by Carole King
“I was just . . . petting the horses,” Autumn replied. “Is that alright?” The lad moved slowly toward her, his blond head bright, pale as the moonlight that lit his path.
“Just so long as you don’t leave one of the gates open. We caught hell the other week for . . . Well, but you must know that story by now, miss.”
“Yes,” said Autumn mesmerized by the man’s approach. “It was, I believe, Alma Louise who . . .”
“But you see, we lads are the ones responsible.”
“Yes,” Autumn said. He stood directly before her now, smiling. Her heart fluttered, and she knew suddenly with a terrible realization what Alma Louise had been doing in the stable yard. “She . . . should have been . . . more . . . careful.”
“That she should have been, Miss Autumn.” His voice was soft, caressing. “But, like I said, we boys are responsible.” Autumn nodded. The fluttering in her breast had risen to her throat and she could not form sounds. She turned suddenly in the direction of the house. The young man took her arm, stopping her gently. “Wait, miss,” he said softly. “It gets awful lonely out here.” Again, Autumn nodded. “We sleep in shifts, and there’s nobody to talk to.”
“I understand,” Autumn choked out, gripped by an inexplicable fear. “Please let me go.” The boy’s smile deepened and he released her arm.
“Come again,” he said. Autumn flew from the stables across the lawn and into the house, slamming the door behind her and locking it, for what reason she knew not. She knew the lad would not break in. Perhaps she locked it against herself, to keep herself from going back outside. She made her way feverishly up the back staircase, and her lonely bed beckoned. It had been wrong, so wrong of her, to have sought out that which coerced her from the lowest, most unexamined, and artless depths of her being. She had been wrong, yet compelled by that terrible and obscene stratum of her soul. She swaddled herself in her bedclothes, protecting herself like a child from monsters that haunted her, monsters she could not possibly understand.
The foghorn sent its lonely call across the bay. One-two-three long warnings in the night.
The little girl, hair tossed like liquid pearls, is flushed with exertion. She has run all the way from the orchard where she has chosen only the prettiest apple blossoms for her bouquet. She dallies in the lilac grove and in the green garden, dewy with impending rain. She follows her course with sunny willfulness, though her nanny calls from the house, and gathers new-blossomed irises to compliment her arrangement. Her mother will forgive her, for the florets will adorn her tea table most prettily . . .
Chapter 5
“Miss Autumn,” Mrs. Inman was saying. Autumn started.
“I’m sorry, Carrie,” she said. “Were you speaking to me?”
“I was, miss. I was wanting to tell you the eggs is all but boiled to the pot.”
“Oh, Carrie,” Autumn breathed. She ran to the stove.
“No need to hurry. I took them off.”
Autumn paused, her fingertips flying to her temples. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I’m afraid I was daydreaming.”
“Are you alright, Miss Autumn?”
“I’m fine, Carrie. It’s only that . . . Oh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ll just get Mrs. Byron’s lunch for her.” Carrie Inman stopped the girl, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.
“You need to get out of this house, miss,” she said. “Like I told you yesterday, this ain’t no life for such a one as you. Now you listen to me,” she insisted, taking the lunch tray that Autumn had retrieved from the table, “I was going to send one of the boys to the market with a list. Why don’t you go instead?”
“Oh, Carrie, could I?”
“Of course you could. Why, the town’s not two miles down the road, and my list is light today. No reason in the world why you couldn’t. I’ll get one of the lads to drive you.”
“No,” Autumn said a bit more hastily than was necessary. “I should love to walk. I’ll just fetch Mrs. Byron’s lunch—”
“I’ll do that, Miss Autumn,” Carrie told her sternly. “You just get yourself wrapped up warm and go.” She took a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her apron. “Here’s my list. Just get yourself to Mr. Fletcher’s Food Emporium on Ocean Street; it’s your second left turn off the main road. Anyone can direct you there should you get lost, but I can’t imagine it.” She smiled broadly as Autumn expressed her gratitude, gave her a quick embrace and a peck on the cheek, and hastened up to her room to prepare for her outing. “Dress warm, my girl,” Mrs. Inman called after her. “It’s a might chilly out there, and—” But Autumn was gone. Carrie shook her head in understanding. One minute the girl was wasting away, bored and distracted, and the next she was exuberant with expectancy. Carrie understood the cyclical energies of girls and women. Had she not perceived Autumn’s sweet unguarded response to the groomsmen yesterday? Had Carrie not shared that secret knowledge of women’s needs with the girl? And she was a girl who was fast becoming a woman. Too bad, thought Carrie, that she must endure such a monumental transition so far from her mother’s careful guidance. Perhaps Carrie could help; she knew of a woman’s wantings. Her own cherished Henry had left that morning after his monthly visit. He’d gone back to his work on one of Dr. Byron’s tenant farms, and he’d left his wife, for all his virile attentions, with still untended yearnings. He’d been there, after all, only one night. Surely, it took more time to educate a man to the nuances of a woman’s needs. And Henry, reflected Carrie wistfully, was teachable. Someday, when their finances allowed it, they would be together for long periods of time, and he would learn, in time, those secret subtleties of pleasuring a woman. Carrie Inman smiled despite her mortification at such unseemly ruminations. Well into her twenty-sixth year, she was thinking like a schoolgirl. On the other hand, she reflected with a certain sly pride, schoolgirls did not really know the rewards that could be gotten when a woman made it her business to educate a man.
After the previous night’s thick snowfall, a welkin radiance covered the world. It adorned the branches and boles of trees and blanketed the shapes of distant hills. This was no ordinary outing—a young servant trudging dutifully to market. As Autumn traveled from Byron Hall to the populated town of Cape May, she imagined the empty road canopied with snowy trees as a diamond-white grotto where she might find unimagined treasures. Autumn cherished every sight of snow-drifted luminescence, exulting in every breath of frosted air.
She avoided the first left turn of the road, as Carrie had instructed, and took the second, down Ocean Street. Walking briskly, she noted that signs of civilization became more prevalent as she progressed. Houses began to dot the roadside in abundance, and a wooden walkway was now available to her. Horse-drawn carriages, wagons, and jingling sleighs made their way on the rutted dirt road and across perpendicular byways. There was a corner park where children built snowmen and forts for snowball battles. She saw storefronts and a church—and even a circulating library. In her excitement, Autumn did not bother to look for Mr. Fletcher’s Food Emporium. Instead, she wound her way to the center of the town and finally to the unimaginably wondrous place where snow-draped city met ice-clouded ocean. Autumn stood on a street lined with grand hotels and a winding boardwalk that followed the coastline as far as she could see. People strolled by, ladies with prams and busy shoppers carrying baskets of bread, imported fresh vegetables, and waxed cheeses, unaware of her awe-filled presence. Autumn was pleasantly aware that today she was the observer and not the observed. She gazed out onto the sparkling vista of snowy beach and icy water. Seagulls soared and landed, congregating on sandy patches and ice floes, searching for food. Their searches were mainly in vain this time of year, for the beach and boardwalk were empty of vacationers. Autumn noted that the porches and balconies spanning the heights of the colorful hotels that lined the other side of the street were abandoned yet still alive with elegant splendor. Even in their emptiness, these painted wonders of Victorian architecture resembled fancy women, d
ressed and decorated, jeweled and waiting with endless patience for the party to begin. Their drapings of snow might have been lush ermine cloaks, and the crystalline icicles hanging from their eaves the finest diamond ear bobs. The warm bright colors they wore, their lacy gingerbread trim and lofting windows of stained glass, might have been gowns of the most sophisticated design. And their graciously curving carriage steps eloquently promised the refinement and grandeur that would be found within. Patterns unique to this time and this place of turrets and gables, lovingly ornamented, offered themselves as symbols, monuments to a gilded time. In other times, Autumn herself might have enjoyed their splendid hospitality.
The cold ocean smell drew her down toward the boardwalk that girdled the beach. She raised her parasol against a misting spume and made herself a picture of graceful isolation as she stood along the rail looking out to sea. In her solitude, her mind drifted like ice floes on viscid water. She ruminated on the circumstances of her presence in this world-famous resort town, idle now, dressed in its winter cloak, awaiting the attention of the summertime affluent. In other times, Autumn might have come here with her family; her pretty mother in her wide-brimmed, beribboned straw hats; her strong and rigidly confident father, willing in the heat of summer to loosen his stock and remove his dark stuff waistcoat; and the jolly contingent of servants that accompanied them everywhere they stopped. And Autumn would have been turned out in her laciest frocks, her sun-gilt curls wound with bows and flower garlands. Domestically picturesque, the family would have strolled the beaches, Autumn barefooted and running ahead to collect the prettiest shells for her little bucket. They would have idled on lawn chairs. And they would have played croquet, that new and dubious lawn game, which most of society thought too raucous for good taste, for they were a liberal and free-spirited family. When the bells rang from the hotel, they would have scurried into their cotton bathing suits and run down to the water to play, the ladies and children first, and once they had emerged, the gentlemen. Then they were three and joyously cherished by one another. They were rich and free. But that was then.
Over the years, Autumn had seen worry and consternation darken her father’s beloved countenance and with it, Autumn’s life had become irretrievably altered. Her mother abandoned her beribboned hats, the servants disappeared, the family home had gone on the market, and the furniture sold. Inconceivably, Autumn’s father had committed the one sin that neither God nor society could forgive. He had taken his own life. Autumn’s heart swelled and her throat knotted with the knowledge of the despair that must have led him to this ultimate act of abandonment. She and her mother had moved into a mean apartment where they lived for a time on the pittance they had received as dependants of a successful banker, but that little money had disappeared like her father, and the women were left without resources, without protection. Autumn was at an age at which young debutantes were expected to announce an engagement, but her suitors were few, and those who remained had no thought of marriage to a young lady bereft of money and societal stature. Autumn was horrified to learn that the men who courted her entertained visions not of weddings, but of “arrangements.” She understood finally that she must find some sort of employment if she and her mother were to survive. They could not go on pretending elegance—fanning themselves delicately in summer heat, playing cards and mending their ever more threadbare clothes before a dwindling fire on winter evenings, averting their eyes modestly from the questing gazes of rejecting, disdainful, former friends on the street. Their diminishing finances could not be ignored. They could not, for all their pretenses, afford to remain together. Autumn’s mother, Isabel, had taken a position in the home of a discreet local artisan as housekeeper and seamstress. The family could not afford, however, to hire Autumn, or to offer her their hospitality for more than a few weeks, and so she advertised her willingness to take on any situation suitable to her gifted upbringing. She could not bring herself to apply in Philadelphia, where she and her mother would be subjected to that noxious and insulting tribute, pity. Newspapers in several surrounding cities therefore discreetly announced that a young lady of breeding and taste who could stitch an elegant border, play the pianoforte, sing, speak French, write poems, arrange flowers, and make entertaining conversation was available for employment. In short, this advantaged young lady could do everything but make herself a living. The letter from Cape May came as a lavish gift, and Autumn had accepted the invitation to companion an elder lady with surprise and relief.
One day she might begin to explore the feelings, currently suppressed by her young heart, of anger and resentment at her father’s abandonment. For now, the weight of necessity pressed, and Autumn’s gratitude at being allowed to sustain herself without burdening her poor mother consoled her. It was enough for now that she lived among refined people, had access to merciful anonymity, and that she might someday acquire the resources to lift her mother and herself from life in one room in someone else’s home. She could address the pain of her father’s loss, but not the bitterness inflicted by his deliberate desertion.
Autumn had remained on the boardwalk for some time, and she was beginning to feel a chill. She glanced about, wondering what someone passing would think of her senseless loitering; she was, after all, not on holiday, but a dedicated servant in a refined household. It was then that she noticed a man, far down the beach, watching her. He was a rather ragtag gentleman, though she could not see him clearly. He had a great graying beard and he wore a seaman’s woolen cap and a pea coat. He held a long, curved pipe in his teeth. Though it was true Autumn could not analyze his expression, she had no doubt that he was observing her. The way he stood, hands in pockets, gray puffs of smoke trailing in the light ocean breezes, feet planted in the sand, gave him the appearance of a sentinel. Autumn took down her parasol and hastened from the boardwalk. More frightening than the idea of his watching her for nefarious purposes was the thought that he was observing—and judging—her idleness. As the sun lowered she made her way back to Ocean Street to locate Mr. Fletcher’s Food Emporium.
On the byway, as she traveled back to Byron Hall, Autumn noted with dismay that the man appeared to be following her. Her bundles tucked firmly beneath her arms, she hastened her step. Did his step quicken behind her? She glanced over her shoulder several times. The man seemed to walk no more slowly nor any faster as her own pace changed. His pose was casual, and he seemed to trail her at a discreet distance. At one point, he stopped as he came nearer to her and drew the pipe from his teeth. He stood for several moments, tamping down the tobacco and relighting it. When Autumn had gained some distance, he began to walk once again. At last, unable to bear the bewildering presence and with Byron Hall comfortably in sight, Autumn stopped and turned. The man stopped, too.
“Why are you following me?” Autumn called to him, more indignant than afraid. Slowly, the gentleman approached. He was larger than he’d seemed from her perspective on the boardwalk. He drew the pipe from his lips and held it in the cradle of his big hand. As he neared, his shoulders loomed wide above her, and the barrel of his chest blocked her view of the vermilion ribbon of the sunset. He stood over her finally, very near. She could see she had been right about the graying beard, but what she hadn’t perceived was the laughing, sea-glass blue of his eyes, the sparkle of his even teeth, the crinkle of many generations of smiles that lightened his weathered face.
“I hope I did not frighten you, little one,” he said, his rumbling voice a warming caress in the chilled twilight. Autumn’s mouth fell open. Here was a wonder of a man—surely as old as her father had been—even older—and of mythic proportion and charm.
“No,” she managed, “you did not frighten me, sir.” Beneath her incredulity loomed an inkling of resentment, however, and she added, “But you have perturbed me, and you now leave me quite puzzled.” She furrowed her brows in a display of injury. “I must ask again why you are following me.”
“I wanted to see where you lived,” the man told her easily.
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“Why?”
“That I would rather not say.” He smiled and set the pipe firmly between his teeth. “I take it that you are heading for Byron Hall.” Autumn hesitated only a moment before replying.
“Yes I am,” she conceded. She saw no reason to hide her destination; the man could easily watch her go there. Still, she was troubled that he’d had the audacity to ask such a question in the first place. There had been no proper introduction. She was unsettled, too, that she’d been left little choice in the matter of her response. A lady was always offered the preemptive of falsehood if she chose it. “I must demand that you tell me what interest that fact is to you, sir,” she said, lifting her chin and catching the man in a withering golden glare. He nearly laughed. Autumn’s eyes widened at the man’s effrontery. “You, sir,” she affirmed, “are no gentleman.”
“I have rarely made claim to such a title, little one,” he said, and now he did laugh. Autumn spun away from him and made a brisk retreat up the private road to the house. She did not look back and wondered with every step whether or not he would follow. More soberingly, she wondered who he was and what he would do with the information he now possessed. By the time she reached the house, her sober reflections had been overshadowed by anger. She stormed into the kitchen and flung her parcels furiously on the table.
“Miss Autumn,” Carrie said, “what on God’s green earth has gotten into you?”
“A man,” Autumn shot back. The two women stared at each other for a brief astonished moment, then realizing the implication of Autumn’s pronouncement they dissolved into gales of irreverent laughter. “Oh, Carrie,” Autumn said when she’d contained her mirth, “I meant to say that a man followed me home.” Carrie Inman’s smile faded instantly.
“What’s that you say? You was followed? My lord, are you alright?”