by Carole King
“Sometimes I think,” she said quietly, “that the ‘city of brotherly love’ is exactly that. It doesn’t care much for its sisters—especially its poor sisters.”
It was with some surprise, then, that Autumn received word from her mother the next day that she had an invitation from one of her socially prominent former acquaintances, one Mrs. Peter Drexel IV, to attend a party at her home. Mrs. Drexel had advised Isabel that she was praying she would bring along her “dear, dear daughter” and their new acquaintances from Cape May. “It would seem,” commented Isabel dryly, sipping coffee with Vanessa at the hotel, “that Society Hill has learned of the arrival of the wealthy Byrons. There is nothing like money to get the attention of the monied.” She pleaded with Vanessa, once the invitation had been accepted, that she must promise to take on the posture of the grandest lady ever presented to the city’s gentry.
“If you wish it, Isabel,” said Vanessa, humorously acknowledging a certain talent for such poses. “I shall have them assuming the term ‘upper crust’ was invented for me.”
“I should think they would all be extremely disappointed if it wasn’t.” They decided that a shopping trip was in order and apprised Autumn of their plans. Naturally, she was invited to join them, and she happily accepted. Cain decided he would look into the rental of a sloop for the afternoon so that they might enjoy a sail on the broad, blue waters of the Delaware.
“And see where you might rent some bicycles,” Autumn threw over her shoulder as the ladies trooped from the hotel room.
“Bicycles!” Cain charged incredulously, but Autumn was gone. “Bicycles,” he groused as he left the room.
Long hours of shopping and planning and much discussion prefaced their attendance at the Drexel party. It was decided that Isabel should dress at the hotel so they could all travel together. Coordination of costumes was a primary occupation of the women that long afternoon, along with the necessary exchanges of pieces of jewelry and advice on hair-dos, accessories, and make-up. Long after Cain was pacing the front parlor of Vanessa’s suite and sipping impatiently at his whisky, the women were still in the back rooms, entangled in their complex preparations.
“Autumn,” Cain called into that inner sanctum when a glance at his pocket watch told him it was nearly eight o’clock. “We shall be quite late if you don’t hurry.” Popping her head out into the parlor, she assured him that it was only a matter of moments before they could leave. A quarter of an hour later the same message was delivered, this time by Isabel. When Vanessa finally appeared it was well onto nine o’clock. Cain caught his breath at his mother’s appearance, and his impatience evaporated. Vanessa was gowned in a splendid costume of royal purple grosgrain silk. The finely corded fabric hung in voluminous folds from a tightly fitted bodice, and was fringed in heavy, shimmering cerulean silk at the scalloped hem. Her hair, almost blue-gray in the reflected sheen of the dress, was swept up and caught with combs ornamented with sapphire crystals. She wore ear drops and a resplendent roped bracelet of the real gems. She smiled at her son’s gaping perusal.
“I’m attempting to look grand,” she said guilelessly. “Would you say I’ve succeeded?” Cain nodded wordlessly. Isabel stepped into the parlor groomed with equal elegance. She wore a gown of rich cocoa-colored crushed velvet with sable piping at the hem, bodice, and sleeves. She wore the coral-shell and gold necklace that Cain and Autumn had given her and lustrous ear drops of layered coral and gold beads. Her rich brown hair with its russet highlights was coiled lavishly atop her head. But it was Autumn’s appearance that sent Cain’s heart racing.
She was gowned simply, but elegantly, in a clinging ecru matte silk. The empire waist, blind-stitched and almost invisible, allowed the layered skirt, hemmed in the new handkerchief fashion and trailing behind her, to lay with bold abandon about her long, shapely legs. The lightly draped bodice was deeply cut, offering a glimpse of the barest swell of innocent white flesh above it. The gown, cap-sleeved and clinging, and nearly the color of her own pale skin, though it revealed nothing, suggested quite more than it concealed. Her only ornamentation was a set of tiny amethyst ear drops on fine little chains of white gold, barely visible beneath the opaline upsweep of her moon-washed hair. She resembled a perfectly carved white cameo of femininity, an undine, or, as Cain so flatteringly put it, a “goddess.”
He might have suggested that the older women attend the party without them were it not for the sudden and highly agitated bustle of activity that followed Autumn’s entrance. Scarves and gloves were retrieved, fans sought out, and shawls produced. Appearances were checked in the cheval glass that stood in the little entry hall. Finally following the women out of the room, Cain determined that he and Autumn, at least, would be leaving the party very early.
The Byron party and Mrs. Emmett Thackeray and her daughter, Autumn, were announced with a flaring of nostrils and a sweeping of the liveried arm of the imperious old Drexel butler. Vanessa, Isabel, Cain, and Autumn stepped down into the gilded ballroom and were immediately received by Eugenia Drexel herself. She nearly bowed to Cain and Vanessa, who exchanged hidden smiles. She accommodated Isabel and Autumn with a canny regard, which assured them that this most favored friendship with such an esteemed—and, of course, wealthy—family would certainly put them back among the best circles in Philadelphia.
“And you deserve it, my dears,” she told them condolingly. “No one was more heart-stricken than I over the way the two of you were treated by your supposed friends.” The last word was said derisively and assured both mother and daughter that it was not by Eugenia’s hand that they had been reduced to friendlessness. Eugenia Drexel was not one to cut a person simply because of a little thing like financial embarrassment, she assured them further. And, she added, “I plan to take Isabel under my wing now she is back.” She wondered finally, eyeing Cain and Autumn, if any sort of “announcement” might be forthcoming. Isabel merely offered a mysterious smile, and Eugenia nodded in complete and solemn understanding. She had heard something, she said, of another engagement to some New York City girl, but assumed that was only gossip. “People will say the oddest and silliest things, just for the sake of saying them—especially those New York City nouveau riche. Those people will do anything,” Eugenia confided, “to connect themselves to real money.”
They were shepherded through the crowd by Eugenia herself, stopping briefly to exchange amenities with this group or that, and while Cain and Autumn danced, Isabel and Vanessa enjoyed their own invitations. Eugenia determined that she was personally responsible for Isabel’s return to society, and each time that lady was returned to her side, Eugenia advised her protectively on which invitation to accept and which to decline categorically. “Now you must not even look at this one,” she told her fervently. She was speaking of the great, hulking, red-haired Alistair MacKenzie, who was just now striding toward them. “I just know he intends to ask you to dance, but you must pay no attention to him. He wouldn’t even be here, you know, except his sister Violet’s husband took him into his business. He claims—or at least Violet does—that they are descendants of Meriwether Lewis, who made that expedition to the West. Just ignore him.” It was difficult to ignore Alistair Mackenzie. He muscled his way through the crush of people to Isabel’s side and would accept no demurring from Eugenia that the lady was fatigued.
“Come dance with me, Mrs. Thackeray,” he cajoled. “I am strong enough to hold the both of us up if you are tired.” He laughed and swept her from the harbor of Eugenia’s protection. The unlikely couple—the burly adventurer and the petite widow—danced a lively polka to the appreciation of the company and to the horror of their hostess. Eugenia ran feverishly to her husband and insisted that he stop the madness, but he only gave a helpless shrug and indicated that the orchestra was having as fine a time as the guests. Peter Drexel, in the meantime, kept time with the others with a sprightly clapping of his hands. A circle formed, and it was many exhausting moments before Eugenia could recapture Isabel and introduc
e her to the very proper and popular recent widower and bachelor-about-town, Mr. Harold P. Parker, Esquire. Mr. Parker was quite landed, according to Eugenia, and quite a catch.
Isabel suffered the man’s companionship through the supper that was served in the dining hall, but found his company tiresome after only a few moments.
“I knew your husband well, Mrs. Thackeray,” he told her, as he speared a slab of ham for his plate. “He was a worthy gentleman, I should say, though I never approved of his liberal business practices.”
“Isabel is so unschooled in that sort of thing,” Eugenia put in hastily and with a small nervous laugh. “She can hardly be held accountable for Emmett’s rather wild approach to business.” Harold P. Parker nodded in agreement as he chewed doggedly at his meal. Changing the subject, Eugenia paused only long enough to catch a quick breath. “You might be interested to learn, Hal, that Isabel, like you, is of English descent. And, like you, she can trace her lineage back to the Hanovers.”
“You don’t say,” Harold Parker replied, his brow lifting with interest. “What is your connection, Mrs. Thackeray?” Before Isabel could answer, he went on. “My own, you see, is rather roundabout, though I take some pride in saying, incontrovertible. A cousin of my grandmother’s was married to an English baron. That good gentleman was instated into the Hanover line by marrying one of his daughters to the nineteenth Earl of Warwickshire who, as you must know, for everyone does, had a Saxe-Coburg-Gotha connection. And, obviously,” he said with a condescending laugh, “when there is a Saxe-Coburg-Gotha connection, there is a Hanover connection. So you see, madam, I am, in fact, related to Queen Victoria through both her own and her husband Prince Albert’s line—and that is no trifling connection.”
“I should say not,” Isabel commented in appropriate awe, though she’d become somewhat confused around the time of the nineteenth Earl of Warwickshire.
“And yours?” asked Mr. Parker, a challenge in his tone.
Isabel smiled meekly. “My own connection is not nearly so impressive as yours, sir,” she murmured. Harold cast her a tolerant regard.
“Few are,” he acknowledged smoothly.
“But yours is quite as incontrovertible as Hal’s, is it not, Isabel?” put in Eugenia hastily. Though it was hardly her intention to raise Isabel’s affiliation to the position of rival to the Parker alliance, Eugenia wished Harold to perceive that this woman was, in her own right, a worthy consort. “You are affiliated to the line through your father, if I am not mistaken.”
“That is correct,” said Isabel solemnly. “My father’s great uncle Charles was married to a first cousin of George III’s fourth son, the Duke of Kent, who, as you know, Mr. Parker, is Queen Victoria’s father.” Harold Parker, Esquire’s face fell.
“That,” he said with reluctant concession, “would put you in line to the throne, Mrs. Thackeray.” A toast point spread with oyster pâté had been poised at his lips. It drifted untasted back down to his supper plate. Isabel smiled sweetly.
“I am probably about three hundredth in such a distinguished line,” she said with a small dismissive laugh. “But, yes, I suppose it would.”
“But that’s incredible,” said Harold, staring dumbly at her. “Quite . . . quite . . . incredible.” Eugenia wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake. She hastened to mention that, naturally, Isabel would never think to pursue such a claim; she must concentrate for the moment on putting her life back together—possibly even marrying again. By that time, there were many onlookers. The exchange between the pretty widow Thackeray and the eligible Mr. Parker had been duly noted and was now being enthusiastically watched. Most of the guests had heard only a very small portion of the conversation, and it was now rumored that, somehow, incredibly, Isabel Thackeray was about to ascend the throne of England.
“One really never knows what the future will hold,” put in Vanessa Byron, who was standing nearby. Everyone’s attention fell to Vanessa, for she seemed to have some authority in these matters—she looked like she had a great deal of authority in a great many matters, and it was, of course, known that she had enormous wealth of her own. Vanessa nibbled sparingly on a strawberry-frosted petit four, and her voice held a warning. “In these unsettled times, with the boycotts in Ulster and the possible German invasions, and the aggressive imperialism of the Italians, and of course the anarchy resulting from the Taiping Rebellion in China, no one really knows what will happen to the English monarchy. ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.’” She glanced at Isabel, who nodded sagely.
“You are so right, my dear Vanessa,” she agreed. “But of my own ascendancy to the throne, I might say simply, it is unlikely—if . . . possible.” If Isabel had been popular among the gathered company, she was now treated as an object of dire and menacing importance.
“You will not forget your old friends should such a thing happen,” put in a lady who laughed nervously as she spoke.
“If such a thing should happen,” said Isabel pointedly, “I shall treat my old friends exactly as they deserve to be treated.” Small gasps greeted the remark. There were determinations among the ladies that Isabel would not be short on invitations from this moment on.
“Nothing is impossible,” said Harold P. Parker fondly. His intimate smile on a face that did not smile easily was something of a shock to Isabel.
“That is quite true,” she responded hastily, averting her gaze. “In the meantime, however, I shall be quite busy with a new venture.” Everyone regarded her with interest, and a questing silence fell on the company. “You see,” resumed Isabel, “I shall be starting my own business in the very near future—in fact it is already started.” The silence deepened. “I have discovered that I am a seamstress of some faculty, and with the help of some worthy friends I shall be opening the Thackeray-Byron Dressmaking Corporation right here in the city.”
“While the world is not in need of another monarch,” noted Vanessa, “it is surely in need of a talented seamstress.” She laughed. “I think you have made a wise choice, Isabel.”
“I hope so,” said Isabel, handing her supper plate to her astonished hostess. She turned back to her audience. “You may be sure, however, that as courtier or queen, I shall count on the affection and the patronage of Philadelphia’s elite.” In the confusion that followed, Isabel took Vanessa’s arm and together they made their regal way from the room. Sending for their carriage, they hastily slipped into their capes, assisted by the now fawning Drexel butler, and left the house.
“A timely exit is an excellent thing,” proclaimed Vanessa, laughing as their carriage rumbled its way across town to the Olympus.
Cain and Autumn were left to answer a flurry of questions. Autumn was urgently enjoined by several ladies to use her influence with her mother to set up appointments for immediate fittings. Once in their own carriage, Cain frowned at Autumn.
“I do hope your mother knows what she is doing,” he said. “Those people seemed ready enough to accept her back into their society, and she deliberately ridiculed them—aided most unforgivably by my own mother.” Autumn felt the whisper of an inward sigh and kept her gaze fixed on the gaslit streets outside the rolling carriage. She must try to remember, she told herself, that, at this point, Cain must be very tired of rebellious women. She placed her hand in the crook of his arm and smiled up at him.
“Oh, love,” she said softly, “let us have a good time while we are here. Let us not allow anything to spoil our holiday.”
“I have no intention of spoiling anything, Autumn,” he said sternly, “but eventually the people at the party will begin to think about Isabel’s behavior tonight, and they will begin, one by one, to take apart her story and examine it. Her reputation will be ruined.”
“They will examine nothing, Cain, take my word for that. Wound into the social fabric of the lives of the rich is the acceptance of authority—especially of those who seem authoritative. They question very little, as long as their purses remain full. They live a storybook fi
ction, Cain, and they create that fiction themselves. They want very much to believe that living among them is a woman who might one day ascend the throne of England. I suppose,” she added, “it gives their own lives some value. In any event, try to remember something else, too. My mother is a woman grown; she must make of her life what she will.”
“I wonder that you take it all so lightly,” Cain observed.
“You forget that I was one of them once. My own life was a fiction, a picture book fantasy. Recalling them made me happy for a while. But, like my mother, I must begin my life anew.” She snuggled against him in the rocking coach. “Try not to concern yourself with my mother’s reputation, Cain. She will survive, I promise you, and so will I.” Autumn was not certain if that bit of philosophy comforted Cain or not. She knew that warring within him were his protective instincts and her incontrovertible logic. “It is confusing, isn’t it?” she observed.
“Yes, Autumn,” he said very quietly, “it is.”
Chapter 18
Autumn and Vanessa accompanied Isabel to the bank the next morning to sign the articles of incorporation. They listened to the grave council of several financial advisors and generally agreed that bankers, for the most part, were pompous fools. When Autumn complained to Cain of the men’s patronizing attitudes they had another near contention, with Cain, naturally, agreeing that women—even women who had their own resources—were unsuited to business. As always, when they argued, Autumn’s heart became tangled in frustration. She loved Cain but despaired his lack of vision. They both agreed, at a certain point, that they were tired of confrontation.