by Carole King
“Do you really wish to walk with me, Cain?” she asked. He smiled deeply.
“I really do,” he told her. She reached out, accepting his hand, and he led her to the back of the house, past the stables, and down the narrow path to the beach.
The path to the sea at this time of year was overarched with heavily leafed trees and bordered with bushy foliage that created a shadowed, drifting darkness that seemed otherworldly. Cain and Autumn stepped carefully, their quiet footfalls descending on a blanket of pine needles and low-growing ferns. The ocean emerged, silver and placid, from the eclipse of the trees. Lapping lightly against the narrow beach, it might have been a lagoon nestled somewhere in Paradise. The couple paused before the sea and shades of light and listened, speaking not a word as they turned to each other. Cain took Autumn’s face in his hands and lowered his lips to hers. Their lovemaking, always consummate, always complete, tonight would be sublime.
Cain drew the light material of her gown away from her shoulders as he unfastened the buttons down her back, slowly, languorously, attentively. Autumn shivered in the warm caressing air. Her head fell back and Cain removed the pins that held her hair, allowing its freedom, sending the pearly tresses adrift on the sea breezes. He drew her down onto the grasses that bordered the shore. The heavy, lush overgrowth embraced them. Stroking her, enrapturing her, he pressed her to his lean length, whispered her name into the shell of her ear, and she responded with a yielding hunger. As always, his desire was the lodestar to her own passion. She offered herself up to his need with a raging need of her own. Lifting her arms, she entwined them about the column of his neck, tunneling her fingers through the thick curls that abraded his collar. She longed to feel his body against hers and she divested his chest and shoulders of his shirt. Nestling herself against him, she writhed in an ecstasy of desire. He took her, arching her to him, carrying her beyond earthly boundaries. They soared together on a tide of purest rapture.
As repletion brought them, breathless, to the stygian depths of their canopied retreat, as heaven ebbed, Autumn looked into the face that smiled upon her. She had, she believed, found her heaven, and no one—not Antoinette Fraser, not an unforgiving society, not pretty girls with ailing ankles and mysterious palpitations of the heart—would ever take it from her.
Chapter 19
Autumn had become both a familiar and a notorious sight about the city, briskly pedaling her bicycle along the streets of Cape May and smiling and waving to everyone. Many people had dismissed their earlier caution and returned her greetings. For some the young and pretty companion to Mrs. Byron became a most pleasant and welcome diversion in their daily routine. For others, Autumn became the subject of disparaging gossip. Her unconformable method of transportation and her manner of dress, as well as her vigor and obvious joy in life seemed to annoy and discompose them. She became, as the summer progressed, the subject of good-humored and not so good-humored banter. Cain was not amused. He listened, tight-jawed, to the jolly chafing of some of his patients and answered in monosyllables the concerned and irritated questions of others. Tired of the gossip, impatient with invasive curiosity, he told Autumn firmly that she must dress properly and avail herself of the coaches and grooms that were always at the ready to take her anywhere she wished to go.
“You have a closet full of clothes, Autumn, and the resources to buy any dress you want,” he reminded her one afternoon. “You have a battalion of servants. There is no reason on earth why you should be running about in breeches and doing your own errands—and on that bicycle no less. I will not have you chasing about—”
“I wear breeches, Cain,” she told him composedly, “because my skirts kept getting caught in the wheels of my bicycle. I use the bicycle because I enjoy the exercise. I do my own errands because I want to. I’ve become used to taking care of my own needs, and I celebrate my ability to do so. Right now,” she continued, as she stood before the hall mirror adjusting her stiff-brimmed straw hat, “I am going to the library. You will admit, won’t you, that is something I must do myself; one cannot expect others to choose one’s reading. And while I am in the city, there is no reason I shouldn’t do the marketing.” She drew on kid gloves and eyed Cain obliquely. His gaze narrowed.
“And that is another thing,” he told her grimly, “you’re always at that library. What is so fascinating there?”
“Books.” She raised herself on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
“You could buy them,” Cain pointed out.
“Working girls, Dr. Byron, get their books from the library. And let us not forget,” she said with a saucy smile, “I am what the world cheekily refers to as a ‘working girl.’” Cain failed to see the humor in her little joke. He watched her as she nearly skipped from the house, her tightly breeched bottom swinging perkily.
Autumn’s exit preceded only by seconds the entrance of the ever-ailing, though oddly glowing, Miss Rose Evert. Cain sighed as she entered the house, but managed a pleasant smile. “Miss Evert,” he greeted her. She hastened down the corridor to his office.
“Hello again, Dr. Byron. I’ve told you to call me Rose, now haven’t I?” She extended a delicately gloved hand that Cain took reluctantly.
“You have indeed,” he said with a resigned sigh as he ushered her inside.
“Then why don’t you?” she asked as she seated herself comfortably in the little horn chair. Cain regarded her quizzically.
“Why don’t I what?”
“Call me Rose.”
“Miss Evert,” he began.
“Rose,” she reminded him.
“Miss Evert,” he repeated firmly. “Tell me what brings you here today.”
“I’m not really sure I can explain it, Dr. Byron,” she said with charming befuddlement. She drew a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. Cain leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms over his white-coated chest. He regarded the young woman with a mixture of amusement and tolerance. She went on, apparently brought to tears by this latest unfocused infirmity. “I seem to be short of breath. It is just awful. One moment I am feeling fine and the next I find myself gasping for breath.” She looked up at Cain piteously. “Can you help me?”
“Well, I’m not sure. Have you any other symptoms?”
“Oh, yes indeed—lots!” she returned buoyantly. “I’m flushed a great deal . . . and I have absolutely no energy. Daddy says I need a tonic.”
Cain hooded his gaze. “I had no idea your father was a doctor, Miss Evert.”
“He isn’t,” said Rose, confused. “You know very well that daddy is a piano tuner.” Her brows knitted adorably. “Oh,” she added in a rush of comprehension. She dimpled a pretty smile. “You’re toying with me, Dr. Byron,” she scolded, waving her handkerchief playfully. “How naughty of you.” She regarded him through the veil of her curling lashes. Pulling off her gloves, she managed a small laugh. “You are absolutely right. From now on, you shall be the doctor and Daddy will be the piano tuner.” She looked up, her clear gaze trusting. “You will help me, won’t you . . . Cain?”
“We shall see what we can do, Miss Evert,” Cain replied with professional reserve. As he stepped to her to begin his examination, Rose Evert seemed to gain strength. She kept up a lively monologue as she very willingly unfastened the front of her light summer frock and bared her full-fleshed bosom to Cain’s rather dour perusal.
“I only wish I could be as robust a lady as that girl who cares for your mother,” she remarked brightly. “She is surely the most hearty of souls. I think there has not been a day all summer that we’ve not seen her pedaling about the city on her bicycle. Daddy says he wonders that you allow such behavior in one of your household staff, but I say a lady as healthy and energetic as she needs some outlet for all her vigor. Daddy’s such an old poop. But then, as he accurately points out, most men prefer ladies who are a bit on the . . . delicate side.” Miss Evert coughed prettily to underscore her own delicate constitution. “Anyway, everyone says Mrs. Byron’s go
od health is due to the energetic ministrations of Miss Thackeray. Mother said she was at death’s door, but we both agreed she looked radiant at your engagement party.” Cain’s gaze shot up to find a great pair of innocent eyes looking directly into his. “It’s been over a month now since the postponement of your wedding,” Rose observed, “I do hope nothing is amiss.”
“Nothing is,” said Cain, completing his examination. Miss Evert asked for a glass of water to emphasize how grueling the effort had been for her.
“For myself, Dr. Byron,” she observed, sipping daintily, “I would give just anything in the world for Miss Thackeray’s hardihood—though I would never think of stuffing it all into breeches.” She smiled slyly as she handed Cain her glass. “Your mother’s companion is quite the talk of the town . . . and not all of it flattering.”
“You may fasten your gown, Miss Evert,” Cain said flatly. The lady obediently did so, but kept her eyes on the doctor’s averted ones.
“Honestly, Dr. Byron—Cain—you cannot tell me that your servant’s behavior doesn’t give you pause.” Miss Evert patted her hair and straightened her pretty lace collar. “Don’t you mind that she is the subject of some extremely ribald gossip? It is said, and quite properly so, that a lady’s name should never be mentioned in idle conversation and certainly not in jest. I should be distressed if my name were being bandied about in such a fashion. People are even starting to connect her with those literary ladies, Annie Fitzpatrick and Emma Cavanaugh.” Rose lifted her brow significantly, giving dire expression to this latest information. “And you know what they say about those ladies. Daddy says they’re not even ladies. I shan’t tell you what else he says, but it’s not nice. And who can blame people for talking, what with those two women living together and saying all those awful things about men. It’s not natural. In my opinion, men are far superior to women, don’t you think so, Dr. Byron?”
Cain only glanced up as he wrote out Rose Evert’s prescription. “Anyway,” Rose continued, “it seems to me Miss Thackeray would do well to look to her reputation. She is, after all, the employee of a respected doctor. She ought to think of your reputation if not her own.” Rose Evert sighed. “Some people insist on living lives that compromise everyone around them. Such a shame . . .” Her voice trailed off and her eyes drifted to some sad middle distance. She glanced back to note, to her satisfaction, a troubled frown clouding Cain’s countenance. “But I’m not letting you get in a word,” she added, brightening. “How is my health? I have been so concerned about it.”
“Your health,” replied Cain evenly and with no hint of sarcasm, “has been a great source of concern to all of us this summer.” He recalled the near battle he and Autumn had had over the lady’s fragile state—and her constant visits. “I have written you a prescription for a tonic—as your good father suggested—but I want you to promise me you will take at least one walk every day, Miss Evert. Enjoy the sunshine and fresh air, and try not to think about yourself quite so much.” Rose frowned.
“But how can I help thinking about myself? I have been so ill!”
“Miss Evert,” Cain said patiently, “you are not as fragile as you imagine. You are young, and may I say, in excellent health. I have examined you thoroughly over the past few weeks, and it is my opinion that you have been blessed with a very sturdy constitution.”
“You must be mistaken, Dr. Byron,” she protested. “What about my shortness of breath and the pains in my ankle and my palpitations?”
“I have checked your lungs and your heart, Miss Evert, and there is no evidence of disease. For your throbbing ankle I can find no cause. There are no broken bones, no injured muscles—” He broke off his narration at her lamentations of protest and turned to the sink to wash his hands. “Perhaps, if you insist that you are ill, we could have you looked at by a specialist,” he offered. As he dried his hands, he turned and found that the color had drained from his patient’s face.
“A . . . specialist?” she asked dumbly, her eyes wide and grave with numb horror. “But why, Dr. Byron?”
A smile threatened at the corners of Cain’s lips; the girl was obviously not expecting such a solemn recommendation. “Dr. Winslow Beame is a friend of mine,” he reassured her gently, “and a noted specialist in women’s problems. He will be visiting anyway within the week, so we may as well have him look at you.” Rose nodded mutely. “In the meantime,” said Cain, as he led her from the room, “take those walks I suggested. Enjoy your young friends as a girl your age ought to be doing. There is no pleasure in being sick.”
“Am I . . . sick?” she asked in a small frightened voice.
“No, Rose,” said Cain confidently. “You are not.”
“Thank God,” she breathed.
“Yes,” agreed Cain, “you might do well to thank God.” He had not meant to frighten her, but he took a certain satisfaction in the knowledge that Miss Evert’s brush with real illness—brief as it was—would most assuredly discourage any more feigning of ailments.
His satisfaction might have been premature, however, for she paused before leaving and said in a syrupy voice, “You know, Dr. Byron—Cain—when one is a lady, and vulnerably made, one must accept certain . . . dangers to one’s health.”
“Miss Evert,” Cain remarked stiffly, “you are as healthy as . . . as Autumn Thackeray.”
“No real lady is that healthy,” she replied tartly. Cain cleared his throat and watched as she pulled on her gloves. “Daddy says that someone ought to talk to her and tell her that she is damaging not only her own reputation but yours, too. He says that a man who cannot control his servants is no man. And mother says that your family is headed for a scandal.” She looked up, apparently recovered from her recent terror. “She says that a gentleman who allows his servants to flout his rules is doing it for a very unsavory reason.”
“I think it best for people to tend to their own business,” Cain returned easily.
“Oh, I could not agree more. But people will talk. It’s human nature.” With that warning, Miss Evert strolled languidly to her waiting carriage.
As Cain moved back into the house, he paused and looked up into the darkness at the top of the great curving staircase. Gripping the newel post, he recalled another threatened scandal, one he’d managed to avert. This latest threatened scandal would not overwhelm him, he determined, as the other one had; before it emerged, he would stop it cold. He went to his office and lit a small cigar, pacing restively beneath the portrait of his father. He glanced up, wondering how, with such a prudent patriarch, the Byron family had managed to become a magnet for scandal. He had no choice but to place the blame squarely at his own feet.
“I could smell it as soon as I came into the house,” Autumn commented as she entered the otherwise sterile room. Cain glanced up. He had been preoccupied with paperwork for most of the afternoon.
“What did you smell?” he asked.
“Your foul cigar smoke.” Autumn stood before the mirror and removed her hat. She patted at her tousled coif. “I’ve told you time and again that the noxious odor of those cigars simply penetrates the entire house.” Cain stood slowly and moved from behind his desk. He watched as Autumn, wrinkling her nose, opened a window and waved at the air with her bonnet. “Honestly,” she continued, “driving out the evidence of your vice is a full-time job.”
“My . . . vice,” Cain repeated. He had never thought of his smoking as a vice.
She moved to him and stood close, regarding him with a small, condescending smile. “Do try to remember that you are a doctor, my darling,” she said sweetly but with a mocking edge to her voice, as Cain perceived it. “People expect a certain restraint in the men to whom they entrust their health.” She laughed and touched his chin with a delicate forefinger. “You, good sir, are not setting a very good example for your patients.” Cain studied her small upturned face. He could not afford, at this moment, to be captivated by its elfin charm or even irritated by her superior tone.
“You are v
ery quick to point out my shortcomings, Autumn. Are you as equally ready to examine your own?”
“My shortcomings?”
“Yours.”
“What shortcomings are those?” Cain averted his eyes and tried to adopt a reasonable tone.
“It seems that people in town are beginning to make this family an object of discussion and speculation.” Autumn’s brows lifted. “Please allow me to finish. I must insist that you stop chasing about town on that bicycle and that you stop wearing your breeches.” He glanced briefly at her, but hastily turned away. How could he look at her curving form so sweetly sheathed in her jodhpurs, so meltingly available to his perusal, and not draw her to him? He turned back to her, attempting to ignore that appealing silhouette. “I want you to avail yourself of the services of the people we’ve hired to attend us. There is no reason in the world for you to make yourself so visible to our neighbors. I do not approve.”
“Oh, Cain,” she said on a sigh, “we went through this only this morning—and a hundred times before that. I cannot just sit about the house looking pretty.”
“And I cannot have people discussing the residents of this household. You are much the subject of controversy—some people taking your side and others falling in against you. Don’t you understand that your bicycle, those breeches, your connection to those literary ladies all draw unnecessary attention to you—to us.”
“I do not see how my behavior could possibly reflect on you—”