by Carole King
“You!” she said on a breath.
“Hello, little one,” he greeted her. He held out a small package wrapped with tissue and twine. Autumn stared up at the gray-streaked beard, the curved pipe held securely in strong white teeth, the moonstruck twinkle of sea-glass blue eyes. “Will you take it to her?” he asked.
“To whom?” Autumn questioned him. But she already knew. Her heart fluttered as he took her hand and placed the gift in her palm.
“Thank you,” he said, and his voice was a caress. Again, as before, the man was not threatening, only boldly determined. He turned then and strode away. Autumn’s fingers closed on the crudely wrapped parcel, and she held it to her breast and watched as the man vanished in the thick, cold, deepening darkness.
A sudden resonance of sound broke the stillness of her thoughts. From the front of the house, Autumn heard the approach of horses up the drive, the magical jingle of sleigh bells, the quick bright evidence of arriving humanity. She gathered her composure and ran up the back steps and into the kitchen. Throwing down her basket and tearing off her shawl, she told Carrie that Dr. Byron and his guests had arrived.
“Oh, m’gawd,” the woman responded, straightening her cap and brushing at her apron. The other girls tensed, but Carrie and Autumn murmured assurances to them as Carrie gave the soup a last stir and Autumn hastily checked her appearance in the tiny kitchen mirror. There would be no time to adjust the wild curls that tangled about her forehead and flushed cheeks. Already, the hollow reverberation of footsteps sounded on the wide sweep of the wooden front porch. Both women flew through the house to the front entry hall and nearly skidded to a halt at the massive door. It was opening even as they reached it. The great room erupted with buoyant life. Gay as larks, the guests, led by Dr. Byron, traipsed into the hall, brushing themselves, laughing, complaining good-naturedly about the cold and the length of the trip. Carrie and Autumn greeted them as individually as possible as the men handed over their scarves and greatcoats and top hats and the lady unwrapped herself from her long fur cloak. Autumn watched the singular female with awed disbelief; she was undoubtedly the most arresting woman she had ever encountered. She was tall, statelybreasted, and she had a lavish display of blue-black curls piled artfully atop her head, making her seem taller than she was. She had bright green eyes that were laughing and keen as knife points at the same time.
Antoinette Fraser responded indifferently as she was introduced to the two women who greeted her, then swept into the grand parlor. Autumn stood, nearly toppled by the weight of thick winter garments and watched the pocket doors close behind the lively withdrawal of the guests. Suddenly the great hall was empty. She glanced at Carrie briefly and in some consternation as grumbling, she made her bundled way to the entry closet. Together, laboriously, the two women hung the coats upon hooks and set the hats on stands that lined the top shelf.
“We’ll brush ’em later,” Carrie said hurriedly. “The fire’s goin’ and the brandy’s been set out. I’ll just get the tea and the hors d’oeuvres.” She rushed off down the hall. Autumn glanced toward the closed pocket doors, more than mere oaken barriers muffling the sounds of gaiety from within. Her pale brows furrowed. She wondered for a fleeting moment what she’d expected of this homecoming. Near the gracefully curving staircase stood the Christmas tree, shimmering now in magnificent isolation. No one had even noticed it. Autumn shrugged off her own sense of isolation and headed for the back stairs. Surely Mrs. Byron had heard the voices. She would be anxious to join her guests.
“You look positively grumpy,” said Vanessa as the younger woman entered her room. Whatever grumpiness Autumn had felt evaporated at the sight of that lovely woman, standing so regally, so confident in her newly found fine health. Her only concession to her recently acquired strength was her ivory walking stick, which she held but rarely leaned on.
Autumn smiled regretfully. “I suppose,” she admitted, “I was just a little . . . disappointed by the homecoming. They didn’t even notice our tree.”
“And we worked so hard.” Vanessa offered an almost mocking solemnity. She laughed and placed a gentle finger beneath Autumn’s drooping chin. “Remember one thing, darling, we do what we do for ourselves alone. We must ever be content with our own thanks. If someone offers theirs, we are doubly blessed.” Autumn attempted to absorb the new thought. “You wanted everyone to be impressed,” Vanessa said kindly and with a small laugh. “That would have been most rewarding. But no one, apparently, was impressed. If it is any comfort,” she added quietly, “I am most impressed—with you.” Autumn looked up. “Just look at me,” Vanessa said encouragingly. “Did you ever see a grander grande dame? And it’s all your doing.” She postured before the full-length cheval glass, and both women laughed. But Autumn sobered in admiration as she studied the older woman’s reflection. Her lustrous graying hair was piled becomingly and caught with tortoise shell combs. Her gown, high-necked and fastened with self buttons, draped her stately figure handsomely. Her luminous eyes, the same deep indigo of her gown, danced with intelligence and humor. “All this,” she told her young companion, “I owe to you. You, and you alone, are responsible for the rebirth of that lady.” She pointed with her stick to the majestic creature defined in the mirrored glass. She turned to see the flush of Autumn’s cheeks and her demurring smile.
“All I did, Vanessa,” ventured Autumn quietly, “was to make some adjustments in your treatment which I believed to be valid. I might add that I am aware those adjustments have no validity in medical circles.”
“Are you practicing for the men?” asked Vanessa, laughing.
“I suppose I am,” conceded Autumn. “But it is true that we are both likely to be soundly admonished when the facts come out.”
“Let them admonish us,” stated Vanessa with a lift of an elegant brow. “We mustn’t care two pins. Let them perform their bloody medical miracles on somebody else; I have my own miracle maker.” She reached out and touched a sweetly curved tress that clung to Autumn’s cheek. “I shall not allow you the indulgence of humility, my darling Autumn. We shall tell those witch doctors downstairs what you’ve done for me. Let them rail and brawl. We’ll sit quietly and be very proud of you.”
Autumn smiled. “Shall we not . . . slant the truth a bit in the manner of our Miss Dickinson?”
“Well, for now. Just a bit.”
“Vanessa,” Autumn said seriously, “would you mind awfully if we didn’t tell them right off about what I’ve done? It’s only that,” she added hastily, “I am not anxious to be reproved in front of . . . of . . . everyone.” Autumn was thinking most specifically of that beautiful and proud lady who now graced the front parlor. She appeared, from Autumn’s brief scrutiny, to be a lady of the world, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, and most likely schooled in clever disparagement. Autumn had no idea how she had perceived so much in that very brief moment of introduction, but she had. Perhaps it was the woman’s lynx-eyed, almost predatory, examination of her that had aroused such an uncomplimentary impression. Perhaps it was the dismissive way the woman had tossed her gloves onto the pile of coats in Autumn’s arms. Autumn had met such women, had even, in a sense, admired their essentially narrow power. Such conceit was a kind of thorny protection; though it might prick the sensibilities of some, it guarded the wearer and elevated her to an impenetrable ascendancy over the mere personal opinions of those to whom she felt superior. Autumn eyed the woman before her. Vanessa Byron had some of that conceit, but hers seemed born from within, not superimposed on a lesser presence. Autumn’s ruminations were abruptly cut short as Carrie burst into the room.
Eyes widened, she said, “Dr. Byron wants to see you both. I told him I’d come up and get you. I didn’t want him to know, for all the world, that you’d switched your rooms to the second floor.” The last words were gasped. Carrie was still awed and unsettled by the fact that the ladies had taken over the second floor library and the adjoining chamber as their bedrooms. Her eye roved restively about the cheerful, b
ook-lined chamber, tall windows adorning the lofting, delicately patterned walls. And, while she approved the transfer from those dingy third-story rooms, she shared Autumn’s knowledge that the doctors would not approve.
“We shall be down presently, Carrie,” said Vanessa Byron soothingly. “And thank you.” The three women glanced at each other, knowing full well that the hour of judgment was at hand. They could delay, obscure, and withhold information for only so long. The truth would eventually seep out; truth, slanted or not, always does. And for all Vanessa’s imperious assurance she, too, knew that, once discovered, there would be hell to pay for the insubordination that had taken place over the past four weeks at Byron Hall. Still, she smiled and waved Carrie off. Autumn took a moment to stand before the glass and smooth the curls from her cheeks, but Vanessa stopped her. “You look adorable. Remember that nothing, dear child, must be too perfect.” She took Autumn’s arm. In truth, Vanessa was looking forward to enjoying her grand entrance and the astonishment in the eyes of her son and her physician when they saw her—a whole and substantive woman for the first time in many years. “Let us go, Autumn,” she said grittily. With a lift of her chin, her pearl-draped neck elongated gracefully, her shoulders drawn back, her dancing eyes on the path ahead, she made her way down the stairs. Carrie was waiting at the parlor doors, and with some pride, she swept them open, then drew them closed as the ladies entered. She could not check the small, triumphant smile that curved her lips as she very nearly skipped back to the kitchen.
Vanessa Byron advanced into the parlor on Autumn’s arm and was not disappointed by the reaction she received; her son and her doctor were properly thunderstruck.
“Mrs. Byron,” Dr. Beame said, gaping, “you look . . . well . . . very well, indeed.”
“Mother,” Cain said approaching her. “I can barely believe my eyes.” Autumn relinquished Vanessa’s arm to her son. She backed away from the general greetings. “This,” Cain said, once he had kissed his mother’s cheek, “is Miss Antoinette Fraser of New York.” That lady stood and extended a hand.
“Mrs. Byron,” she said in a cultured, though excessively breathy voice, Autumn reflected wryly, “I have waited just forever to meet you. Your son has mentioned you often and in such devoted terms. He is very naughty not to have brought us together sooner.”
“And this,” Cain continued, indicating a young gentleman, “is Mr. Damien Fraser, Antoinette’s brother.” That man stepped lazily to Vanessa and took her hand, bowing over it.
“How do you do, Mrs. Byron. It is a pleasure to be welcomed to your home, especially at such a festive time of year.” Everything about the young man, though he was not yet twenty, spoke of a quiet, almost secret, composure. A flicker of a smile seemed to play on his lips constantly. Autumn was uneasily aware that, though he was greeting Vanessa, he was looking more than occasionally at her.
“I don’t know if you’ve met Miss Thackeray,” Vanessa said, noting where the lad’s attention had settled.
“Antoinette and Damien,” Cain assured his mother, “have already met Autumn. She is Mother’s companion,” he explained to the others. How unceremoniously Autumn’s status had changed. From friend and miracle worker only moments ago, she had been reduced to hired companion. Still, she smiled and nodded at Antoinette’s bare acknowledgment of her. She glanced hastily at Damien and then away. His smile had deepened imperceptibly as he offered Autumn a leisurely inspection. He most likely imagined her nothing more than a little serving girl to be plucked and played with, and then, appropriately impressed with his cosmopolitan charms, conquered, as it were, and tossed onto the cinder barrel. Well, the man had quite another thing coming, Autumn resolved. She sat primly on a nearby chair and folded her hands. She vowed she would not notice the young guest for the rest of the evening. She was hard-pressed to keep that vow, however, as his veiled scrutiny never seemed to leave her.
“I can hardly believe what I see, Mrs. Byron,” Dr. Beame said. “I daren’t allow myself too much optimism, however,” he said with a hearty laugh.
Vanessa looked obliquely up into his eyes. For all his apparent delight in her metamorphosis, he studied her with a technician’s dubious concern. “Perhaps,” she said wryly, “you are expecting me to convulse and return to that broken, mad creature you left here some weeks ago.” Her last words were clouded by disdain. Winslow Beame’s eyes widened in astonishment.
“Why . . . heavens, Mrs. Byron,” he groped, stunned by the lady’s forthrightness. “I would not think of such a thing, I daresay.”
“It’s exactly what you were thinking, Winslow,” returned Vanessa. She smiled toward Autumn who was, at the moment, wincing visibly.
“Now, Mother,” soothed Cain anxiously, “Win wasn’t thinking anything of the sort.” He glanced apologetically about the room. “And we do have guests. We may wish to discuss this later.” Antoinette Fraser’s regard hung determinedly on an object far from Mrs. Byron, and even Damien’s eyes shifted to the carpeted floor. “Carrie brought in tea a few moments ago,” Cain continued. His onyx regard fell on Autumn as he wordlessly entreated her aid. “Would someone care to pour?” he asked.
“I should be honored,” Autumn said hastily. Vanessa must consider her words carefully now, she reflected as she made her way to the sideboard. Her sense of irreverent fun needed to be checked now more than ever. Both doctors would naturally be inspecting her carefully for any signs of the returning disorder. Impiety and an indifference to accepted deportment were the first signs, as Vanessa herself had pointed out, of an unstable female mind. As Autumn passed among the guests with the tea tray, she worriedly eyed the older woman. It was one thing for the two of them to have a bit of fun at the expense of the rigid behavioral expectations of the day, but it was entirely another for Vanessa to dispense with propriety and mention publicly a very private, and less than seemly, matter. Such things as madness and “nervous disorders” were not pretty topics for discussion. Etiquette demanded a certain reticence. One did not say just anything that popped into one’s head, or one might be considered, well . . . mad.
“Autumn is such a pretty name,” said Antoinette Fraser as she idly stirred her tea. Autumn looked up, startled. She had not expected to be addressed and certainly not by the lordly Antoinette. Perhaps she had misjudged the lady.
“Why thank you.” Autumn’s gratitude was genuine and unguarded.
“However did your mother and daddy think of it?” Before Autumn could answer, she continued. “It is my experience that the working classes seem to come up with such colorful cute and childlike names. I had a little maid once—a darling girl, really, though she did attempt to steal a pair of gloves from me and I was forced to dismiss her—whose name was Utica, like the city. Everyone called her Utie. Isn’t that cute? And then, once, we had a buttery girl whose name was—” she paused, pondering prettily. “Now I must get this right. Oh, yes,” she said brightly. “Her name was Wisteria Mae. Remember her, brother? Her friends called her ‘Misty’.” Antoinette laughed indulgently. “It was rather a reverse combination of her two names, don’t you know. And she was such a love! She was always ready to just pop up and help with any old thing that needed doing, just like your little Autumn.” Her gaze, green and glittering, drifted to Cain Byron. Autumn set down the tray, now unburdened, more heavily than was necessary, onto the sideboard, and Antoinette’s eyes lifted in studiously adorable bemusement.
“Actually,” Autumn said, turning to the guests and dimpling her sweetest smile, “my mother is . . . a Gypsy. Oh, mummy is such a piece of work! You shall meet her one day. In naming me, she followed an old Hungarian custom. Once a lady has given birth, she goes to the door of her tent and looks outside, reviewing the scene before her. Then she names the child for the first thing she sees. As it turns out, once freed from the throes of childbirth, mummy looked outside and saw the most beautiful autumn morn. And that’s how I got my name.” The words were said with a small challenge. Childbirth, like madness, was an unwelcome topi
c in polite society. Antoinette stared at her blankly. Vanessa burst into appreciative laughter, followed by Cain and then, reluctantly, Winslow Beame. Damien offered an amiable chortle. It was only his sister who remained unmoved.
“May we assume,” Antoinette asked stonily, “that the story is a fantasy?”
Autumn returned to her chair. “It is,” she said easily.
“My,” commented Antoinette, “aren’t you the original one.”
“That she is, Nettie,” Damien reported. Everyone glanced in his direction.
“My name is not Nettie, brother, and don’t you dare call me that.” The lad swiped at the feathery fuzz that decorated his upper lip and smiled.
“Would you mind, Dr. Byron,” he asked as he stood up, “if I poured myself more brandy? This rather stately gathering has suddenly become a party.” Without awaiting the approval of his host, Damien moved to the sideboard. Setting down his cup and saucer and still smiling in Autumn’s direction, he poured himself a brandy. His sister eyed him darkly.
Returning her attention to Cain, she said with forced brightness, “You must remember that lady I introduced to you at the Monarch Social Club, Cain darling. She makes up stories like that—for a living, if you can imagine such a thing. Her name is Mrs. Eldora Weaver and she pens the most extraordinary penny romances, drivel really, for the masses.” Antoinette’s gaze drifted to include Vanessa Byron and Dr. Beame. “She comes from nothing, but she fancies herself a descendant of Miss Jane Austen of England,” she continued, lowering her tone. “I shouldn’t boast of such an aberrant background, if I were she.”
“Nor would I,” Winslow Beame agreed, feathering his chestnut colored mustache reflectively. “It is a well-known medical fact that intellect in a lady is a dangerous thing. Add to that imagination and you have a lethal combination. Miss Austen had too much imagination and too cutting an intellect for her own good. She died, as I remember, quite young, and,” he stated with pointed significance, “—unmarried.”