by Carole King
“But her condition changed, Dr. Beame.”
His mouth screwed into a sneer. There was danger here. Autumn backed from him. “That is my judgment to make, not yours,” he grated, following her retreat. “How dare you?” He stood over her. “This insolence is not to be tolerated.” They both looked at Cain. That man stood quietly, watching the confrontation.
“She is right, Win,” he said. Beame stiffened.
“How dare you, Cain?” There was a hard silence. “Am I to take it,” Beame finally inquired, “that you are siding with a hired servant against your mother’s own physician?”
“The fact is, Win, an amazing transformation has occurred. I don’t intend to fire Autumn until I learn how it came about.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Cain Byron—Dr. Byron—that you would allow yourself to be influenced by this . . . chattel?” Autumn’s own gaze narrowed and glistered menacingly.
“I am not chattel, Dr. Beame,” she said, pent rage releasing itself. “I am a human being. I shall tell you something about Mrs. Byron’s recovery and how I accomplished it. You had her living—or dying really—under the influence of sleeping powders and spirits, tucked away in that tomb on the third floor. She was a godforsaken ghost of a woman when I met her, and realizing the cause, I took it upon myself to remove it.” Autumn advanced on the two men. “Like it or not, Mrs. Byron has recovered from your unholy doctoring. She is not receiving the benefits of your treatment, nor will she while I am present in this house. And if anyone imagines they might remove me they will have to step on the bones of Vanessa Byron. I am under her protection now.” Winslow Beame gasped audibly. It was a death rattle.
“Am I to understand you discontinued the medication I prescribed?”
“You are, sir,” Autumn returned. “I have weaned her from that garbled botch of drugs and powders that held her poor mind and body captive. She is no longer your lethargic, insensible, sluggish little patient. For better or worse, Vanessa Byron is an open-eyed, sometimes troublesome, often singular person, just like the rest of us. And I shall tell you this,” she pointed her own avenging finger, “if you or anyone dares to interfere, if you attempt to take away her uniqueness as a person, I shall stop you, my man, in any way available to me.” With a peremptory glance at an apparently impassive Cain Byron, Autumn straightened, swung away from the two of them, and left the room.
Once in her room, trembling wildly, Autumn sought the comfort of her writing desk. She drew a sheet of paper from a drawer and took pen in hand. The time had come, she realized, to finally confide in Isabel and seek her council. Autumn knew she had reached a point of turning—or of no return. She had challenged the very foundations of male authority. She did not know what the consequences would be or whether she would have the strength to carry out her threats and promises to the men. Isabel had taught her independence and esteem for the person she was, but even her mother’s example had not prepared Autumn for direct confrontation with the established traditions of an unforgiving societal prerogative. Even Isabel had never locked horns with the men. A knock on Autumn’s door startled her, and she looked up uncertainly. She was not emotionally prepared for another stand.
Still, she said, “Come in.” The door opened and Cain Byron stepped across the threshold. With a hard click he closed the door behind him. He stood just inside the room, perusing her with more interest, she perceived, than anger. Autumn stood slowly. Cain leaned back, his wide shoulders effectively covering the width of the door. Autumn studied him, wondering whether he was intending to cuff her or verbally reprove her; either, it seemed, would be done passionlessly, for he appeared at the moment unwilling or incapable of expressing emotion. He pushed himself from the door and crossed the room to a tall window. Staring out into the black night, his reflection, tall, wide-shouldered, and proud, gazed back at both of them.
“I pride myself on being a reasonable man, Miss Thackeray,” he said quietly. “Throughout my adult life some dark corner of my mind has always told me how things ought to be.” He turned to her and the brooding reflection turned its back. “Something remarkable happened here tonight. I am speaking not only of my mother’s recovery, but of something else, too. Somehow, a light has been shed on that dark corner of my mind. What ought to be has changed. You have asserted yourself in ways I don’t understand and should not have tolerated. And yet, Miss Thackeray, I have tolerated it. Something is telling me I ought to tolerate it.”
“I have not acted without compunction or deep consideration and concern. Your mother’s well-being means a great deal to me. In a way—I know it will sound odd for me to say it—I love her. And I flatter myself that she returns my affection.”
“It does not sound at all odd, Miss Thackeray. I have heard that love is a much underrated remedy for many ailments.”
“I have heard that, too,” she said. She wondered that this doctor, trained at the best medical school in the country, would espouse such an unorthodox philosophy of healing. He turned again to the window.
“I find it necessary to mention one more thing. Winslow Beame has demanded an apology.” Autumn fought a compelling impulse to refuse. Her fleeting outrage became puzzlement, however, for her employer had not demanded the apology, but only mentioned that Dr. Beame had. She battled with herself for some moments.
“I shall apologize,” she said, “for acting the shrew in the parlor tonight. I should not have raised my voice. That, of course, is not the apology Dr. Beame demands, at least not the full one, but it is all I am prepared to offer.” Cain Byron turned to face her once again.
There was a twinkle in his onyx gaze that reminded Autumn of his mother’s. “For now,” he said, “he must be satisfied with that.”
Chapter 8
Christmas morning was celebrated with a fox hunt. Autumn had been invited along, but she had demurred, disapproving as she was of hunting down and killing little furry creatures. Instead, she chose to spend the morning with Vanessa. They sat across from each other in Vanessa’s cheery, book-lined bedchamber. Autumn had given her a heavy shawl knitted of rug yarn, and they both laughed, for the idea of it was a holdover from Vanessa’s bedridden days.
“You really don’t need this,” Autumn said, as Vanessa held up the intricately designed but bulky garment.
“It is very pretty,” Vanessa assured her. “And who really knows what one will need, or will not need, in the future.” Autumn studied her reflectively.
“What does your future hold, Vanessa?”
“I do not honestly know, Autumn. But, I can tell you one thing: I shall not stand for another moment of scrutiny by that officious Winslow Beame. If he counts the pulses of my heart one more time, or asks me one more question about my feelings I shall scream.” Again both women laughed. It was desultory laughter, however, and soon—so very soon—they were eyeing each other dispiritedly. “If he really knew what I was feeling,” Vanessa said quietly, “the poor man would have a stroke.” She glanced quickly away.
“I wouldn’t have a stroke,” Autumn told her, “if you told me what you were feeling.”
“I wish I could,” responded Vanessa earnestly, leaning toward her friend. “Oh, how I wish I could.” Autumn looked into her eyes, offering release.
“Does it have to do with the little gift you received last night?” There was a pause during which Autumn knew the older woman was deciding. “It isn’t fair that you must bear this burden alone, Vanessa,” she encouraged.
“Fair,” repeated Vanessa harshly. “What is fair, my darling Autumn? Microbes grow on babies’ faces. Is that fair? The universe is notoriously unfair.” She stood suddenly, pressing her hands together, entwining her long fingers, and turning her regard upward. Tears coursed down her cheeks. Autumn went to her immediately, taking her hands and pressing them to her own breast.
“Sometimes,” she said solemnly, “we must make do with what the universe decides, Vanessa, but in the end it is really up to us. We can manage what seems unmanageable. We are not pow
erless, you know.”
“I know,” conceded Vanessa, bowing her head. Autumn offered her hanky, which Vanessa accepted gratefully. “I have never been one to acquiesce to the vagaries of fortune without protest, Autumn. It is only . . . in this case . . .” Her voice trailed off. She smiled as she dabbed at her tears. “You mustn’t imagine that I have fallen back into my hopeless, helpless despair, love. Please forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Vanessa.” She led them back to their chairs. “I suppose now, with the men back, certain . . . circumstances seem to be replaying themselves.” Vanessa nodded tiredly. “But that is temporary,” Autumn assured her. “In the meantime,” she added with a wry smile, “I shall not ask you again about your feelings. I am becoming quite as tiresome as Dr. Beame.”
“He was hard on you last night, was he not?” commented Vanessa.
“I don’t believe he was any harder on me than I was on him,” Autumn returned, forcing lightness. “After all, I defied the very foundations of his authority. Still, he sincerely believes that his treatment, and no other, is the reason for your recovery—or so he says. I believe,” continued Autumn with a piquant dip of her pale lashes, “I shook his confidence, and in the bargain, may have given our arrogant New York City doctor something to think about.”
Vanessa laughed softly. “I have heard that’s what Gypsies do.” Autumn lifted her brows.
“Gypsies?”
“Gypsies. Free spirits, anyone who doesn’t follow the rules. They defy convention. They give people something to think about.”
“A silly joke,” said Autumn, lowering her eyes, half ashamed at her impulsiveness the previous evening.
“Cain enjoyed it.”
“Did he?” asked Autumn, looking up. There was a pause.
“Yes,” said Vanessa thoughtfully, “he did.” She searched Autumn’s countenance for several moments. “You care very much what Cain thinks, don’t you.”
“Of course, Vanessa. He is your son and my employer—”
“I mean as a man.”
“I don’t really know him as a man.”
“Yes you do, Autumn,” Vanessa said softly. “Cain has been touched by your presence in this house, and you sense that.”
“And how could you know such a thing?” asked Autumn, attempting playfulness. “Are you a Gypsy, too?”
“Only a watchful mother. I fear I am not in your class.” They laughed together companionably. Finally, as the younger woman’s laughter waned, Vanessa resumed. “I will not press you, dear Autumn. We seem to be causing each other all sorts of discomfort today. Instead, I shall ask you to read what is in my future.”
Autumn extended her hand playfully. Her eyes closed and her voice became low and modulated as she said, “Cross my palm with silver, wealthy lady, and I shall tell you the secrets of the ages.” To her surprise, Autumn felt the cold weight of something in her hand. She opened her eyes and looked down. In her palm lay a small silver band with a turquoise stone in a molded setting. She looked up. Vanessa smiled.
“You wanted silver, Gypsy woman. That is the only silver I own.” Her smile deepened. “Keep it, Autumn dear. I’ve wanted to give you something, and that is a little treasure of mine.” Autumn slipped it onto her middle finger, for it was too big for her ring finger. “It is a Caribbean stone, given me by a friend—a very dear friend.”
“Then you must keep it, Vanessa.”
“No. I want you to wear it. It is time for me to part with it.”
Gazing down on the exotic ring, Autumn murmured, “It is lovely.” She lifted her regard, and said seriously, “I shall wear it with pleasure and reverence, for I have the feeling it means a great deal to you.” Vanessa lay her head back against the tufted chair in which she sat.
“Oh, yes,” she said softly, “a great deal. Once it represented every dream I ever imagined. But dreams are the province of the young. And I am not young, Autumn.” She lifted the little snow globe from the table beside her and stirred its contents with a small revolution of her hand. The snowflakes inside swirled across the sand and obscured the tiny lighthouse. “What have dreams to do with me?”
Autumn made her way down to the kitchen to clear up the dishes from Vanessa’s breakfast tray. She was disturbed and dejected over the older woman’s turn of mood. In the first flush of her recovery, Vanessa had revealed an optimism and a buoyancy of character which Autumn perceived was the woman’s true nature. Now, she had descended into a pervading depression. Autumn had imagined her in sterling, young middle age, presiding at parties, strolling though the town greeting friends, attending the theater. But there had been no indication that any of those possibilities interested Vanessa. There seemed an abiding sadness in her that Autumn resolved to explore. Perhaps, she reflected with some pique, her observation of the morning was true. Perhaps the presence of the men had dampened Vanessa’s spirits. Dr. Winslow Beame, with his dire attentions, could surely drag any woman into the depths of pessimism. His solicitations were filled not so much with concern but with foreboding.
He’d warned Autumn, in the midst of her apology to him earlier that day, that Mrs. Byron was weak and susceptible to fluctuations of mood. “Didn’t you see,” he asked, “how she was affected by that silly novelty gift? A simple little favor made of glass sent her into a pensive melancholia. This is female neurasthenia at its worst. Her hysteria has caused a weakening of her constitution,” Beame had told her. “In your ignorance, young miss, you say she is cured. I, as a man of medicine, say the cure has just begun. We cannot be too careful. There is no telling what dangerous or even disgusting path this illness may take. One must learn,” said Winslow Beame with lordly gravity, “to follow orders without question or the necessity of interpretation.” This, Autumn supposed, referred to her rearing in a privileged home. He had also suggested hotly that she learn to curb her tongue and her temper. Her behavior toward him had been most highhanded and, more importantly, he lectured, unladylike. All these comments, though irritating and unnecessarily dismal, remained with Autumn through the morning. While she did not believe for a moment that Vanessa Byron was heading for “dangerous” or “disgusting” behavior patterns, Autumn did realize that something profound had once befallen the woman. This event, whatever it had been, had caused the men to deem her mentally ill—or at least unconcerned with convention, rebellious, and willful—and it had caused Dr. Beame to prescribe the abominable treatment that had savaged Vanessa’s very soul. He could do it again, Autumn thought with a shudder. Winslow Beame could, conceivably, with his convoluted medical terminology and urgent doomsday predictions, turn Vanessa once more into a wasted spectre of a human being. Doctors were doing it every day. Women in their care were being ravaged, body and soul, by the medical profession with society’s blessing. There was a bright spot in Autumn’s thinking; Cain Byron would not again give his blessing to such treatment. Winslow Beame would have a powerful adversary in Cain. Of this Autumn was certain. Last night he had proven himself an advocate for both his mother and for her. That was a comfort, a blessing not to be discarded. In this world of men and their arbitrary rules concerning women’s behavior, male advocacy could be an important tool. In that sense, Vanessa’s earlier pronouncement was true. Autumn did care what Cain Byron thought. She cared very much that he approved her handling of his mother’s recovery. She cared that Cain Byron was willing to concede that in some way Autumn had made a difference in their lives.
She looked up from her work to find Damien Fraser just inside the entrance to the kitchen.
“Lost in thought, little Gypsy?” he asked blandly.
Autumn smiled apologetically. “I was, sir,” she answered. She quirked her brows at him. “Weren’t you off with the others, hunting down that poor little fox?”
“I was,” he replied. “But, like you, I am not all that enthralled with the chase. Actually,” he said, drawing a fluted glass from behind his back, “I only attend these fox hunts because they give you champagne for breakfast.�
�� He brushed a tangle of light, feathery tresses from his pale forehead. “Do you know where they keep it?”
“The champagne?” Autumn inquired.
“The champagne,” he affirmed with a thin smile. Autumn divined that he’d had quite enough spirits for one morning and told him that she did not, in fact, know where the wine was kept. It was a lie, of course, but a worthy one. Already she was breaching Dr. Beame’s suggestion that she free herself from interpreting the requests of her “betters.” “Ah, well,” Damien said with a small sigh, “I suppose I shall have to wait for lunch.” He stepped forward and placed the glass on the wooden table that separated them. As he did so, he leaned forward, resting his weight on his hands. “I should like to pluck you, little Gypsy flower,” he said thoughtfully.
“Would you?” Autumn remarked, turning away and pumping water into the iron sink. The wine, she thought, had gone to the man’s head. “Well, I am afraid, sir, that I am not interested in being . . . ‘plucked’ by you or anyone, for that matter.”
“Why not?” asked Damien, feigning affront. “Am I not the handsomest of men?” Autumn nodded and smiled as the young man struck a classical pose.
“You are, good sir.”
“I am also rich. I could take you away from all this.” He waved an arm, taking in the entirety of the kitchen. Offering her a cocked perusal, he continued, “You are used to something better than servitude, I perceive.” Autumn lowered her gaze.
“That is why you referred to me as an ‘improbable’ servant.”
“It is,” returned Damien seriously. “I know quality when I see it, and you, Miss Autumn, are quality personified. I suppose,” he added thoughtfully, “that is why my big sister is jealous of you.”
“Jealous,” said Autumn, lifting her pale brows. “Antoinette jealous? Of me? I cannot credit such a notion.”
“Credit it well, for jealous she is.”
“How could you possibly have come to such a conclusion?” asked Autumn, rolling up her sleeves in anticipation of washing the dishes.