by Carole King
“Would a few weeks really make such a difference, Win?” he asked.
Glancing in disgust at the person to whom his friend had so shamefully yielded, Beame responded. “Allow me to propose a compromise, Byron. I can arrange a visit for you to Belle Vue. Come with me to New York tomorrow. We can leave your mother here for now—with very strict instructions for this girl to follow. Our plans need not change a whit. You can ease your mind, see your friends, and then, when we return, if circumstances are not immensely altered, we will do as I have prescribed.” He paused. “I must tell you I am not entirely comfortable with this, Cain, but I see that I must yield on this very emotional issue. And I yield in deference to our long friendship. But I shall say this. We will give this experiment exactly one month. If, at the end of that time, your mother has not notably improved—and I shall accept no excuses or mitigation regarding her behavior—I will, as an ethical man of medicine, take matters into my own hands. That, I know, would cause an unfortunate but necessary breach in our friendship. Therefore, I must insist on your word that you will agree to the terms of this compromise.” Cain turned to him and offered his hand.
“You have my word, Win.” They both glanced then at the cause of this very significant moment.
“You, young woman,” said Beame, “will spend the next hour with me. You have a prodigious responsibility, and I intend to see to it that you carry it out to the letter. May we have the room, Cain?”
That man nodded curtly, and without the smallest glance at Autumn, he withdrew. Autumn girded herself for what was to come. She had bought time for Mrs. Byron, but at what price? Autumn understood precisely the implications of what had been decided. She knew that she had challenged the authority of not only this particular doctor, but of the medical treatment of a generation of women. She felt Beame’s loathing for her as a palpable presence. Winslow Beame did not wish her well. He began his lecture, instructing her in Mrs. Byron’s care and warning her darkly of the consequence of deviations from his prescribed treatment. As he droned on, Autumn was aware of spectres of her memory, shades of women of her mother’s age and acquaintance. Aberrant women; absentminded, confused, aggressive women. Women whose houses were closed to callers. The days, the weeks, the months and years of their absence from society were followed by their return with lusterless faces, empty smiles, and nearly wordless encounters with their neighbors. They were women who had been “in treatment” it was whispered—some in places far from their homes—and their comportment was much improved. The improvement to Autumn’s mind was arguable. The ladies had seemed pale imitations of their former selves. On the other hand, they had their old lives back; their husbands and children and friends were happier with them; their servants no longer whispered of “Madame’s ‘off’ behavior”; and the ladies themselves seemed content to fit at last into a society that recoiled from variations from the norm.
Autumn suspected that Dr. Beame’s treatment of Mrs. Byron was not unlike that of so many other doctors of so many other women. She was prepared at this moment of probing instruction to fulfill the requirements of Mrs. Byron’s treatment, but she suspected Dr. Beame perceived her ambiguity. It was probably for that reason that he went on so. His voice came to her out of the pale mists of her memory.
“I shall write out my instructions before I leave tomorrow morning, Miss Thackeray, and you shall follow them to the letter. Is that clear?” Autumn nodded afresh, as she had nodded for the last hour at each of his stern dictations. “My women patients trust me. My reputation, as well as Mrs. Byron’s health,” he added, it seemed, as an afterthought, “are at stake. If anything happens to either, I will hold you personally accountable. Is that understood?”
“It is, sir,” Autumn said. “Most assuredly.” Beame’s eyes narrowed. Autumn lowered her own. This was not the time to be confrontational. “I will do exactly as you say, Dr. Beame.”
The morning of the men’s departure loomed gray and doubtful. Autumn watched through a gap in Mrs. Byron’s heavy bedroom curtains as the doctors mounted their horses and rode away. They disappeared at a pounding gallop into the thick fog of the frosty mid-November morning. As she stepped back from the window embrasure and carefully secured the draperies against the day’s uncertain light (she often wondered why Dr. Beame would not allow those velvet barriers to the morning to be opened), she heard the first soft moans of Mrs. Byron’s awakening. Autumn hastened to the bed and parted the hangings.
Sitting at the edge of the soft mattress, she lifted Mrs. Byron’s hand in her own. Autumn had determined that the lady’s waking would be filled with tenderness. She inclined her head as Mrs. Byron’s eyes fluttered open.
“Miss Thackeray,” she whispered. The name was the first she uttered and had been since the second day of Autumn’s arrival. The bell had been abandoned. It now sat, dull brass finish barely visible in the darkened room, on a table far from the bed.
“I hope you rested well, Mrs. Byron,” said Autumn gently. “I have your breakfast tray warming on the hearth. May I fluff your pillows for you?” The lady nodded weakly. “And then I’ll bring the tray with your morning medication.” It was the first rule that Autumn had broken. Enjoined by Dr. Beame to fire a battery of questions at Mrs. Byron upon her awakening, Autumn had decided that she would delay the questions. Mrs. Byron was neither prepared for, nor interested in, discussing how she felt at just this moment. It was a small but worthwhile sin, for Mrs. Byron seemed most calm.
The morning routine was simple and not too much of a departure from that directed by Winslow Beame. The patient was fed, gently washed, her bedclothes changed. As always, Mrs. Byron drank her morning medicine eagerly, and, as always, Autumn found herself less than pleased by the enforcement of that particular regimen. She had discovered that the drink consisted of two parts fortified wine, one part laudanum powder, and another part cider for taste. It unsettled Autumn to serve spirits to a lady so early in the day. But she reasoned that the mixture had been prescribed by Dr. Beame, and that it must, therefore, serve a very specific healthful purpose. In truth, it seemed to calm any agitation Mrs. Byron might have been inclined to suffer in the mornings, though Autumn felt that her own presence and gentle treatment of the lady might have served the same calming purpose. Still, indoctrinated as she had been by Dr. Beame’s warnings, Autumn followed his rules unstintingly.
Mrs. Byron’s afternoons were taken up with luncheon in an armchair in the bedroom, more medication, and a long nap. In the evenings, after dinner in her room, Mrs. Byron was allowed to be robed and escorted to her parlor on the first floor. Autumn saw no harm in offering Mrs. Byron her stitching for a brief period. She watched carefully to see that the woman did not become aggrieved with complicated needlework, however, and strove to help immediately if tangles intruded on her peace. More often than not, Mrs. Byron drowsed by the fire, and her sewing lay in her lap. When awake, she was often cold or hot, unsettled—or more disturbingly, to Autumn at least—bored.
Conversations between the two women were limited to Mrs. Byron’s complaints. Autumn had been told to ask certain questions of the woman several times a day, such as did she have pain, did she experience dizziness, and had she dreamed when she slept. The questions were always answered with a simple negative.
After less than a week of this routine, Autumn found herself—most annoyingly because Dr. Beame had warned her it might be so—restive. For several days after that she forced herself to adhere to her duties without question, but the battle was lost, and soon she began to cast about for reasons for her restlessness and ways to assuage the feeling. Surveying her little room one morning, Autumn decided that she and Mrs. Byron were literally cloistered, with not even prayer, as nuns had, to distract them. Autumn awakened in her little, nearly windowless room each day, went in to Mrs. Byron, and there they lived together in a dim gaslit world with only the occasional diversion of an evening sojourn to the parlor. This was not natural, Autumn determined, and though Dr. Beame had forbidden it emphaticall
y, she asked Mrs. Byron one day if she would mind if the draperies were drawn back for an hour or so in the afternoon. Mrs. Byron hesitated but agreed.
It had begun to snow, and the two women watched the sky from Mrs. Byron’s third floor windows. It was as if nature had planned the resplendent panorama of soft, swirling crystal just for them, and Mrs. Byron fell asleep that afternoon in her armchair that was now facing the window. The hint of a smile curved her lips.
Making her way down to the kitchen to prepare medication for her charge, Autumn’s feelings were a mixture of guilt, exaltation, and despondency that such a small thing as looking out a window could cause her so much pleasure. Still, when there was such a dearth of pleasure in one’s life, the smallest diversions were priceless treasures. In the kitchen, Autumn was greeted happily by Mrs. Inman, who told her that she’d stewed a fat hip of beef for their supper.
“I doubt that Mrs. Byron will be much interested,” Autumn told her, but at that woman’s sudden disappointed silence, she amended that she would certainly enjoy the treat. She sighed. “I grow fat, Carrie,” she said, sitting down at the thick board of the kitchen table, “while Mrs. Byron withers.”
“I know, Miss Autumn,” the older woman said, shaking her capped head. She was folding linens in the tiny utility compartment off the kitchen. “This is no life for a young woman like yourself. It’s no life for any of us, really. Vigorous souls need the company of society.” Autumn traced her finger through a few grains of spilled flour on the table in the otherwise spotless room.
“I have seen no evidence of society in this house, Carrie,” she observed idly.
“That’s because of the trouble,” returned the servant. She came into the kitchen carrying a pot of unpeeled potatoes. Seating herself in a chair opposite Autumn, she began to prepare them for the stew. “Once this house was a hive of elegant peacocks.” She laughed. “Each of them was tryin’ to outdo the other. They’d come swarmin’ in, jabberin’ their dandified jabber—the ladies in their silks and feathers and jewels and the gents in their frock coats and high hats. Oh, it was a gay time when I first come into this house. It was all color and fluff and so much excitement.”
“And then, the . . . ‘trouble’ happened?” asked Autumn, curious. Carrie Inman nodded emphatically. “And what was the trouble?”
Mrs. Inman hesitated. Her attention became studiously riveted on her potatoes. She peeled them with assiduous care. “I don’t know as I should go on, Miss Autumn,” she murmured. “It ain’t my place.” Slowly her attention drifted back to the younger woman. “If you ask me, miss,” she said confidentially, “the doctor should of told you himself. It ain’t fair, makin’ you responsible without givin’ you one whit of information.”
“I agree,” said Autumn cautiously. When Mrs. Inman went back to her work, the younger woman continued. “You told me once that Mrs. Byron had been quite a vigorous woman, Carrie,” she probed. “I can only assume that the trouble of which you speak had to do with something that happened to her.” Carrie nodded but remained tight-lipped. Autumn could understand her reticence. As a servant, one was expected to remain ardently protective of the secrets of the household. And yet gossip was the life’s blood of the underclass—as it was of the gentry. It seeped through the social fabric of Victorian-era America, trickling down and pooling, forming great ponds into which the serving classes dove heartily. Having now been on both strata, Autumn approved Carrie Inman’s desire to remain loyal to her employer. At the same time, she was experiencing a decidedly indelicate curiosity. Even beyond these two warring perspectives, however, Autumn felt that, as the housekeeper had pointed out, she had been unfairly excluded from Mrs. Byron’s history.
“Carrie,” she said earnestly, “I respect your discretion.” The woman looked up. “Sincerely I do. I have always agreed that those we trust with our secrets ought to remain trustworthy. But I am troubled by so many things concerning Mrs. Byron. The restrictions placed on her seem harsh, and I have been told that I must enforce these restrictions to the letter. Do you know,” she said, reaching out and taking the older woman’s hand, “that today I opened the draperies in Mrs. Byron’s bedroom? It was such a little pleasure and so remarkable a joy that I nearly burst with happiness, and yet I felt so guilty. Perhaps if I understood the nature of her illness, I might be more amenable to the solution.”
Carrie Inman regarded her solemnly. “Maybe you would, Miss Autumn, and then again maybe you wouldn’t.” Her brows furrowed. “But you deserve the right to make your own judgment. You ought to know the truth—at least as much of it as I know.”
“Thank you, Carrie.” She stood and paced the room. Feeling the need to explain herself, she went on. “I have never been one to follow dogma blindly. Institutions such as politics and religion demand bedazzled faith, and that is why I have nothing to do with either of them. If I cannot debate a question to my satisfaction with reasonable people, I leave the question to heaven and go on about my business.” She glanced at Carrie, who was regarding her blankly. Autumn laughed. “My mother looks at me the same way sometimes, Carrie.” That woman offered a slow, bemused smile. “In any event,” Autumn resumed, “this situation with Mrs. Byron requires my involvement, so I should be most appreciative of your enlightenment.”
Thus Autumn felt she had lifted the burden of a conscientious servant’s guilt at telling a family’s secret sorrow. Carrie’s face displayed her relief. But before she could tell her story, several young men burst energetically into the kitchen. They were stablemen from Dr. Byron’s carefully selected crew, and they were tanned, strong, and exuberant. Their very presence, reeking of nature and youth, filled the kitchen with warmth and vitality.
“Won’t you throw us a crumb, Carrie?” said one of them as he eyed Autumn admiringly. “We haven’t had a bite since lunch.” His even teeth gleamed dazzlingly, exceeding the brightness of the streaming daylight that washed the kitchen. With his golden curls and beaming smile, he might have been the sunlight erupting from the clouds on that snowy winter’s day. Autumn hastily averted her eyes, reining her unguarded interest, and went to prepare Mrs. Byron’s afternoon medication.
“You’ll get your supper soon, old lad,” stated Carrie Inman with a twitching smile and an unconscious swipe at the curls that peeked beneath the brim of her cap. “Can’t you wait an hour or two?”
“I can wait a week,” said the boy with a sly glance at Autumn’s trim back, “if I know something good’s a-coming.” He checked the reactions of his smiling pals and offered Mrs. Inman a hearty and knowing wink. That woman dismissed their foolery with an emphatic wave of her hand.
“There’s a basket of rolls in the buttery and cider on the back porch,” she said with an indulgent laugh. “Get y’ to it, and don’t bother this kitchen again till supper.” The youths bundled from the room, laughing, taking the sunshine with them. Autumn had prepared Mrs. Byron’s prescription and turned to the older woman. They regarded each other with smiles for a long moment. They shared knowledge of something unsaid, and they soon shied from their daring peek into the other’s soul. Their smiles evaporated. At an impasse, the two women hastily occupied themselves with other urgencies. Carrie moved to the sink, carrying her pot of potatoes. “We’ll talk soon, miss,” she said pumping water from the spout to wash the vegetables. “Like I told you, it’s only fair.” She paused, continuing her work, but keeping her eyes downcast. “Tonight, my man Henry’s comin’ in from the farm he tenants for Dr. Byron, so I’ll be busy,” she told Autumn, with not a hint of suggestion in her tone, “but if you could come to my room tomorrow night, after Mrs. Byron’s tended, I’ll tell you all I know.”
“Thank you, Carrie,” said Autumn and made her way from the kitchen, disheartened in some inexplicable way that she and Carrie had missed an opportunity to share some womanly truth. Surely, Autumn was not the only girl who had ever felt oddly moved by men. Surely, she was not the only one who had noticed that unexplained and profound synergy that existed between men
and women. The knowable but never-discussed symmetrical quality of a perfect design should not go unexplored, and yet Autumn had never talked about it, even with her mother. Autumn Thackeray was eighteen years old; she was a product of a repressed and unenlightened society, a child of a world both fascinated and repelled by the relationship between man and woman. And her own feelings on the subject were as confused and ambivalent as those of the society from which she had sprung.
That night Autumn was restless. Her bedcovers stifled her, and the very air of her tiny room felt confining and claustrophobic. Very late, she dressed and wandered downstairs and out to the stable yards. A thick snow was beginning to fall over the moonlit landscape as she approached, and several proud animals whickered softly as she entered the gates. She moved along the stalls and gave each an affectionate pat. Autumn was beginning to understand Cain Byron’s protective attitude toward these lovely big-eyed creatures and why he had become so angry with the girl who had allowed one of them to escape. It was not often a tender world for the unprotected.
Autumn was startled by a footfall behind her in the yard, a simple crunch of gravel. She pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders and squinted into the dim, snow-shrouded distance. At the far end of the fence stood one of the boys she had met that afternoon.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asked.