by Carole King
“As I understand it,” put in Cain, “Autumn Thackeray had little choice in the matter.”
Winslow’s brows furrowed. “What are you talking about? This is 1896. We are a civilized world. No modest girl can be forced out into the streets, no matter her particular misfortune. And I should assume there was misfortune. She is not one of those appalling bluestockings, is she?”
“I would doubt that very much,” replied Byron mildly. “She seems a most refined and feminine lady.”
“Delectably so,” agreed his friend. “Then her story must be a sad one.” Cain shrugged his answer. Winslow laughed shortly. “You have become a gentleman, sir.” Again they toasted.
“The truth is,” Cain Byron said, “Autumn has asked me not to discuss her situation. And, though I’ve naturally done some checking on the matter, I must respect her wishes.”
“‘Autumn’ again,” remarked Beame, staring into the swirling amber of his brandy.
“That’s her name,” said Cain Byron shortly. Changing the subject and amending his tone, he added, “I believe she will be very good for my mother—a gracious influence.” When Dr. Beame did not answer immediately, he went on. “Win,” he said, hesitating briefly, “I know what you saw today has been disquieting. And I believe that, as is your habit, you will insist my mother be sent on to Belle Vue. But, again, I tell you she would not be happy there—”
“Happy,” stated Winslow Beame. “Ah, Byron, you are an idealistic fool.”
“Is it foolish that I afford my mother every opportunity for recovery?”
Beame splayed a hand.
“No, doctor, it is not.” He went on, though he paused and became quite serious. Leaning forward, he said gently, “When we were in medical school, Cain, we were taught that a certain distance must be maintained between physician and patient. You know, in the depths of your doctor’s mind, that your mother is desperately ill. Your heart, however, sends you another message. Heart and mind, Dr. Byron, are always in conflict in the field of medicine.
“You speak of happiness. I remind you, sir, that your mother has not been happy for a very long time. Happiness and health go hand in hand. Before we can make her happy, we must restore her health. Try to be logical, Cain. Explore the messages of your mind. Repress that heart-whole tenderness long enough to see the truth. Your mother needs to be in a place where I can watch her, restrict her. Has she ever in her life been so thin, so pale? Have you ever seen her so depressed? Has she ever before suddenly burst into tears for no apparent reason? These are signs of very ill health, Cain.” Winslow Beame sat back. “I have seen this in women of your mother’s age more times than I care to remember. And though my heart goes out to them, I know what’s needed—what must be done. Their behavior must be modified, supervised on a daily basis by professionals in order that they may be able to perceive their own troubles. Healing can occur only when they begin to understand that behavior must always be justified. They cannot be allowed to continue to place themselves at the mercy of their emotions.” He lifted a hand and smiled. “Oh, I know the prevailing opinion that women are flighty creatures, prone to bursts of emotive humours, and I accept that. If your mother were of childbearing years, we could attribute her behavior to, for instance, post- or even pre-partum mania, but that is not the case, and your mother’s behavior is extreme.” He glanced away from his friend. “I needn’t remind you of how all this began.” Cain shook his head and moved to refill his glass.
“Please don’t,” he said.
“We are supposed to tolerate those temporary states of womanly passion,” continued Beame. “It is our man’s fate—and sometimes our pleasure—” he added with a wink, “to cajole these pretty treasures of ours, to maneuver and manage them through the muddle of their emotions. But the fact is that when their tempers become unmanageable, it is our duty to guide them back to the proper course. This involves—sometimes sadly so—a certain . . . toughness of character. Strength, we must call it, Cain. Now, I am not suggesting you are not strong,” he added hastily. “I suggest only that you must rely on your logic in this case, though it will be difficult, and not on your feelings. She is your mother, but she is also a woman. You have a man’s obligation to her. Consider it deeply, Cain. It is no small thing to be a protector.” Cain lifted his drink slowly to his lips, and Winslow continued in a soft mesmeric monotone. “It gives me no pleasure, Byron, to make this diagnosis. Vanessa is very dear to me, too. I remember joining you during our college days here at Byron Hall for spring breaks. Your mother was the closest thing to a mother I had. Don’t forget, my own mother suffered at the time from this very complaint, and Vanessa was a cheerful counterpoint to that horror. She played tennis and croquet with us, and she and Maggie baked us chocolate cakes. It’s a vivid memory for me, Byron, one of the best of my life. Certainly, you don’t imagine I would suggest anything that might harm Vanessa. I want only the best for her.”
Cain Byron set down his drink slowly. “You make an excellent case, Win,” he said. “I can see now I’ve neglected my obligation toward my mother for much too long.” He glanced at his friend. Winslow Beame drew out his pipe and filled it. Each move he made was cautious, wary; he did not wish to upset the balance of Byron’s thinking. He was on the verge of a decision—a conscientious one—at long last. “You know,” said Cain after a pause, “she cries each time I mention sending her away.” Winslow nodded in understanding. Cain continued. “It takes days to calm her after such a discussion.” Again, the nod.
“I have seen this more times than I can recount,” Winslow said, taking a long draw on his pipe. “But it really is the only answer in some cases.”
“Still,” Cain eventually resumed quietly, “the question bears some thought.”
“The thought of a man of medicine,” warned Beame, “not of a son.”
“For better or worse, I am the lady’s son, however.”
“And a doctor,” returned Winslow firmly. In order that he might sway Cain’s thinking now that the decision was practically made, he added, “You know there is much work being done in New York. Some interesting drugs are being developed all over the world, Cain, and New York has become rather a focal point for exciting new treatments. Neuralgic medicine and psychology are enjoying a certain interest, not that I have any respect for the efficacy of the latter, but I point it out for the purpose of letting you know how much science is changing. We are exploring all sorts of horizons. We are, after all, on the verge of a new age, Cain, a new century.” As if the thought was new, he declared, “Why don’t you come along with your mother and me. We could visit the university hospital, hear some lectures, delve into the mysteries of new-sprung practices—”
“You know I have no interest in the practice of medicine,” Cain interjected caustically.
“I know, of course, that you have chosen not to practice, old fellow, but surely your interest in the world of medicine has not been abandoned. And might I remind you,” he added knowingly, “New York City has more to offer than academic pursuits. I speak particularly of Miss Antoinette Fraser who still pines, I am told, for the pleasures of your last visit.”
Cain laughed. “Does she?” he said wryly.
“Indeed. And though I have offered solace, I fear it is you after whom the lady hankers.”
Cain threw back his head and laughed deeply. “This mockery of lament is quite unnecessary, Win. The proudhearted Nettie Fraser hankers after my money, and you know it as well as I.”
Winslow nodded, joining in his friend’s mirth. “And we both know, too, that Nettie Fraser gets that after which she . . . hankers.” They toasted the lady, and then Winslow resumed more seriously. “I do honestly believe, Cain, that Miss Fraser would be most amenable to a sincere suitor.” Cain lifted a dark brow.
“And what makes you think I am interested, Win?”
“You ought to be. We are both reaching an age where we should be considering that fateful plunge into matrimony. You could do worse than Antoinette Fraser.
”
Cain nodded amiably. “I could do worse,” he agreed.
“And she already dotes on you. I saw her only last Saturday, and she inquired about your health. We attended a play—a naughty play, I might add, Shakespeare’s As You Like It.”
“What made it naughty?” inquired Cain.
Winslow Beame leaned forward. “Lillie Langtry,” he said confidentially. “She played Rosalind.”
“Ah,” said Cain in understanding. “Jersey Lily in men’s breeches.”
“Now doesn’t that fire your interest in traveling to New York? Think of the excitement we could cause in her magnificent bosom if we two went backstage after one of her shows and introduced ourselves. Actresses love doctors, and she just might be tempted to extend us an invitation to her dressing room.” He sat back contentedly.
“You amaze me, Dr. Beame,” Cain commented in amusement. “One moment you are the reverent man of letters, speaking of universities and medicine, and the next you are talking like a lad fresh out of normal school, lusting after a peek at Miss Lillie’s breasts.” They both laughed. Finally, they shared a toast. “Nettie Fraser and Lillie Langtry aside,” said Cain, “I shall make the trip, Win. I’ve not been out of this city in months. I look forward to it.”
“And I,” said Winslow Beame.
Her round cheeks flushed, her golden gaze wide and tear-filled in the dark, she calls out. Candlelight interrupts the blackness of her terror and she is scooped into comforting arms. “There are no monsters,” her mother soothes. “Nothing can hurt you.” But the demons are there, writhing in the flickering candlelight. She is rocked, the little girl, rocked and cradled in comforting arms till her breathing evens and she falls into a fathomless sleep.
Chapter 4
“But, Dr. Byron,” Autumn was saying, her tone impassioned, “you must give our situation a chance. I do not beg this for myself, but your poor mother has exhausted herself with tears.”
Winslow Beame had been in the house for two days and had seen for himself the extent of his patient’s debilitation. That it was exacerbated on the day of his arrival by the announcement that Vanessa was to be moved to Belle Vue impressed him not at all. In truth, he still did not have an accurate picture of the lady’s true condition. This was the focus of Autumn’s argument as she faced the two men in Cain Byron’s study. She pointed out that Mrs. Byron had not experienced a moment’s peace in nearly three days.
“And what of the weeks and months before that?” asked Cain. “What of the days when she had no will to survive, no desire, even, to rise from her bed?”
“That is precisely why you hired me, sir. And now, without following through with your original plan, you would uproot the distraught lady, pack her off to an institution, and place her among sterile strangers. I can help her, Dr. Byron, I know it.” Autumn knew nothing of the kind. But it seemed the more confidence she displayed, the less dogmatic he became. Not so Winslow Beame.
“You, young woman,” he said, regarding Autumn darkly, “are a menace to this household. I have been trying for months now to convince Dr. Byron to commit his mother. I do not appreciate your interference in this matter. After all, you have been here but three days—”
“Only three days, Dr. Beame,” Autumn said earnestly.
“Yes! Only three days, by heaven,” he thundered. He smashed his fist down onto a table, and Autumn flinched. “What gives you the temerity to attempt to dissuade the master of this house from a course he knows—and, more importantly, I know—is right?”
“Win,” interjected Cain, holding up a steadying hand, “calm yourself.” He turned a questing regard on Autumn. “The question has been put to you, Miss Thackeray, and it stands: What gives you the right to interfere in this?” Autumn paused, barely able to form an answer. She licked at her lips and tried to moisten her dry mouth.
“You see,” she began, addressing first one man and then the other as she spoke, keeping her voice steady purely by force of will, “Mrs. Byron is sorely strained just now. I am sure she is at her lowest ebb, imagining she will be taken from her home. Of her previous mental and physical condition I have no knowledge, it is true, but I am convinced that, whatever her troubles, they have been intensified by the threat of this move to New York City. She fears it deeply, speaks of it constantly. It is a horror to her. Let her rest for a time. Let her heal from this latest terror. Then, in time, once she is fit to be judged, judge her.”
“You have not answered the question,” said Cain Byron. Though his tone was harsh, Autumn retained the hope that he was not totally unconvinced.
“I know that, Dr. Byron,” she admitted. “I suppose it is because I know that I have no right to interfere.” Discerning from his silence the emboldening notion that her words had carried weight, she continued. “I know I seem insubordinate—”
“You are positively mutinous,” put in Dr. Beame.
“—but I cannot express too strongly,” Autumn went on without pause, “my belief that Mrs. Byron deserves at least one small chance to recover. And you so want it for her.” She regarded Cain. “You told me that yourself.”
“What we want, young renegade,” Beame intoned, “is not always what we may have.” Autumn rounded on him with a surprising vehemence. Her wide gaze narrowed to sparkling gilt.
“What we want, sir, may not be what we get, but we can still want it. No one has the right to control the part of us that feels and thinks.” She paused, taking a rationed breath. “We may act as we are expected to act, but there is always a private part of us that remains true to who we really are. If that were taken from us, sir, we would be brutes. No man or woman faces life without obstacles. It is how we face those obstacles that determines character.” Autumn stopped abruptly. Her voice trembling, she resumed, amending her tone. “I apologize for my boldness, but I do not apologize for my plea. All I ask of either of you is the grace of a little time for Mrs. Byron. Give her the opportunity to recover from the provocation of these past few days. If it is mutinous of me to want such a thing, then I am guilty of mutiny.” She placed her regard squarely on Cain Byron. “You, doctor, must make the final decision.”
Cain considered her in silence. Some unguarded piece of him was in awe of this slip of a girl, who had the courage to face what would normally be an intimidating situation and still compose a compelling argument. As a rule, he did not admire such conspicuous acumen in women, but this argument seemed a particularly challenging one, and it was delivered in defense of his mother.
“Win,” he said quietly, “I must reason that Autumn, young as she is and uninitiated, certainly, in this business, is at least potentially correct. You, of all people, know how uncomfortable I have been with the thought of sending my mother to an institution.”
Winslow nodded. “So uncomfortable,” he commented bitingly, “that you would risk further damage to her already delicate state of mind.” He raked Autumn with a withering regard. “You do see what you have done here, don’t you. You do see the damage you have caused, the uncertainty you have generated.” Shame rose up like a flame in Autumn’s breast. Her face reddened, and her heart tripped.
Still, she said staunchly, “I believe Mrs. Byron’s present problems lie in the circumstances of my arrival and the threat of being trucked off to an institution in New York. How would you, Dr. Beame—how would anyone—react if someone told you that you were going to be sent to what amounts, in Mrs. Byron’s imaginings, to a prison?”
Beame’s gaze flared. “How dare you,” he intoned. “Belle Vue is the most respected women’s facility in the world. How dare you refer to it in such a disgusting fashion.”
“I should appreciate it if you would not twist my words, sir,” Autumn answered him. “I said the sanitarium seems like a prison to Mrs. Byron, and she is naturally afraid of it.”
“Oh, come now,” Winslow Beame returned. His manner was beginning to become dismissive. If the girl continued exploring this vein, and he hoped that she would, he would surely triumph. “
In the Lord’s name, girl, do you think I would send women to a prison? Why the very word conjures filth and neglect.”
“Exactly. A woman’s home is her sanctuary, and a woman in Mrs. Byron’s condition sees only the darkest outcomes in being torn from it. Everything outside her home seems alien and grim.”
“And yet, Miss Thackeray,” Cain Byron reminded her, “you managed to leave your home. Have you found anything here that is alien and grim?”
Autumn skimmed the Turkish motif of the room with her eyes, taking in the numerous animal heads staring glass-sighted from the walls, the copper figurines of cobras and ancient godlike men, the paisley wall hangings that were twisted and tasseled, and the more than several embossed friezes depicting such scenes as jungle hunts and the Rape of the Sabine Women. Her regard rested for some moments on the patriarchal image above the fireplace before it returned to her employer.
“My circumstance, sir,” she said steadily, avoiding a direct answer, “is different from your mother’s. I am of a sound mind and a sturdy constitution. And I was fortified by necessity—not helplessness. My decision to come here was my own and not the result of manhandling.” There, thought Autumn, it had been said. In many ways she was relieved. She looked pointedly at Dr. Beame, and that man’s attention returned to Cain exclusively.
“Do you see to whom you are entrusting your mother’s care, Byron? This venomous child dares to refer to confirmed medical practices as ‘manhandling.’” Winslow Beame was no longer dismissing Autumn’s comments, and she was glad, but she wondered momentarily if she had gone too far. Men were notoriously savage when threatened by women’s intellectual muscle. She tried to hedge.
“I only meant that the pressure being exerted here seems harsh, Dr. Beame. I am only asking for a little time.”
“What you meant, young woman,” returned Beame furiously, “could be interpreted as an accusation of medical frivolity. If you were a man, I would be at this moment filing suit in a court of law or calling you out onto the field of honor. In any event, your statement is intolerable; at the least it is born of ignorance and at the most of viciousness. I will, being a gentleman, assume the former.” He addressed Cain once again. “She is right about one thing, Byron. The final decision is yours.” Both people awaited his response. Cain Byron lowered his head and ran his fingers through his dark curls. He lit a small cigar and paced to the other side of the room.