A Tender Tomorrow

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A Tender Tomorrow Page 13

by Carole King


  “Antoinette,” said that lady’s brother, “is an arrogant vixen in the best of circumstances; she holds herself above all females in the art of seducing a man. But when she’s jealous she positively exudes a siren song. I’ve seen it before.” Autumn slipped into an apron and tied it.

  “Have you?” she asked, turning to the sink full of dishes.

  “Indeed. It goes something like this,” he said, pacing, his pale poetic face intent. “She becomes as alluring a creature as any Lorelei. She is helpless, awestruck, passionately trusting in a man’s protection. She hangs on his every word, his every action, as though she will accept a cuff or a kiss with equal gratitude. She is docile, compliant, satisfied merely to stand in the glorious presence of a glorious male. She is, in short, every man’s ideal woman. She becomes irresistible.”

  “With all that effort,” remarked Autumn wryly, “the huntress deserves her prey, especially,” she added more thoughtfully, “if the prey is foolish enough to be dazzled by such an obvious trap.”

  “But the men don’t know it’s a trap, you see. Just like sailors on the ocean, they imagine that distant chimera, that longed-for ideal to be not a trap but a haven.”

  “Then they are sorely misinformed,” stated Autumn, tiring of the game. She sponged off her dishes and, pumping mechanically, rinsed them under the spout. “In any event, Mr. Fraser, if your sister has her sites set on Cain Byron, it seems to me she has a right. They have had a long-standing relationship as I understand it. And she has no reason to be jealous of the likes of me. As you point out, she is every man’s dream.”

  “But her charms are false, and yours are not,” Damien said, striding to her. Autumn looked up in surprise. Damien stood above her. “You are a perfect May-time blossom, trembling ’neath the morning dew. Antoinette is a lushly ornamented tropical bloom—with poison at its center.”

  “Oh, come now, Mr. Fraser,” scolded Autumn. “Is that any way to talk about your sister?”

  “It is the only way I know how to talk about her. Wait and watch, little Gypsy. Dr. Byron has been praising you all morning to Dr. Beame, and Antoinette is irritated to her bones. She will attempt to destroy you.” Autumn moved away from the sink and took a towel from a hook.

  “I am afraid she has chosen the wrong competitor,” she said quietly. “I am not schooled in the female arts. And even if I were, I would not claw my way to a man’s heart.”

  “My very impression,” Damien told her honestly. “That is why I dared approach you, dear little patrician. I am not anxious to have my heart clawed.” Autumn laughed. This Damien was a sweet creature. His sometimes snide exterior masked the soul of a scared little boy. He was laughing, too, a gentle, abandoned laughter.

  “I take this hilarity to be a sign that your morning duties are accomplished, Miss Thackeray,” said a rough voice from the entry to the kitchen. Standing tall, outfitted in a splendid riding suit of black velvet, Cain Byron eyed the two. He snapped his crop against his thigh.

  “I was just finishing up your mother’s breakfast dishes,” Autumn offered, hurrying to the sink.

  “And I was looking for the wine, Dr. Byron,” said Damien easily. “But Miss Thackeray didn’t know where it was kept. We were speculating on the possible locations of the wine cellar.” Cain’s perusal narrowed. Autumn perceived accusation in his gaze, for he knew very well that she knew exactly where the wine was kept. Without a word, Cain turned and went into the buttery. He returned with a bottle and extended it to Damien.

  “Thank you,” Damien intoned with a lingering smile. He glanced at Autumn. “And . . . thank you, Miss Thackeray for the lively speculation.” He excused himself with a small bow and left the kitchen.

  Cain Byron regarded her with a question. “Was the lad bothering you, Miss Thackeray?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” she said. “It was only that I felt that Mr. Fraser had had quite enough of spirits for one morning, and I—”

  “What have you against spirits?” Cain interrupted.

  “Why . . . nothing, sir. It is only that a certain moderation ought to be exercised . . .” Her voice trailed off because Dr. Byron was smiling. As always, that rare expression on a countenance so suitable to smiles and so bereft of them gave her pause. “It will not happen again,” she murmured.

  “Oh, yes it will, I fear,” said Cain moving to her. He set his riding crop on the table. Standing above her, he repeated, “Oh, yes it will.” He lifted her chin with a leather-gloved forefinger, so that her amber gaze rested on him. “Miss Thackeray,” he intoned, “it has been said more than once, you are most unsuited to servitude.” Autumn, looking into that darkly, inexplicably tender, regard felt a sudden melting in the area of her knees.

  “I shall try harder, sir,” she managed.

  “I know you will . . . Autumn,” came the response. Her name on his lips became the focus of her world. It was only the sound of footsteps on the back porch that brought her back to the kitchen at Byron Hall. Autumn stepped quickly away. The back door swung open and Dr. Beame and Antoinette, in their fashionable riding ensembles, bubbled into the kitchen.

  “Cain,” Antoinette said in extravagant wonder, “where do you suppose that little vixen got to?” She drew off a flowered scarf and flourished it in the air. Smelling of fresh breezes and perfume, she swept across the room. “I could have sworn we had her in sight.”

  “They are beastly sly little devils,” Dr. Beame pronounced as he watched Antoinette lay her arms on Cain’s shoulders. “We must ever be wary of them,” he added with an indulgent smile.

  “I am so disappointed, Cain darling,” Antoinette said, pouting prettily. Autumn’s attempt to withdraw caught her attention. “Why hello, Miss Thackeray,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t even see you hiding there. Whatever are you doing skulking in the shadows like that.” She glanced back up at Cain and seemed to gasp softly. “Oh, darling, I haven’t interrupted another scolding, have I?” Concern etched her clear brow. “If so, I do apologize.” She touched a gloved fingertip to his lips, and Autumn winced. Those were, after all, the lips that had just spoken her name with such heavenly tenderness. “You really must,” Antoinette went on, “try to be a bit more patient with that poor little creature. Look at her.” They both turned and bent their gazes on Autumn. “She is such a downtrodden old thing. She looks like a rag that has been left out in the sun too long, tattered by the winds.” Autumn’s eyes widened. She suddenly felt like that grimy, faded, and battered rag. Unconsciously, she began to roll down her sleeves and to smooth the folds of her apron. Antoinette laughed. “See how she attempts to make herself presentable. She is trying. You really oughtn’t to be such a bully,” she scolded and thumped Cain’s shoulder lightly. “Don’t you pay him any mind, Miss Thackeray,” she soothed. “Men can be so cruel, especially where overworked and underpaid serving girls are concerned. They think they own them.”

  “You needn’t worry, Miss Fraser,” said Autumn, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, “Dr. Byron wasn’t scolding me.” She said the words with more confidence than she felt. “And I am not, I can assure you, overworked. Neither am I underpaid. Dr. Byron is most generous with his servants—especially the girls.” She offered a bright and knowing smile. Antoinette paled, and Winslow Beame feathered his moustache distractedly. Cain Byron managed to hide his own smile.

  “Actually,” he said, “I was asking Miss Thackeray if she and my mother would join us for luncheon. She has not given me an answer,” he added, his eyes searching Autumn’s.

  “I’m sure Vanessa will be happy to join you, sir,” Autumn replied. “And I would enjoy it as well. I’ll just be busy here in the kitchen for a few more minutes. I promised Carrie I would help her with the table preparations. She’s outside lopping off the heads of some lovely partridge at the moment. It’s a bit like fox hunting, except the little prey have feathers instead of fur, and, of course, you can eat the birds. In any event, Carrie will be in soon, and luncheon should be served up in no time.” Again she offe
red Antoinette a perky smile. That lady eyed her darkly.

  “Such a helpful child,” was all she could manage. At Cain’s not-very-well-hidden smile, Antoinette took his arm. “We really must be off,” she announced. “Come along, Win darling,” she called over her shoulder. “We all need to freshen up after the morning’s exertion.” Autumn watched them troop from the room and knew, with a sudden stunning realization, that she would, in plain fact, be willing to compete for the attentions of Cain Byron. Naturally, the thought of “competing” with the likes of Antoinette Fraser was laughable. Her charms may be false, but they were highly effective.

  Luncheon over, as they all lingered in the parlor, it was suggested that they attend the Adelphi Theater that evening. It seemed a flyer had arrived earlier, announcing that the famous seeress and advocate of free love, Victoria Woodhull, was touring the provinces. She was giving a special Christmas reading.

  “I’ve read about her in the New York City papers,” Antoinette said. “She was even in jail once. The evening should prove at the very least amusing,” she urged everyone. “I hear she says the most deliciously offensive things.”

  Vanessa declined, but insisted that Autumn attend with the others. Carrie assured her that Mrs. Byron would be well looked after. There was a good deal of help in the house these days, what with the three serving girls hired for the holidays (the master had been enjoined not to rouse their fears with his dark looks and thunderous tones—and he had complied), and Carrie herself would keep company with Mrs. Byron until everyone arrived home.

  Autumn dressed for the occasion in her finest array. She wore a soft green creation of watered silk, smocked delicately at the wide bodice and flounced at the hem. Beneath the flounce was a border of deeper green file. The long, sheathing sleeves were piped in emerald velvet and fastened with tiny pearl buttons. Autumn’s jewelry had been sold long ago, but Vanessa offered a string of seed pearls and ear bobs to complete the outfit. She also offered a pair of combs made of luminous abalone. Autumn’s hair was piled artfully atop her head in a cushion of curls.

  “You are a picture rare and wondrous,” Vanessa pronounced, as Autumn inspected her reflection in that lady’s cheval glass. Autumn half agreed, but it was not long before that assessment faded in her mind. The dazzling appearance of Antoinette Fraser in the entrance hall challenged even the glittering luster of the Christmas tree. This, then, Autumn acknowledged, was the reason Antoinette had insisted they attend the showcase at the Adelphi. She knew her gloss and polish would undermine any effort that Autumn might make.

  Every head turned as the party entered the lobby of the theater. That grand palace, its columned passages brightly lit, its lofty ceilings and wedding-cake moldings painted in jeweled colors and gold leaf, was the perfect setting for Antoinette’s glamour. She wore a gown of crimson velvet, its voluminous skirt shirred, caught with rhinestones, and trailing a heavy train. In her raven curls, swept dramatically to one side, she wore the bright plumage of some exotic bird. Her lips had been brightly rouged and kohl lined her glittering green gaze. She and Cain, Autumn noted with a rush of regret, made an elegantly handsome couple. Both tall, dark-maned, intelligent-eyed, they advanced through the thronged entrance and up one side of the sweeping double staircase. Autumn and Damien followed, arm-in-arm, an ascetic and drab counterpoint to the brilliant couple, almost an afterthought to Cain and Antoinette’s radiance. Dr. Beame followed with them, approving the animated attention of the admiring crowd. In their gold-draped box, high above the orchestra, the party became the center of an upward-directed perusal, watched by everyone, envied by all. Opera glasses were lifted, speculations whispered.

  “I suppose,” Cain said with ingratiating good humor and not a little embarrassment, “they wonder if my mother is in attendance. This box has not been used in years.”

  “It could not be,” ventured Antoinette, feigning injury, “that they might just be admiring us.” She offered Cain a piquant glance and then an equally piquant smile. “We make quite a splendid couple,” she added. “Don’t we, Cain darling?” That man nodded noncommittally.

  “You really do,” put in Winslow Beame.

  “You are too kind, Win,” Antoinette responded. She glanced expectantly, awaiting another compliment, at her brother. Autumn might not have been present.

  Damien smiled apathetically. “You are the most stylish lady here,” he assured his sister, hoping the adjective would suffice.

  “Thank you, Damien,” she said with satisfaction. Having been approved all around, Antoinette turned her attention to the stage as the house chandeliers were dimmed. The chairman of the theater clacked his gavel announcing each act; first a pair of jugglers, then a mentalist, a comic singer, and a Chinese magician. At last it was time for the main attraction.

  The stage’s apron was lit by small torches, and from the hollows of the wing a tiny, immaculately dressed and coifed woman emerged. She was Victoria Woodhull, the notorious seeress, feminist, and once presidential candidate. At her throat she wore her signature white rose. Her speech was soft, her manner enigmatic. She assured her audience that she had prepared nothing for her talk, that her “spirits” would guide her words. Her subject this night, she told her audience, was the advocacy of the same sexual standards for both men and women.

  “Some women seem to glory over the fact that they never had any sexual desire and to think that desire is vulgar,” she began. “What! Vulgar! The instinct that creates immortal souls vulgar?” Winslow Beame shifted audibly in his seat. “Who dares,” she continued, “stand up amid Nature, all prolific and beautiful, where pulses are ever bounding with the creative desire, and utter such sacrilege? Vulgar, rather, must be the mind that can conceive such blasphemy. No sexual passion, say you . . . Bah! . . . It is not the possession of strong sexual powers that is to be deprecated. They are that necessary part of human character . . . they are the foundation upon which civilization rests.”

  Her speech lasted no more than fifteen minutes, and during that time fans fluttered, throats were cleared, and whispers rose to a heated rhetoric. No applause rewarded the infamous lady as she left the stage. The great hall was silent. At last, a small sound, the sound of one person’s approbation, echoed hollowly in the cavernous hall. Unimaginably, the sound came from the up-until-now abandoned Byron box. Cain, Antoinette, and Winslow Beame looked on in amazement as Autumn stood. “Brava!” she called out. Damien soon joined her, and it was bare moments before, one by one, other members of the audience, mostly women, stood and applauded as well. At last, Mrs. Woodhull made a second appearance. She curtsied modestly to the now thunderous applause of more than half the audience. She thrust out her arms and said above the approving crescendo: “Be of good cheer, my darling ladies! We are winning!”

  After the show, a private room was obtained for the Byron party at Mrs. Rainey’s Imperial Restaurant, and a supper of fresh oysters and cold salmon was served by Mrs. Rainey herself. Winslow Beame observed that he now understood why Mrs. Woodhull had served time at that notorious and most dreaded prison on Centre Street in New York City called the Tombs. The newspaper account said that the reason for her trial and ultimate sentencing had something to do with a scandalous accusation made against the godliest of men, Henry Ward Beecher, pastor of the respected Plymouth Church, and some lady—or several ladies. In any case, observed Beame, warning against female imagination and intelligence, a woman like Mrs. Woodhull should not be given a public forum.

  “Such incendiary notions, in the words of the Bard, deserve a madhouse and a whip. A speech such as the one she gave tonight—spirit-written or not—just might give some susceptible lady ideas to which she should not be introduced.” He regarded Autumn pointedly. “We must be ever wary of what we approve in this life,” he stated. Antoinette argued that, though she agreed entirely with Dr. Beame’s criticism of Mrs. Woodhull’s position on sexuality (Antoinette used the phrase “what is appropriate behavior for ladies of quality”), the notion of spiritualism fascina
ted her. She hastily amended her opinion when it was greeted with an amused silence by Dr. Beame and her escort. Supper over, the party drove home, and again, before bed, Cain and Autumn were sequestered for some moments in his study—ostensibly to discuss Vanessa Byron’s condition and the events of the day.

  Antoinette sensed that Cain’s growing disinterest in her had something—if not everything—to do with his odd and very apparent devotion to that pallid little creature, Autumn Thackeray. Now was the time, she determined, to do something about it. She had no idea how long she could stretch this visit to Byron Hall, but somehow she must make it count. Antoinette had waited far too long for the attentions of the very eligible Dr. Cain Byron to gel into a firm commitment. She was, after all, nearly twenty-four, and she’d turned down too many—far too many—offers of marriage. He must hold himself responsible for that. It was his lavish courting of her in New York that had raised her hopes in the first place, made her abandon some very essential proprieties, and placed her on the verge of spinsterhood. Antoinette resolved that if he would not hold himself responsible, he must be made to see that responsibility. Tomorrow she would pen the letter that would seal her fortune. Dr. Byron would learn that his obligation to her could no longer be ignored.

  Chapter 9

  Mr. Hamilton St. John Fraser, of the New York Frasers, arrived rather startlingly at Byron Hall just three days after the new year had begun. Antoinette had told no one, including her brother, that she had summoned their father. The household became galvanized at the unexpected appearance of such a distinguished gentleman. He named his visit “a mere whim” and apologized to Vanessa for any inconvenience he may have caused.

  “The plain truth is, I longed to see my children and to greet the gentleman my daughter has been doting on lo! these many, many years,” he stated, as he took tea in the parlor. There was a warning in this. “A new year always inspires a conscientious father to contemplate the notion that our young ’uns are growing up. Sands of time and all that, don’t you know.” Another warning. “Time,” he lamented grandly, “it does create change.” He chuckled comfortably. “And we, as parents,” he said, addressing Vanessa, “must accept those changes. What?!!” Again, he chuckled and, unimaginably, patted Vanessa on the knee. She flinched. “Oh,” he apologized, “so sorry, my dear. I forget myself. I’m just the friendliest of creatures, you understand. Just an old redneck from the bowels of the city. Clawed my way up, don’t you know. Gave those old boys on Wall Street quite a start, I did. Made a fortune. But I’m still just a country boy at heart.”

 

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