by Carole King
“But it does,” he returned, his words biting, his tone clenched. “For all the world you are my employee. If I disapprove of your behavior and you continue it anyway, the message is that I cannot control you.”
“Control me?” Her gaze darkened to a coppery glint. Cain held up a detaining hand. He knew that his use of that word had been at the very least impolitic.
“When a man allows such flamboyant behavior in one of his female staff, people might get the impression that their relationship is something other than professional. You must refrain from making yourself the subject of gossip—for your own sake if not for mine.”
“I saw Miss Rose Evert arrive,” Autumn returned knowingly. “I suppose she has had something to do with—”
“Rose had a great deal to say on the subject, but that—”
“‘Rose’?”
“Yes Rose, dammit!” Cain exploded. He turned away immediately. “In the name of Christ, woman, you are driving me to distraction.” Autumn drew back her shoulders and settled her hands upon her hips.
“I told you to send that woman to a specialist.”
“I am going to. Win is going to look at her when he visits next week.”
“Winslow Beame,” Autumn shot back, “is exactly what she deserves! Now let me tell you something, Cain Byron. You are not my husband, and you have no authority over my behavior.”
“Someday,” Cain returned, “I shall be your husband, and I have every right to expect a compliant and respectful wife.”
“When that time comes—if it comes—I will give you exactly the amount of respect you deserve, no less and certainly no more. In the meantime, if there is gossip, it is your fault as much as mine—”
“I am not the one riding bicycles and trooping around Cape May in inappropriate dress.”
“You are the one, however, who happens to be harboring a mistress!”
“Yes, and I tell you that I am not happy with her behavior.” Autumn stamped a booted foot.
“I suppose you would be just as pleased to have me hiding up there in the attic, clinging and possessive and wracked with cunning ailments like the oh-so-delicate Miss Evert.”
“I would have you respect my wishes, madam. Is it so much to ask that I not be forced to defend your actions to every flapping gossip in the city?” He attempted to continue in what he assumed was a more reasonable tone. “I would have you know that I do not personally object to your behavior. I do not understand your need to adopt this rather . . . bohemian lifestyle, but I am not personally opposed to it. I do not even object to that curious assortment of women you call your literary friends. Though I find them rather bizarre, I can tolerate them. As a matter of fact, I went to school with Annie Fitzpatrick, and I happen to like her; I always have.” He paused. When he resumed his tone was instructive and unyielding. “You have made choices that seem, oddly, to suit you. But I am by nature a private man, and I will not defend you and explain you to my patients. Do what you will, but I will continue to voice my objections. In the end, you have the power to decide whether we have a happy, contented life or a combative one.”
“Thank you so much for your support of me, Cain,” she rejoined, her tone heavy with irony. She brushed past him and exited the room. Cain was left in a growling bad humor. He lit a cigar, then, recalling Autumn’s complaints, he snuffed it out. He glanced down at the ashy remains of his apparently stripped manhood, and tearing off his starched white coat, he stormed from the house.
That night, very late, Cain came to bed. He slid beneath the light coverlet, his weight forcing the long wakeful Autumn to hold herself rigidly to her side of the bed.
“You are not sleeping,” Cain said softly.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Autumn turned to him, her face serious and searching in the moonlit darkness. “Because,” she said in a solemn whisper, “my gentleman lover ran away from home. He railed a few masterful words, threw an insult or two in my direction and left.”
“As I recall,” returned Cain, folding his arms beneath his head, “you were not the only one insulted. I, too, took my lumps.”
“Lumps?” asked Autumn, lifting her pale brows.
“You said my cigars were foul and a vice.”
“I was insulting your cigars, not you,” she reminded him. Looking down into the chiseled features of his face, Autumn could not contain the truth that she was glad to see him. The soft black velvet of his gaze caught a ray of moonlight and told her that he was glad to be home. “Where have you been?” she asked, taking in the very pleasing scent of him, which mingled tobacco, leather, and sea air.
“I was riding.” He reached up and touched a pearlescent curl that had drifted onto her shoulder.
“All this time?”
“All this time.”
“I missed you.”
“I wish you had been with me.” They shared a smile, but his face became serious, and he resumed as though he were describing a dream. “I had ridden very far from the house and night had fallen. I saw darkness all about me, and suddenly I was so afraid you might leave me. I felt empty. I rode home as fast as I could, in the dark, fearing all the while you would not be here when I returned.” He took her into his arms. His breath was shallow, and his heart raced. Autumn held him fiercely.
“I shall never leave you, Cain, I promise.” In the safety of each other’s arms, they drifted into a kind of peace, but slumber eluded them both.
“Autumn,” he said much later, “I have been thinking.”
“As have I.”
“I want you to understand something. I have faced down one scandal in my life, and I do not wish to face down another.”
“Scandal,” she conceded, “brings out the worst in everybody. But what if there were no such thing as scandal, Cain? What if everyone simply took your doctor’s oath to do no harm and then lived their lives as best they could?”
“It would be a perfect world, Autumn.”
“I agree. And if a perfect world is possible, someone has to begin somewhere to build it.” He smiled.
“Are you suggesting that you and I might be those pilgrim builders?”
“We might be.”
“It would be hard,” he said. “We would be facing uncharted territory.”
“As all pilgrims do.”
“And we would have few followers. We would be alone.”
“You and I,” she assured him, “shall never be alone.”
Chapter 20
The day was humid, hot, woolen-blanket prickly. A gas-powered overhead fan in the kitchen served only to displace the deadened summer air, not to dispose of it. Autumn worked slowly, getting in the way of the forbearing women who continued to function efficiently despite the heat. Preparing Vanessa’s breakfast was a responsibility she usually cherished, for it gave her the opportunity to spend a quiet moment with the lady at the beginning of the day. This day, however, the kitchen was a runny, sticky, viscid hell. Though Autumn wore only a light summer frock, she perspired lavishly. She brushed moist tresses of her golden hair from her cheeks and neck, bumped into one of the women who was attempting to prepare corn cakes for the stablemen, apologized briefly, and made her way up the back stairway with Vanessa’s tray. Her room was no cooler than the rest of the house, though every window was opened and the draperies pulled back to allow any stray breeze to enter.
“Oh, Autumn, darling,” the older woman admonished her as she entered, “you really shouldn’t have troubled.” Vanessa had on a light morning robe, and she sat in a chair near the window. She fanned herself languidly.
“It was no trouble,” Autumn lied. “I sliced a nice cool melon for us. Won’t you try some of it?” In truth, Vanessa had not been eating well since her return from Philadelphia, and she had been less than communicative. Autumn sat down herself and dipped into the succulent fruit with her spoon.
“It is so hot. I don’t really feel like eating.”
“Vanessa, you haven’t felt like eating for days. You r
eally must try, you know; after all, I went to all this trouble.” Vanessa glanced at the girl and smiled. Autumn smiled back.
“Alright,” Vanessa said resignedly. “It does look inviting,” she conceded. As they did every day, they chatted idly. They inquired as to how the other had slept, asked about plans for the day, talked some of Autumn’s mother. “Her business is bound to prosper. We found a lovely big house for her, and she has hired half a dozen seamstresses.” Autumn nodded. Vanessa had mentioned these facts before.
“And how does her social life seem?” Autumn asked as she sipped her coffee. “You will recall that her last social engagement ended in a veiled promise to Philadelphia’s elite that my mother might be the next queen of England.” She laughed and patted at her perspiring neck with a linen napkin. “I was wondering if the upper crust had cracked under the weight of such a possibility.”
“It has not cracked,” said Vanessa dryly, “but it has suffered several chinks.” Though her words were heavy with droll humor, her face was solemn. She gazed out the windows over the expanse of shimmering sky and treetops. “There is a . . . situation of which you should be aware.”
“What situation?” Autumn leaned forward and set down her cup. The click caught Vanessa’s attention, and she stared at the cup and saucer for a long moment. At last she looked up.
“Your mother asked me to explain it to you, but I have not had the courage.”
“What is it, Vanessa?” Despite the dulling heat, she felt a sense of concern growing in her breast.
“You remember Mr. MacKenzie of course.”
“I do.”
“Your mother was quite taken with him. She is, in fact, in love with him.”
“Her feelings for him were obvious,” Autumn said casually, but her tone was wary.
“It seems,” Vanessa went on hesitantly, “that your mother has taken him—quite publicly—as her lover. She has moved him into her house.” Autumn stood slowly as comprehension wreathed her features.
“She is living with him openly?” Vanessa nodded. “But that is unthinkable,” Autumn said. “Mother could go to jail! Illegal cohabitation carries the very stiffest penalties.”
“They are both willing to take that risk. Alistair hopes, naturally, that Isabel will change her mind eventually and marry him, but for now, as she is unwilling to do so, he has accepted her terms. According to Isabel, they are living an honest life.”
“But how could she do this to herself ? How could she do this to my father’s memory!” Autumn picked up her cup and flung it against the wall. “Damn her! And damn you, Vanessa, for allowing this to happen. You were supposed to be her friend. Couldn’t you have talked her out of such madness?” Autumn swiped impatiently at the angry tears that had formed in her eyes. She looked up to find Vanessa’s sadness and sympathy displayed acutely on her face. That lady rose and moved to the bay of windows.
“I did try, Autumn,” she offered. “We discussed the matter for hours, Isabel and I, but she would not be swayed. There was no point at which we agreed . . . except perhaps at one.” Vanessa bowed her head. “I understand how she feels about Alistair.”
Autumn sat down numbly. “I know what it is to love a man, Vanessa, and I know what it is to be denied the fullest expression of that love. But that is no excuse for my mother’s behavior. Even if she is accepted into society for her supposed link to England’s throne, she will be a fool among fools, the Main Line’s all-licensed fool. My father’s name will be sullied, and I cannot forgive her for that.”
“Can you not,” stated Vanessa softly. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the blazing blue of the morning sky. She glanced briefly at the girl and then turned away. “Think, Autumn, on your relationship with my son. Would you, under any circumstances, let him go simply to please your neighbors?”
Autumn hesitated. “I am not making a public spectacle of our relationship,” she finally insisted.
“I do not mean to be unkind, Autumn,” Vanessa said moving to her, “but none of us has a right to hold ourselves up as arbiter of morality. That is probably the thing that is most wrong in the world—everyone stands in judgment of everyone else.”
“I know very well about judgmental people, Vanessa, having been the victim of asinine distortions and hateful inferences. One would think my mother had had enough of censure. Why doesn’t she simply marry the man and have it done? Why must she make a cause of this?”
Vanessa’s tone was hard. “I don’t suppose you know what your father’s suicide did to Isabel.” Autumn glanced up sharply.
“I know what it did to me.”
“You were not his wife, Autumn. You were his daughter. His death—his . . . suicide—deprived you of a father. But it deprived Isabel of her whole identity. For you, his death was terrifying, but even without your father, you had the power to live your life, or the important part of it, as you wished to live it. Oh, granted,” she went on taking a chair, “you did not have your former luxuries. You had to take a job. But you were still who you’d always been. You were still Autumn Thackeray. But when your father took his life, he took the very thing that made Isabel who she was.” She looked pointedly at Autumn. “Your mother received her whole identity as a human being from Emmett Thackeray. That’s who she was—Mrs. Emmett Thackeray.
“Your mother felt all the things you felt when your father died, but she felt something else, too. She felt she was nobody.”
“That is ridiculous,” countered Autumn. “My mother is a beautiful, intelligent human being. She is witty and vivacious—”
“She is all those things,” Vanessa interrupted. “But while your father lived, she was those things as Mrs. Thackeray. She defined herself as your father’s wife.” Vanessa paused. “I believe,” she continued quietly, “that Isabel will never again allow a man to imprison her identity. She will never again be merely the ‘other’ person in a relationship. From now on, Isabel’s life will be her own, and she will allow no one to take that away from her.” Autumn was silent for a long time, stunned by the revelation of feelings she’d never realized her mother had harbored.
“She is risking imprisonment in any event,” Autumn mentioned finally.
“Isabel is aware of that, and she has decided to flout what she considers a bad law.” As Autumn swiped at perspiration that was now mingled with drying tears, Vanessa resumed. “You cursed me for allowing this to happen,” she said.
“I am sorry,” murmured Autumn.
Vanessa lifted a detaining hand. “I understand, your feelings,” she assured the girl, “but you must understand too, that while I would not choose such a life for myself, I do, with all my heart, support Isabel’s pursuit of her own independence.”
“One would think owning a business would be enough independence for anyone.”
“How much independence is enough, Autumn? I lived through a long and crippling marriage to a man who held his authority like a gun to my heart. After he died, my whole existence was relinquished to the medical community in the person of Winslow Beame. Now, because of you, I have gained a modicum of independence; I have settled for the health of my body and my mind. But, I ask you, is it enough, Autumn? Is it ever enough to merely settle? Life in these times has a way of encouraging rationalization. We give in and give in—and eventually we give up. Isabel will not settle for less than she demands of life. None of us should.”
Autumn felt a sudden empathy growing in her heart for her mother. She recalled her own words, spoken to Cain the previous night. She had said that in a perfect world everyone would take his doctor’s oath—“first, do no harm”—and then live their lives as best they could. She had said that someone, somewhere had to begin to build such a perfect world. But why, she wondered, must that “someone” be Isabel Thackeray?
And could the world be “perfect” in any event, Autumn reflected later, as she strode out across the back lawn to the stables. She ordered that a horse be saddled for her. Without knowing her destination or caring, she mounted the ani
mal and spurred it to a pounding gallop. One of the older stablemen noted to himself that the young and pretty Miss Thackeray ought to be cautioned about riding astride. It just didn’t look right for a young lady to be galloping about over the countryside, her light frock up there above her knees. It was bad enough she rode that bicycle. He nudged several of the younger men who were watching the departing girl with obvious admiration.
“Get back to work, lads,” he groused. “Lady ought to be ridin’ sidesaddle anyway, or wearin’ breeches if she’s a mind to ride like she is.”
The golden-haired boy smiled sunnily. “You complain as loud when she does wear breeches, old man,” he said laughing.
“Woman ought to stay home in the first place,” the first man muttered as he returned to his work. “It ain’t proper,” he was heard to grumble throughout the afternoon, “it just ain’t proper.”
Autumn led her horse down to the narrow girdle of the beach and along the splashing shore. The cadence of hooves on the soft earth, the wind that whipped at her loosely pinned hair, and the blown spume conspired to calm her and to help her organize her thoughts. . . . She had judged both her mother and Vanessa harshly. She was as guilty as the rest of society in its desire to control the behavior of its hapless members. The horse, taking its cue from a pensive Autumn, drifted to a stop at the edge of the shore to munch on the lush grasses growing there. Autumn dismounted and wandered down to the sun-glazed expanse of the ocean. Shimmering in the blue reflection of the sky, the inlet lapped a cool invitation. On an impulse, she removed her stockings and her high kid boots and waded into the shallow water. Relief from the humidity and the heat overwhelmed her, and she found herself heading farther into the frothy water. Wavelets played over her toes and ankles. The hem of her frock quickly dampened and became heavy. The salty cold on her legs emboldened her and allowed her to shed her inhibitions. Autumn found herself laughing as the little white capped curls reached higher—first to her knees and then to her thighs—as she became more daring, more receptive to their playful invitation.