A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  The couple stood in the doorway looking rather astonished, and with good reason, Tate knew. Especially when a glance at the mantel clock told him it was well past midnight. Mrs. Cheatham was the first to speak.

  “Maestro Whitcomb, how pleasant, though surprising, to see you again. You’ve returned from . . . being gone.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure it is a surprise. It’s truly good to be back again. And to be here, at Belmont. I’ve missed . . . so much in my absence.”

  Dr. Cheatham shook his hand. “My wife and I are looking forward to May, and to hearing your symphony, Maestro.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m looking forward to it, too. Especially now that it’s finished.”

  Mrs. Cheatham smiled. “That’s certainly wonderful news, Maestro. Some gloriously wonderful muse must have inspired you to that end.”

  Not missing the subtle nudge in her tone, Tate smiled and reached for his coat. “Yes, ma’am. Both glorious and wonderful. But now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’ll take my leave so you can retire. Miss Carrington, until tomorrow.”

  Rebekah handed him the stack of sheet music, and her fingers brushed his as she did. Even that slightest touch moved him.

  Later that night, as he lay in his bed in the dark, he prayed for her future in New York. Then prayed for his own, without her.

  “There! That’s it!” Rebekah set down her bow and quickly penciled in the final notations on the music for the violin solo. “It needed a double, then triple stop in those first measures on page three. That helps build the tension.” She blinked, her eyes so fatigued that the notes were all but blurring in her vision. “And the arpeggios we added in measures sixty-two through seventy-eight, like the previous sets, must be fast but clean. That makes all the difference.”

  Tate played a few measures again on the piano. “And the section you noted at the first that should be played pizzicato, that was a very nice touch as well.”

  She took a tiny bow.

  He grinned. “You know what we say when someone plays pizzicato back home in Chicory Hollow?”

  She shook her head.

  “We say, ‘Ya done some mighty fine pluckin’ on that there fiddle.’”

  Rebekah laughed, still surprised at how quickly he could slip back into the cadence of a highlander.

  She’d made a point of telling Mrs. Cheatham about Tate’s father’s procedure and his improving health. It only seemed right, under the circumstances. She couldn’t allow Mrs. Cheatham to continue thinking Tate’s father was on the verge of death.

  A knock on the door drew their attention, and she laid the violin on the piano in front of Tate. They’d agreed it would still be best for appearances—Mrs. Cheatham’s primarily—if Rebekah’s ability to play the violin wasn’t made public. Anyone passing by in the hallway would simply think it was Tate who’d been playing.

  “Come in,” he announced.

  Adams, one of the violinists, peered inside. He held up his copy of the symphony. “May I say bravo, Maestro Whitcomb. I can’t tell you how thrilled we all are to have this opportunity, sir. The men send their gratitude.”

  “The honor is mine, Adams. Please pass that along to the others.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do that, sir.”

  The door closed and Rebekah’s heart swelled with pride. Did Tate have any idea how talented he was? And how beloved by these men, no matter how demanding and harsh he might be on occasion. Though those occasions were becoming more rare as the weeks went on.

  “You still hold that Darrow Fulton can do this, correct?”

  Not for the first time, Rebekah noticed how his gaze dropped to her lips as she readied a reply. It was happening more and more as the days passed. But the gesture was far from romantic on his part. She knew what that looked like, and this was entirely different.

  Opening her mouth to answer, she briefly considered sharing with him about what Darrow had said to her. Yet she didn’t wish to add to Tate’s load. He already had enough to bear. “I know he can do this, Tate. I grew up watching him play. He mastered Paganini by the age of eleven. He’s brilliant.”

  “And what age were you? Nine?”

  She gave him a look. “One thing I think could help would be for you to give him a word of encouragement.” Seeing his frown forming, she hastened to continue. “He greatly respects you. That’s clear to see. And when someone you respect takes the time to affirm you—sincerely, of course—that can make a world of difference.”

  His frown was slow to fade. “To the man’s credit, he does seem to be doing better these days.”

  She smiled. “Darrow Fulton will do splendidly on the solo. Don’t worry.”

  But despite her assurances, he did look worried. And weary.

  The last three weeks had been the busiest and most rewarding she could remember. She’d recommended very few changes to the fourth movement, for the simple reason that it was already a tour de force. All movements had been transcribed and distributed to the orchestra members. Now all that remained was to transcribe a final copy of the violin solo for Darrow Fulton, and she would do that today.

  She looked over the music spread out atop the piano and hoped Darrow realized what a privilege and honor he was being given. An honor that usually came along only once in a violinist’s lifetime.

  Tate rose from the piano, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have half an hour before orchestra rehearsal. I think I’m going to lie down for a few minutes.”

  She noted the furrows in his brow. “Another headache?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m simply tired. And thirsty.”

  He crossed to the table on the far wall and poured himself a glass of water. Meanwhile, she fetched a fresh supply of staff paper from the cupboard.

  “Tate, did you remember to ask Mrs. Bixby to secure seats for your parents?”

  When he didn’t reply, she looked back at him. His back was to her.

  “Tate?” she said again in a normal voice, trying not to go where her fears were taking her. “Tate, can you hear me?” She stared at his back, loving him, afraid for him, wanting to be so much more to him than she was—and that he would allow her to be. “I love you, Tate Whitcomb. With all my heart. And have for some time now. It doesn’t matter to me that you’re—”

  He turned back. And for a moment, she thought he’d heard every word.

  “If I happen to go to sleep, Rebekah, would you mind waking me up in time for the rehearsal?”

  She nodded. “Certainly.”

  He lay down on the sofa in the corner and, as she’d anticipated, was asleep within minutes. She made note of the time and when to awaken him.

  He hadn’t touched her in an intimate way since they’d kissed on the sofa that last night in Chicory Hollow. And she’d been the one to instigate that. She sighed, the root of hurt and disappointment reaching deep. Perhaps that had been a mistake on her part. And perhaps he really had been trying to give her a hint that morning when she’d boarded the train.

  Unwilling to give in to that possibility—not yet—she reached for a fresh pencil and paper, when her gaze fell to the updated rehearsal schedule Tate had distributed that morning.

  Individual section rehearsals were already under way, and going well. Next Monday, only four days hence, the entire orchestra would begin practicing together. Then four weeks and two days from tonight the new opera house would open, and Nathaniel Tate Whitcomb would take the stage for what was, in a conductor’s career, his finest hour.

  Please, Lord, please . . . don’t let it also be his last.

  Later that night, Rebekah crawled into bed, the bundle of letters beside her on the bedside table. In recent days she’d taken the time to look up all the Scripture references she’d skipped while reading the letters. What an encouragement that had proven to be.

  Now only two envelopes remained. It had taken all of her willpower last evening to save them.

  Soon she would have read them all. No more “heavenly visits” with Nana. Even as she
held the last two envelopes, the melancholy of something being lost to the past was foremost in her mind. And she felt a sense of disappointment too. She’d hoped her grandmother might have written something about Barton, perhaps left behind a clue as to whether she’d feared for her life with him. Or perhaps indicated she had known that the man was planning to steal her money.

  Rebekah sighed, realizing she’d likely read one too many novels in her youth. She turned over the top envelope and read the first sentence.

  And her grandmother’s words pricked her heart.

  I fear for my granddaughter tonight, Lord. I don’t know why, but I do. I wish I could talk to her. Hear her voice. If only for a moment. Simply to know she’s well. And safe. The letter I wrote to her today will take at least a week, if not more, to reach her. The one that I received from her yesterday was written almost two weeks ago. I feel . . .

  An indentation following the word feel pressed into the envelope significantly more than the handwriting had done. As though Nana had paused, the tip of her pen pressing down hard as the next thought formed.

  Rebekah stared at the spot and brushed her fingertip over it. She’d never thought about her grandmother being afraid for her when she lived in Vienna. After all, the danger had been back here. With Barton.

  She read on.

  . . . cheated of knowing her as well as I would if she were still here. I want to share her life, instead of an occasional letter and a handful of months every two years. Pardon my complaining, Lord. I have so much for which to be grateful, I know. Why do I always seem to . . .

  Nana had run out of room and continued the prayer angled up the side of the envelope, her handwriting cramped and narrowly spaced.

  . . . focus on what I don’t have instead of what I do? Keep her safe, Lord, and guard her heart. As much as I love her, I know you love her more. So please, hold her close while I cannot. May 29, 1869 (Genesis 31:49)

  Rebekah felt a familiar stinging behind her eyes. She looked at the date again. May twenty-ninth. She searched her memory for any significance that date might have held for her but came up short. She sighed. She wished she’d written Nana more often than she had.

  Seventy-one.

  That was the number of envelopes in the bundle. Was that all the letters she’d written to her grandmother over the past ten years? It couldn’t be. She was certain she’d written more. At least one per month. And yet, why would Nana have saved some of the letters and not others?

  Seventy-one.

  She’d worked the math. That wasn’t even one letter per month. More like seven letters per year with an extra one thrown in every now and then. She’d consoled herself by subtracting the months when Nana came to visit every two years. Because, of course, they hadn’t exchanged missives then. Still . . . What was it Delphia had told her? That at night she would come into Nana’s bedroom to find her reading and rereading the letters.

  Yet—Rebekah fingered the envelope—the best she could do with disappointments from the past was to learn from them. So vowing to do that, she reached for her Bible on her bedside table, then remembered she’d left it in the small study earlier that morning.

  Cozy and warm in her bed, she decided to leave the verses for later and turned over the last envelope.

  Her gaze went to the date first—November 24, 1870—and she sat up a little straighter. Only days before her grandmother had died.

  She couldn’t read the words fast enough.

  Thank you for my precious granddaughter, Lord. For her exuberant spirit, for her talent, for her life in Vienna, and for her love for you. She has grown up into a beautiful young woman. Thank you for Sally, who went willingly when I asked her to and who has so faithfully abided by my wishes all these years. Thank you for walking with me every step of the way, even on those occasions when I haven’t followed you as closely as I should have.

  Rebekah looked at the date again. Thanksgiving. The twenty-fourth of November had been Thanksgiving. The prayer made more sense now.

  Lord, I don’t know why things sometimes happen the way they do, or why you allow them to. While I’ve never doubted your power that I can recall (granted, your memory is better than mine) . . .

  Despite the seriousness of her grandmother’s thoughts, Rebekah had to smile. Because she could hear Nana saying that.

  . . . I have often doubted your ways. And so it is again. I realize it is wrong to do such, yet to deny it with you is senseless. You see my heart laid bare, even the parts I would beg be kept hidden from you. These past ten years have been the longest and most arduous of my life. How often I have questioned if I made the right decision all those years ago. But after sifting through the bits and pieces again and again, I realize I would make the same choice. I suppose that is worth something. But what I find most difficult to reconcile, Lord, is how you force those you love to walk roads that we would never force our own loved ones to walk. And yet, I am closer to you now than I have ever been. Your intent, no doubt. And, above all, my heart’s deepest desire. November 24, 1870 (Joshua 2:21)

  Chin trembling, eyes moist, Rebekah turned the envelope over, feeling bereft, wanting more, yet knowing there wasn’t any. She read the prayer again and again, then turned down the flame in the oil lamp, holding tight to the memory of Nana’s voice. And to the kindred struggle of wanting to believe even when she didn’t understand.

  34

  Have you seen him again? This . . . Billy?” Tate forked another bite of ham, glad Rebekah had agreed to have lunch with him. The cafe was a small one, tucked away on a less crowded thoroughfare. So it was quiet, even over the noon hour.

  For the past two weeks, he’d spent every waking minute at either the old opera house or the new one. Rehearsing, moving, rehearsing, moving. Rebekah had done much the same, except for the time devoted to tutoring Mrs. Cheatham’s daughter. Getting away for a while would do them both good.

  “Yes, his name is Billy. And no, I haven’t.” Rebekah paused as the waitress refilled their coffee cups. “Although I find myself looking for him everywhere I go. You should have felt his arms, Tate. So thin. And he’s so young to be living on the streets, both parents gone.”

  “I know you believe what he told you, Rebekah. About his parents and his situation. And I want to as well,” he added hurriedly, sensing an objection forthcoming. “But these kids who grow up on the streets are crafty.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, and I agree. But something about him makes me certain he was telling me the truth. I’ve asked around town about him. I talked with a few of the other newsboys, and even some of the shop owners. And while several of them claimed to know him, or are familiar with him—”

  Her expression told him that not all the reasons for being familiar with Billy were positive.

  “—none of them knows where he lives.”

  “And like I said before, I want to believe him too. If only for your sake.” He smiled. “But my run-ins with these kids haven’t been as positive as yours. Last time I tried to help one, he kicked me in the shin!”

  Rebekah laughed. “Billy tried to do that with me. But I saw it coming.”

  Tate frowned. “Exactly what are you implying?”

  She scrunched her shoulders and smiled, a very feminine gesture on her. “You are a few years older than me.”

  He gave her a look that drew a smile he wished he could capture and keep. “If you do find him again, you know there’s a widows’ and children’s home here in town. They might have room for him.”

  “Yes, I’ve passed by the building before. You know it’s managed by Eleanor Geoffrey.”

  Tate looked up. “The architect’s wife?”

  “Who is also Mrs. Cheatham’s niece.”

  “Well, with those connections I’m certain you’d be able to secure a place for him there.”

  Tate helped himself to another yeast roll from the basket, waiting for her response. But she merely nodded and sipped her coffee.

  He glanced at the clock on th
e wall. They had about an hour before the next rehearsal started. As of nine days ago, he’d combined all sections and the full orchestra had been practicing together in the new opera house—two four-hour sessions per day—and they’d made enormous strides.

  Maybe it was the acoustics of the new auditorium or everyone’s excitement about it, but the music sounded so full and rich. Yet, as usual, he still saw much room for improvement.

  And only two weeks until opening night.

  “I keep intending to ask you . . .” Rebekah tucked her napkin by her plate. “You said Mrs. Bixby set aside tickets for your parents. Where are they sitting?”

  “They’re front and center. Second row, on the aisle.”

  “Not box seats?”

  “All of the box seats were spoken for long before I even got to Nashville. Those went to symphony board members and donors who made generous contributions to the new building.” He forked the remaining piece of ham from Rebekah’s plate, which earned him a shake of her head. “But they’ll be fine sitting down front. Honestly, it won’t matter to my parents where they sit. And for me, I’m simply grateful they’ll be there. Emil’s coming with them too. To help them on the train and to get around town. So it’ll be the three of them. Emil’s the only one of my siblings who’s ever been off the mountain.”

  About to take a sip of coffee, Rebekah paused. “They’ve never traveled outside Chicory Hollow?”

  He smiled. “I hadn’t either, before I left. And I might’ve been there still, if not for Jacob Marshall and Frederick Mason.”

  “The missionary and your benefactor.”

  He nodded, wishing the men were still alive so they could attend opening night. Not only to hear the symphony, but because Tate wished to thank them again for the difference they’d made in the course of his life. He looked across the table and wondered whether or not he would have ever met Rebekah if not for Mr. Marshall’s heart to share the goodness of Christ and to leave lives better than he’d found them. And also if not for Mr. Mason’s generosity to share his financial wealth.