the bustle of servants scurrying here and there with trays of food, chairs, and silver platters laden with champagne glasses, he spotted a young woman carrying a tray who seemed slightly less preoccupied. “Excuse me, miss.” He gestured in an effort to get her attention. “It’s imperative I find Mrs. Cheatham immedi—”

  The woman turned, and Tate’s request died on this tongue. “It’s . . . you.” No sooner had he said it, than her eyes—that lovely shade of hazel—darkened, and his memory quickly rose in defense. “Miss Carrington.”

  Not looking the least impressed, she stared up at him, the lack of exuberance in her expression telling him she had no trouble placing who he was. “That’s right, Mr. Whitcomb. And if you’re looking for Mrs. Cheatham, she’s in the central parlor.” She gestured to the room at his back.

  “You . . . work here?” Tate appraised her manner of dress. She wasn’t wearing the standard black frock and starched white apron like the other servants, yet she was carrying a tray.

  “I do. But I’m quite busy at the moment. So perhaps it would be best if you came directly to the subject at hand.” Her smile, though pretty, was anything but genuine.

  Remembering having said much the same thing to her when she was in his office days ago, Tate felt something akin to a gut punch, and a good one. But despite the jab, he was mindful of the time, so he forced a pleasant countenance and followed her suggestion. “The second violinist hasn’t shown for the ensemble tonight, and I need to discuss this with Mrs. Cheatham.”

  Miss Carrington’s eyes flashed with an emotion he couldn’t define, and that departed just as swiftly. “Music is of utmost importance to Mrs. Cheatham, especially for her gatherings. This won’t be . . .”

  A young woman pushing a cart stacked with china passed close by, and Tate missed the last of Miss Carrington’s comment.

  “This won’t be what, Miss Carrington?”

  “I said, this won’t be pleasing news for Mrs. Cheatham.”

  “Nor do I consider it such. Now, do you know where I might find her?”

  “Absolutely.” She nodded, shifting her gaze over his shoulder. “She’s right behind—”

  “Maestro Whitcomb . . .”

  Tate turned to find himself squarely in the hostess’s sights.

  “Pray tell, my dear sir, why do I not hear the ethereal strains of Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 6 in B-flat Major, as I requested, filling every corner of my home?”

  Tate tried for a smile. “My deepest apologies, Mrs. Cheatham. But we are, indeed, absent a violinist this evening.” He caught the slightest narrowing of her eyes. “However, considering the talent of the musicians present, I’m certain that we can—”

  “You play the violin, do you not, Maestro?” Mrs. Cheatham pierced him with a look. “I believe I read that fact in the papers you submitted for review to the committee of select symphony patrons.”

  Feeling chastised and not liking it, especially in front of Miss Carrington, Tate wondered where the symphony’s lead benefactress was headed with her questioning. And call it pride, but—considering immediate company—he didn’t wish to admit his deficiency with the instrument. And under the circumstances, saw no need.

  “Yes, in fact, I do play the violin, Mrs. Cheatham. However, the fact remains, we don’t have a second violin, which makes it a—”

  “Miss Carrington, would you please procure my violin for the maestro?”

  “With pleasure, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  Tate looked from the younger woman, now hurrying toward a side corridor, back to the older. “You own a violin, Mrs. Cheatham?”

  “My guests will begin arriving at any moment, Maestro Whitcomb. Please assure me there will be music from a string quartet to greet them, as you promised.”

  He ran a finger around the inside of his collar, feeling a little warm. “Yes, Mrs. Cheatham. There will be. However, I consider it my duty to inform you that I—”

  “You mustn’t play the entire evening, of course. You must join us for dinner and conversation following.” She placed a hand on his arm ever so briefly. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me, Maestro. Now if you’ll excuse me, final details await my attention.”

  Left to stand alone in the center of the grand salon, Tate felt as if he’d been resolutely put in his place. Because he had been. Yet the woman had done it with such politeness and—

  “Here you are, Mr. Whitcomb.” Miss Carrington appeared at his side, red leather case in hand, and with—if he wasn’t mistaken—an even deeper sense of satisfaction in her expression. “I didn’t realize you played the violin, sir.”

  Sensing challenge, he took the case from her, his pride sufficiently prodded. “Thank you, Miss Carrington. And yes, I do. But it’s not that uncommon. Most professional musicians play more than one instrument.”

  “Indeed?” She smiled. “Well, I look forward to hearing it. Which”—she glanced beyond him toward the front entrance hall—“I hope will be any second now, since the first guests are arriving.”

  Tate turned to see the front door standing open and guests disembarking from a carriage. He was up the spiral staircase in record time, the ache in his head drumming with each step. When he reached the top, he stepped forward only to have the second-floor gallery begin to spin.

  The earlier ringing in his ears returned with a fierceness and grew so loud he gripped the bannister. The world and its sounds swirled around him—distorted, mangled—as though being siphoned through a tiny tube inside his head.

  His heart pounded in his chest.

  He squeezed his eyes tight for several seconds, then opened them to see the three musicians staring at him, their expressions confused. One of them spoke, or at least . . . moved his lips. But no words came.

  Then in a flash, as if the siphoning had been reversed, all sound came rushing back, wave after punishing wave, and Tate pressed a hand to his left ear, the volume almost overwhelming.

  “Maestro? Are you all right, sir?”

  Tate heard the voice as if from far away, yet knew it came from only feet in front of him. His breath coming hard, he heard the laughter and merriment of guests and motioned for the three musicians to begin playing.

  “Beethoven’s Serenade . . . in D Major, opus 8!” he managed, needing to buy himself some time.

  Adams frowned. “But I thought we were to open with No. 6 in—”

  “Change of plans!” Tate seethed.

  The three men stared at him, then at the violin case in his hand, then back again, their expressions slack with uncertainty.

  “You do have the music,” Tate asked hurriedly.

  The men nodded.

  “Then play!” he commanded.

  They shuffled through the sheet music on their stands, faces flushed, then simultaneously raised their bows. Adams, the violinist, cued the others with a nod and they began.

  Hearing the chatter of conversation rising from below, Tate regained his breath—and balance—and laid the violin case on a side table. He took a moment, breathing deeply. He must have hit his head harder back in that carriage than he’d thought.

  And these headaches . . .

  He was working too long of hours, and too many. Too little sleep. But it couldn’t be helped. He could sleep later, once his career was solidly on track and once the symphony he was writing was finished.

  Feeling some better, he opened up the violin case—then paused. How was it Adelicia Cheatham owned such a fine instrument? He ran a hand along the curves of the violin, then his gaze snagged on an inscription along the inside lip of the case. He angled the case toward the candlelight to better see th
e writing—then took a full step back, nearly colliding with the tip of Wallace’s bow.

  Tate stared. It couldn’t be. But it was. Antonio Stradivari.

  He laughed, but no sound came. He couldn’t play this. It had to be nearly two hundred years old. And why did Mrs. Cheatham have it? The woman had money enough, for certain. But why would she buy so exquisite and rare an instrument? Because she could, came the swift and silent reply.

  The woman did hold great affection for the violin—she’d made that clear, even in the short time he’d known her.

  He touched the slender neck of the stringed beauty, reverence for the instrument and its creator causing his fingers to tremble. He squeezed his hands, then alternately flexed and relaxed them to work out the jitters.

  He glanced behind him at the three musicians, knowing he had five minutes at most until they completed the Serenade. He retrieved the violin from the case, along with the bow, and stepped into a nearby bedroom illuminated by a single oil lamp on a side table.

  The bedchamber belonged to one of the children, judging by the drawing easel and dolls taking up residence on the bed. He closed the door, needing to tune the instrument.

  It had been months since he’d picked up a violin, which was testament in itself as to how he’d played the last time—not well. Oh, how he envied musicians who could pick up this instrument and make it sing. With the exception of Mozart’s Spring Quartet, a personal request by Mrs. Cheatham, the pieces he’d chosen for this evening weren’t overly difficult—for an experienced violist, cellist, or violinist.

  For him, it would be near torture. Why hadn’t he simply told the woman he couldn’t play well enough?

  Because he hadn’t wanted to give Miss Carrington the satisfaction of seeing him tragically humbled after he’d been forced to put her through a similar experience days earlier.

  And she had forced him on it.

  While, granted, certain few of the female gender were gifted at playing an instrument—as she was on the oboe—the fact remained that the symphony was a stressful, even brutal, environment. Competition was fierce and allowed no room for emotions characteristically displayed by the weaker sex. A woman wouldn’t last a day in that environment. Nor would any sane woman wish it upon herself, if she knew the truth.