Rebekah swallowed. “Not at all, Cattabelle. I think I . . . simply ate it a little too quickly.”
“Well.” His mother nodded. “It do my heart good, seein’ you like it so well. Now get yourself some of that potlikker. It’s good for soppin’. And like my Granny Austin always said, ‘Eat for the hunger that’s comin’.’”
Rebekah’s expression was awash with emotion, and Tate couldn’t begin to guess what she was feeling, or what she would do next.
Seconds passed—his brothers still arguing amongst themselves—before Rebekah looked across the table at him, and a slow smile turned her beautiful mouth. She picked up her spoon, dipped it into her bowl, and continued eating.
Tate thought his affection for her had swelled moments earlier, but that was nothing compared to the gratitude—and desire—he felt for her now.
A while later, after enjoying a second helping of Cattabelle’s homemade dried apple pies and savoring every delicious bite, Rebekah watched Emil retrieve a banjo, Rufus a dulcimer, and Benjamin a mandolin.
More than a little intrigued—and wondering why Tate wasn’t playing anything—she watched the brothers tune the instruments as Cattabelle excused herself to check on Angus. Meanwhile, Opal climbed into Tate’s lap, a quizzical look on her face.
“Did ya bring it agin this time?” Opal pressed a slender hand to Tate’s cheek, her blue eyes nearly identical to his in color, though her blond hair set her apart from him and the rest of her brothers.
“Do you even have to ask?” Tate whispered, and brushed a kiss to her forehead. He gestured toward his shirt pocket while looking at Rebekah.
An expression she couldn’t read clouded his handsome features and seemed to deepen the blue of his eyes. She had no idea what he was thinking, but somehow, she thought—or at least hoped—that it had something to do with her. But whatever it was, she was certain nothing else this man could say or do would surprise her after the past few hours.
But when she saw what he pulled from his shirt pocket, she was proven wrong. Yet again.
22
Rebekah didn’t even try to hide her surprise when Tate slipped the tiny instrument between his teeth. Nashville’s illustrious conductor—playing a mouth harp? Or Jew’s harp as she’d heard Yankees occasionally refer to it. If only Adelicia Cheatham were here to see her beloved conductor now. Rebekah couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of it.
But her laughter soon fell silent as his playing, along with his brothers’, when they joined in, earned her admiration instead. They were good—very good—and possessed a skill in timing and rhythm that only came from musicians who played together often.
As she watched them laughing and smiling, giving each other encouraging nods, or making faces when one of them slipped on a chord or note, she couldn’t help but wonder . . .
What must it have been like to be raised in this setting? With so little in one regard, and yet so very much in another?
As she listened to the song they were playing, a lively tune, she felt so thankful she was here. Yet a part of her wished, again, that she hadn’t boarded that train earlier today. Tate had wanted to keep this part of his life hidden. And knowing the workings of symphonies and conductors, she understood why.
There was nothing shameful about being from a place like this. And there was certainly no reason to hide it—unless you were one of the most lauded symphony conductors in the United States. After all, symphony board directors and their distinguished patrons wanted only the best. The crème de la crème. And that meant prestigious schools and a pedigree worthy of boasting rights.
And Chicory Hollow . . . Well, this place wasn’t quite on par with the Oberlin Conservatory of Music or the Peabody Conservatory of Music in Baltimore. How she wondered, having now seen this side of him, had he ever been afforded those opportunities.
How did a boy from Chicory Hollow become the conductor of the Nashville Philharmonic?
Grateful her clothes had finally dried, she watched Tate and his brothers as they played, her foot tapping along with the music despite the late hour and her growing fatigue.
No sooner did the first song finish than they started another. Opal jumped up as if on cue, and Rebekah soon learned why.
“‘’Twas in the merry month of May,’” the girl sang, her voice clear and bright, so lyrical, natural, “‘when green buds were all a-swellin’, sweet William on his deathbed lay, for love of Barbara Allen. He sent his servant to the town . . .’”
Rebekah found herself wishing she had her violin so she could join them. Yet she knew she couldn’t, even if she’d had it. Because to Tate’s knowledge, she only played the oboe and the piano. And for her sake, and Adelicia Cheatham’s, that’s the way it had to stay.
Opal took a bow at the close of her song, then scooted close beside Rebekah on the sofa.
Rebekah slipped her arm around the little girl’s shoulders. “That was beautiful. What’s the name of that song?”
“That there was ‘Barbara Allen.’ The afore one be ‘Arkansas Traveler.’ This un’s”—Opal smiled at her mother, who had joined them again and was already singing—“named ‘Lord Thomas and Fair Ellender.’ It’s one of Mama’s fav’rites.”
Cattabelle’s voice was lower-pitched than her daughter’s and could drift toward the melancholy, but it was just as unfettered and beautiful. Rebekah admired their courage in singing. It was as though they sang without thought of being heard, simply poured out the contents of their hearts, so at peace with themselves and who they were—and with the people listening to them—that no thought of criticism or lack of acceptance ever entered their minds.
Rebekah had always been self-conscious about her own voice. It was breathy and soft, nowhere near worthy of an operatic soprano or mezzo, or of any other part. Perhaps that’s why she’d worked so hard to perfect her skills on the instruments she played. But . . .
What would it be like to grow up with the kind of acceptance and contentment they possessed? To sing—or play or compose—without that heavy-handed inner voice whispering like a disheartening metronome, “That’s not good enough. That’s not good enough. That’s not good enough.”
As Tate played, that tousled curl of his fell across his forehead, and Rebekah smiled. He caught her watching him—and winked. And a part of her heart responded to this man she’d thought she knew so well as they worked together in Nashville. Now enjoying the chance to observe him unhindered, she found her thoughts taking a more intimate turn and was grateful he couldn’t read them.
The songs Tate and his brothers played were challenging instrumentally, and Rebekah realized she was attempting to transcribe the notes in her head as they played. But the livelier tunes were far too quick-paced and intricate for her to have any success, and the lyrics of the slower ballads drew her in so much with their stories that she couldn’t concentrate, for wanting to know what happened next.
The music was so beautiful. It bore a faint resemblance to the music she remembered Demetrius and the others singing when she was a child. The structure and tempos were different, but the soul of the music itself—the lyrics, the undercurrent of emotion—possessed the same depth of feeling . . . and sense of loss.
She heard Angus coughing again and looked around for Cattabelle, only to hear the woman speaking in low, comforting tones from the next room. At dinner, Cattabelle told her they’d been married for almost thirty-four years. Such love filled the woman’s eyes when she spoke of her husband.
“Ya know any ballads, Miss Carrin’ton?” Emil asked as the final chords from the last song hung in the air. “We can play ’bout near anythin’.”
Surprised at the question, Rebekah shook her head. “No . . . I . . . I’m afraid I’m not a singer.”
“Miss Carrington plays the oboe and the piano,” Tate volunteered, more than a hint of pride layering his voice. “And extremely well, I might add. She’s a most gifted musician.”
Rebekah warmed at his compliment.
“Wha
t’s a . . . oboe?” Opal asked.
Rebekah smiled. “It’s a kind of horn—a woodwind instrument—that’s shaped like a tube, about this long.” She held out her hands to indicate the length. “And you play it by blowing into a mouthpiece at the top.”
Opal slipped her hand into Rebekah’s. “Shore ’nough, Miss Carrin’ton, you gotta know some kind of song. Everybody be totin’ a song inside ’em. Leastwise, that’s what our pa says. And he hain’t never been wrong.”
At the girl’s mention of her father, Rebekah felt a tender thread tie itself around her heart—and pull tight. But did she dare sing in front of these people? In front of Tate?
She hadn’t sung in front of anyone since her mother had caught her singing in her bedroom years ago. And that had been enough. “Singing is not your strength, Rebekah.” The displeasure in her mother’s expression had spoken even louder than her words. “Far better for you to cultivate a talent that sets you in a favorable light, and then pursue that to the fullest.”
So that’s what she’d done. Only, her mother hadn’t approved of her final choice either. But seeing the innocent hope in Opal’s eyes, and the earnest anticipation in the others’, Rebekah gave a gentle shrug. “I honestly don’t know any of the songs you’ve played thus far.”
“What about ‘Purty Polly’?” Rufus asked. “Bettin’ you know that ’un.”
Rebekah shook her head.
“‘The Cuckoo’?” Emil tried, and strummed a few chords on the banjo.
Again, Rebekah shrugged.
Opal leaned in. “What about ‘Wayfarin’ Stranger’? Everybody knows that’un.”
Even before Rebekah could respond, Tate’s brothers started smiling.
“Ah . . . she knows that’un!” Rufus laughed. “I can tell it from her eyes!”
Her stomach already in knots, Rebekah forced a smile. “A man very special to me used to sing that song when I was a little girl. But . . . I’m not sure I still remember all the words, so perhaps I should simply—”
Opal leaned close. “If ya go and forget some, I’ll come alongside ya.”
“That un’s one of Angus’s fav’rites,” Cattabelle said from the doorway of the bedroom. “Mine too. Why don’t you play on Pa’s fiddle, Witty? He’s wakeful right now, so maybe he’ll hear it.”
Seeing the tenderness in Tate’s expression, Rebekah gathered that playing the instrument belonging to their father was a privilege and something not often done.
Tate retrieved an old leather case from a high shelf, opened it, and withdrew a beautiful fiddle. And a well-played one too, judging by the worn finish on the instrument’s body and neck.
As he tuned it, his gaze kept returning to Rebekah, and the intensity in his eyes warmed her more than a mere look should have. She only hoped she wouldn’t make a fool of herself. And of him, in turn.
Tate began playing, then Emil, Rufus, and Benjamin gradually joined in, and the familiar strains felt like a welcome visit from a dear old friend, yet her midsection was doing somersaults. She was half afraid she might lose the dinner she’d just eaten, and considering how hard she’d worked to get—and keep—that stew down the first time . . .
She took a deep breath.
Tate and his brothers played through the verse once, then Tate nodded her way. Rebekah closed her eyes and opened her mouth.
“‘I am a poor wayfaring stranger, while traveling through this world of woe . . .’” Her voice shook, but she sang on, imagining that she was sitting in her bedroom by the window again, listening to the voices drifting toward her from the cabins toward the back of the property. “‘But there’s no sickness, toil, nor danger . . . in that bright world to which I go.’”
Anticipating the next words, she felt a catch in her chest.
“‘I’m going there . . . to see my father. I’m going there . . . no more to roam. I’m only going over Jordan . . . I’m only going over home.’”
She took a much-needed breath and opened her eyes to see Tate’s own so full of emotion that tears rose in hers.
“Ya sing real purty,” Opal whispered.
Cattabelle nodded. “Like a spring rain comin’ down all gentle-like.”
Rebekah smiled, then realized the next verse was coming up. But she didn’t remember the words—
Opal took a breath. “‘I know dark clouds’ll gather roun’ me,’” the young girl sang. “‘I know my way be rough and steep.’” Her voice wrapped itself around the notes, lifting and falling with such ease for one so young. “‘Yet beauteous fields lie just b’fore me . . . where God’s redeemed their vigils keep.’”
Remembering the rest, Rebekah joined in and sang along with her.
“‘I’m going there to see my mother, she said she’d meet me when I come. I’m only going over Jordan . . . I’m only going over home.’”
Opal grinned and scrunched her shoulders, obviously pleased, and Rebekah hugged her tight.
Cattabelle walked closer as she began singing. “‘I soon be free from earthly trials . . .’” The woman’s voice, so rich and raw, held a yearning that Rebekah’s heart identified with and responded to. “‘My body rest in the ol’ churchyard. I’ll drop this cross o’ self-denial . . . when I go singin’ home to God.’”
Feeling almost carried along by the music, Rebekah joined in again, as did Opal and all of Tate’s brothers.
“‘I’m going there . . . to meet my Savior. Dwell with him and never roam. I’m only going over Jordan . . .’”
The rest of the voices fell away and Rebekah—as though they’d practiced this time and again—sang the last on her own.
“‘I’m only going . . . over home.’”
Half singing, half whispering the last words, Rebekah could scarcely draw breath, her heart felt so full. Slowly, the banjo faded, then the dulcimer, then the mandolin, until, finally, only the strains of the fiddle remained. And then . . . silence. For a moment, no one moved. Then—
Smiles and laughter swept through them all.
“That’s the best we ever done on that’un!” Emil clapped Tate on the back.
“Miss Carrin’ton.” Rufus eyed her. “Ya can’t be sayin’ you hain’t a singer no more. That song just proved ya are!”
“Land sakes, it did!” Cattabelle’s eyes shone with emotion. “Ya got such a honeyness to your singin’, ma’am. So soft and sweet.” The woman’s eyes went wide. “Ya gotta come back this summer for the annual singin’. Everybody in the holler comes. We got food and singin’ and dancin’. All the women, they bring what they made, whether’t be sewin’ or bakin’. We can do ‘Wayfarin’ Stranger’ for all them folks!”
“Oh!” Opal sprang up. “And we can teach ya lotsa songs ’tween now and then, Miss Carrin’ton!”
Feeling slightly overwhelmed, but in a good way, Rebekah laughed as the comments continued back and forth, bracketed by laughter and enthusiasm.
And—though it saddened her, in a way—she realized she’d never been in a setting where the love the family members had for each other was so evident. Though this family could certainly spar with each other—she’d witnessed that at dinner—she knew without question they would also walk through fire for each other, if the situation ever called for it.
Thirsty after all the singing, she retrieved her cup from the table and drank the remains, then filled it again from the pitcher.
“Be it present time yet, Witty?” Opal asked softly.
Tate gently tousled her hair. “I reckon it is. Run on and grab my satchel and bring it here.”
For the first time, Rebekah caught a trace of the twang in his tone. As she sipped her water, she wondered how hard he’d had to work to rid every trace of the holler from his voice.
His sister did as he asked, and he opened up the satchel. “For you, Mama . . .” He pulled out a paper-wrapped bundle and handed it to her. “Maybe you can make something for the annual singing this summer.”
Cattabelle unwrapped the package and her mouth slipped open.
&
nbsp; Rebekah’s did, too, when she saw the beautiful floral material along with a coordinating fabric in a lovely cobalt blue.
“Oh, Witty, it’s so purty!” Cattabelle hugged him tight. “But it’s too fancy for the likes ’a me.”
“Nonsense,” Tate said, kissing her forehead. “Besides, once Pa’s feeling better, he’d appreciate seeing you in a dress made from this. His favorite color on his favorite gal. Isn’t that what he always says?”
Cattabelle’s eyes watered. She nodded.
“Next . . .” Tate cleared his throat. “For my brothers.”
“The ones that’re here, anyway.” Benjamin laughed.
“There are more?” Rebekah asked, thinking better of it once she had.
Everyone laughed.
Tate nodded. “I have three more brothers. Older than these, but all still younger than me.”
Opal held up her hand. “There’s Tucker, who’s wed to Sudie. They live just over the mountain. They got three young’uns and another on the way. Then there’s Elisha, who’s wed to Nadi. They got two lil’ girls. They live on land her papa give ’em. ’Bout a day’s walk from here, over Trover’s Ridge. Then comes Clyde, who got tied last year to Mollie. They had ’em a baby boy last month and got ’em a cabin down the mountain a ways.”
Rufus punched Emil in the shoulder. “And don’t be forgettin’ Emil here, who’s weddin’ Effie this spring. You shoulda seen him afore he asked her pa for her hand. He was scare’t as a young pup.”
“Was not!” Emil punched his brother back, but truth reddened his cheeks.
Rebekah did a quick count. So seven boys, then Opal. All raised, she assumed, in this small cabin. She couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Tate pulled out three rectangular boxes and handed them to his brothers.
They opened them and—contrary to the responses Rebekah anticipated—their expressions sobered.
Cattabelle leaned close. “Oh, Witty, them’s beautiful.”
“Looks just like Pa’s,” Emil whispered, fingering the pocketknife.
A Note Yet Unsung Page 27