by Carole King
“What’s happened here, Autumn?” she asked gently. “Why did Cain ride off like that?” Autumn lifted her gaze. Tear-glazed, it offered a well of hopelessness.
“Oh, Annie,” she said on a weary breath, “I shall never see him again.” Annie took the girl in her arms as Emma Cavanaugh looked on in sympathy. “Cain was against this marriage, but Robert and Vanessa were so in love, and despite his objections, I . . .” Shamed, she could not go on.
“You did the right thing, Autumn,” Emma told her. “People in love ought to be together.”
“But what does it matter?” Autumn asked. “What does any of it matter if I’ve lost Cain?”
“You listen to me,” Annie said softly, “Cain Byron isn’t a stupid man—not like some I’ve seen. It’s the stupid ones we’ve got to look out for. They’re the ones who cause all the damage. A stupid soldier with a powerful weapon is a dangerous enemy.”
“But Cain is not my enemy. Why must you turn everything into a battle of the sexes?”
“Because it boils down to that.”
“Oh, Annie, don’t you understand, I love Cain Byron and now I’ve lost him.”
“You haven’t lost anything, Autumn. You’ve won. You did what’s right. As Emma says, people in love ought to be together. Cain knows that as well as anyone. And it’s true that he’s not your enemy, but he has lost a powerful weapon—your obedience. Like any soldier, he’s got to figure out what to do next. He’ll probably run and hide for a while, but eventually he’ll make his way back onto the field. And, smart as he is, he’ll realize how stupid and how vain his little war has been, and he’ll have no choice but to make peace. In the end you’ll both win. We all will.”
Winner or loser, reflected Autumn, she would never be the same. Battered, bruised, aching with the wounds of battle, she must make her way back to Byron Hall to pack her things. Autumn would be heading—sadly—back to Philadelphia, back to where she’d started.
The day was darkening. Sunlight gave way to cloud shadow and finally to thick twilight. Cain Byron stood by the shore, his horse’s reins held laconically in his big hand. He gazed out on the dimming horizon and wondered idly what land he was viewing. Once, he and Autumn had stood on that very spot and decided it was Paris, France, they could see. They’d laughed, describing for each other the men and women and little children, berets tilted on their heads, sashaying about on the opposite shore. Cain slapped the end of the rein against his palm. He’d had enough of silly fantasies.
Antoinette Fraser, watching the dark tableau from a knoll above the sloping shore, smiled. She called to him and he glanced back over the barrier of his shoulder. Antoinette wondered if she had detected hope, then disappointment when he saw that it was she. Calling again, she moved toward him. A rigid immutability seemed to emanate from his very pores. There would apparently be no pretense between them—at least on his part. And those who lacked pretense did not expect pretense in others.
“What do you want, Antoinette?” he asked her.
Her approach must be subtle, for Cain was no pliable boy. She made a hesitant move to touch him and then drew back, pausing before she spoke. She lowered her lashes.
“I suppose, Cain, I want you.” He studied her for long moments but did not speak. She looked up. “I know how . . . heartless that must sound to you. In many ways I am heartless—shallow you might say. After all that has happened, all I can think of is myself.”
“Actually,” admitted Cain quietly, “your honesty is refreshing.” Her wide gaze reflecting no guile, she stepped to him tentatively, then held herself back. Lowering her lashes once again, she imagined them fanning themselves delicately over her pinkened cheeks.
“I am ashamed of what I have done. It was only that . . . well, knowing what Autumn was planning, I could not simply keep it to myself. I had to tell you of my suspicions. But . . . now, seeing you in so much pain, I wonder at my wisdom in doing so. And, Cain, I wonder at my motives.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Antoinette,” Cain returned stiffly. “I am not in as much pain as you might imagine. I pride myself on my resiliency. As for your part in this, you did what was necessary. Our motives are not always plain. In any event please don’t waste your pity on me.” At just that moment, a small tear appeared in Antoinette’s eye and trickled daintily down her cheek.
“I don’t pity you, Cain,” she tossed off bravely. “I pity Autumn. What a hapless fool she was to have risked your love. I pity her for taking on a cause that would surely cost her the best love a woman could hope for. I cannot imagine what she was thinking when she decided to help Robert and Vanessa. All I can say is that she is a woman, Cain, and we women sometimes give in to terrible weaknesses—weaknesses of the flesh as well as the mind.
“You have loved two women—Autumn and, I dare to say it, me. At least I believed you loved me. And I loved you,” she stated, her chin elevated. “I know that now. But I was such a reckless fool. In my youth and feminine innocence, I did not realize the value of your love, Cain. But I know that given a second chance—just one more tiny chance—I could love you as no woman ever has.”
Her words came out in a gush of emotion. She had surprised Cain and even herself with their desperate appeal. She quickly lifted her hand to her lips, and the gesture gave her a vulnerability that worked very well for the moment. For the first time Cain smiled. Even when she had come to him that morning, professing reticence, Cain knew that she was quite enjoying the bitter tale she was telling him. He knew that her “suspicions” about his mother and Robert—and Autumn’s involvement in their plans—had been carefully and purposefully uncovered. And he knew that Antoinette revealed them with relish. He knew, too, that Antoinette had gone to all that trouble to discredit Autumn. Now he wondered if some of her efforts had not been on his behalf. He had not known that Antoinette harbored such deep feelings for him. He had not imagined her capable of deep feelings. His smile became regretful.
“I don’t know if I can trust my own judgment just now, Antoinette, but I will concede that we really never gave each other a chance. We were always so busy showing off for each other.”
“Yes,” said she on a breath, as though she had just discovered something wonderful. “Showing off! I was showing off, Cain. It’s what I’ve always done.” She had not dreamed it would be this easy to portray herself as a wayward child who had finally grown up. But then, she reasoned, that is the way men wanted to see their women—as children needing an education. Her heart thundered with the victory she knew was now at hand. She barely heard Cain’s next words, for she was already planning her next move.
“Despite your possible—and I must say probable—motives for revealing what Autumn was up to, I appreciate your efforts. You needn’t deny that you were pleased to find Autumn in a compromising situation, Antoinette.” She did not deny it. “You were always one to enjoy a hearty female rivalry.” His smile deepened with approval, and Antoinette knew she was on very safe ground. Cain was now in his element, a male element. Scolding women and then forgiving them was the life’s blood of their masculinity. And female rivalries always worked to their advantage. “I suppose,” he was saying, “it was your very feminine nature that attracted me to you in the first place.”
“Do you really think so, Cain?” she asked, lowering her eyes to preserve that perception. Her voice became childlike and filled with piquant expectation as she lifted her regard. “Do you?” He nodded benevolently. “I should simply like to die if I believed for one second that you were toying with me.”
“Don’t die, Antoinette,” Cain said gently. “That would be such a waste of womanly perfection.”
And now Cain Byron was very drunk. It was a condition that had begun several days before, had intensified over the past twenty-four hours, and was relieved only when he very occasionally, though for increasingly longer periods of time, passed out. Antoinette eyed him disparagingly.
“Honestly, Cain,” she said as she watched him pour himself yet ano
ther brandy, “if I’d known you were going to take on so, I’d never have told you about the wedding.” Cain glanced up, his brow cocked at an untidy angle.
“An’ ’s a damn good thing you did, too, Nettie,” he assured her. “Y’r the only frien’ I’ve got lef’.” He hiccuped sagely. Pointing at her with his glass and one forefinger, he said, “A man needs frien’s. They’re the meat ’n’ p’tatoes of life. You’re the meat ’n’ p’tatoes of my life, woman, an’ don’t you forget it.” He sat down heavily in a chair. The small hotel parlor reeked of his smell, and Antoinette waved a perfumed hanky delicately.
“I’m glad you feel that way, Cain,” she remarked dryly, “but the fact is you need to do something. You cannot simply loll about this hotel room, seething and stinking.” She’d long ago abandoned the amenities of polite remonstrance. “I went to a great deal of trouble for you. You have no idea how difficult it was keeping up with your mother and your little doxy. It wasn’t easy following them about, conversing with the likes of florists and dressmakers and dull church people, and asking humiliating questions, and lying through my teeth to get information.”
Cain looked up, his head bobbling, his indigo gaze bleary. “You’ve got good teeth, Nettie, y’ know that? I don’t think I ever mentioned that t’ you b’fore. You’ve got th’ bes’ teeth I ever saw. I jus’ wan’ y’ t’ know how I feel.” The certainty in his tone slackened, and tears formed in his eyes. “Aut’m’s got good teeth, y’ know.”
“Good heavens, Cain,” snapped Antoinette, “forget about that woman.” She strode to him and snatched the brandy snifter from his stiff paw. She swore beneath her breath as the liquid from the nearly full goblet sloshed onto her gown.
“Dammit! I shall be smelling as disgusting as you,” she charged as she wiped furiously at the stain. At last, giving up the effort, she faced Cain squarely. “Listen to me,” she said sharply, “you are wallowing in self-pity, and I shall not endure another minute of it. I am sick to death of your intoxication. You men swear by the indulgence of drink whenever you run into a problem you cannot—or will not—face. Well, I am here to tell you, Cain Byron, you are to pick yourself up and face your problems now. Autumn has abandoned you, and your mother is living in your house with her aging Lothario. You are to sober yourself up immediately. You are to visit your lawyer and have your mother declared insane. You certainly have enough proof of that. I’ve told you that Win will support any claims you make against the family fortune. He agrees your mother has quite taken leave of her senses—again. I want you to take your life into your own hands, and once you’ve done that, I want you to come back here and beg me to marry you!”
Cain looked up, his gaze quizzical. “Marry you?” he asked. “But I love Aut’m,” he told her piteously. There was one brief moment of clarity then, and he added in a slurred growl, “Th’ rambun’shus chit!” He seemed about to speak further. Abruptly, his eyelids drooped resolutely, his stubbled chin dropped onto his chest, and he began to snore. Antoinette stamped her kid booted foot. Once again she cursed wrathfully. Once again her instructions had fallen on deadened senses. She looked down on Cain Byron, that standard by which, in her previous lexicon, all men were judged, and pursed her lips. Cain snorted restlessly, his head falling back. His eyes red-rimmed, his jaw nearly blue with several day’s growth of beard, he seemed more beast than man.
“Hell’s bells, Cain Byron,” Antoinette swore softly. “You’re really no better than the rest of them, are you?” A light rap on the door caught her attention. Impatiently, supposing it was yet another bellboy bearing yet more liquor in which Cain might drown his anger or his resentment or whatever it was he was battling, Antoinette swung open the door.
“Is my son here?” asked the stately figure who stood before her.
“Why . . . Vanessa.”
“It is Mrs. Moffat to you, Antoinette.” Vanessa smiled. “I sound rather like a nursery rhyme, don’t I. ‘Mrs. Moffat went to sea/A golden cat upon her knee.’ I used to recite that for Cain.” She moved past Antoinette and stopped before her son. “Well, well,” she said softly. She glanced back at Antoinette who was closing the door. “How long has he been like this?”
“Since the wedding,” the younger woman answered tiredly. “It was . . . rather planned, you see. I mean, of course, his coming here, not his drunkenness.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Antoinette asked archly.
“Yes. I do, surprisingly. Since I am not myself given to dark plotting, it surprises me that I could so easily comprehend your little scheme.”
“Dark plotting . . . Mrs. Moffat? Isn’t that exactly how you accomplished the marriage to your lighthouse keeper?”
“I shall not defend my methods to you, Antoinette. Nor shall I attempt to explain something you could not possibly understand. I shall say this, however, our ‘plots’ differ in one very important aspect. Mine was done in the name of love, while yours was done . . . well . . .” She eyed the girl quizzically. “Do you really have that much hatred in you? Does anyone?” She paused, surveying the girl in silence. “You may be wiser than I first suspected you to be, Antoinette,” she said at last.
“And made wiser by your drunkard of a son.”
“Cain is no drunkard,” Vanessa returned mildly. “He is a man in pain. You know that now, don’t you?” Antoinette regarded her steadily. “You know that Cain loves Autumn, has loved her all this time. And you know that love is not an emotion to be trifled with. That’s a hard lesson to learn when you’re in the business of trifling. It’s painful.”
“I’m not in pain,” Antoinette said sharply. “If you think that, you are mistaken. But I have learned a lesson. I have learned that your illustrious son is no different from any other man. I’ve learned that he, like all the others, will take a woman and use what he wants of her and toss the rest onto the compost heap of his self-interest. It doesn’t pain me to learn that, Vanessa. It inspires me.”
“And what will you do with your lessons, Antoinette?”
“I shall do what is necessary to save myself from becoming compost. I shall marry the dimwitted Winslow Beame. He’s asked me several times. And I shall become the most comfortable, the most compliant, the most callous wife that ever lived. I shall spend Winslow’s money, adorn his house, bear his children . . . and hate him every day of his life. And he shall never know it.”
Vanessa lowered her eyes. “Perhaps you are not so wise after all. And yet . . .” She lifted her regard. “Do you know why you were attracted to my son? I believe it was because you intuitively knew him to be quite different from most men of your acquaintance. You understood that with him you could never have the life you describe with Winslow. Cain would never have allowed it. Maybe some unexamined part of you hoped that somehow Cain’s own honesty would uncover yours.”
Antoinette smiled narrowly. “You could be right, Vanessa,” she conceded with an eloquent shrug, “though I had planned to dismiss him quite harshly if he finally did profess his love. But that is moot. Cain is lost to me now.” Both women regarded him obliquely. “It’s not such a great loss,” remarked Antoinette wryly.
“I think you know it is,” countered Vanessa. “I think that’s why you went to all the trouble of mounting a full scale investigation of my marriage plans and Autumn’s involvement in them. I think you went to all that trouble because in your heart you know my son is indeed a very special man, an extraordinary one in fact. Maybe it’s time, in light of all you know now, to reassess your future. Cain is lost to you, it’s true, but Winslow Beame is not your only alternative.”
“Thank you for your motherly concern,” Antoinette put in, “but please don’t waste it on me. Things probably turned out for the best, in any event. Winslow and I will be married. He quite enjoys my little feminine conceits. And I did succeed in separating Cain and Autumn—I believe for good, don’t you?”
Vanessa shook her head sadly. “I suppose I never will understand the choices people make, if I li
ve to be a hundred.”
“Well, take comfort, Vanessa, for you that’s not far off.” Antoinette smiled deeply, her green eyes narrowing to emerald slits. “Now,” she said, her tone altering, “why don’t you just take your . . . resplendent, and certainly extraordinary lump of a son out of here.” She swung open the door.
“I believe I shall do that,” replied Vanessa. She moved to the chair in which Cain was sprawled. Before attempting to rouse him, she looked up. “I wish to give you one more bit of . . . ‘motherly’ advice, Antoinette. Please take it as a warning. Winslow Beame may not be quite as malleable as you imagine him to be. Oh, he is dimwitted enough, but even the dullest people do have moments of insight. He’s going to discover your deception, and when he does, he will use every weapon at his command to get even with you. Make no mistake, Winslow has an arsenal of weapons— powerful ones. Bright people learn from the cruelty of others, stupid ones merely . . . get even.”
They took him home, Cain’s mother and stepfather. Robert had been waiting in the Byron coach and with his help and the help of several sturdy bellboys, Vanessa had gotten Cain, stumbling, out of Antoinette’s room, down the stairs, and into the carriage. She and Robert had propped him between them, but hastily rearranged themselves to accommodate his height and girth and his dead weight. He stretched and snorted and eventually spread himself full-length on one of the seats, impervious to the coach’s jostling motion. Vanessa moved to the other seat, and Cain ended up with his head in Robert’s lap and his feet nearly dangling from the window.
“This boy’s going to feel as rocky as an old fishing boat tomorrow,” Robert assured Vanessa.
“I’m sure that his rocky feelings brought him to this in the first place.”