by Carole King
It was nearly four weeks before Autumn had completely estranged Mrs. Byron from the hold of her wine and laudanum. With great care she had decreased the dosages, adding more and more cider to the medication and less and less of the prescribed amounts of the drugs. She had substituted tea later on for the morning dosage and then tea again for the afternoon. Only two nights ago, she had eliminated Mrs. Byron’s evening medication altogether. She had confided none of this to Carrie, for she wanted no one but herself to be responsible for the results, whatever they might be.
Though at first Mrs. Byron had been insensible to the changes, she had become puzzled with newly discovered energies. She questioned Autumn concerning long-forgotten and finally abandoned interests, such as conversation, a desire to get out of bed, to be read to. Her appetite had been restored. And finally, Carrie noticed the changes, and she questioned Autumn, too. But Autumn remained firmly unwilling to discuss her own involvement in Mrs. Byron’s apparent recovery. One night, however, Carrie found the two of them in the music room, with Autumn rendering for Mrs. Byron’s pleasure the popular tune of the day, “Poor Little Butterfly,” on the pianoforte. Her pretty, light soprano filled the house, and Carrie was reminded of the days when gaiety and fun ruled Byron Hall. The two ladies applauded Autumn’s performance and that lady took many bows, assured by her audience that her talent was worthy of the stage at the Adelphi Hotel in downtown Cape May. It was a silly moment at best, but one that drew the three women close. The sharing of harmless mischief strengthened the already blossoming friendship between them, and Autumn thought it time that she allowed them in on the secret of Mrs. Byron’s “recovery.” Their discussion was solemn, with Autumn beginning by reminding them that everything she had done over the past weeks was a direct contradiction of Dr. Beame’s orders and Cain Byron’s expectations. Though she had managed to console herself that Mrs. Byron was improving, she had no idea what long-term effects her very unmedical deviations might produce. Certain that what she was doing was right, she’d managed to ignore or forget or simply willfully evade the matter of accountability. She was sure that once observed, the results of her efforts would be applauded by both doctors. Carrie and Mrs. Byron agreed. Still, Autumn wondered if she had not undermined some larger plan.
“You see,” she struggled on, focussing on Mrs. Byron for the next portion of her discourse, “little by little, step by step, I have taken away the drugs that I felt were doing you a great deal of harm.” The older woman nodded. “For now,” Autumn continued, “for the time being, it seemed enough that you were gaining emotional and physical weight, and you seemed a very different person than the one to whom I had been introduced the night of my arrival at Byron Hall. That is all I was thinking about. Now, though, I wonder if at some future time, some terrible result might show itself. I am no doctor, and I cannot foresee your future.”
“Neither can the doctors, Autumn,” returned Mrs. Byron with the easy grace that now characterized her conversation and every move. “Carrie,” she said quietly, “may we have some tea?” That lady, eager to be of service to her newly awakened employer, hastily agreed and withdrew.
“Mrs. Byron—” Autumn began, but that woman splayed a hand.
“I’ve asked you to please call me Vanessa,” her employer gently reminded her.
“Vanessa,” amended Autumn, but once again she was stopped.
“Do you think me an idiot, child?”
“Oh, no—”
“Let me just say a few words in your defense, since you seem incapable of giving yourself any credit. It occurred to me about three weeks ago that something wonderful was happening to me. Winslow’s plan—his treatment—” she gave the word a questionable significance, “may or may not be medically sound, but I would rather become a raving lunatic than succumb ever again to his so-called cures. And if I should at some future time become, in fact, a raving lunatic, I shall have you to thank for it.” She noted Autumn’s involuntary shudder. She smiled and continued mildly, “What is lunacy, after all, but a certain unpredictability, an unexpected energy—foolishness, folly? You have given me the power, Autumn Thackeray, to say that I shall never again give anyone, not Dr. Beame, and not my son, permission to deprive me of my folly.”
“We’ve had a letter from Dr. Byron,” said Carrie cheerily as Autumn entered the kitchen one morning. “He says, with the good news about his mother and all, he’ll be bringin’ guests down for the holidays. He wants me to have three rooms prepared. I always loved the holidays here at Byron Hall—”
“Carrie,” Autumn interrupted her, “will one of the guests be Dr. Beame?” The servant nodded.
“Wait’ll he sees what you done for herself, miss,” Carrie said triumphantly. “He won’t believe it.”
“That is just what I’m afraid of, Carrie,” Autumn returned, running her fingertips shakily over her suddenly perspiring brow.
“Now don’t you be worryin’. You done a miracle—all by yourself. Now,” she continued, scurrying around the kitchen searching for paper to make a list, “we’re going to need to hire extra girls, three ought to do it, and we’ll order in extra food. And we ought to decorate.” She looked up at Autumn who was regarding her blankly. “For Christmas,” she said in explanation. “This house ain’t been decorated in years. Will you help me, Miss Autumn?” The younger woman nodded and offered a courageous smile.
“Of course I will, Carrie,” she replied. “We shall make everything festive for the homecoming.” As Carrie went about scribbling notes, Autumn arranged Mrs. Byron’s tray. Her thoughts were not on gleeful preparations, however, they were absorbed in dour possibilities. First she must inform Mrs. Byron of the doctors’ arrival, and then a plan must be designed to break the news of what had transpired over the past few weeks. Autumn could not simply present her patient inexplicably cured to the men.
“And we’ll get ourselves to town for some ribbon and a good length of lace for the tree,” Carrie was saying, but Autumn was gone.
She found Mrs. Byron nestled in an armchair by the undraped window in her bedchamber. She was reading, one of her favorite pastimes, and she looked up as Autumn entered the room. “I’m enjoying that new volume of poetry you brought me,” she said. “It’s the book by that reclusive lady from Amherst.”
“Emily Dickinson,” Autumn affirmed vaguely. Each time she had gone into town over the past weeks, she had indulged Mrs. Byron’s insatiable yearning for new reading material. Books were stacked and scattered haphazardly about the chamber. Autumn’s brows knitted.
“We ought to keep these in some kind of order,” she said irritably. “We have no way of knowing which ones we own and which are from the circulating library.”
“We really should have some shelves brought up,” Mrs. Byron observed cheerily. She watched Autumn keenly as the girl set out food for the two of them. She seemed distracted and uncustomarily tense. “I have a better idea,” Vanessa Byron resumed, attempting a soothing tone. “I shall take my old room on the second floor. It has built-in bookshelves, and there is a room next to it for you—with lots of windows facing the sea.” She paused, noting Autumn’s sudden look of dismay. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
Autumn hesitated, then straightened and folded her hands before her. “Mrs. Byron,” she began.
“Won’t you call me Vanessa?”
“Vanessa,” Autumn said firmly. “I don’t think it a good idea for you to move to the second floor. Dr. Beame specifically assigned you to this floor.”
“Since when,” commented Vanessa, “have you been concerned with what Dr. Beame has prescribed?” She had intended the observation as a light jest, and was not prepared for the girl’s response. Autumn’s face crumbled and tears came to her eyes. Vanessa was up immediately and held Autumn in her arms.
“You see,” Autumn sobbed, “Carrie has just informed me that the men are coming back. Your son and Dr. Beame are coming here for the holiday,” she rushed on. “I don’t know what we shall tell them.”
“But how? How have you recovered?”
“I suppose,” Vanessa mentioned, wiping away Autumn’s tears with her own handkerchief, “we can’t very well say it was Winslow’s fine medicines that cured me.” She gave a dry chuckle. “Come, Autumn,” she urged the girl, “sit down.” She led them both to a small sofa. “Listen, child,” she said calmly, “Winslow Beame will ask me questions and I will answer them.” Autumn looked up in horror. “I will answer his questions,” the woman assured her firmly, “but like our Miss Dickinson, I shall slant the truth—just a bit. ‘The truth must dazzle gradually/Or every man be blind.’ Someday, perhaps, Winslow will be able to understand my true assessment of his treatment of me. He is not a fool, but he is a man, and worse, he is a man of medicine. That makes his opinions doubly intractable.”
“And what of your son?” Autumn said, sniffing loudly. “I fear he will send me away.”
“I shall not allow that, my girl,” Vanessa assured her. “You will not leave here until you are ready to leave.” She stood, and from the vantage of her superior height, she regarded the younger woman tenderly. “Cain will be made to realize how important you are to me and how important your continuing presence will remain.” She paused briefly. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done for me, have you?” she said quietly. Autumn glanced up. “You have emancipated me.”
“But what of your. . . . ‘nervous disorder’? Has that simply gone away?”
Vanessa paced away and stared out the window for several moments. “My nervous disorder,” she repeated, and her voice was reflective, a murmur on the quiet air. “It is only fair that you know, Autumn, that several years ago I did challenge everyone’s definition of what is commonly referred to as sanity.” Autumn’s brows furrowed, and Vanessa, glancing toward her, waved away her concerns with long, tapered fingers. “Oh, I did no one any harm. I didn’t prance naked in the garden or set anything on fire as did Charlotte Brontë’s mad Bertha Mason. But I did display an indifference to long-embraced traditions.”
“Is that all?” asked Autumn earnestly.
“Quite enough,” Vanessa assured her. “You see, Cain believed that I was doing harm—to myself. And, finally, he was able to convince me, too. And then he brought Winslow into the picture to convince me further that my behavior was not only unconventional, but dangerous to the very foundations of our life. They became certain that I needed to be isolated from . . . people who meant me harm.”
“Your friends,” stated Autumn.
“Yes, certain . . . friends. The two young doctors became angry with me when I refused their ministrations. I was never one for confrontations, and so I attempted to humor them for a while. After a time,” she said on a sigh, “it just seemed easier to go along with their so-called treatments. But I continued to rebel in small ways, and that is when Winslow became determined that I must go on to Belle Vue. He was adamant. But for my—and then my son’s—resistance, I would be there now. It was at that point that Win became convinced that I needed radical treatment, but he allowed me to receive it here at home. I suppose Cain’s being a medical doctor had a great deal to do with that concession. Most women do not enjoy the advantage of having a doctor in the house.” Vanessa managed a small laugh. “And so I was spared the humiliation of incarceration. But there have been so many other humiliations, Autumn.” She turned to the younger woman. “One day I may tell you about them. One day,” she added, “I may tell the world. For now, I shall say only that the ‘nervous disorder’ about which you’ve inquired was caused by something—a gift—that I was given several years ago. It will never come back, and it will never leave me.”
“What was the gift?” asked Autumn.
“I was given,” she paused and smiled in remembrance, “the gift of wonder.”
Chapter 7
The night of Dr. Byron’s return to Cape May, Autumn took some time to organize her thoughts before descending the stairs to inspect the preparations. Sitting quietly before the hearth fire in her new second floor bedchamber, she made an effort to write her mother a cheery Christmas greeting. In this far more pleasant environment, she could almost manage a sense of true optimism.
“Dearest Mother” she wrote, “I wish you all the gaiety of the season. I have sent a small remembrance, and I hope it has arrived. If not, I shall spoil the surprise and tell you it is a set of antimacassars. You should know my tatting lessons with Mrs. Gainor were not in vain.
“Do you recall the Christmas when I was fourteen? I think it was the best Christmas of all. Daddy (God keep his soul) presented me with a pony—a roistering little thing. I named him Pegasus and rode him in Fairmount Park every Sunday thereafter. The boys always challenged me to races, and I would always win, though you and daddy firmly advised me that I ought to lose sometimes. Oh, Mother, I fear I was rarely the demure daughter of your dreams, but I truly believe you secretly liked me the way I was! Don’t deny it, for I cherish your not-so-hidden smiles of pride each time I announced another victory.
“At the moment, I am awaiting the arrival of Dr. Byron and his friends. He has been away, and I hope we have made the house special for him, and of course, his houseguests.
“I love you and miss you. Happy holidays.”
Autumn signed her name with some reluctance. She longed to write more, to tell her mother of Mrs. Byron’s progress and of her own role in the recovery, but she thought it better to wait until they were together. Autumn could not express that triumph without writing of her accompanying uncertainties and fears. So far, she had managed to keep Isabel ignorant of those. And tonight, especially, she did not wish to wallow in her uncertainties. This night, she vowed, was going to be a festive one.
The dining hall archway was festooned with a garland of fresh greens and silver plate and crystal graced the lace-covered dining table. Carrie scrambled to put the finishing touches on the welcoming meal.
“They’ll be here by supper; that’s what it said in the letter, Miss Autumn,” she announced as she bumped her way in from the kitchen. “And the pea soup’s barely bubblin’.”
“It’ll bubble, Carrie,” Autumn said, laughing. “It’ll bubble and steam and do exactly what it’s supposed to do.” She finished lighting all the candles in all the sconces and candelabrums throughout the room. The women had decided that candlelight should augment the gaslight that would be dimmed for the occasion. From the lofting windows, a twilight glaze faded, casting the room in a softly glowing aura of rose-gold. “Oh,” Autumn said, “that we could keep this light forever.” She turned her attention to the girl who was laying the fire, while Carrie arranged place cards at each table setting.
“Now I hope I got them names right,” she muttered.
“It ought to blaze invitingly,” Autumn was telling the woman at the fire, “but it oughtn’t overshadow the decorations.” The girl nodded her capped head wisely. They both watched as the tinder sparked and a little flame took hold.
“You think that’s right?” asked the girl after a time. Autumn considered the blaze thoughtfully.
“I think it is perfect,” she pronounced. The girl smiled gratefully, then withdrew to join Carrie in the kitchen.
Autumn regarded the room with pride. In fact, the whole house had become, in the last five days, a monument to cleanliness and order. Three girls from the town had been hired. They had been assured the master of the house was not in residence, and when he returned, they were also assured, his guests would keep his infamous temper in check. With their aid, Carrie and Autumn had worked feverishly, removing dustcovers, airing carpets and feather-bedding, polishing furniture and silver, and in general, preparing a house—one that had not been so prepared in a long time—for guests. Ornate moldings had been brushed, fretwork dusted, draperies retasseled. And decorations had been strung on every archway, fresh fruit arranged in bowls, mantels adorned with ribbons. It had been a titanic effort, but the house was a magnifice
nt one and responded to a woman’s loving ministrations. Vanessa Byron had pronounced the house “resplendent” as she toured the rooms. Autumn smiled at the recollection of her own and Carrie’s self-congratulations as they at last presented their crowning glory—the Christmas tree—a splendid fir set in the entrance hallway. All three of them had immediately seen to its decoration. With bits of lace, pieces of costume jewelry, and some remembered trinkets hauled up from the cellar, they had managed to create a frothy winter jewel box in the center of the stately hall. And now, with the house sparkling, the decorations artfully displayed, the pea soup most assuredly a-bubble on the stove, there was little to do but wait for Dr. Byron and his guests. If the doctors did not throttle her first, they would surely approve her efforts on behalf of both the house and Mrs. Byron. Autumn shuddered involuntarily. She knew she had done the best for everyone, the only thing she could have done, and Mrs. Byron was now thriving, but . . . and it was a very large “but” . . . would the men approve?
Restless, Autumn went into the kitchen and took up a basket. Drawing on her shawl, she told Carrie that she was going to step outside and gather some pinecones for the dining room hearth.
“Can you get along without me for five minutes?” she asked Carrie.
“Not for five seconds,” Carrie assured her with a broad smile. The other young ladies laughed. The bond of friendship that had developed between the women of Byron Hall was congenial, openhearted, and affectionate. They’d worked together and laughed together with equal energy.
As Autumn stepped outside the warm kitchen, the night encloaked her. It was cold and deeply hushed as a feathery snow began to fall. Autumn could smell the ocean. A light wind came up and ruffled her hair, and she resigned herself that she might have to redo her upsweep before the guests arrived. She surveyed the pearly opalescence of the garden and made her way to a pine tree in the distance. Before she reached it, however, she was aware of another presence. One of the stable boys? she wondered. And her heart tipped in her breast. Someone stepped into her path.