by Carole King
“Why didn’t you waken me?”
“You were dead to the world. As it is, I built you a fire, undressed you, and got you tucked into bed.” Her voice was rising. “I won’t do it again, though, if you’re going to be so high and mighty.”
“High and mighty!” Autumn said on a breath. “I am only suggesting that you might have explained—”
“I got no time for explanations,” returned Carrie Inman. “I got enough work in this house for ten women. I’m only the one, you know. When I come to this household ten years ago, there was a dozen of us girls, plus a cook and a butler, a gardener and a pot boy and a footman. Now there’s just me to take care of the doctor and his mother and all the stable hands. He runs off the girls as soon as he hires them.”
“Are you speaking of Dr. Byron?”
“Who else?” Autumn recalled the girl she had seen the previous night who had been all but thrust from the house. She asked Mrs. Inman about her. “That was Alma Louise. She was as good as you get from the docks today. She accidentally left one of the stable doors open, and one of the doctor’s horses got out. Why you’d think she’d committed the Original Sin, the way he went on.”
“He didn’t use physical force, did he?” asked Autumn cautiously. Carrie Inman shook her head.
“No, but he might’s well have. He upbraided that girl till she finally quit him, and I don’t blame her. The yelling and accusations that went on in this house before you come was frightening, miss. I almost left meself.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because . . .” The woman’s voice and assertive manner waned abruptly. She set down the tray and folded her hands before her. Eyeing Autumn levelly, she continued. “I come here, miss, right off the boat ten years ago. I’ve been here since I was sixteen years old. Much like yourself, I put myself in service willingly as Mrs. Byron’s personal maid. And I seen that woman go from a vibrant healthy lady to—practically—a corpse.
“Now I don’t make claims to a charitable heart, but I think, if I was to be asked, that I’m needed here. I’m all Mrs. Byron’s got who remembers her when. That’s real important to a sick woman. But, I’ll tell you this, when she goes, so do I.”
“Is she dying?” Autumn asked, her voice catching.
“If it ain’t death she’s facing, then I don’t know what.” Autumn’s brows furrowed. She reminded Mrs. Inman that people simply did not die of nervous disorders.
“Beyond that,” she added, “her physician is coming today. Surely he—”
“A lot of good he is,” Carrie Inman said indignantly. “If you ask me—”
A call from the other chamber caught the attention of both women, and Autumn rushed past Mrs. Inman and into Mrs. Byron’s room.
“What is it, Mrs. Byron,” Autumn inquired solicitously. She parted the hangings to find the older woman sitting fully upright. She regarded Autumn testily. “Who are you?” she snapped. Autumn smiled and began to straighten the counterpane. “Stop rooting around my bed.”
“I am Autumn Thackeray,” she said calmly, as she tied the hangings back. Mrs. Inman interrupted the exchange to inform the women that she was headed back to the kitchen.
“You get me a fire going, Carrie,” Mrs. Byron demanded. Mrs. Inman glanced at Autumn and mentioned that she would see to the fire. As she started to leave, Mrs. Byron stopped her with a stentorian oath. “It’s goddamned cold in here!” Autumn’s mouth fell open, but Carrie Inman merely rolled her eyes and withdrew. “I said,” Mrs. Byron repeated, “it’s goddamned cold in here. I want a goddamned fire.” Autumn could hardly credit the woman’s blasphemous language. More to stop it than anything, she hurried to the hearth. “And why are you dressed in a blanket?” An unnatural, almost diabolical energy seemed to have taken hold of Mrs. Byron.
“I just awakened,” said Autumn, feverishly trying to coax a fire from nearly deadened embers. “I’ve been hired by your son to—”
“Don’t I get any food?”
“Of course,” Autumn said. “I’ll bring you something. You didn’t seem interested in your—”
“I want something to eat, goddamn it!” Appalled, Autumn hastened to finish her task, as with a horrible abruptness, the woman dissolved into tears. “They’re starving me,” Mrs. Byron said piteously, then laid her head back on her pillows, closed her eyes, and unimaginably, began to snore. Autumn moved to the bed tentatively.
“Mrs. Byron?” she questioned. “Are you awake?” There was no answer as the woman began to breathe evenly. In her store of experience, Autumn had never seen such swings of mood. Despite the fire that was now blazing behind her, she felt a cold chill beneath her flesh. She could give no credence to Mrs. Byron’s accusation that she was being starved. Autumn recalled the heavy tray of food she’d brought up. The woman was obviously in the care of people who were devoted to her—certainly they would never abuse her. Mrs. Inman was an obdurate enough lady, but she had professed a deep well of feeling for her mistress. And there was no question of her devotion, though she sometimes lacked the outpouring of compassion that would affirm it. And Dr. Byron was a conscientious son, if not a warmhearted or affectionate one. There seemed no reason for Mrs. Byron’s impeachment. She was not being starved.
Recalling that breakfast tray, Autumn was reminded that she had not eaten since early the previous day, and her own hunger gnawed. She made her way, glancing back at the slumbering Mrs. Byron and assuring herself that the lady was, for the moment, at peace, back to her own chamber and splashed her face with water from the flowered ewer. She dressed hurriedly, putting on her traveling outfit, minus the little hat, which she picked up sadly from the floor. Autumn shut her eyes against the scene that replayed itself in her mind, against the image of herself in the darkly veined mirror. Surely she had gone temporarily insane. She set down the hat and searched for her hairbrush. Her things were still scattered about the floor, but she found the brush. Working quickly, she pinned her hair into as neat a coif as she could manage. She made a last hasty inspection of herself in the mirror. Her carriage dress was a bit wilted from travel, but it retained, by virtue of the fineness of the material, a certain respectability. Finally, dissatisfied with her appearance but aware of her employer’s impatience, she left the room. Passing the kitchen on the first floor, she glanced in. Carrie Inman was there kneading bread dough.
“There’s coffee, and there’s muffins on the shelf above the stove,” that lady said sullenly.
“Mrs. Inman,” Autumn said gently, “I am sorry I upset you earlier. We needn’t be bad friends.” Carrie shrugged a heavy shoulder. Autumn took some coffee and a muffin. “These look wonderful,” she said. A bell, one of several lined up above the entrance to the kitchen, jangled resolutely, and both women came to attention.
“That’ll be the doctor,” Mrs. Inman said and began to wipe her hands on her apron.
“I’ll see to it, Mrs. Inman,” Autumn told her. She took a quick gulp of coffee and a bite of the muffin. “I suspect Dr. Byron will be wanting me anyway.”
“No hard feelings, then?” Carrie asked.
“None,” Autumn responded with a smile. “But I must tell you, I have had enough of bells to last me a lifetime.” She proceeded from the room smoothing her hair and clothing and followed the hallway to the front of the house. She stopped before a double pocket door and composed herself. Taking a calming breath, she knocked.
“Come.” Autumn took another breath and slid open the doors. Cain Byron, seated at his massive desk, glanced up. “Oh,” he muttered, “it’s you.”
“Yes, sir,” Autumn said, sliding the doors closed. “Mrs. Inman was busy in the kitchen, and I presumed that you wanted to see me in any event—”
“You presumed correctly, Miss Thackeray,” he intoned, going back to his work. Autumn stood before the desk, hands folded primly before her, waiting for the doctor’s attention. At last, he looked up. Rather than speaking, he stood and came around to the front of the desk. He did not remove the thin cigar that
was tucked in his teeth. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back against his desk. “How is my mother?”
“She is sleeping at the moment, sir,” Autumn replied, startled at the mildness of his tone. Perhaps, like the mother, the son, too, had inconsistent swings of humor.
“Sit down, Miss Thackeray.”
“I dare not stay long,” she ventured. He splayed a hand.
“I will not keep you.” He removed the cigar and snuffed it out. His demeanor seemed less rattled, more serene, than it had the night before, or even earlier this morning. Even his clothing, though he wore the same style—buff jodhpurs and loose-collared shirt—seemed tidy and tucked. His boots were polished and his hair combed. He was not the shaggy brute she’d previously met, though his manner was still curt. “Apologies do not come easily to me, Miss Thackeray. But I am a reasonable man. I’ve taken some time this morning to write out your duties. It was not fair of me to expect that you would automatically know how to handle this most difficult assignment.” He reached across the desk and retrieved a sheet of paper with carefully penned instructions. Handing it to her, he resumed. “Please have Mrs. Inman look this over, as she has been my mother’s primary caregiver. I am certain she will be glad to assist you in any way she can.”
Autumn might have mentioned that Mrs. Inman seemed overburdened as it was with household duties, but she checked her comment and said, “This nervous disorder from which your mother suffers, may I know something about it?”
“Dr. Beame himself is often mystified, Miss Thackeray. He has treated many female patients, and he asserts that the constant swings of mood and the behaviors that form this disorder continue to bewilder him. And my mother is a particularly resistant patient. But he and I have every confidence that his treatment will eventually bear fruit.”
“How long has he been treating Mrs. Byron?”
“For nearly three years.”
“And what started all this?”
“That,” he said, “I shall not discuss.” At the flash of disappointment that crossed her face, he amended his tone. “I cannot discuss it, Miss Thackeray. It would prove an embarrassment to my mother.” He lit another thin cigar. “As you will not speak of your financial reverses, I shall not speak of this.” Autumn nodded, faintly unsettled. She looked down at the paper. Perusing the list of instructions, she was not altogether certain that, without understanding the details of Mrs. Byron’s illness, she could conform to her treatment. The dictates of the lady’s confinement seemed harsh.
Mrs. Byron was not allowed to go outside; she was not allowed to listen to music; she was not allowed to read; she was not allowed to engage in discussions of any sort; she was to remain in her room, with only the occasional visit to her parlor. Autumn did not have time to read the rest of the prescribed treatment, but if it were as austere as what she had read, it would be difficult to maintain. She expressed as much to Dr. Byron.
“It is not for us to decide, Miss Thackeray. I will concede that I was myself hesitant to agree to this type of rigid treatment of my mother. She was an active and strong woman. But, I can assure you that Dr. Beame has enjoyed great success with his female patients over the years. It is no fault of his that my mother has not improved under his treatment. The fact is, this excessive, seemingly harsh, regimen has only been necessary in the last year. The problem, as I mentioned, is that she fights her treatment. Winslow feels this . . . combativeness of her nature may have exacerbated and unnecessarily prolonged her illness.”
“I am sorry to hear such a thing,” Autumn said. “I can assure you that I shall do my very best to see that these rules are followed. It would be a great joy to me to see your mother well.”
“I am glad to hear you say it, Miss Thackeray. The fact is, though, Win sees little hope for that. He insists, as I mentioned last night, that mother needs a more confined environment.” He regarded her keenly. “But I shall not give in. That is the reason I hired you. When I saw your advertisement in the Cape May Republican, the idea occurred to me to retain the services of a gentlewoman, a lady of breeding, to care for my mother. She has been surrounded by careless indigence. Girls from the town come here to care for her, and they do so with a stunning lack of good will. They are interested only in the few coins they can gather from their efforts.” Autumn winced inwardly. Her own motivation was distinctly financial. “And,” he added, “in the gossip they can take back to their cronies.”
“Has she no friends?”
Cain Byron shook his head. “She necessarily gave up her friendships long ago. I insisted on such a course. The nature of her disorder made that necessary. Society, as you may know, Miss Thackeray, is woefully judgmental. There were a few ladies around the town who used to call from time to time, but I have not allowed mother to receive them. As you have seen, her condition is grave, and . . . I must say, most unattractive. I will not have her reputation damaged by gossip. As far as anyone knows, she is being treated for a respectable disorder, one suffered by many women of her class.”
“And what of family?”
“There is just me. My father passed on nearly ten years ago, and my four sisters are married and have moved with their husbands to various parts of the country. They have families of their own—each sister having numerous children. As executor of this entitlement, the house, the lands, the Byron fortune, it is my obligation . . . my happy obligation to care for my mother. Unfortunately, I know so little of the vagaries of women’s thinking . . .” He took a long draw on his cigar. “The fact is, Miss Thackeray, I am counting heavily on the notion that my mother will respond more willingly to her treatment if it is ministered by someone of her own class. But that one must also be discreet. I want no hint of scandal to befall her. I am, you see, doing the best I can.”
Given your limited patience and sensitivity. “I do understand your position, sir.”
“Mother has lived by a definitive code her whole life. She has lived a life of social stability; she is a flower of gentility.” Autumn thought briefly of the woman’s not so genteel language of the morning, but she kept a solemn eye on the Turkish carpet. “Despite your family’s current financial embarrassment, I believe you, too, have lived such a life.” He stepped back behind his desk and drew from the center drawer a sheaf of letters, tied with a length of twine. With some astonishment, Autumn recognized the pale blue stationery as her own. “This,” he said, “is the correspondence of a young woman who understands advantage as well as adverse fortune. I respect that young woman. She is courageous and honest. She is gracious, and most importantly, kind.” He slid the letters onto the desk. “I do not mean to shock you with a display of passion, but I must tell you, Miss Thackeray, you are my last hope.” Autumn looked up.
“I shall not disappoint you, Dr. Byron,” she said hesitantly. She stood. “If you will excuse me, I really must get back to Mrs. Byron.” Cain held out his hand and Autumn took it. Without further word, she left the Turkish chamber of the master of the house.
Autumn had scarce time to pen a quick letter to her mother before beginning her duties in what would prove to be a most significant first day in the Byron household. She riffled through her belongings for her stationery and sat finally with pen in hand, wasting precious moments, she scolded herself, while agonizing over what to write. Best for her mother’s peace of mind if she depicted a thoroughly positive image—one, sadly, Autumn only wished were true.
“Dearest Mother,” she wrote hastily and with no bow to accuracy, “I have arrived safely in Cape May, have, in fact, spent a most assuredly comfortable first night and morning in my first situation away from home.
“My, my, how friendly the people are, how warm, how generous.
“The lady for whom I am to care, Mrs. Byron, seems a grand person indeed. I shall not have very much to do except to keep her company and to see that she is comfortable, and, as you might imagine, there is more than a sufficiency of help in such a magnificent household. You mustn’t worry one whit about me; I am qu
ite sitting in the very lap of luxury . . .” Autumn glanced briefly about the tiny, gray chamber, cast a disheartened eye on her rumpled bed, then, averting her gaze, continued the letter. “Naturally, I miss you terribly. One day, we must arrange a visit for you here. In the meantime, I remain your obedient and loving daughter.” Autumn signed her name quickly, before a change of heart and the need for a sympathetic ear bade her write the absolute truth of her situation. She stuffed the note into an envelope and sealed it. Within the space of several days, Isabel Thackeray would have a most pleasant, most cheering, if not authentic, picture of her daughter’s new circumstances.
She is as prettily turned out as a sunflower as she moves among the guests, curtsying, her smile as bright as their glowing approbation. She sees her father at the far end of the room, and suddenly bolting, she runs toward him. Her tiny foot catches a bit of loose carpeting and she totters, but the tall father leaps forward and prevents her fall. He lifts her in strong arms and presses her to his chest, laughing at her sweet exuberance. He smells of tobacco and cinnamon. Tea will be served presently, and she will receive an extra cake for her near misadventure.
Chapter 3
The clock in the lower gallery tolled the three o’clock hour, and Mrs. Byron’s room was a pandemonium of scattered gowns, undergarments, and heirloom jewels. Scarves and shawls, fans and feathers were examined and discarded, flying about the chamber like drunken birds. Mrs. Inman had joined Autumn in the laborious task of making Mrs. Byron presentable for her doctor’s visit. The man would arrive for tea, according to his letter.
“We’ll never have her ready,” Mrs. Inman informed Autumn as the older woman prepared a hot sponge bath for the patient.
“But we must,” Autumn replied. She brushed feverishly at a silk file gown of watered mauve and attempted to revive the wilted rosettes at its shoulders and bodice. “Dr. Byron fears that if his mother isn’t well turned out today, Dr. Beame may insist she travel with him to New York City and submit herself to institutionalization. We must see to it that she is as presentable a lady as any that ever walked the streets of Cape May.” She glanced at the silent center of all this confusion. That woman lay snoring quietly in an upholstered chair. “She sleeps a great deal, does she not?” she observed. Mrs. Inman nodded.