by Carole King
“However did Mrs. Weaver get into the Monarch?” asked Vanessa with wide-gazed innocence.
“I believe,” replied Antoinette seriously, “she married into it. Her husband is the very well-known architect, Mr. Jacob Weaver, don’t you know. And, for all their wealth and social status, they are now living on the West Side of the city with all the musicians and painters and even actors. How dreary! It is no wonder they are childless.”
“I have treated Dorie Weaver for a number of years,” stated Winslow Beame. “And, without breaking any confidences, I shall tell you that I have firmly advised her to give her indomitable imagination a rest. In a female, a most dangerous thing—imagination.” He glanced fleetingly at Autumn. That young woman stared boldly back.
Imagination and intellect, she thought, lacing her fingers more tightly in her lap. Dangerous. She almost laughed, but she knew that she was on dangerous ground as it was. She regarded her employer through veiled lashes, wondering what he had thought of the exchange that had just taken place. Surprisingly, he was looking at her, and the smile in his eyes was threatening the hard line of his mouth. Autumn knew there would be no more smiles for her once the facts came out about Mrs. Byron’s treatment, and so she reveled in this temporary approval. She smiled back. At that moment Carrie drew open the doors and announced that dinner was served. Dr. Beame immediately stepped to Vanessa Byron and offered his arm. With Cain escorting Antoinette, Autumn had little choice but to accept Damien Fraser’s companionship.
“You are, I take it, sitting down with us, little Gypsy,” he said. Autumn hid a smile and nodded.
She noted Antoinette’s arched inquiry and accepted that it must seem strange to such a refined lady that a servant should sit at table with honored guests. “Mrs. Byron insisted, I fear,” she offered lamely. Still, despite her uncertainties about the arrangement, it was with a sense of triumph that she took Damien’s arm.
“You know,” said he, as they proceeded to the dining room, “I was not looking forward to this holiday, but I think, dear improbable servant, I am going to enjoy it after all.”
“Did you say improbable?” Autumn inquired.
“Oh, yes, Miss Thackeray. You are quite the patrician, if delicious little bonne bouche.” Autumn glanced briefly at the questionable compliment. She decided to be generous.
“Mr. Fraser,” she said, dimpling a smile, “I have heard it is quite impossible to amuse a bonne bouche. You, it would seem, have achieved the impossible.”
Dinner was over, and Vanessa rose from her chair, begging the pardon of the men. She led the two younger women to her parlor for after dinner coffee.
“Do join us soon, gentlemen. We shall simply die without you,” Antoinette chimed out, then glanced at Autumn. “Are you coming, too, Miss Thackeray?” she asked sweetly.
“Yes,” said Autumn distractedly. She noted that Carrie, who was already serving the men, seemed a bit rattled. “Why don’t you go on, ladies, I shall get our coffee.” Carrie glanced at her gratefully, and Autumn went through the serving door to the kitchen.
“Such a helpful child,” she heard Antoinette croon to Vanessa as they made their way across the hall.
“‘Such a helpful child,’” Autumn repeated in a syrupy burlesque of Antoinette’s so-called cultured voice. “‘Such a helpful child.’” She slammed cups down onto a tray and filled a silver pot with coffee. The serving girls looked on, a bit awestricken at Autumn’s uncustomary show of temper.
“Now, Miss Autumn,” said Carrie as she backed into the kitchen with a tray loaded with the remnants of the meal, “what’s got you so worked up? If it’s that tinsel-hearted Lady Jane out there, then I’m ashamed of y’.” She offered an arched smile. “Surely you ain’t jealous of such a creature.”
Autumn took the time for a long, calming exhalation. “I am sorry,” she apologized generally. “You see, once I was quite good at exactly what Miss Fraser has been doing out there for the last two hours.”
“And just what has she been doin’?” asked Carrie. “Why she’s just been playin’ at bein’ female and gettin’ everybody’s attention in the bargain. But that ain’t the kind of attention I want. And you shouldn’t want it either, Miss Autumn. You’re too smart for that.” She waggled an imaginary fan and minced about the room. The serving girls laughed as they unloaded the tray.
“Oh, Mrs. Inman,” said one of them, “you do that real good.”
“Anybody c’n do it, even you.” She grabbed the girl’s hand and positioned it on her hip. “Now,” continued Carrie, “take the other hand and wiggle it under your chin. Now flap your lashes, swing your hips, and curlicue up your lips into the tightest, brightest smile you can imagine. Now,” she said imperiously, “walk on your tiptoes.” With the girl’s efficient rendering of a femme fatale, all the women burst into giggles. Carrie turned at last to Autumn. “Now you do it, Miss Autumn, and see how much better it makes you feel.” Through her amusement Autumn regarded Carrie warmly.
“Touché,” she said softly.
“To-what?” asked Carrie.
“It means,” replied Autumn, “you have made your point. And a very exacting point it is, too, Carrie. If you don’t watch yourself, you will be accused of having imagination and intellect.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Miss Autumn,” said Carrie laughing, “but I’ll tell you this; I believe you was good at all that flirtin’ and fussin’ over the boys—I was good at it, too. But I’m hopin’ neither of us was that good. There’s names for the likes of that one,” she added pointedly, with a jerk of her thumb toward the parlor.
“I must admit,” Autumn conceded with a smile, “I was never quite as extravagantly female as Miss Fraser is.”
“I think,” said one of the serving girls shyly, “you’re twice as pretty as her. I had a peek at her in the dining room,” she added confidentially, “and I sure wouldn’t like to get her mad at me.” Autumn smiled warmly at the girl. Her thoughts were interrupted, however, by the scraping of chairs in the dining room.
“Oh, Lord,” she said, “the men are finished with their brandy and cigars and I haven’t even served the ladies.” She hastily finished arranging the tray.
“Is this anything?” asked one of the girls. She had lifted from the counter the little package that Autumn had received earlier from the stranger outside. Autumn stared at it in bemusement.
“It was given me by someone in the yard.”
“Who?” asked Carrie.
“I’m not sure,” said Autumn, “but he said it was for . . . it was a gift. He asked if I would present it for him. I suppose I should bring it in.”
“Probably one of the stablemen,” Carrie offered. Autumn decided against telling her it was the same man who had followed her home; she dared not risk rekindling the woman’s wrath over that incident, and so she only shrugged and agreed that it could have been one of the stablemen. The girl put the little gift on the tray. “We’ll finish clearin’,” said Carrie, and Autumn moved off with the tray.
Upon her entrance into Mrs. Byron’s parlor, the gentlemen stood and Damien approached her to help with her burden. Antoinette was answering a previous question put to her by Mrs. Byron.
“New York City is indeed an exciting place to live, but as everywhere, the servant problem is growing daily.” Her green gaze slid to Autumn, who was becoming a bit wearied by the constant attacks. Antoinette went on. “People take no pride in serving others these days. Everyone imagines themselves too good for domestic work. There is a growing population of middle-class families in the city who will simply not train their children for service. All one can find these days are little brown guttersnipes off the boats—and you know they are impossible to train. What the future holds, I shudder to imagine.”
Autumn brought coffee to the ladies. “I am terribly sorry it is late,” she murmured. “Everyone was so busy in the kitchen.” Antoinette smiled thinly.
“Are we just a bit understaffed?” she asked Autum
n condolingly.
Vanessa Byron laughed as she put in, “Not understaffed so much as overwhelmed. We haven’t enjoyed the company of guests in this house in many years, Miss Fraser. I’m afraid we were not quite prepared for my son’s announcement that he was bringing company home—and New York City company at that.” She stirred her coffee tranquilly. “We know that you and your brother are used to the best of everything. I only hope you can put up with our inadequacies for a while. Our little efforts are sincere, if not always completely sufficient. We are just country folk, after all.” Antoinette’s eyes widened, and Autumn averted her gaze. Was there just the slightest quaking of Autumn’s shoulders? Was she hiding amusement?
“Actually, Mrs. Byron,” said Antoinette through her embarrassment, and with a narrowed perusal of Autumn’s slender back, “I was not criticizing the excellent accommodations of your household. My comments concern the indifference of servants, not the luckless circumstances of well-intentioned hostesses. We, after all, are only the hapless victims of a rather distressing social phenomenon.”
“It is quite true,” commented Winslow Beame expansively. He accepted coffee from Autumn and barely looked at her. He, at least, was unaware of Antoinette’s very specific target. “We rich must be ever wary of the rising influence of the working classes,” he continued. “My God, it strikes me that their confrontational potential smacks of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. We all know,” he said solemnly as he stirred his coffee, “what that little uprising led to. A very good king lost his head in the bargain.”
“A queen did, too,” offered Autumn.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Thackeray?” Dr. Beame inquired, irritated at the interruption.
“A queen lost her head in the French Revolution,” Autumn repeated. She smiled generally before allowing her gaze to rest on Antoinette. “It was said she had no sympathy for the underclass and so they chopped off her head.” She glanced serenely at her employer, who had, it seemed, been studying her throughout the evening. And, as always, a smile lurked just beneath the surface of his expression. But for his almost wordless composure, he might have laughed and even been easy with her. He, however, Autumn reminded herself, had other thoughts. He was no doubt anxious to discuss Vanessa’s recovery and hear some explanation for it. Autumn glanced at Damien, who was still perusing her, but his seemed a harder sentiment. Damien Fraser might laugh at someone but never with them. Winslow Beame regarded her with simple derision.
“You have effectively supported my point, Miss Thackeray,” he returned narrowly. “A simple love of luxury brought the wretched Marie to a violent end. And she wasn’t even French. It is a frightening thing when our ladies cannot enjoy their little pleasures—clothes and jewels and leisurely gossip and such—without being accused of excess.”
“I think her pleasures might have been more acceptable had she not stepped on the bones of the poor to accomplish them,” returned Autumn.
Winslow lowered his gaze in a pointed display of concern. “I do wonder where you picked up such information.”
“About the French Revolution?” asked Autumn.
“Indeed.”
“Well . . . I’m not sure. I suppose in a book.”
Beame shook his head sadly. “Why would a pretty young girl want to read about such a bloody and mean-spirited historical event?” he asked rhetorically. “As I’ve told many of my women patients, books are evil things in the hands of those who have not the capacity to understand their messages.” Autumn decided not to intrude on his thick despairing silence. She glanced at Vanessa, who was having difficulty hiding her amusement, and recalled the present that had been left.
“Before I forget,” Autumn said, “I was given a package earlier.” She picked up the small tissue and twine wrapped present. “A gentleman left it.”
“Who?” asked Cain, his brow furrowing.
“Carrie,” Autumn replied hastily, “suggested it was one of the stablemen.”
“Oh, yes,” said Cain Byron, visibly relieved, “the men are often generous this time of year.”
“He wanted me to . . . present it. Why don’t you open it, Mrs. Byron?” She brought the package to Vanessa and placed it in her palms. A moment of knowing certainty passed between them. As Vanessa slowly unwrapped the gift, a visible shudder passed through her stately frame. She held up the offering for all to see. It was a snow globe. Inside was a lighthouse with tiny shells strewn about on a little beach. She shook it gently and snow swirled and sparkled about the miniature environment.
“It is,” she said softly, “a most lovely remembrance.” Tears came to her eyes and fell on her cheeks. “It is . . . a wonder.” There was silence in the room as everyone watched Vanessa. She offered a smile to each of her guests. “I am fine,” she assured all of them, “just deeply touched.”
“And probably very tired,” offered Dr. Beame, once again the courtly physician.
“Yes, Mother,” agreed Cain, “it has been a big day for all of us. I must insist that you retire immediately.”
“I shall escort her up, Dr. Byron,” said Autumn quickly, but Cain stopped her with a glare. She was not anxious that Vanessa’s recently altered location be revealed, especially in light of Dr. Beame’s comment on the evils of books, but there seemed no hope of delaying that discovery. Dr. Beame was already taking Vanessa’s arm.
“You,” said Cain, “will remain with me.” He stood and rang for Carrie as Winslow Beame helped Vanessa to her feet. Cain looked to the other guests. “Carrie will see you to your rooms.” As the evening seemed officially over, everyone shifted and rose from their seats.
“I, for one, welcome the suspension of our conversation,” said Antoinette. “I am quite exhausted from the day’s journey, not to mention the conversation regarding the killing of queens named Antoinette.” She stretched delicately and glanced at Autumn, offering her a small, sidewise smile. “It seems, Miss Thackeray, that you are some distance from relief.” Touching Cain’s cheek, she bid him goodnight, then took her brother’s arm, and at Carrie’s entrance, the two of them withdrew.
“I shall be back momentarily, Cain,” said Winslow Beame, as he exited with Vanessa on his arm. Vanessa and Autumn exchanged glances. Dr. Beame was about to make the first discovery that would displease him, Autumn reflected.
“Are you amused by something?” Cain Byron inquired, lighting a small cigar.
“No, sir,” said Autumn in reply, “I don’t believe so.”
“I detected the beginning of a smile,” he observed. Had she been about to smile, Autumn wondered? Perhaps she was just a bit amused by the thought of the confrontation that was about to ensue between Dr. Beame and the now formidable Vanessa.
“Actually, sir,” she said seriously, “there is something you should know.” She took a breath and licked at her lips. “You see, it’s only that . . . you see, your mother and I decided, in your absence, and as she was feeling so much better, that, quite frankly, the rooms we occupied on the third floor were so depressing that we removed ourselves to the second floor.” Autumn wondered if she had made any sense at all. Cain’s onyx gaze riveted her.
“And this amuses you?” he asked.
“Only in the sense,” Autumn admitted, “that Dr. Beame had not ordered your mother placed elsewhere and I fear that his reaction will be quite harsh. And Mrs. Byron is not one to accept a scolding without some . . . dispute.”
“You are so right, Miss Thackeray,” Cain agreed and reminded Autumn that his mother’s disputatious nature had been the reason that she had become so ill. He added that he was indeed anxious to believe in her recovery. “In truth, however,” he maintained, “her problems were so severe that this turnabout in so short a time strikes me as curious. And then,” he continued, pacing before the fire, “there is the matter of that little gift you presented this evening.” He turned to Autumn and his figure against the flames reminded her of the portrait in his parlor of that stern and terrible patriarch, his father. “Where did y
ou get it?”
“As I mentioned,” Autumn reminded him, “a gentleman gave it me.”
“What gentleman?”
“He came into the garden. I did not recognize him, but he seemed a pleasant soul.”
“Did he say the present was for Mrs. Byron particularly?”
“No,” Autumn answered, recalling that he hadn’t needed to. Cain reverted to a thoughtful silence. “Dr. Byron,” Autumn put in, “is there something I should know?”
“There is nothing you should know, Miss Thackeray.” A muscle worked in his jaw and again there was the silence. “It is only that,” he resumed, “my mother’s struggle has been a valiant one. I should hate to think it was in vain. You see, I worry that—”
“And you have every right to worry, sir,” boomed the voice of Winslow Beame. He entered the room, and his hard glare bent on Autumn. “You were charged, young miss, with the care of a very sick woman,” he stormed, “and you have failed miserably in your duties.” He faced Cain and pointed an avenging finger at Autumn. “This person,” he ground out, “has taken it upon herself—her uninformed self—to allow your mother to relocate herself to a most disturbing environment—in the middle of the house, books strewn everywhere. It was not for nothing, Cain, that she was moved to the third floor in the first place. You will remember—”
“I remember, Win,” said Cain Byron. They both looked at Autumn.
“The room was so bare,” she offered.
“That is exactly the point!” Beame exploded, advancing on her. Autumn was sickened by the narrow focus of his fury. “It is not for the likes of you to question my method, girl, nor any doctor’s method. There are prescribed treatments for women in Mrs. Byron’s condition.”