Rebekah winced. “Did they ever find out who killed him?”
“No. And they never will.”
“Too much time had passed, I guess.”
“It’s not about time passing, not here in these mountains. It’s about loyalty. And about being an outsider.”
“An outsider . . . like I am.”
“Yes.” He smiled. “You’re most definitely an outsider, Rebekah. But also . . . no. Because you’re not demanding that the people here change their ways—that they surrender the life and livelihood they’ve known for over a century or longer. Viewing it from a highlander’s perspective, that revenue agent killed three of their men in cold blood. Three fathers, three sons, three husbands. And these people never give up their own.”
“Even if their own have done wrong?”
He eyed her. “Sometimes wrong isn’t always so straight-edged. After all, those three men died unarmed. Unable to defend themselves. And I knew all of them. They were fine men, Rebekah, who left behind wives and children.”
She considered that for a moment. “But . . . surely your family doesn’t condone moonshining?”
“Not at all. You heard what my mother said at the table.” He smiled. “The Whitcombs put that behind us years ago, long before I was born.” He motioned for them to continue on down the path. “But for some of these people, moonshining is part of who they are. It’s a sacred skill their parents and grandparents handed down to them. It’s how they provide for their families. Selling to outlanders. I’m not saying what those three men did was right. But I do know it’s not easy to carve out a living back here, especially when you’ve got lots of mouths to feed.”
A whistle blast pierced the air, and they hurried on toward the train station. As they approached, Tate remembered something, and he searched the platform and the boarding passengers.
“One more thing, Rebekah, before you go . . . With all else that happened, I haven’t given this any thought since yesterday. But . . . I saw your stepfather getting off the train. Here, in Chicory Hollow.”
The surprise in her expression rivaled his own at the time.
“Did he say what he was doing here?”
“I didn’t ask. In fact, I made a point for him not to see me. I simply thought you should know.”
Same as he’d done, she searched the platform, her features a mixture of dread and concern. “Thank you for telling me.”
Despite her protests, Tate purchased her ticket at the window, then slipped it into her hand. Part of him wished she wasn’t going back just yet, while the greater part of him knew she didn’t belong here. Although, for not belonging, she certainly had won his family over.
He walked her to the first-class passenger car. “Do you have money for the trip home?”
She smiled up at him, nodding, looking lovely in the morning light. “I’ve already begun praying that you’ll hear from one of those physicians, Tate. And that your father’s health won’t worsen in the meantime.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, wondering precisely when her features had become so cherished to him. The soft hollows beneath her cheekbones, the way her brows arched over kind eyes, how her hair framed her face when she wore it pinned back, as she did now. Even the delicate slope of her nose and her hazel eyes drew him. And those lips . . .
He reined in that particular thought, unable to do anything about it at the moment. “I’ll be back Monday afternoon. Please see if you can have the third movement completed by then. That would be a great help.”
She gave him a mock salute. “Why not the fourth as well, since we’re dreaming.”
“I don’t know—I think you can do it.” He eyed her, keeping his smile in check. “Since you’re so high-stocked with brains and all, like me.”
Her mouth slipped open. “You were eavesdropping on me and Opal last night!”
He laughed. “I was. What little I could hear, anyway. You were whispering, after all.”
Her laughter washed over him as her gaze briefly slipped from his eyes to his mouth, then slowly inched back upward, and he read desire in the act. He glanced at the men still loading the bags at the far end of the platform, took her by the hand, and led her behind the ticket office. She came willingly, matching him almost step for step.
They rounded the corner, and he took her in his arms and kissed her. Her arms came around his neck and pulled him closer, tighter. He deepened the kiss, and she melted into him, her body pressed so close he was certain he felt the beat of her heart in his own chest.
The final whistle blew, and he reluctantly drew back, smiling a little when she resisted letting go of him. As quickly as he’d led her back here, he returned her to the platform, pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, and put her on the train.
Heaven unleashed the storehouses of rain just as Tate stepped onto the platform in Knoxville. The train had left Chicory Hollow thirty minutes behind schedule that morning, which meant now he was thirty minutes behind as well. Sometimes he hated traveling.
He checked his baggage with the porter, turned up the collar of his suit coat, and plunged into the fray of street traffic.
He’d never visited this physician before. In fact, he hadn’t required a doctor’s services in years. But he was familiar enough with Knoxville to know the part of town in which the man’s office was located.
Contrary to the opinion Rebekah had held, he wasn’t one to take unnecessary medications or tonics. But if medication is what the doctor prescribed, he would take it. Or if surgery was necessary—following the grand opening of the opera house—he would agree to it, as soon as his schedule allowed.
He hadn’t slept much the past two nights in Chicory Hollow, thinking about today and the increasing recurrence of headaches—and his hearing. He told himself the problem would improve significantly once he’d finished composing the symphony. Simply get past May and the stress of the grand opening, and it will get better.
Twenty minutes later and all but soaked, he located the appropriate shingle hanging on the exterior of one of the handsome redbrick buildings lining both sides of Maple Street. He checked his pocket watch. Ten minutes until his appointment, which meant he was already five minutes late by his book. He’d soon learn whether the physician operated his practice on a similar schedule.
Tate opened the ornate wooden door and was greeted by the off-putting antiseptic scent. A young woman seated behind a secretary’s desk met his gaze with a subdued smile.
“How may I help you, sir?”
“Mr. Whitcomb to see Dr. Hamilton.”
“Thank you, Mr. Whitcomb. Please have a seat. The doctor will be with you shortly.”
The woman pulled one of several cords located on a signal board on the wall behind her, and Tate claimed a chair in the small but nicely furnished waiting room. He checked his pocket watch again. The doctor had five minutes.
Not two minutes later, an interior door opened and a distinguished-looking older gentleman stepped out. “Mr. Whitcomb, I’m Dr. Ronald Hamilton. Please, come in.”
Considering the appointment off to a good start, Tate preceded him into the room and took the offered wingback chair.
“Your letter intrigued me, Mr. Whitcomb.” Dr. Hamilton closed the door and seated himself behind the desk. “You were quite thorough in your explanation and charting of your headaches—or . . . episodes, as you referred to them—and I’m eager to discuss that at greater length. But before we begin the examination, I want you to know that I greatly appreciate the trust you’re placing in me, and I assure you I will do everything medically possible to diagnosis and treat your ailment.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hamilton. And I appreciate not only your stellar reputation here and at Boston Medical for so many years, but your confidentiality as well.”
The doctor tilted his head in acknowledgment. “As I explained in my missive, we all tend to take our various senses for granted. Only when one of those senses is impinged upon in some way do we realize how precious a gift it truly
is. You’ve done well not to allow this to progress any further without seeking medical attention. Sometimes the remedy is as simple as draining fluid from behind the eardrum. Other times, the treatment, if one exists,” he added with a hint of caution, “can be far more involved. We shall hope it’s the former.”
Tate nodded, eager to move past discussion and on to discovery.
As though sensing his impatience, Dr. Hamilton rose. “Per our exchange, following my examination today, I will share the findings with my colleague in Boston who also specializes in auditory maladies. Then I’ll detail our recommended course of action to you in a letter. Unless, of course, you’d rather return to Knoxville to receive the diagnosis.”
“A letter will suffice.”
“Very well, then.” The doctor paused, briefly looking down at his clasped hands. “I saw you conduct in New York, two years ago now, I believe. I’ve heard Beethoven’s Ninth many times, but never like that. Your talent and ability to inspire musicians is nothing short of masterful. Especially for one so young, if you don’t mind my saying.”
Tate tried not to hear finality in the man’s voice. “I don’t mind at all. And I thank you, sir, for the compliment.”
“Well then, let’s get started. Shall we?” The doctor crossed to a side door and opened it to reveal an examination and surgical room. “After you . . . Maestro.”
25
What had Barton been doing in Chicory Hollow?
All day Monday Rebekah worked in Tate’s office, anticipating his arrival that afternoon, but she couldn’t get the question out of her mind. Had Barton seen her getting onto the train in Nashville and followed her? It made no sense. How could he have known? She hadn’t even known herself until the very last minute. She’d kept watch for him on her return trip to Nashville Saturday, but hadn’t seen him.
Something else that made no sense was Tate not showing up when he’d said he would. She was eager for him to return so they could begin working on the symphony again. But that wasn’t the only reason she wanted him back. The way he’d swept her behind the ticket office and kissed her breathless before seeing her off also figured into it. Were all kisses like that?
If yes, she understood even more why men and women married. Because her first kiss was absolutely . . .
Remembering Tate’s mouth on hers, his arms around her, his hands on her back—she grew flushed all over again. And with that thought ever vivid in her mind, she returned to her task. Or tried.
She’d half expected to run into Miss Endicott that morning, but the young woman hadn’t showed. Which suited her more than fine.
Finally, after five o’clock came and went, Rebekah left a note for Tate on the piano, more concerned now than frustrated. She detailed what she’d accomplished for the day, along with proposed changes for the third movement—on the off chance he came in to compose later that evening.
She met the carriage at the appointed place and settled in for the ride to Belmont, suddenly wishing—after the wonderful time spent with Tate’s family—she could stop and see her mother on the way. To perhaps begin trying to heal the rift between them. But being so late in the day, Barton would likely be home—if he was back in town. And as much as she wanted to see her mother, she didn’t want to risk seeing him.
The carriage turned onto the drive leading to Belmont, and situated atop the hill, the mansion glowed rosy pink in the fading afternoon light. But she missed having a place to call home. Belmont was lovely. Exquisite, actually. And she was grateful to be here, given the alternative. But it wasn’t home. Not for her.
The driver guided the carriage up the final turn, and Rebekah spotted Eli and Zeke, a young groomsman who worked in the stables, waiting out front. As the carriage drew closer, Zeke took off running around the side of the mansion—quick as a flash—as she’d seen him do on other occasions when carriages arrived. On some errand for Eli, she guessed.
“Good evening, Miss Carrington.” Eli greeted her as he opened the door. “Hope you had yourself a good day of working in that music hall, ma’am.”
Rebekah accepted his assistance. “I did. Thank you, Eli. But it’s also nice to be back here.”
“It’s always good to get home, ma’am. No matter where home is, that’s where the heart is rooted.”
“Yes.” Her smile faltered. “That’s so true.”
The mansion was unusually quiet, same as the evening before. Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham and the children had extended their stay in Murfreesboro, which meant she had more time to work on the symphony with Tate—which she would be happy to do, especially after their time in Chicory Hollow.
And in light of the hasty telegram she’d sent before boarding the train—which Mrs. Routh confirmed they received—Rebekah again counted herself lucky that the family had been traveling that weekend. Fewer questions from Adelicia Cheatham, the better.
She discovered her dinner tray waiting in her room, somewhat irritatingly so, considering her memorable encounter with Esther and Cordina. It would’ve bothered her far less if Cordina had simply been the type of head cook who didn’t like others “trespassing” in her kitchen. Herr Heilig’s head chef hadn’t allowed any nonculinary employees to step foot in his areas of the home. But Cordina wasn’t like that. This was something else completely. Something more. Only, Rebekah didn’t know what.
And that troubled her.
Not bothering to light a lamp, she pulled up a chair and ate by the window, as she usually did, dusk swiftly descending over the rolling hills that comprised the majority of the Belmont estate. She ate the hot split-pea-and-ham soup as her gaze settled on a tree line in the distance—maples, she’d discovered on a walk—and she imagined how beautiful they would be all leafed out with spring.
But spring felt a long way away tonight. As did her future in New York City.
She finished dinner, and as she stood to put the tray outside her door, she glimpsed someone walking from the direction of the servants’ houses toward the mansion. A man, judging from his clothes, and an older man at that. Because he walked with a cane, his limp pronounced. She might not have paid him any mind, except that he walked with such purpose—straight toward a towering old oak. Where, upon reaching it, he stepped into its shadow and vanished.
Rebekah squinted. If she hadn’t already known he was there, she never would have been able to see him. But someone else did.
Because at that very moment, a woman walked hurriedly from the back of the mansion directly toward the tree. One of the servants, Rebekah assumed. And just as the man had, the woman disappeared into the shadow of the massive tree.
Rebekah waited. For what, she wasn’t certain. Only, she found she couldn’t look away. Then, as seconds passed, she began to wonder if perhaps she should look away. For propriety’s sake. But . . . she knew better. The man was old, and something about the woman had struck her as mature as well. So she was certain nothing—
The couple stepped from the shadows, and the woman reached up and—Rebekah frowned—struck the old man on the shoulder! What on earth was she . . .
Rebekah leaned closer to the darkened window, her breath fogging the pane. The woman hadn’t intended for her gesture to be hurtful at all. But rather . . . playful. Rebekah could tell by the way she leaned into him, as though laughing, their foreheads touching. Moved by their obvious affection for each other, Rebekah watched them walk arm in arm back toward the servants’ houses.
Until finally, the night enveloped them both.
For what seemed like a long time, she stared at that empty slice of darkness, surprised to find herself smiling even as her eyes filled with tears. She turned away from the window, struggling to rein in her thoughts. One thought, in particular. And she found the needed distraction in transcribing a portion of notes she’d brought home with her.
But as she crawled into bed a while later, weariness overtook her resolve, and she hugged her pillow tight against her cheek, hoping that someday—if it was in accord with God’s desire for her lif
e—that she, too, would be able to grow old with the man she loved.
Eight o’clock the next morning, the carriage let Rebekah off near the side alley of the opera house, and she heard the orchestra as soon as she opened the back door. She liked arriving this early and wished she could make it a regular occurrence. No sign of Mrs. Bixby or Mrs. Murphey, so she continued on to Tate’s office, stashed her things, and sneaked in through the door leading backstage.
Tate had chosen Mozart, yet again. Symphony No. 31 in D Major. The Paris Symphony, as it was also known. Maestro Heilig had conducted this as well, many times.
What she remembered most about this symphony was Maestro Heilig’s amusing, but true, comment. “It simply contains too many ideas, too much variety, too much content. And therefore, wins over practically everyone who hears it!”
She walked to the edge of one of the side curtains and saw Tate, and her heart did a tiny flip. She watched him, recalling every detail about their kiss and wondering if he’d had similar recollections of the moment. Or did men think about such things as women did?
He conducted with such boldness, such masterful grace. With the slightest movement of his hand, the rich tones of the horn section swelled and floated upward, their dominant note ruling the moment. Then the woodwinds—clarinets, flutes, oboes, and bassoons—then the strings, every section in turn seeming intrinsically tied to Tate’s merest whim. All he had to do was look and they responded. She’d observed enough conductors in her lifetime to know that he was, indeed, special. And she felt, maybe for the first time, at least at this level, how fortunate she was to work so closely with such a man, much less to feel this way about—
A Note Yet Unsung Page 30