by Carole King
“That’s how it’s supposed to be, miss,” she said as she brought the ewer to a table and carefully poured warm water into a bowl. Carrie had proven more than helpful during Autumn’s occasion-filled first day in the Byron household. But her generosity had its threshold. “Do you think you can handle things here, love?” she asked as she patted Mrs. Byron’s arms and face down with a soft cloth. “I’ve got to get me back to the buttery. They’ll be sending me off to one of their institutions if I don’t get up a proper tea.” She swiped at her upper lip with the hem of her apron.
“Oh, of course, Mrs. Inman,” Autumn replied guiltily. “I’ve kept you from your work far too long. On the other hand . . .” she lamented before the lady could make her exit, “this gown needs a good pressing.” Mrs. Inman eyed the younger woman incisively.
“Is it the only one she can wear?”
“It is the only one that isn’t soiled,” Autumn replied earnestly. “I’ll get her clothes in order as soon as I have some time, I promise, but in the meantime . . .”
The housekeeper cum laundry maid took the dress and hurried out before another task befell her. Autumn looked to the woman in the chair. If only there were some sort of cooperation, she reflected. Lacking that, Autumn was determined to do her resolute best to make the woman at least appear as though she cared about herself. First, of course, Mrs. Byron had to wake up.
At precisely four o’clock, Autumn accompanied the freshened lady down the third floor hallway. “Now, remember,” she instructed as they slowly made their progress, “you must listen very carefully to Dr. Beame. Answer his questions as precisely as you possibly can.” It was difficult to know whether or not Mrs. Byron was heeding Autumn’s advice. She kept her eyes on the carpet, carefully placing her ivory walking stick ahead of each step. “You do recall,” Autumn questioned her, “my telling you that your son desperately wishes you to stay here at Byron Hall, don’t you? And that Dr. Beame might insist upon your leaving.” The woman eyed her quizzically. “You do wish to stay here in your home, don’t you, Mrs. Byron?”
“I do,” she answered softly.
“Then you must try to be as bright and proper a lady as you know yourself to be—even though you don’t feel very bright and proper right now. I shall be there to encourage you. There is a great deal at stake, Mrs. Byron.” They negotiated the stairs with caution and at the entrance to her parlor, Mrs. Byron paused. She cast Autumn a solemn regard.
“You know,” she said tenuously, “I have been so very lonely for so long a time.” She took a breath, as though the mere speaking of words tired her. “One would think I would welcome company, and yet, I do not welcome company. This company, at any rate.” Autumn nodded and gave the other woman’s arm a small squeeze.
“I quite understand, Mrs. Byron. But the interview need not last long.” Autumn tried to breathe optimism, but the woman’s next words stilled her heart.
“They don’t like me very much, you know, the men—my son and Dr. Beame.”
“Your son loves you, Mrs. Byron,” Autumn stated emphatically. “And your doctor has your best interests at heart.” She paused, hoping that her words would instill confidence and knowing that Mrs. Byron’s chilling instincts were probably correct. Before they entered the room, Autumn hurriedly smoothed the lady’s gown once again and checked her hair and her lip rouge. “One more thing, Mrs. Byron, do try not to fall asleep, and do try, if you can manage it, not to curse.”
As Autumn slid the doors wide, the elder woman stepped inside. In queenly fashion, she greeted the two men. Autumn could not suppress her pride as Mrs. Byron was ushered to a chair. She looked well, though pale and inordinately thin. She was a more than moderately attractive woman in any circumstances, but dressed in high fashion, jeweled as befit her status as dowager of a great family, and neatly coifed, she made a striking appearance.
The men seated and complimented her in a pageantry of elaborate courtliness, and Mrs. Byron accepted their attentions gracefully, smiling, nodding, and answering their lightly posed questions. Autumn, from her position near the doorway, deemed the interview to be going well. Her mind wandered idly to her own appearance. She wished that she had made more of an effort on her own behalf. She had still not brushed her hair, and it curled wildly about her face, carelessly arranged in the confines of pins and combs. Her traveling dress, which she had still not changed, had been left unrefreshed. Her boots were mud stained, though she’d given them a light swatting with her handkerchief. Still, she too wanted to make an excellent impression on the doctor from New York. She wanted his trust.
Suddenly, unbelievably, Mrs. Byron was sobbing. Her graying head was hidden in her hands. She’d thrust down her walking stick and was twisting away from the offered ministrations of the helpless men. Autumn had not been following the conversation; she had no idea what was happening.
“Leave me alone,” Mrs. Byron was saying. “Leave me, for God’s sake, to my horrors.” Cain Byron looked quickly to Autumn, who rushed to the woman’s side. Kneeling there, she addressed her cautiously.
“They are trying to help you, Mrs. Byron,” she condoled. “Won’t you speak with them a little longer?”
“Take me away,” the older woman pleaded, grasping at Autumn’s sleeve. “Won’t you please just take me away from them?”
“You had better accompany her upstairs, Miss Thackeray,” Dr. Byron said finally. “I shall ring Mrs. Inman. She will prepare her medication.”
“And . . . Miss Thackeray, is it?” said the other doctor. Autumn looked up. “Won’t you attend us when you’ve seen Mrs. Byron upstairs?” Dr. Winslow Beame was regarding her from above. His request did not seem a request, but a command. Autumn nodded and made her way from the room with Mrs. Byron.
It was a long time before Autumn was able to attend the doctors. By the time Mrs. Byron was undressed, had her medicine urgently administered, and fallen securely asleep—no longer moaning in unimaginable torment—more than half an hour had passed. Guiltily, Autumn ushered herself into the presence of the men. She apologized for the delay, but the doctors were solicitous and gentle with her.
Dr. Beame was the first to address her. He was a tall man, almost as tall as Dr. Byron, and like him, well shaped. Both men were pictures of sterling good health and robust intellect. And yet they were quite different, these two college friends. Dr. Beame had a head of neatly combed chestnut waves and long, puffed side whiskers, which gave him a mature, distinguished appearance, while Dr. Byron’s ebony curls, once combed, struggled boyishly from their confinement to hang over his forehead. Winslow Beame seemed, from his pale and elegant appearance, to live a life of the mind, quite satisfied to be indoors with his books and his research. But even in formal attire, Cain Byron seemed more a man of the natural outdoor world. As they spoke, Autumn noted that Dr. Byron loosened his stock and collar, while Dr. Beame remained rigidly ceremonious. He held a brandy snifter, but set it down on her entrance.
“How is she faring, Miss Thackeray?”
“She is asleep, doctor.”
“And her sleep seems . . . undisturbed?”
“I think so.” The exchange was soft and solemn and urgent as though someone had passed away. Dr. Beame ushered her to a chair and paused over her as she sat down. He feathered his thick mustache with his index finger, inspecting Autumn carefully.
“And you, Miss Thackeray? Are you alright?”
“Quite, sir.”
“I can only imagine how upsetting this must have been for you. Dr. Byron tells me you arrived only last evening.” Autumn nodded. “If you are in any way overwrought please do not hesitate to acknowledge it. You needn’t suffer one moment, Miss Thackeray, with tension or nervousness. Not,” he added, smiling benevolently, “with two doctors in the house.”
“I am quite well, doctor,” Autumn affirmed. In truth, she was a bit off balance, but she attempted to retain her composure. She wished very much for the two doctors to have confidence in her ability to handle any situation.
“I shall try to answer your questions accurately, Dr. Beame.” She regarded the man evenly.
“That is all that can be expected,” he said indulgently. His tall figure moved away and he returned, drawing a chair to the side of her own. Sitting down, he struck a casual pose. “From what I saw, Miss Thackeray . . .” He paused. “Mayn’t I call you Autumn?” he asked, placing his hand gently on her arm.
“Of course, sir,” Autumn replied, though this sort of familiarity, which she had met before in the medical community, annoyed her.
“Autumn, then,” he confirmed with a smile. “What I did see of Vanessa Byron unsettles me very much. Her physical appearance has certainly improved since my visit last month. She had color, her hair was coifed, her clothing . . . well, she was quite immaculately turned out. Last time I came, she was wearing a stained and wrinkled dressing gown.”
Lip rouge, an agonizing hour of hair-dressing, and a good pressing.
“She seemed to have cared about her appearance for our interview, and that was most refreshing. A woman’s physical appearance is one of the first clues a doctor has of her overall health, Autumn. This is a well-approved medical fact. Now, all that aside, the sudden burst of emotion gives me pause.” He stood and began to pace. “Tell me about this morning.”
“This morning?” Autumn asked, recalling the horrors of the tolling bell, the foul language, and her own befuddlement.
“That is hardly fair, Win,” Cain broke in. “Autumn only arrived last night, and this morning—”
Winslow Beame glanced at him. “No need to be defensive, Cain,” he said easily. “I’m asking the girl a simple question. If you are intending to censor me . . .” His voice trailed off and his smile deepened as he returned his regard to Autumn. “Never mind that bucking stallion in the corner,” he said jovially, with a small wink. “We shall send him from the room, if necessary. Just tell me the truth, my dear.”
Autumn swallowed and attempted to ignore both men. She would speak of that hectic morning, but she would slant the events just a bit and soften the more truculent aspects of Mrs. Byron’s behavior. “Mrs. Byron,” she began tentatively, “was somewhat agitated this morning, but,” she added with a quick look to Cain Byron, “that was my fault. You see, as Dr. Byron mentioned, I arrived late last evening and was deeply fatigued. I slept far past the hour of Mrs. Byron’s awakening, and I, by my own tardiness, upset her morning routine. It was an unfortunate beginning to both the day and our relationship.” She glanced at Cain Byron and saw the quick flash of a smile cross his face. He sobered immediately as Winslow Beame cast him a knowing look.
“So you would say, then,” Beame asked mildly, “that I have not had a fair picture of Mrs. Byron’s overall comportment?”
“I should say that, yes,” answered Autumn truthfully. In truth, she had no idea how Mrs. Byron began her days, but she would, in the future, see that mornings were much more organized. She told Dr. Beame as much, and he nodded sagely.
“Now tell me of the rest of the day, the hours before my arrival. Had she had any untoward excitement? Had she received callers, listened to music, read mail?” Autumn could barely credit the questions; the activities he detailed were so dissimilar to any she could envision Mrs. Byron capable of handling. A momentary chill washed over her. This man had no idea of his patient’s true condition.
“No, sir,” she answered.
“I really think, Win,” offered Cain Byron, “that you ought to remember that my mother has been under some stress during this last twenty-four hours. I don’t blame Miss Thackeray, I blame myself.”
“How so, Byron?” asked Winslow Beame, sitting and crossing one leg over the other. He leaned back in his chair and regarded Cain benignly. Autumn realized that Dr. Byron was as intimidated as she by the celebrated medical man.
“Well,” said her employer, “I might have prepared them both more properly for their first meeting.” He stepped forward, regarding Autumn regretfully. “I really am sorry, Miss Thackeray,” he told her. “I should have taken more care of this situation.” For the first time since they met, Autumn was in complete agreement with Cain Byron.
“Don’t blame yourself too much, sir,” Autumn said, her tone tinged with sympathy with a bit of mischief at the edges. “You seemed . . . distracted last evening when I arrived.”
“Distracted?” asked Beame quickly.
Cain’s regard of Autumn narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Yes,” he said, “thank you for reminding me, Miss Thackeray.” A knowing moment, small and silent, passed between them before Cain Byron turned his attention fully on his colleague. Autumn might have smiled but for the doctor’s apparent lack of amusement on the subject. “It was nothing, really, Win. One of the girls left the stable door open, and my finest brood mare, Regan, escaped. I had to fire the wench—the girl, not the horse.” Both men laughed easily.
“And . . . there was something of a disturbance over that,” offered Autumn innocently.
“Yes,” Cain conceded tightly, “there was a . . . disturbance.”
“You did get her back, didn’t you?” asked Beame. “I mean, naturally, the horse, not the girl.”
“Yes,” Cain said, refilling their brandy snifters. “But I spent a good part of the night doing so. The animal was an unholy mess by the time I retrieved her. I finally found her at O’Neill’s place, down by the west shore. I can only pray she was not defiled by that licentious bay of his. That hellish stallion has been—” Winslow Beame cleared his throat delicately, and Cain looked up. “Oh, yes, of course,” he averred, his eyes coming to rest on Autumn. “Did you need to speak any further with Miss Thackeray, Win?”
“I think not. She has been most helpful.” He smiled and patted her hand. “You may go now, my dear.”
“Thank you, sir,” Autumn said as she rose. Her gaze drifted to Cain Byron. “Was there anything else you required of me, Dr. Byron?” she asked. Had he detected triumph in her tone?
“I think not, Miss Thackeray,” he answered, his lips twitching with a threatened smile. He enjoyed a verbal duel with a pretty woman. “I would say you’ve told Dr. Beame quite enough for one day. You are dismissed.”
“Thank you, sirs,” she said offering a prim curtsy. “Then I shall go back to Mrs. Byron.” With that, trailing a cloud of doe-colored velvet and tendrils of autumn-infused hair, she exited the room.
“You let her get away with quite a bit, Byron,” observed Winslow Beame, watching the girl’s withdrawal.
“I beg your pardon?” Cain’s black brows came together.
“And you said ‘Autumn’ arrived last night. You called her by her first name.”
“As did you.”
“That is one of the privileges claimed by doctors. It puts the patient at ease, makes them feel safe. But it is highly irregular for an employer to refer to a servant in his house by her first name.”
Cain regarded him in disgust.
“I called her Autumn in the heat of the moment, Win,” he said. “You needn’t make so much of it.”
“I wouldn’t think of doing so, old fellow,” returned Winslow. “I am a gentleman, after all.”
“And I’m not?” Byron asked archly.
Winslow Beame smiled contentedly. He’d always been able to bait his combustible friend. He recalled their college days and Cain Byron’s legendary temper. He laughed, wondering just how far he might proceed. “She is rather a singular lady,” he continued. “Ador
able, really. She seems part vixen, part nun. For my taste she is just the right combination of siren and angel. Those cool, icy, aristocratic wenches have never held any appeal for me.”
“As a matter of fact, Win,” said Cain patiently, “she is something of an aristocrat. Her family are the Thackerays . . . of Philadelphia.” He smiled obliquely at his friend’s astonishment.
“The Thackerays?”
Cain nodded. “The Thackerays,” he repeated. “Her father was Emmett Thackeray and her grandfather was Cornelius.”
“Then, in heaven’s name, how did she come to this?”
“She advertised,” replied Cain dryly.
“I cannot credit such a thing,” said Winslow, uncharacteristically awed. “Why that family—my father knew Cornelius personally—had an impeccable lineage. They were among the first bankers in Philadelphia. I believe,” he said, pausing reflectively, “the mother could be traced back to the Hanovers. Why, as I recall, it was rumored she was a relative of England’s Queen Victoria.”
“Such rumors hold little significance for Americans.”
“Nevertheless,” replied the other man, “I should think such a child would have her future insured. And she is a child, Cain,” he added, lifting a chestnut brow. “Never mind her bold display of independence. Advertising, indeed!” He shook his head derisively.
Cain Byron merely laughed. “Have no fear for the girl’s virtue. Despite my former reputation as a rutting stag, Win, I have not defiled a virgin in several minutes.”
“You always were an irreverent blackguard, Byron,” said Dr. Beame with a tolerant smile. He toasted his friend, who lifted his own glass in return. “Still, if these young females insist upon extricating themselves from the protection of their families, they have little hope of decent treatment on the part of a less than benign society.”