by Carole King
“Oh my, yes,” Autumn assured her. “I am just fine.” She took the older woman’s hand and sat her down at the table to explain the events of the afternoon. “I suppose,” she finished forlornly, “it was my own fault for making myself so visible there on the boardwalk, but I was fascinated by the ocean, and I’m afraid, lost in my own thoughts.”
“An’ what the devil is wrong with that?” asked Carrie, assuring Autumn that a woman’s “thinkin’ time” ought to be respected. “That was the very purpose of your outing; you’ve had little enough time to yourself. ’Tis a pity and a shame,” asserted Carrie, “that a lady can’t walk the streets without bein’ mauled.”
“Well, I was hardly mauled,” Autumn demurred.
“It’s one and the same, miss,” Carrie returned heatedly. “It’s a God-awful world it is,” she stated, pounding a chubby fist on the board, “that lets a man think he can approach us just because he’s got a whim to.” She cast a narrowed glance at Autumn. “From now on, my girl, you’ll take the carriage.”
“Maybe that would be best, Carrie,” Autumn said, gauging her response to soothe the woman’s wrath. She dared not mention, at least for the moment, that she’d actually spoken to the gentleman, and that she’d not felt in the least threatened or intimidated by him. As she thought on it now, Autumn recalled that she’d realized a certain amiability in the man. Whether it was his maturity that consoled her or his straightforwardness in finally approaching her, she did not know. There had been nothing calculating in his posture; even his unwillingness to speak of his reason for following her held a certain frankness that Autumn, upon reflection, could respect. The only fault she could truly attribute to the gentleman was a determined arrogance. He was, no doubt, a rogue—but he was a charming one. Naturally, she reminded herself, the charming ones were the most dangerous.
Changing the subject, Autumn inquired as to Mrs. Byron’s well-being, and Carrie assured her that the woman had spent a quiet afternoon, as usual, sleeping most of the day. Ever troubled by this, Autumn reluctantly began to mix the medication her patient required, and she and Carrie made up a supper tray.
“May we meet later?” asked Autumn, recalling their conversation of the previous afternoon.
“I’m lookin’ forward to it. You an’ me, we’ll have a real sociable evenin’.”
The house was dark and silent as Autumn slipped down the back stairs to Mrs. Inman’s first floor room. Carrie greeted her knock with a bright and hearty welcome and led Autumn to a comfortable upholstered armchair. The room was furnished pleasantly, and Autumn commented on the fact that Carrie enjoyed the amenity of two windows, while Autumn had barely one. The women giggled over the insensitivity of some employers, and Carrie played hostess.
“I got me some wine, Miss Autumn,” she said, “or would you prefer tea?”
“Wine would be welcome, Carrie. Mother and I enjoyed an occasional glass in the evening . . . when we could afford it.”
“I know how you must feel, Miss Autumn, bein’ so far from the one you love.” She poured two glasses, offered one to Autumn, then nestled herself into a pile of decorative pillows on her bed.
“I am sure you understand, Carrie. You must miss your husband terribly.”
Carrie nodded, but commented that they had been lucky to find their situation. “Henry tenants one of Dr. Byron’s farms. He’s got land all over New Jersey—horse farms and crop farms and dairy farms and who knows what else all. You see this place but it ain’t nothin’ to what’s out there.” She waved a chubby hand at some vast expanse of property that existed “out there” somewhere. “But one day we hope to buy a place of our own. We’re savin’ our money, and it won’t be long before we can start a family.”
“One would think Dr. Byron would give you a farm, Carrie,” mused Autumn, sipping her wine. “He is one of the richest men in New Jersey, so I hear.”
“That he is, miss, but my Henry’s a proud man. You see the farms and the money—everything—came from Mrs. Byron. She was the one brought all the wealth into the family. Naturally, once she married, all the money and property went to her husband.” Her voice faded. “Anyway, it’s a complicated business all around, it is,” she resumed, taking a long sip on her wine. “For one, the property, this house, most of the money, was left to Mrs. Byron. I mean it’s hers, except she can’t do anything with it, ’cause she ain’t fit. There’s some law, or somethin’.”
“It sounds like a very stupid law,” Autumn commented.
“It may be, miss, but there it is. So the doctor has to . . . um, execute the whole estate. It’s confusin’ to me, but Henry says he won’t be takin’ nothin’ from a woman. That’s the way of the old country, Miss Autumn, and here, too, apparently. Men are so proud.” Autumn nodded.
“Tell me about the house, Carrie, and how it was before Mrs. Byron became ill.”
“Oh, that,” said Carrie, rising and pouring more wine, then resuming her seat. “You see, the grandfather built the house with the help of the people in town. For their help, he promised them he’d be their doctor forever, and that all his heirs—male heirs, that is—would be doctors, too, and that they’d serve the town.” She was warming to the tale. “Well now, the father, Dr. Byron’s father, kept to the agreement, and Dr. Byron, too.”
“I see no evidence of a medical practice,” Autumn put in.
“That’s ’cause there ain’t none,” Carrie returned. “I mean the present Dr. Byron went to medical school, but once he got out—more important, once his father died—he just walked away from the house, from the people, from his grandfather’s promise. You see that’s why the money and all was left to Mrs. Byron and not a pittance for the son. I suspect the old master knew his son was a bit of a proud heart, if you know what I mean. Why from what folks say Cain Byron had every girl in town salutin’ him with her skirts. But that’s gossip,” she added hastily. “So the father put it in his will that his son couldn’t inherit nothin’ till he started a medical practice.”
“Still he . . .” Autumn searched for the word Carrie had used, “executes the estate,” she observed.
“That’s how it is, miss. Like I said, it’s a complicated business.” Carrie poured a dollop more wine into each glass. “All I know is that since we was kids together, young Cain Byron was always in some kind of trouble. He was always ridin’ his horses through the town, busy as it is, with an arrogance that just riled everybody’s bones. And there was nothin’ could stop him, either. The constable was always up here, I remember. And me, bein’ a serious-minded girl just off the boat, didn’t appreciate the high jinks. It was just as well, far as I was concerned, that he got himself sent off to that Harvard College. It stopped the fightin’ between him an’ his father anyway. No father and son should be so at odds.”
“And Mrs. Byron?”
“She couldn’t do much, miss, except be the angel that she was—consolin’ the young Dr. Byron and givin’ him and the father all the love she could give. If it wasn’t for her there wouldn’t’ve been no love at all around here. Oh, she was a grand lady in them days and a real elegant strutter. Not that she was full of herself, oh, no. But she could’ve been, if she’d wanted to be,” Carrie rhapsodized. “She and the old master gave the most elegant parties. Why this house was a regular palace, with the guests all decked out and music playin’. They had their own little orchestra that used to come in most every weekend. Why me an’ the other girls’d just get the place cleaned and polished from one party, and we’d start all over for the next. It was more excitin’ than you can imagine.” Carrie became lost for several seconds in smiling reflection.
“And then the ‘trouble’ happened,” prodded Autumn. She was feeling a glowing curiosity. She folded her feet beneath her in the comfortable chair.
“The trouble.” Carrie nodded and drew herself up to pour more wine. She settled herself once more on the bed and seemed to pause as she collected her thoughts. “The trouble,” she repeated. “Now that didn’t happen till
after the old master died. See, the old master passed on, and it seemed like things happened.”
“I understand,” Autumn told her solemnly. “What things?” she asked as an afterthought.
“Oh, things,” said Carrie giving the word a dangerous emphasis. “Like, Mrs. Byron forgot things. She forgot bridge games and even supper parties. And,” she added with significance, “she seemed happy. Well, I mean, a widow lady shouldn’t be happy, should she?”
“No,” agreed Autumn. “A widow lady should not be happy.”
Carrie nodded, confirming her observation, and continued, “She was happy. Flighty kind of. And she would go on little trips on her own. A few days, a week. And then Dr. Byron come home from New York one day, and he brought this Dr. Beame with ’im, and he was a kind of specialist, or somethin’—in women.” She began to laugh uproariously. “Imagine it, Miss Autumn,” she said through her mirth. “He went to college to study up on women!” Autumn found much humor in Carrie’s observation. She accepted another helping of wine and found the taste becoming more and more agreeable to her. “So anyway,” continued Carrie on a serious note, “there was these two doctor lads askin’ questions, and all of a sudden we get to thinkin’ about things, we girls. ‘How’d she act today?’ they’d ask and ‘Where’d she go last night?’ And we’d start goin’ to the doctors with our stories for fear Mrs. Byron was really sick. I think,” she confided to Autumn, “that some of the girls made up things just to get closer to the doctors.” Carrie gave a sage wink and Autumn nodded knowingly, though she could not for the life of her remember what she had just in that previous moment known. “But anyway . . .” Carrie continued, pausing for a moment to recall her drift, “that was the trouble.” Autumn’s brows furrowed.
“What was?” she asked after a moment.
“What I said,” Carrie informed her. She drew up her knees, and they both sipped their wine in reflection.
“So,” recounted Autumn, putting her thoughts in some sort of muddied order, “Cain Byron thought his mother’s happiness unhealthy.” Carrie nodded emphatically. Autumn’s mind drifted with the puzzle. Questions darted into her consciousness and as quickly disappeared. She wanted to say something, but found it difficult to form the words. “Just one second . . .” she said slowly, cautiously, lifting a detaining finger lest Carrie should attempt to interrupt. “I’d like to understand.”
Her thoughts trailed off. She tried to recall what she’d been about to ask. She took yet another sip of wine, for her mouth felt dry. “Was she sick?” she asked finally. The words had not come out correctly. Carrie, however, seemed to have no difficulty understanding her. She bowed her head.
“It’s a God-awful world,” that lady pronounced. Tears formed on her lashes as her face crumpled. “Once she was so happy . . . We was all happy once.”
Autumn reached into the pocket of her houserobe and laboriously drew out a handkerchief. She handed it to Carrie, who took it and dabbed at her eyes. Autumn suddenly felt, watching the other woman, an infinite sadness. It was an awful world. Tears puddled in her own eyes, blurring and distorting her vision. Carrie blew her nose heartily into the hanky, and Autumn dabbed at her own with the hem of her robe. “What’s the use?” she asked. Again, the words had not formed themselves properly, but again, Carrie seemed to understand.
“We go on and on . . . tryin’, tryin’, tryin’.”
Autumn nodded. She understood her friend perfectly and agreed with her sentiments. Before she could express her acknowledgement, however, she noted with some disinterest that Carrie’s empty wineglass had fallen onto the carpet. Lifting her tear-glazed eyes, she stared blankly at the sleeping older woman. Poor Carrie, Autumn reflected. Poor, poor, Carrie. Poor, poor, everybody. Pushing herself up with some difficulty from the chair, Autumn thought to withdraw to her own room. However, the floor beneath her feet had suddenly turned gelatinous. She sat back down with surprising abruptness. The world spun darkly. A bright spot of sunlight beckoned, and then everything was nothing.
She is twirling. She is laughing. She is graduating in one week from Miss Merriman’s School for young ladies of quality. She is trying on the dress she will wear, made for a lady not a little girl. It is satiny white. With one gloved hand she holds up the hem, with the other she holds down the crown of baby’s breath and seed pearls placed carefully atop her head. She has learned everything—and perhaps nothing—about life. But she is free. She is going too fast! Too fast!
Too . . . fast. She falls, giddy, breathless, onto a settee. Her dance, her life, has begun.
Chapter 6
Upon awakening next morn, Autumn considered praying for her own demise. But of course one did not pray for such things; one only wished for them. She struggled to wakefulness, managed somehow to physically crawl through the initial agony, but her cow-hearted mental state unnerved her. All morning Autumn had felt a sense of helplessness, hopelessness, and unreasoned fear. Combined with those, she was overwhelmed with a feeling of guilt. She lay on her bed for some time after lunch remembering that earlier she had done the unimaginable; she had snapped at Mrs. Byron. That poor, helpless creature had refused her lunch as usual, and Autumn had, as usual, admonished her—rather harshly, now she remembered it. Mrs. Byron had cursed, and Autumn had, unbelievably, cursed back. “You sound like me,” Mrs. Byron had told her dully.
Autumn attempted to sit up, but the sudden sharp throbbing in her head bade her lie back down—very slowly. She and Carrie had agreed that there was some pernicious infirmity in the air, for they both, upon their awakening early that day in Carrie’s room, experienced the same nausea, headache, and listlessness. Whatever it was that ailed them, they resolved, they must protect Mrs. Byron from contracting it. And so it was not without some gratitude that Autumn had kept to her room for the most part throughout the morning. She’d risen long enough to give Mrs. Byron her breakfast, which she did not eat, and her lunch, which she had refused with horrible consequences. Autumn flayed herself with the memory of that awful moment. Angered beyond reason at Mrs. Byron’s customary and willful disdain of food, Autumn had reminded her that one could not live without nourishment. Mrs. Byron had eagerly downed her medication, the smell of which sickened Autumn and brought to her mind the excess of wine she’d consumed the night before. Setting down her mug, Mrs. Byron had pointed out to Autumn that her own breakfast and lunch had gone untouched, and Autumn had reminded Mrs. Byron that she was the patient. It was at that point that Mrs. Byron had cursed. And it was at that point that Autumn had dismayed herself by cursing back. Another employer might have dismissed such a flagrantly disrespectful servant on the spot, but Mrs. Byron had simply sat back, her gaze vague and drifting, and told Autumn that she sounded like her.
You sound like me . . . You sound like me . . . You sound like me. The words echoed like a dull and painful heartbeat in Autumn’s mind. She should have dismissed me, Autumn reflected. Any self-respecting mistress would not have allowed such insolence, to say nothing of such indelicacy, in a servant. But of course Mrs. Byron had no self-respect. . . .
Autumn sat up abruptly, almost toppling herself in the process. Her eyes were wide with a sudden recognition. “You sound like me,” she uttered aloud. Shocked, horrified, Autumn struggled from the bed. She raced into Mrs. Byron’s room and grabbed her empty mug from the tray. Steeling herself, she sniffed it. That was it! Of course! It had to be!
She glanced quickly at the slumbering Mrs. Byron; she looked so like Carrie had looked last night. Hers was not the sleep of peace and wound-knitting dreams; it was the sleep of oblivion. In that sleep there was no healing; there was only nothingness. And from such a sleep, Mrs. Byron could only awaken to remembered horrors and the raveled fears that had never been given the opportunity to mend. Good God!
Autumn sank heavily into the armchair where Mrs. Byron had eaten—or, rather, not eaten—her lunch. Her own stomach roiled, rejecting even the concept of food. The same terrible feeling of helplessness that had been with her all mo
rning washed over her. She attempted to shake it off. She had become, in one day, a hopeless pessimist, a mindless coward, a weary grappler at the bottom of a fear-muddied pit. She looked down at the mug that lay overturned in her lap. You sound like me. Slowly, she lifted her gaze. Mrs. Byron’s troubles, then, were nothing more or less than the product of a pernicious cycle: An excess of spirit and its horrible effects, the elimination of the horror with more wine, which caused more horror. Autumn’s eyes widened with the knowledge of what she must do. Rising carefully, she began to clear up the dishes from the afternoon meal. Dismissing the dull pounding of pain behind her eyes, she made her way from the room and down to the kitchen. That very day, Autumn would begin, deliberately and cautiously, to wean Mrs. Byron from the drugs that had savaged her mind and body. No matter the consequences, she reflected—and the consequences could be grave—Autumn was determined to do the thing she instinctively knew was right.
As she slept that night, the two doctors loomed up before her, blocking her determination with distortions of what she knew absolutely to be true.
My mother’s fate is in your hands, Miss Thackeray. You must follow Dr. Beame’s instructions to the letter.
My women patients trust me, Miss Thackeray. I would never do them harm.
But this is right, her heart argued. No one, man or woman, should be rendered mindless, without the ability to make choices or even understand that choices exist. No living thing should be tortured by horrors they cannot hope to understand.
Torture, Miss Thackeray? This is medicine! If you were a man, I would call you out onto the field of honor.
You are my mother’s last hope, Miss Thackeray. Please remember why you were hired.
I was not hired to drive a woman to madness!
Autumn sat up, sleep leaving her like a heavy cloak. She was perspiring, and in her uncertainty, sobbing mournfully. She was making her own choice; if it were the wrong choice, a bad choice, a harmful choice, she would never forgive herself.