by Carole King
“Aye, it’s true,” agreed Robert. “I’m glad we found him before he did any more damage to himself.” He looked at Vanessa keenly. “How did you know he was there?”
“I didn’t really. I had suggested—quite impolitely, I may add—that Antoinette take a room at the Adelphi, and I just had an instinct he might be with her. Call it a mother’s instinct, if you will, or a woman’s. I understand that girl better than she does herself, Robert. I suspected she had a hand in Cain’s discovery of our plans. She did not come here on a whim; she smelled trouble, fueled sadly by Winslow’s gossip, and hoped to turn it to her own advantage. While it is true, she hoped to hurt this family in some profound way and to divide Cain and Autumn, she also, I believe, hoped desperately to win Cain for herself. Even she didn’t understand that part of it. The trouble is, she wanted to win him on her terms. She hasn’t learned yet that love can only be found and nurtured when the terms between lovers are mutual.” She regarded Robert with a smile. Her gaze drifted then to the landscape that jogged by the rolling coach. “Now that we’ve found him, Robert, what are we going to do with him?”
“For the moment, my love,” he said mildly, “there isn’t much we can do with him.”
“He did this to himself once when he was fifteen,” Vanessa recalled sadly. “His father took a strap to him. He told him, in his rage, that a gentleman never indulges in spirit to the point of drunkenness. Upon his awakening, Cain had not only to recover from his overindulgence, he had to recover from his father’s beating. I spread salve on the welts and offered peppermint tea. I thought it was the worst time in his life.” She looked down on her son, sleeping peacefully now, his head on Robert’s lap. “I am afraid that this time there is no salve in the world that is going to soothe his wounds.”
At twilight Robert and Vanessa sat side by side on the wide front porch. They quietly discussed their plans. Another man had already been dispatched to keep the light, and they had decided that very soon they must leave Byron Hall. They would live out a peaceful existence on one of the many seaside farms that dotted the estate. They might find one near Carrie’s property, they agreed. They both looked up when they heard the front door open. Cain came outside, awakened, recovered to an extent, and washed and combed.
“I’m sorry,” he told them quietly.
“I know you are,” Vanessa replied, studying him.
“How’re you feeling, son?” asked Robert. “I know that’s not a proper question—a gentlemen’s question, strictly speaking—but I only ask it because I’ve got a curative in my duffel bag. An old sailor gave it me. It’s a secret formula they use on the islands, don’t you know.”
“I do thank you . . . Robert, but,” he held out the mug of coffee he’d procured from the kitchen, “I’ll stick to this for now.”
“And anyway,” Robert observed, “you are a doctor. I guess you’d know of the best curatives.”
“On this particular subject,” offered Cain, “an old sailor might be better informed than a . . . foolish young doctor. But I do thank you sincerely.” Vanessa knew that this was not an easy time for the two men and so she kept her own counsel. Cain’s gaze drifted over the lawns. He might have been searching for something in the thickening dark. He turned back to Vanessa and Robert. “May I say that I am most grateful to both of you for bringing me home. And I owe thanks to you especially, Robert. The servants have informed me that you almost single-handedly brought me up to my bed and directed my recovery.” He glanced at his mother. “I’m told you found me in Antoinette’s suite at the Adelphi. I remember going there, but to be absolutely truthful that’s about all I remember. I don’t think I . . . took advantage.”
“I don’t think you did either, son,” said Robert staunchly. “And if you did, and . . . if she did, well then it’s best forgotten. From what your mother tells me, Antoinette planned this whole thing. The minx was determined from the first to cause trouble between you and Autumn.”
“She accomplished that,” acknowledged Cain.
“She accomplished,” interjected Vanessa, “exactly what you allow her to have accomplished.” Cain looked at her sharply.
“Nothing that Antoinette has done,” he told her, “changes in any way Autumn’s betrayal of me.” Vanessa stood and moved to the porch rail.
“This doesn’t have to be the end for you and Autumn. I know your pride has been hurt, Cain. I know you sincerely believe that Autumn betrayed you. No matter how you eventually come to feel about Robert and me, you think you must not forgive Autumn for what you see as her disloyalty. You’ve learned your manly lessons well. You learned them at your father’s knee.” She swung to face him. “Let me tell you something. Your father had a way of punishing me whenever he believed I’d done something unforgivable. He stopped speaking to me—sometimes for days. His silence was as effective as a slap. While he badgered and beat you into submission, he subordinated me with his cruel silences. I’d rather’ve had the damned beatings.”
Robert stood and hastily cleared his throat. “Silence, Cain, is golden, but it can also be deadly—especially when used as a weapon.”
“As my mother has so forthrightly stated,” answered Cain, “I’ve learned my lessons well. While I have sympathy for my mother’s frustration, and . . . even a growing acceptance of her feelings for you, I can never forgive Autumn for her dishonesty and scheming.”
“And what of her reason, Cain?” interjected Vanessa. “You had lost yours, apparently, at least where Robert and I were concerned. Autumn felt she had no choice.”
“We always have a choice, Mother,” stated Cain.
“Yes,” Vanessa agreed sadly. “And it seems you have already made yours.”
Chapter 24
Cain found himself laughing for the first time in weeks. Carrie Inman had been delivered of a little girl—“a pink and pearl darling of a colleen,” as Henry stated it. The man had not been disappointed . . . exactly . . . that his wife had not presented him with a son. To prove it, he promptly invited the neighbors in to view the newborn and her illustrious mother. “She’s a rare one, is my Carrie,” he told everyone, toasting his wife again and again with whiskey poured freely. An exhausted Carrie mentioned to Cain that she wished her husband was not quite so proud of her efforts, but thanked the Lord he had accepted the child even though she was not a boy. She sat now in a rocking chair near the Inman hearth, cradling the babe and blessing the winding down of yet another festive evening.
“You’d think she was the only baby ever born on earth,” Carrie was saying, “the very only.”
“Every man feels that way about his first child, Carrie,” Cain said. “A man’s child is his proudest accomplishment.”
“And what about my accomplishment? I’d like to celebrate it in me own way. I haven’t had so much as a dribble of time to be proud, Dr. Byron, what with the neighbors steppin’ in and steppin’ out like this was a museum where they could look at the statues, an’ me cleanin’ up after their dirty boots and their celebrations. I want some time to think about what Henry an’ me have made. I’d like to listen to the sounds of the ocean and think about the sands of time an’ all that.”
“That’s called ‘resting,’ Carrie, and you are absolutely right. I shall speak to Henry,” Cain told her, smiling.
“You’ll keep an eye on them, won’t you, doc?” asked an inebriated Henry as, sometime later, he ushered Cain from the house. “They’re okay, ain’t they?”
“Indeed they are, Henry,” Cain assured him. “I’ve examined them both twice now since the delivery, and I can tell you that both Carrie and the baby are thoroughly healthy. I might advise, however, that you make sure Carrie gets her rest. It might be wise to postpone any more parties for a while. Carrie seems a bit tired.”
“I’ll do it, doc,” Henry said affably. “I’ll do anything for those two ladies. They’re what I’m livin’ for now, don’t you know.”
“I do indeed, Henry,” Cain assured him, and with a wave, he stepped down f
rom the porch to make his way back to Byron Hall.
The nights were colder now. Winter would be setting in soon. As the warm gaiety of the Inman party faded behind him, as the warmth of their fire ebbed and the November night chill invaded his woolen overcoat, Cain spurred his horse to a quick trot. Vanessa and Robert had moved out of Byron Hall to take their own house on a small farm near Carrie and Henry’s. He saw their cottage now in the distance, glowing softly against the cold and the dark. And though just now he longed for warmth, he did not stop. Seeing the two of them together reminded him of his own isolation.
It was very late by the time Cain reached Byron Hall. He looked up the road that led to the house. So often he’d wished it did not seem so imposing. This frosty night it seemed more imposing than ever. Black against the arc of the moon, it rose imperiously with only one light glowing yellow from inside to soften its somber veneer. But then, he reminded himself, the house’s exterior was no veneer. It was as somber inside as out. He stabled his horse and went inside. No servant greeted him, no fire crackled in any hearth. He lit a candle and carried it up the grand staircase, his weary steps echoing hollowly in the cavernous entry hall. A fire had been laid in his room, his bed turned down, and a lamp left lit against the gloom. It was the light he’d seen from outside—small comfort in a darkened world. Cain shed his overcoat, undressing down to his shirtsleeves. He sat down on his bed, and noticed the blue envelope on his night table, encircled by the light of the single lamp. It was Autumn’s stationery. It was addressed to him and marked “personal.” He lifted the missive, his hand trembling. He could only stare at the characters on the envelope—his name written in that delicate and familiar hand. He lay back against the softness of his pillows, cradling his head on one arm. Dare he open it? Maybe it begged his forgiveness. Dare he risk caring once again for a woman who had scorned him? Or maybe it contained further scorn. His armor had been badly chinked, and he wished no further humiliation at her hand. Still, his mind often wandered when his rounds kept him late and he rode home in the dark, to thoughts of Autumn. And now, here was word from her. He wanted no more pain. He wanted his life to be simple, uncomplicated, ordered. And yet with a simple flourish of a letter opener, he could somehow touch her again. He rose, moving to the hearth, and lit his fire. It flared, then settled to a gently warming glow. The letter, still on his bed, beckoned him. Crossing the room in several strides, he picked it up and tore it open.
“Dear Cain,” it read. “It occurred to me last week that Carrie Inman should be giving birth soon, if she has not already. I thought I would write to ask you to tell her that my prayers and fondest wishes are with her. I know you are taking very good care of her, Cain. Please express my best to Henry. I know that you will take good care of him, too. Autumn.”
Cain wondered what had frightened him so? The letter was benign, conversational, sweet. He held it rigidly. He read it again and then again. He did not notice that his whole body was quaking. He did not notice that his heart thundered in his chest. He did not notice that, finally, tears, hot and stinging, filled his eyes.
“What an inspired use of crow feathers!” Eugenia Drexel exulted as she stepped before the cheval glass. Autumn smiled at the lady and assured her that the dress was perfection on her. “Crow feathers, according to Godey’s Ladies’ Book,” Eugenia went on as she fiddled happily with the shiny black feathers that decorated the scalloped edge of her bodice, “are being exhibited in New York City—not that any one here in Philadelphia cares two pins what those ladies are wearing.” The several seamstresses smiled among themselves as they continued their work. Isabel sat before her sewing machine in the light of a large bay of windows and offered them a mild look of warning.
“It is true, Eugenia,” she observed, “that we needn’t look to the New York ladies for fashion guidance, but we must remember that Godey’s does tend to follow the latest trends, and we do wish to keep up.”
“And we certainly do, thanks to you, Isabel,” agreed Eugenia. She looked about the converted third-floor parlor of Isabel’s house now overflowing with the accoutrements of her trade. Dress forms were draped with velvets and damasks, and full-length mirrors were hung with silk ribbon. The two long tables were dotted with scissors, measuring tapes, pincushions, and various threads, and spread upon them were paper patterns for Isabel’s own designs. As it was nearing the end of the day, Autumn dismissed the other girls and turned back to Eugenia. “What you have managed to do for yourselves is quite amazing,” she told the mother and daughter. “And without the help of men,” she confided, her tone intrigued and awe-filled. “We are all delighted for you—and some of us even a little jealous,” she said, giggling. “Oh, let me just try something,” she said as she turned back to the mirror. She pulled a length of black moiré from a nearby table and tied it around her waist. “What do you think?” she asked with some pride in her own inventiveness.
“I think,” Autumn said gently, as she undid the large bow that Eugenia had created at the very center of her torso, “that, as you said yourself, Mrs. Drexel, the dress is perfect.” Isabel eyed her daughter obliquely.
“Why you’re absolutely right, Autumn,” gushed Eugenia. “It’s quite, quite perfect without the sash. Now, I really must have a matching hat, dear girl. And do use the crow feathers, Isabel.” She turned to Autumn. “Your mother is a genius with hats—and crow feathers!”
“Yes, she is,” agreed Autumn. “Now you might want to get out of that dress before you tear the basting, or discover a residual pin.” They shared a knowing laugh, and Eugenia disappeared behind a screen. Autumn glanced wearily at her mother.
“Now I must have the entire outfit by Friday,” Eugenia called.
“I think we can manage it,” said Isabel.
“Well you really must, you know. Mr. Borodin’s Prince Igor is being posthumously debuted in the United States, right here in Philadelphia. We cannot have those Russians thinking that our ladies are anything but the most fashionable in the world. And I shall need the poudre blue”—she pronounced it poodree—“by Saturday. We’re entertaining the entire ballet company for dinner. Such a season I have never seen, Isabel.” The last words were muffled by cloth.
“Step out of the dress, Mrs. Drexel,” called Autumn in some impatience, “don’t pull it over your head.” Eugenia giggled sheepishly and handed the garment out to the girl.
“I am sorry, Autumn, I always forget. The fact is, I cannot keep my mind on anything these days. I hope I haven’t torn any of the stitches.”
“Don’t bother yourself, Eugenia,” Isabel said as Autumn handed her the dress with an entire seam torn.
“You know,” said Eugenia, as she stepped out from behind the screen, “you and even dear Autumn could be a part of this very exciting season, Isabel. The two of you could have a raft of invitations—button me up, Autumn dear—if only you would deny those awful rumors.”
“What rumors are you talking about, Eugenia?” asked Isabel, distracted apparently by the damage to Eugenia’s gown.
“Oh, you know very well what rumors, my good woman.” She moved to Isabel, dragging Autumn who was struggling to fasten the woman’s gown. “All you need to do is deny the rumors about you and that adventurer—”
“You mean Alistair.”
“I do. You know that everyone’s been saying that . . . well, I shan’t go into what everyone’s been saying.”
“They’re not rumors, Eugenia.”
“Well I know that and so does everyone else,” returned a wounded Eugenia. “Do you take us all for idiots? And we forgive you—most of us anyway. Lucy Bennet said that if it were not for the fact that you were the cleverest dressmaker in Philadelphia, she would never buy another scrap of cloth from you. Even if you are in line to the throne of England.” She eyed both women knowingly. “And Lucy fancies herself one of the world’s most sophisticated ladies.” She paused. “My point, simply put, is that all you would have to do, Isabel, is deny everything.” Buttoned and properly smoo
thed, she went to the mirror and adjusted her hat, stabbing it with a huge jeweled pin. “You must be wary of tweaking society’s nose too blatantly. People are most forgiving if you just make an effort. I am sure,” she stated as she pulled on her gloves, “that I could even persuade Hal Parker to call on you, if you would only cooperate. He was quite impressed with your lineage that night you met him at my party.”
“First of all, Eugenia,” Isabel pointed out, “Queen Victoria and half of England would have to die before I took the throne, and, secondly—”
“You are deliberately not seeing my point, Isabel. You are connected to the most respected lady in the world. All you have to do is reinforce that connection. The semblance of respectability is far more important than respectability itself.”
“Naturally,” observed Isabel, “I would have to deny that Alistair and I are living together.”
“Naturally. And then send him quietly packing. Men are so gullible; you could just tell him any old thing. And it isn’t only for your benefit that I am suggesting this. Think of your poor Autumn. She ought to start getting back into society. Half the swells about town are asking after her. Though sensibilities might for the moment be affronted at the thought of your both being working women, I know that I could smooth your way quite effortlessly. A little tea here, a dinner dance there, a carefully crafted explanation . . .” She waved away the effort with insouciance.
“I don’t think you understand the situation, Eugenia,” said Isabel genially. “First of all, Autumn will or will not make her way back into society. That is her choice, and as something of a woman of the world, even at her tender age, she may do as she wishes. As for me, I want people to know I am living with Alistair—I love him. And no social register in the world is going to change that.”
“You are his doxy,” Eugenia reproved.
“Has it ever occurred to you, dear Eugenia, that I may consider Alistair my doxy?”