by Carole King
“I believe,” Autumn said, “that she is trying to make amends.” Vanessa lifted her brows.
“Can she hope to?”
Autumn shrugged a shoulder. “She seems to be trying. She has not directly apologized to me, but I believe there is some cause for hope.”
“You are by far,” Vanessa said, sighing deeply, “the most optimistic person I have ever met. You say there is hope. What do you mean by it, Autumn? Hope for what? If she mends her ways—and I doubt that scenario—but if she does and proves herself a monument to righteous behavior, what then?”
“Then,” said Autumn hesitantly, “she might realize that . . . that her marriage to Cain . . . to Dr. Byron would be a disaster.” Vanessa, watching her struggle, understood the girl’s pain.
“My dear,” she said gently, “Antoinette will never release Cain of her own volition.”
“But,” returned Autumn earnestly, “if she comes to acknowledge that the engagement is false, that there is no . . . love—”
“Girls of Antoinette’s breed are not interested in finding love, Autumn. They marry for convenience, their convenience. If Antoinette Fraser is nothing else, she is a pioneer on that front. I give her credit in many ways for doing what men have been doing for centuries. I only wish,” she lamented wryly, “she was not doing it to my son.”
For Autumn, at least, Antoinette’s attempts at friendship still held the promise that she might come to realize the mistake she had made in forcing Cain’s compliance in the matter of their engagement. It was undoubtedly a false hope at best, as Vanessa had pointed out, but it was all Autumn had. She knew now that she loved Cain Byron, and she believed with all her heart that he loved her. When he touched her, looked down into her eyes, smiled, Autumn succumbed to a melting enchantment. She dreamed that enchantment every night. In her dreams, Cain gathered her to him, pressing her to the throbbing power of his heart, transfusing passion, hunger, ecstasy. A whispering need encloaked her dreams. A raging desire awakened her. Perspiring, trembling, she would face the void of her reality.
Autumn made a habit of staying up late, stitching in Vanessa’s parlor, hoping to tire herself into a dreamless sleep. She looked up one evening to find Antoinette bustling into the room in a cloud of perfumed satin.
“Where is Mrs. Byron?” she inquired.
“She has retired, Antoinette.”
“Then I must depend on you, Autumn. Won’t you help me with this one little thing?” There was always a wheedling quality in the woman’s voice that irritated Autumn, but she would not allow herself to become irritated.
“What is the problem?” she asked, setting her stitching in her lap.
“It’s right here,” Antoinette replied in agitation, advancing on Autumn and holding out a thin catalogue. “Madame Colette has sent her brochure. There are a hundred gowns to choose from; I can’t possibly make such a decision on my own. Won’t you help me?”
“I have told you, Antoinette, these are your decisions to make.” Antoinette had announced that it would be such “fun” if Vanessa and Autumn helped her plan her wedding. Vanessa had refused outright, but Autumn had demurred and was eventually persuaded by Antoinette’s pleas. The enforced closeness to the woman’s prenuptial enthusiasm, however, caused Autumn a wrenching anxiety.
“You did say you’d help,” Antoinette reminded her. Autumn watched as she hooked the table lamp in the center of the room to the chandelier’s gas line. She drew two chairs to the table. “Do help me, Autumn dear.”
Autumn dear. The appellation was used constantly, and most annoyingly, these days. Autumn lifted herself resignedly from her chair and placed her sewing aside. Moving to the center table, she took a chair and watched as Antoinette leafed through the pages. At one point she wordlessly indicated a pretty design.
“Do you really like that one?” Antoinette inquired. Implied was the fact that she did not. Autumn nodded. “I don’t think it suits me, though I must remember that these are only the most basic designs. Perhaps if we picture it with feathers—and sequins!”
She glanced at Autumn expectantly. “Don’t you think that would be lovely?”
“Lovely,” Autumn agreed. She would agree to anything, she thought, if only Antoinette would keep her plans to herself.
“Do you really think so?” asked Antoinette uncertainly. “You don’t seem very enthusiastic about it.”
“I think sequins would be quite perfect. Feathers, too.” She noted a slight alteration in Antoinette’s gaze. Her friendliness seemed to have many such layers, and Autumn did not trust it completely. There were times, however, when the woman seemed completely sincere. In many ways, Autumn wished she could give herself fully to Antoinette’s elation. It would be fun to plan a wedding—if only it was not Cain’s wedding to another woman.
“There are lots more to look at,” said Antoinette fixedly. “I wouldn’t want to make a mistake and pick the wrong gown.” Autumn rose from her chair.
“In the end,” she assured the other woman, “you will make a beautiful bride, no matter what you are wearing. You must know that.”
“I do know it, I suppose,” said Antoinette reflectively. Autumn regarded her keenly. Sometimes, though not often enough, the woman seemed entirely vulnerable. Antoinette turned her regard to the purling fire. “What I should really like,” she said quietly, “is to be truly lovely, inside and out.” She looked up suddenly. “Like you, Autumn. Cain admires that in you. I suppose it’s why I lost his admiration. I’m not lovely. Not as you are.” Her hands were folded before her, her fingers tensely meshed. She studied them, it seemed, carefully. “I used the emerald bracelet to ensnare Cain, and then I used it again to entrap you. I planted it among your things, Autumn, assuming that you would be blamed for theft. What I hadn’t counted on is Cain’s belief in your character.” She made a desolate little sound in her throat that might have passed, on another occasion, for amusement. “My own father couldn’t believe you were a thief. I was hauled onto the carpet for my little . . . erratum.” She looked up. “Does that give you any satisfaction, Autumn?” Autumn knew the tiniest rush of triumph but it died as instantly as it took form. She shook her head sadly.
“No,” she answered, “it does not. In truth, I—” She stopped suddenly. Autumn was about to use the word “pity” but she thought better of it. Pity was a noxious tribute; it had been hers once in Philadelphia after her father died. “I regret that any of it ever happened,” she resumed. “I regret that you felt it necessary to go to such lengths and involve the other girls in such a scheme. But mostly I regret that I somehow caused you to imagine that I was a rival. Nothing good ever comes of female rivalries, Antoinette. The fact is, Dr. Byron is grateful to me for my care of his mother, that is all. He is your fiancé, and he will marry you.” In all this, Cain Byron was emerging as the villain. Antoinette’s jealousy had been born of fear, of her deteriorating claim on a man she had every right to believe ought to marry her. In truth, Cain should not have allowed their relationship to linger all those years. He should not have held Antoinette on a string, implying devotion where no devotion was intended. But as Autumn had pointed out, they were, in fact, engaged. It was a hollow victory, to be sure, to be chained to a man who had been forced to marry you. Autumn’s tender heart swelled with sympathy for Antoinette. In a moment of decision, she said, “Let me see your catalogue again. We shall pick out the loveliest gown of all.”
Conflicted, her heart and mind roiling with an ocean of information she did not wish to possess, Autumn wandered out as the night settled into a soft, shadow-laden silence. On nights like these, nights when Autumn dreaded her bed, dreaded facing unwelcome and heart-shattering dreams of Cain, she would visit the horses. She held a special place in her heart for the most special of the animals. His name was Castillo, and he was a breeder of champions. Esteemed as he was, Autumn loved the great steed for his lesser greatness—his apparent deep affection for her. He greeted her each time she approached the stables with gentle whickers,
playful pawings of the earth, and proud tosses of his black mane. Autumn was his special friend, the stablemen chided her, laughing. They wondered privately, however, how she had endeared herself to the obstinate charger. It was no secret; Autumn simply made certain that each time she came to Castillo she carried a piece of hardened sugar. And she treated him always with a calm but gentle hand, expecting only his best behavior, behavior that befitted his noble stature.
It was a clear night, the late winter moon shone brightly with no haze to mellow its luster. The distance from the house to the stables was less than a quarter of a mile, and Autumn could see the rambling structures of the stablemen’s quarters as she walked, holding her lantern aloft. She hardly needed its dim illumination, for the path before her was well lit. Abruptly, a heart-crushing sight halted her. In the distance, the tall, dark-haired Antoinette was standing with one of the lads, the blond one, and she was talking with some animation. Of a height, the two were face to face with only the moonlight separating their muffled laughter. At last, the thing that Autumn had feared to see took place. The handsome heads came together in a kiss. Antoinette’s arms lifted and lay over the strong shoulders of the young man, and he took her in a hard embrace. Autumn’s gaze was riveted on them, paralyzed with a realization that sickened her. She could not look away. Horrified, she watched as their lips separated and the young man placed his arm on Antoinette’s slim back and ushered her inside his residence. A wooden door slammed behind them. Autumn lowered her eyes at last, shutting them tight against the betrayal she knew was taking place behind the door. Her thoughts were of Cain. Of his confidence that Antoinette would betray her true nature. She had. “Cain . . .” said Autumn on a breath.
Then, a sound so terrible it made her heart jump implanted itself on her consciousness. She looked up toward the stables. The gate to Castillo’s stall hung open. It creaked wildly in the mercurial night breezes, and the animal himself, a great shadow against the moon, charged across the yard. With a muscled ease, he leapt the fence and raced down the sloping hill to the road. As the sound of his powerful hooves died, Autumn could not believe her own vision. Surely, she had imagined some ghostly echo of reality. Still, the gate to Castillo’s stall gaped unguarded. Tears blurring her sight, she cast her gaze about wildly, attempting to spot the figure of the horse. Would that he were somewhere nearby, idly munching on found grasses, pawing the ground, waiting for her to come and bring him home. But she saw no such form on the moon-washed terrain. Blood pumping, she raced down the hill, following the path that Castillo had taken. She recalled something about another horse—the brood mare Regan, who had escaped the night of her arrival. Cain had said something about a farm on the west shore. What had compelled the mare, she reasoned, might also—in the converse—seduce the steed. Rounding the corner of the house, Autumn skidded to an astonished halt. There, silhouetted in the moonlight down the road, was a horse, walking proudly in its aborted attempt at freedom, and led by a man. Autumn ran down the drive. It must be Castillo! It had to be. But who was the man? Gasping raggedly she met horse and man at the bottom of the drive. Autumn doubled over in relief as she recognized Castillo.
“Oh, thank you,” she whispered, her words a prayer. “Thank you . . . thank you!”
“My pleasure to serve you, always.” That caressing resonance in the man’s voice gave her pause. She looked up. Before her was the mythic stranger in all his wondrous proportions, with his great graying beard and his laughing sea-glass eyes. “Are you all right, little one?” he asked.
“How did you stop him?” was all Autumn could think to say. “He was running so fast.”
“He wasn’t running all that fast,” the man said quietly. “And my guess is, he wanted to be caught. Animals, like men, are instinctive creatures. As soon as they see an opening, they bolt, but maybe they don’t really want to get away. They just think they do.”
“Castillo is my favorite,” Autumn told him, her confusion clear. “Why did he run? Why did he go?”
“As I said,” the man repeated patiently, “they only think they want to run.” He placed his arm around her trembling shoulders and, leading the horse, he walked with her up the drive.
“I cannot imagine allowing him to roam the countryside untended. Why, he might have broken one of his precious ankles, or hurt himself in some way.”
“But he didn’t,” the man said gently as they walked.
“No,” Autumn replied. “No, he . . .” Autumn stopped and looked up at the man. “Why are you here?” she asked. “Who are you?” When he did not answer, Autumn found a smile curving her lips. “Are you my guardian angel? Or Castillo’s?”
“I am no angel, little one,” he told her, his eyes laughing, “though I would gladly guard you and everyone in this house.” The last was said reflectively. He paused a long time. “I walk sometimes on clear nights, when the harbor is safe.” Autumn’s head cocked.
“Won’t you tell me who you are?” The big man succumbed to the earnestness in her voice.
“My name is Robert Moffat,” he said. “I keep the light.” With the words, the man strode off. Autumn said another silent thank you and led Castillo back to his stall. Once she had locked it securely, she glanced toward the stableman’s residence, and wondered briefly if Antoinette had left. The door was still closed and a light burned dimly through a tiny window. Had the couple inside, engaged in their own little drama, any idea of the drama that had ensued without? Not likely, she thought. Her heart settling to a normal pulse, she looked up into the animal’s wide, questing gaze.
“I, too, Castillo, wonder at the carelessness of men—and the perfidy of women.” She caressed the animal’s snout and reached into the pocket of her cloak, drawing out the lump of sugar she always brought for him.
“So that is your secret,” intoned a voice from the stable yard. Eyes widened, Autumn jumped and turned about. Cain Byron was moving toward her. His stride was casual, his manner relaxed. Hands in the pockets of his jodhpurs, he stopped within several feet of her. “You bring him sugar and you speak his language.”
“A winning combination,” she said, her voice quavering. She forced a smile. Her only thought was that he must not know of Castillo’s escape—or the reason for it. She glanced back to the rambling, ramshackle residences of the stablemen and turned deliberately away from them. “I was just going inside.”
“’Tis a beautiful night,” said Cain Byron. Autumn nodded.
“Yes,” she agreed perfunctorily and hurried past him, hoping he would follow her to the house.
“Wait,” he said softly and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re trembling,” he observed. Again, she nodded.
“I have been out here awhile. I suppose I am chilled.” She was not looking at him.
He turned her gently to face him, and asked, “Is it the cold you feel, Autumn, or is it possible you are experiencing some warmth . . . for me?” Autumn looked up into his moon-silvered gaze. Her heart swelled and tipped in her breast. Her eyes brimmed over with tears as sadness and sympathy overwhelmed her. She reached up and touched his face tenderly.
“My heart . . . Cain,” she said, using his name deliberately, “is, and always will be, filled with warmth for you.” He reached up, touching the hand that touched his cheek.
“Autumn,” he said on a breath, “do you mean what you say?” She nodded, still steadfastly regarding him.
“I do,” she told him. “I do,” she repeated emphatically. With the words, she lifted herself up to his great height and kissed him reverently, impulsively on the lips. He gathered her into his embrace and suddenly, so very suddenly, her dreams were real. She felt the great heart throbbing against her breast, transfusing passion, hunger, ecstasy, and the warmth of him, the scent of him, enveloped her. And he was kissing her, caressing her with his lips. Somewhere in the distance, the ocean thundered, the surf swelled and soared. He whispered words—enchantment—into her ears. “I love you, Cain,” she said. “And I shall love you forever. Of that
you may be certain.”
“And I love you, Autumn,” Cain responded.
“I know,” she told him softly. “It may be,” she added, looking up into his onyx gaze, “the only certainty there is in the world.”
“It is all we need.”
“Is it, Cain?” she asked him seriously. He nodded and smiled and brushed a sweet curl from her perspiring cheek.
“Yes, Autumn. It is.” She would have spoken, asked other questions, but Cain touched her lips with silencing fingertips. “Despite what you have heard, despite what you may have believed, I do not make idle promises. I promise you, my darling, that one day—and very soon, too—we shall be able to express our love as freely as the air, as the ocean tides. I am not afraid; don’t you be. When love is in the air, everything falls into place.” Autumn glanced toward the shack where the candle still burned dimly. Everything, she had to believe, must fall into place. But she prayed it might do so with as little hurt to Cain as possible.
Once inside the house, Autumn made her way across the silent second floor gallery. She entered her room, closing the door with a soft click, and peeked into Vanessa’s room through the adjoining door. She saw that the woman was sleeping soundly, her breathing even and untroubled. Next to her on the night table near her bed the little snow globe caught a glint of moonlight from the unclosed draperies. Autumn smiled. That ornament was never far from Vanessa’s reach. How odd and how sweet that an inexpensive bit of glass, offered at Christmastime by that lovely, gentle—and, tonight, most helpful—man, should hold such attraction for the dignified Vanessa.
Autumn returned to her own room and set down her lantern. She needed no other illumination. She undressed and, blowing out the light, slipped into her bed. Nestling beneath the smooth covers, she wondered if, again, she would dream of Cain. Tonight, she did not fear her dreams, for they had come true. She and Cain had kissed before they parted, and she had felt his urgency. She had known an urgency of her own. But they could wait, she assured herself. Their time would come. Cain had promised. Her brows drew together in a frown. Cain knew, as she knew, that she would settle for nothing less than marriage, and Autumn’s heart was clawed by the uncertainty of his engagement to Antoinette. That woman, it was true, had revealed her true nature, but it was still concealed by a cloak of deception. Autumn tossed beneath her coverlet. Cain had promised her that everything would fall into place, and she must be content with that. Before sleep clouded her consciousness, she must clear her mind of doubt and think on the good things that had happened that night. She remembered Robert Moffat and Castillo and the disaster that had been averted. Treading time between awareness and slumber, she allowed words and phrases to drip like sealing wax on the empty paper of her senses. “I walk on clear nights,” Robert Moffat had said, “when the harbor is safe.” And, “I keep the light,” she thought sleepily. An odd phrase. “. . . the gift of wonder . . . keeper of the light. Light and wonder.” Autumn sat up suddenly, her movement in the dark more substance than sound. “Vanessa!” she whispered in amazement. Drawing herself from the bed, Autumn padded to the room next door. She opened the door and softly made her way across the carpet, around the bed to the little bedside table. Lifting the snow globe, she peered into it. The moonlight caught the glint of tiny windows at the top of the lighthouse inside. Shaking the little ball, she watched as snowflakes swirled, shrouding the scene in the wonder of a wintertime seacoast. Looking down at the sleeping Vanessa, Autumn could not help but smile.