by Carole King
“I wouldn’t exactly call them forays, Winslow,” she corrected him. “We’ve just been with our friends.”
“Ladies of a certain age need their beauty sleep—and younger ones, too,” he insisted. Autumn and Vanessa exchanged a knowing glance. No doubt Winslow Beame thought himself entirely within his rights to scold them.
“You are absolutely correct, Winslow,” stated Vanessa. “You will excuse me, therefore, if I say goodnight.” With those words and one last brief glance at Autumn, Vanessa withdrew. Winslow regarded the younger woman with some ferocity.
“Where have the two of you been till this time of night?” he demanded.
“It was a literary meeting, Dr. Beame.”
“Surely you know better, Miss Thackeray. Literary meetings are bad business for all ladies, but especially for those who are of a particularly fragile constitution.”
“Mrs. Byron enjoys them, Dr. Beame,” returned Autumn respectfully, “and I cannot imagine that anything she enjoys could be harmful to her.” She glanced at Cain, seeking his approval. “Don’t you agree, Dr. Byron?”
“You have no idea what may or may not be harmful,” Beame stated.
“Win,” Cain interjected, “it is just some ladies talking. My mother has told me that getting out of an evening keeps her mind active.”
“You mean inordinately stimulated,” Winslow Beame shot back with a scalding look toward Cain. “I have told you that such stimulation could be very dangerous. I see nothing untoward in the occasional tea or afternoon social, but this sort of nighttime frivolity is unnecessary and quite, quite unacceptable for a lady who has not left her house in years.” Autumn bit back a rejoinder, and looked forlornly to Cain for help. He cleared his throat.
“I see no harm in it, Win,” he said carefully. His tone became firmer as he added, “As I mentioned in my last letter, our trip to Philadelphia was extremely successful. The fact is, my mother flourished there, and you can see for yourself how composed she is now.” He glanced at Autumn. “How did the meeting go?” he asked.
“Oh, it went very well. Annie Fitzpatrick is always entertaining in her observations—”
“Annie Fitzpatrick,” said Winslow Beame with a narrowed regard. “I believe I met her at the engagement party. Her father is the librarian, isn’t he? Unmarried girl as I recall. Talkative sort. I didn’t like her.” Autumn hid a smile.
“Annie is something of a bluestocking,” said Cain. “She has been that way since she was a girl, but she’s an interesting woman nonetheless. Very well-traveled.”
“Fine thing, a woman traveling alone,” groused Winslow Beame.
“Oh, but she doesn’t travel alone,” Autumn assured him innocently. “She takes trips with her friend Emma Cavanaugh.”
“Even worse,” stated Winslow. “Two women on their own. They are just advertising their availability. Why, anyone might answer that advertisement,” he added pointedly, “even a Frenchman.”
“I don’t think there is any danger of that, Win,” said Cain gently.
“No, you’re quite right, old lad. That Fitzpatrick girl is quite a forceful piece of work, and even Frenchmen have their standards.” He whisked fondly at his moustache and chuckled indulgently at his little joke. Autumn smiled and took the moment to take her own leave. The men remained downstairs for a last bit of brandy and a cigar.
“Let’s go outside, Win,” said Cain.
“Ah, yes,” said Winslow Beame. “Things have certainly changed around here, Byron. Used to be a man could smoke anywhere he wanted in this house.”
“Yes,” acknowledged Cain as he ushered his old friend outside, “but Miss Thackeray believes that the smell of cigars is quite an unacceptable odor for a doctor’s office.”
“Nonsense,” countered Winslow, “cigars have the odor of authority. That, in truth, is what Miss Thackeray finds unacceptable. We would all have been much better off if she had married that Fraser lad.” He puffed contentedly. “Sadly—though happily for that family—Miss Thackeray is still wielding her considerable influence over this household.” He studied the glowing end of his cigar. He continued in a measured tone. “I do not like to say it, Byron, but when a man gives so much leeway to a female in his employ . . .” Cain leveled him a brief glance. “Well, I shall not presume,” continued Beame, “but think, lad, what will happen when Antoinette returns—as she surely will—to take up her rightful position as your wife? While a man’s mistress is surely his own business, he might do well to consider the consequences of having her living under his own roof.”
“Miss Thackeray is not my mistress,” said Cain shortly.
“Yes, yes.” Winslow Beame waved away his friend’s protest. “I had forgotten you had become a gentleman, old lad. Still, you might consider setting the girl up in her own little house, with a small income perhaps. It is the sensible thing to do. As your friend, I might remind you that the delectable Miss Fraser is not one to—”
“As my friend,” put in Cain, “you must know my thoughts on the delectable Antoinette Fraser.”
“I can’t say that I do, Cain,” returned Beame tightly. “It is quite obvious, however, that there is more to your relationship with Miss Thackeray than you are willing to admit, but I cannot imagine that it would distort your sense of responsibility toward Antoinette. Consider this carefully. You cannot simply throw away an excellent marriage for the sake of one little strumpet.” Cain Byron sent his cigar flying through the air like a dart.
“Autumn is no strumpet, Win, and you know it.” He turned to Winslow Beame, his teeth clenched. “And how dare you presume to characterize our relationship in such a manner. I love Autumn Thackeray. I intend to marry her one day—as soon as the delectable Antoinette Fraser comes to her senses and sets me free.”
Winslow’s thick brows lifted.
“Is all this quite true, Byron?” he ejaculated. “I cannot fathom such a notion!”
“It is true, Win,” said Cain, composing himself.
“But . . . then . . . the engagement.”
“The engagement is and always was a sham. Antoinette has never loved me.”
“What difference does that make?” asked Winslow, honestly confused. “Since when do we expect such driveling stuff of our marriages? It is enough that our wives respect us and give us our due as men—as husbands. You shall get no respect from that little—”
“Enough!” commanded Cain sharply. There was a small silence between the two men.
“Byron,” said Winslow Beame after a time, “I can see you are quite at odds with yourself on the subject of Antoinette Fraser. That you have no right to be is not at issue.” He splayed a detaining hand. “I shall not judge you,” he said quickly. “I do ask you this, however, would you object if I—”
“I should consider it a favor,” interjected Cain. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to retire.”
“Of course, old lad,” said Beame, a question in his tone. “You won’t mind, I take it, if I finish my smoke.”
“Not at all. I’ll see you in the morning.” Winslow watched his old friend’s departure with a kind of sadness welling in him. Where were the good times they’d had? Where was that kinship they’d shared? What, in the name of all that was holy, had happened to Cain Byron?
A look of complete incredulity washed over Winslow Beame’s countenance. “Birth control?” he asked blankly.
“Yes,” returned Vanessa.
“Birth control,” repeated Beame.
“Birth control,” said Vanessa. Beame’s swallow was both audible and accomplished with some difficulty.
“You cannot be serious,” he said with uncharacteristic befuddlement. “You’re almost fifty years old, Vanessa. Surely at your age—”
“I am quite serious,” Vanessa stated easily. “I am, in fact, forty-six years old, Win, and I still menstruate on a monthly basis. I may continue to do so for another year, or two, or three—and possibly more.”
Attempting to compose himself, Winslow m
anaged a shallow clearing of his throat and addressed Vanessa’s immediate question. “Well, of course, yes, there are several ways of managing that . . . particular aspect of married life. Indeed,” he continued, fumbling with his words, “the most popular and safest method is, of course, the . . . um, the husband’s restraint.” He eyed Vanessa keenly, his brows knitted in puzzlement. “I must inquire why you would ask such a question, however. The Comstock statute outlawed contraception years ago. You aren’t intending to become a criminal, are you, at your age?” He laughed nervously. Vanessa, adjusting her clothes before the mirror after Win’s examination, smiled.
“At my age, Win,” she said, patting her upswept coif, “I would rather become a criminal than a mother.”
“But surely there is no chance of either,” said the doctor with a forced laugh. When Vanessa did not join his mirth, he added stupidly, “You’re not thinking of getting married, are you?”
Vanessa lifted an elegant brow. “That is none of your business, Winslow,” she pointed out, ignoring a darkening of his regard. “I do want your best advice on the proven methods of birth control, and I shall pay you well for that knowledge. But remember this, as my physician, you are my employee—not the other way around. Aside from your studies of anatomy, you doctors might do well to take a lesson or two in humility, it seems to me.” She turned to find that the man’s face had become mottled with an unfocused anger and resentment. “Oh, Winslow,” she chided, “you are the most respected women’s specialist on the Eastern Seaboard. Surely this is not a new subject for you.”
“Not at all,” he replied gruffly. “On the other hand, I had not thought to be discussing it with you.”
“Why not? You have been treating me for years. I have been a widow for ten. Surely you must have guessed the question would come up.”
“I never did,” Beame asserted hotly. “My God, Vanessa, such a thing never occurred to me. Such thoughts in women of your age are completely inappropriate—some might say disgusting.”
“Winslow,” said Vanessa tolerantly, “try to calm yourself. There is nothing disgusting about sex—at my age or at any other. Still, if you feel uncomfortable—”
“Nothing human makes me uncomfortable, Vanessa. I am a doctor.” He turned to the windows and tugged manfully at his moustache, regaining his composure. “Now,” he continued evenly, “what did you use while married to Cain’s father?” he asked stiffly.
“Cain’s father,” returned Vanessa wryly, “exercised what you would call husbandly restraint, Win. At some point in our marriage he decided that I was much too much of a lady to be subjected to that sort of indignity. Cain’s father took mistresses. Once that gentleman had increased himself to his satisfaction, we rarely had sexual relations. When we did, I used a pessary which I bought from a caring midwife in the city. She was a thoroughly good woman who offered counsel as well as devices.” Winslow Beame sat down heavily.
“A pessary,” he said in disbelief. “But that is a suppository, Vanessa, and quite, quite . . . immoral. Ladies do not go about sticking . . . things into their bodies.”
“They do when they wish to avoid conception, Winslow.”
“And they are also quite illegal,” he instructed her.
“The midwife and I could have been arrested. But after Cain and his sisters were born, I decided I’d had quite enough of childbearing and quite enough of increasing the likes of Cain Byron, Sr. Beyond that, I knew of the ladies he kept in varying degrees of luxury, and I was not keen to be one in that vast number—though he kept me in the grandest luxury of all. Now,” she said with finality, “may we get on with our discussion, or will it be necessary for me to go and find another felonious midwife?”
“I shall tell you everything you need to know,” Beame said hastily. “I certainly cannot abide a patient of mine turning herself over to one of that sort. Those women make a mockery of everything the medical community stands for.”
“They do indeed, Winslow,” acknowledged Vanessa with a hidden smile. “They do indeed.” Standing and tucking his hands professorially behind his back, he began. He described the period of time when a woman was most likely to become pregnant. He recommended medications to enhance her susceptibility and medications to curtail that possibility. To his credit and her relief, Winslow Beame did not question Vanessa further. He asked her if she fully understood everything he’d told her. “I do,” said Vanessa. She thanked him kindly and reminded him of the confidentiality that must exist between doctor and patient. Without further words, stormily offended that Vanessa would even consider it necessary to mention such an obligation, Dr. Beame left her room.
Blessedly free of that most untoward conversation, he patted at his perspiring forehead with a large handkerchief. His first impulse was to go directly to Cain with the matter of his mother’s inquiry about the new and controversial subject of “voluntary motherhood,” but again to his credit, he did not. He cursed the confidentiality that Vanessa had mentioned. Cain ought to be told if his mother was thinking of taking up with a gentleman—and apparently considering marriage. And just supposing it happened to be that creature from the lighthouse again. That situation had been the start of all her troubles. Beame managed to shake off the apprehension he was feeling. If Vanessa did intend to marry, surely she would choose a gentleman who would be mature in his needs, respectful of her advanced age.
Vanessa had been right about one thing, he reflected as he prepared to meet one of Cain’s referred patients, the question had come up before, and Dr. Winslow Beame was always surprised when it did. He assured most women, when they asked, to trust their husbands in the matter of birth control; if it became necessary, the husband would be informed by the lady’s doctor. Beame saw no reason for women to concern themselves with such matters. Why, he wondered, did they make life so difficult for themselves? Women, he reminded himself, had a way of complicating everything.
He heard a light rap on Cain’s office door. Stepping to it, he adopted his most professional demeanor. He must now face—he quickly glanced at the sheet of paper on Cain’s desk and read the name “Miss Rose Evert”—Miss Rose Evert, one of Cain’s most difficult cases. That lady, it seemed, insisted she had a different ailment every week, but Cain had found her healthy as a newborn kitten. Dr. Beame smiled to himself. He’d met more than a few women of her ilk. Well, perhaps to satisfy her little whimsies, he thought, he would manage to find just a little something wrong with her.
If the grounds at Byron Hall had been a summer bower, they had become, by mid-September, a refulgent grotto. Big-leafed trees hung low beneath the weight of their resplendence. Flowers, in the mature stages of blossoming repletion, scented the air with their lush perfumes. The grasses grew verdant and tall. Among them, on a knoll above the sea, Vanessa and Autumn sat in sparkling white wicker chairs, sewing and talking quietly. Their hushed voices, as they discussed their secret plans, were whispered music on the air.
They turned at the insistent rustle of grass behind them. To Autumn’s horror, she saw, standing tall in the soft golden green of the day, the brilliantly groomed, magnificently coifed figure of Antoinette Fraser.
“Hello, you two,” chirped that woman. She made her way, dispatching grass and wildflowers beneath her heavy carmine skirts as she moved. “What is all this low, secret talking about? You sound as if you are planning some sort of conspiracy!” She trudged on forward, laughing brightly.
“Antoinette,” Autumn said on a breath. Glancing quickly at Vanessa, who sat stunned and wordless, she added, “We are so surprised.”
“I don’t see why. You knew I would return eventually.”
“But we’d had no word—”
“Yes, well, I am sometimes an impulsive creature—an original—just like you, Autumn.”
“You just missed Winslow Beame,” that woman said, attempting a conversational tone.
“Yes,” said Antoinette, targeting Vanessa serenely, “he told me he had been visiting. He said that, with only a few v
ery minor, if somewhat unsettling little problems, the household was running swimmingly.” Vanessa sat back numbly. “He mentioned that that oafish girl had gone off to have a baby, and that Cain had referred an especially difficult patient to him. He mentioned that she may have mental problems and is thinking of sending her on to Belle Vue. Win is such a raconteur. Once he gets started with stories about his patients, he just goes on and on enjoying himself so.” She noted with satisfaction the look of concern that passed between Autumn and Vanessa. “Of course, Win is ever the professional. He never gives out names and he never breaks a confidentiality, but one reads between the lines, don’t you know.” She paused and looked out over the ocean. “Such a pretty little view. I have missed it, in truth. But it will not be long before I have access to it every day.” She glanced at the two women who watched her warily. “I intend to announce a fall wedding for Cain and me,” she said nonchalantly.
“Have you consulted my son?” asked Vanessa evenly.
“Cain knows, as I do, that he has very little choice in this matter. Naturally, it is not my intention to upset a well-run household. You are welcome to stay on, Autumn, if that is your wish and, of course, Cain’s desire.” She gave the last word a special and highly significant emphasis. “After the wedding,” she went on, “I fully intend to spend most of my time in New York. I cannot, after all, allow that pretty house in Washington Square to simply idle uninhabited.”
“Cain may not agree to such a . . . sophisticated arrangement,” offered Vanessa.
“Then he may certainly join me in New York,” Antoinette countered flatly. “Though I must say he will not mind my absences.” Autumn and Vanessa shared an oblique glance.
“How long had you planned to stay, Antoinette?” asked Vanessa. Antoinette eyed the older woman tranquilly.