by Carole King
Autumn touched his great shoulder, and said, “I am not so callow as I seem, Robert.” She smiled softly at his regard. “In actual years, I may be young, but I know of love, believe me. And Vanessa is my friend. Among friends there is no need for embarrassment, ever. In truth, I anticipated exactly what you have told me.”
“What you did not anticipate, however, was a particular night.” His blue gaze hardened to an icy gray. “You did not anticipate learning that Vanessa’s son found us in my little room in the tower beneath the light and that he beat me savagely to within a hair’s breadth of my life.” He stopped abruptly and his chilling words hung in the blue spring air like daggers. Like daggers they plunged into Autumn’s heart. Her fingertips flew to her mouth and she suppressed a gasp. “Do you wish me to go on, Autumn? Do you wish to hear it all?” Autumn only nodded. “I did not dare defend myself,” Robert resumed resolutely, “for fear that, in his rage, Cain Byron would make it a fight to the death. And one of us would have died, of this I am convinced. If it had been me, that boy would have faced a prison sentence and a scandal from which he and his mother would never have been redeemed; if it had been Cain, Vanessa would never have forgiven me—and I would not have forgiven myself. And so I couldn’t fight. I allowed that boy to vent a monstrous wrath without raising a hand in my own defense. I dream of that night, and I wonder if, in the lad’s mind at any rate, there was a defense for what I had done.” Autumn’s hand slowly fell to her lap as Robert finished his story. She tried not to envision that hellish scene, but it played itself out in horror-filled images. Autumn closed her eyes against the images, but they overwhelmed her. She caught the edge of the bench, steadying herself against the sudden rolling of the world. Robert reached out to steady her. “I am sorry, little one,” he murmured. “I would not have upset you for all the world. I should have softened the story for you—”
“No, Robert. No. Such a tale cannot be softened. I insisted . . .” Autumn looked up. Her amber gaze was tear-glistened. “I am so sorry I forced you to tell me all this.” She lifted her hand and touched his bearded jaw. He smiled and covered her hand with his own.
“You mustn’t cry for me,” he said. “Though I live with that memory, I also live with another, and that one is sweet. I shall only add to what I have already told you—that Cain threatened another violent confrontation if ever I attempted to see his mother again. No matter how much she and I long for what we had, I know the price of gaining it would be appalling. I will never fight that boy; I will never raise my hand against him. I blame myself for all that has happened. Cain was defending his mother against what he saw as a threat to her. He is Vanessa’s son, and therefore, beloved by me.”
“Things may have changed, Robert,” offered Autumn. “Perhaps Cain has rethought—”
“Oh, no, little one, I cannot take that chance. The risk of my own life aside, I could not risk Vanessa’s well-being. Can you imagine what it must have done to her to see her son in combat with the man she loved?”
Autumn knew exactly what it had done to Vanessa. Tears filled her eyes anew.
“But there must be some way,” she said. “Some way . . .”
“If you think of it, Autumn,” he said softly, sadly, “please let me know.” She looked up into his regretful blue gaze. She dared not say to this already wounded soul that the real blame for all Vanessa’s pain, for all his own pain, lay squarely on the shoulders of Cain Byron.
Autumn traveled the Shore Road back to Byron Hall with an unsettled heart. She wondered how she might intervene in Robert’s behalf and cursed the terror that filled her soul each time the question entered her mind. She attempted to see the situation from Cain’s perspective, but found it hard. Cain had changed, his perspective had changed, and Vanessa said that Autumn had been at least partially responsible for that change. He was no longer the troubled if charismatic youth of his college days; he was a man, confident and growing more and more enlightened. As difficult as it was for Autumn to reconcile Cain’s past with his present, she knew it must be more so for Robert.
As she entered the kitchen, her mind troubled and searching for possible solutions, Autumn was not happy to find Antoinette apparently awaiting her.
“I believe this is yours,” that woman said. She held between her thumb and forefinger an envelope. She held it as though it contained some repugnant thing. Autumn reached for it resignedly. As was customary each week, her pay envelope had been left on the kitchen table. Before she could take it, however, Antoinette snatched it away. She smiled. Her gaze narrowed and became a lurid, acidic yellow-green. “This, then, is the truth of your relationship with Cain Byron,” she said. Autumn shuddered.
“You know nothing of Cain and me, Antoinette,” she answered, lifting her chin and ignoring the cold chill that raced beneath her flesh.
Antoinette’s brow lifted as she said, “I know everything, Autumn.” Her voice was soft, almost consoling. “I know you are his kept woman.” Autumn’s lips parted, but no words came from them. She stood before Antoinette and held herself rigid—and silent. “And here’s the surprise, Autumn—I’m not going to do anything about it.” She laughed lightly and tossed the envelope onto the table. “At least I’ve never done it for money.”
“Haven’t you, Antoinette?” asked Autumn. “Hasn’t everything you’ve done been about money? You’ve admitted yourself that you don’t love Cain. You wanted him because he was rich. The day of your tirade in the dining room was the day I realized how far you would go—for money, Antoinette. And I realized that day how much Cain had been hurt by your greed.”
“And you decided to . . . lick his wounds,” Antoinette countered with a smile. “How commendable, Autumn. How generous of you. Like a little white knight you rode out on your Pegasus and saved him from the demon harpy.” She laughed fully. “Let me tell you something, miss,” she continued, her voice deadening suddenly, “you have chosen the wrong woman with whom to do battle. Cain Byron wanted to get rid of me, but he hasn’t. I am leaving Cape May, of course. But I would not break out the champagne if I were you. There will be no celebrations in this house. You see I am not ending our engagement; I am postponing it. Think about it, Autumn. Cain will be tied to me for as long as I will him to be. You will never have him.”
“Why are you doing this?” asked Autumn in earnest.
“I realized early on that no efforts of mine would deter him from his lust for you,” Antoinette answered conversationally. “When a rutting stag wants a willing doe, it is said he will knock down ages-old trees to get to her. But stags do not mate for life. He will tire of you soon enough, and I am betting he will tire of this precious bucolic doctoring life. How long will it be, I wonder, before the dynamic Dr. Byron succumbs to the pressures of boredom, of stagnation, of . . . constancy? And once he does, this mythic love you profess will make you, Miss Thackeray, ridiculously vulnerable.” She paused and lifted the envelope, holding it out to Autumn. “You’ve earned it, dear, now try to enjoy it.” Autumn stiffened. “Take it,” Antoinette went on, lynx-eyed, “you may need it. Even a pittance can seem like a fortune when one’s employer tosses one out onto the street. And you might not be receiving this little compensation for much longer. Once you and Cain are safely ensconced in your affair de coeur, no actual monies will change hands. In fact, from what I can gather, both of you will have to toady up to that eccentric old lady upstairs to realize a penny of the family fortune.”
“She isn’t old, Antoinette.”
“My, how you do defend the poor, mad thing.”
“If anyone is mad, Antoinette, it is you. How long do you intend to keep Cain on this leash you have designed? How long will it be before you succumb to boredom and stagnation? How long before you look into a mirror and discover that your youth and your beauty are lost to you, that your time for receiving emerald bracelets from male admirers has expired?”
“It looks as though we will both have to play the waiting game, Autumn.” She tossed the envelope onto the tab
le. “I, of course, shall be waiting in New York with my legion of friends and entertainment of all sorts. You will be waiting here with only the dour Dr. Byron and his little mother to console you. Of course, your mother’s presence should afford you some comfort.”
“My mother? What does she have to do with this?”
“Oh, nothing right at the moment. But she should be arriving within the week, and when she does—”
“In the name of God, Antoinette, what are you talking about?”
“You are right to invoke the name of our good heavenly father, Autumn. I think you will need all the help you can get. Your mother is coming here. Didn’t I tell you I had written her?” Antoinette asked with elaborate ingenuousness.
“No. You did not,” Autumn returned stonily.
“Well, I did. I penned a letter to her yesterday. It went out in the morning’s mail. I advised her to catch the next coach to Cape May. I told her that, as an observer of this household, it was my duty to inform her that she ought to keep a strong matriarchal eye on the doings here. I mentioned Cain of course, and, let me see, there was something else. Oh, yes, I believe I said something about a possible illicit relationship between you and he—nothing libelous, you understand. But I suppose the implication was there. I really don’t know how much more pain your mother can stand in this life, Autumn,” she continued forlornly. “She has endured more scandal than any woman deserves.” Autumn stared at Antoinette incredulously and reached out for the support of a nearby chair.
“You could not have done such a thing, Antoinette.”
“You know I could and did, Autumn,” Antoinette returned tightly. “Whether you acknowledge it or not, you have won, for the present. And to the victor belong the spoils.” Antoinette laughed as she withdrew from the kitchen.
Autumn sat heavily in the chair. She seemed to have no strength. Cain had relinquished his entitlements for the sole purpose of eliminating Antoinette from their lives, but she was exerting more influence on them than ever. There was no point, Autumn reflected, in writing to her mother and telling her not to come; the letter would not reach Philadelphia before Antoinette’s. And, she wondered, what would be the point of such a letter? Could Autumn deny the charges implied? A denial might only strengthen the accusations; denials had a way of doing that. Beyond that, Autumn had never lied to her mother, and she would not begin now. Still, she could not bear the thought of subjecting Isabel to any more pain than she had already suffered. She lowered her head into her hands. Weary and discouraged, Autumn might have allowed herself the indulgence of tears. But tears would not come; tears could not be forced. This was, in any event, no time for tears.
Cain returned to the house that evening as Carrie and Autumn and Vanessa were taking their after dinner coffee in Vanessa’s parlor. Vanessa had worn an oddly satisfied smile throughout the evening, and she had insisted that Carrie sit down with her and Autumn. Cain apologized for his intrusion; in his begrimed condition, his shirt collar loosened, his sleeves rolled up on his forearms, and his breeches stained with the day’s ride, he seemed an incongruity in the neat room. But he was certain, he told the women, that they would forgive him when they heard his news. Autumn caught her breath as he strode to her and casually, almost breezily, kissed her cheek. This, then, was the way it was to be between them. There would be a new and open tenor to their relationship, it seemed. Autumn thought of Isabel and wondered how she would react to such an unconventional arrangement.
“I am too much in the grip of elation to stand on formality,” Cain was telling the women. He glanced down at Autumn and his soft smile glinted in his eyes. He most definitely wanted her approval. “I have been to business all day, and part of that business concerns you, Carrie,” he announced. Carrie stared without comprehension at her employer. “This day, Carrie, my life has begun—and so has yours.” That woman stared dumbly at his face, framed by a tousle of black curls that brushed his forehead boyishly.
“My life has begun?” she asked.
“It has, Carrie Inman.” He withdrew a sheaf of papers from his shirt and handed it to her. “This,” he said warmly, “is the title to the piece of land for which you and Henry have been saving for years.” He glanced toward Vanessa. “My mother mentioned to me that you had been saving long enough. And the money you’ve acquired can go to starting a family. I must tell you that I tried to present this to Henry today, but he insisted I bring it back to you. The land and the house are both in your name.”
“Oh, sir!” Carrie said on an astonished breath. “Oh, sir!” She jumped up and took Cain into a rough embrace. Then she turned to Vanessa and embraced her as well. “What the two of you have done for me . . . I can never thank you for it! You’ve given me the best gift a woman can get.”
“And what is the best gift a woman can get, my girl?” Vanessa asked through her indulgent laughter.
“Why it’s bein’ with the man she loves,” stated Carrie. There was a pause in the merriment, and Carrie moved to Autumn. “Now, Miss Autumn,” she said, “if I’m movin’ on, you’ve got to promise me you’ll stay here and take care of this house for me.” Autumn smiled up at her.
“I shall do my best, Carrie,” she told the woman. She looked up at Cain, into the melting indigo of his gaze.
“You approve, Autumn?” he asked her.
“I do,” she told him softly. Vanessa rose from her chair.
“Come with me, Carrie,” she said. “Let us look over that deed to make sure it is accurate.” Before the two women could leave, Cain stopped them.
“Carrie,” he said, “I must ask you to stay a few days. Autumn’s mother should be arriving any day, and we need to impress that lady with the best accommodations our house can provide.” Carrie nodded her happy consent and accompanied Vanessa from the room.
“You said my mother is coming, Cain,” Autumn ventured uncertainly.
“And so she is.”
“But how did you know? Did you speak with Antoinette?” Cain’s face became grim.
“Before I rode out this morning, Antoinette stopped me. She told me what she had done—about the letter she had written. I suppose she could not resist having one last triumph over us. But I checkmated her, Autumn. I wrote my own letter, and I sent it with my fastest coach and horses. Your mother will arrive very soon, and she will arrive by private coach as is her due. If we are very lucky, she will never see Antoinette’s letter—and if she does, we will have the opportunity to diffuse the scurrilous message it contains. The ideal situation, of course, is that your mother will see only a loving and respectful letter, written by me, asking her to visit Byron Hall.”
“Cain,” Autumn said breathlessly. “I am overwhelmed by your thoughtfulness.” He smiled a self-deprecatory half smile.
“My thoughtfulness, darling, is exceeded only by my love for you. Now,” he asked, “why the grave expression?”
“It is only that . . . we have never really discussed what will happen next,” she said. “What can I tell my mother?”
He lowered himself to her side and took her hands in both of his. “You may tell her anything you wish, Autumn.” She hesitated. So many apprehensions invaded her thoughts all at once. She thought of Antoinette and the threatening words she had spoken in the kitchen. Would Cain tire of her? Would she be abandoned? Dared she give herself fully to Cain Byron? She thought of Robert, and the scene in the little room beneath the light replayed itself in her mind. Autumn shuddered involuntarily. Could she completely trust a man capable of such violence?
“Cain,” she said, “I do not wish to leave my mother with a false impression—or even an unclear one. I cannot speak to her about our relationship until I understand it myself.”
Cain, watching her, rose slowly, letting go her hands and allowing them, still clasped, to lie in her lap. “I thought everything was clear between us, Autumn,” he said cautiously, his exhilaration of a moment ago vanishing.
“Nothing is clear, Cain. Nothing. That is what is so unsettling. E
verything between us is so . . . vague. How can you expect me to live with such uncertainty?”
“We’ve both known all along that until Antoinette releases me from my obligation to her, we are not free to marry.” When she did not speak, he moved to the French windows, opened to the wafting night breezes. Light curtains fluttered at each side of them. He stood between them, his proud shoulders drawn back. He plunged his hands into the pockets of his jodhpurs and looked out over the moon-washed lawn. “Naturally, your decisions are your own to make; I would not force you to do anything against your will.” Autumn swallowed against a rising hurt. And the hurt was not hers alone. She knew she had caused Cain great injury. He turned back to her after a time. Leveling his regard, he impaled her with a stony gaze. “What is it you don’t understand, Autumn?” She could not look at him, for his face, for all its rigidity, for all its hard-jawed strength, was a mask of pain.
“I am not . . . sure, Cain. I’m not sure of anything.” He charged across the room in one great stride, looming over her. His demand for justice was compelling. He did not need to mention that he had given up everything for her.
“Of what are you not sure, Autumn?” he demanded. When she did not answer him immediately, he grasped her wrist and drew her from the chair to face him directly. “I asked of what are you not sure?”
“Cain,” Autumn gasped, “let me go!” He might have shaken her, but instead he reined the rage that threatened to overwhelm them both. He let her go.