by Carole King
“Well, I do. I do know, Cain.” She took his shoulders in her hands. “We can face anything together. Like my mother and Alistair, we can become the pilgrim builders who take the chances, who defy tradition, who will make a tender world for both men and women.”
“Your ideal is worthy, Autumn, though perhaps unrealistic. Let me tell you about the battle I fought with myself these last weeks. I have had years of breeding that told me I should not follow you here. I fought a battle against that breeding, and my love for you was my only weapon.
“If the truth be told, the traditions with which I was raised made life a simple matter, even if they made little sense. One of those traditions holds that women must obey their husbands in all things. But that is my truth, I have reminded myself, and my father’s truth—not yours. According to the traditions by which I was raised, a wife lives for her husband and through him.
“But what if, I asked myself, the wife has wisdom of her own, perceptions that differ from the husband’s? What if she has a searching intellect, as you have, a quick wit, as you have, and opinions and sensitivities and fundamental convictions . . . as you have? Must her intellect and her convictions be screened through those of her husband? Must her every opinion, her every response to life be approved first by her husband? Wouldn’t that process tend to discourage her independent thought? Is that what we do, I asked myself, to someone we love?” Cain paused, his regard settling lovingly on Autumn.
“I have fought that battle and won, love. But it is only one battle. There are a million more questions to be answered, challenges to be met. My victory is less than secure. And I fear,” he told her wryly, “loving you, I shall face a new battle every day.” He smiled. “The only thing I know for certain right now is that I cannot bear to live without you. That is what brought me to you. But I don’t know if I can be what you want me to be. I don’t know that I can be as honest as you wish me to be, and most of all, I do not know if I have the patience to bear your honesty. All I can promise is that I will try. If that is what you require, I will try. But you must have patience with me, too, Autumn. Your expectations require much of a man.”
“Not so much,” returned Autumn gently. “All that’s necessary is a little compromise, a bit of rearranging of one’s thinking at times, and perhaps even the use of a new strategy now and then. Maybe at times we might remember to hold back judgment or the too-hasty scorn of the other’s ideas. That doesn’t seem so much to do for someone we love, does it? Women have been doing it for centuries.” Cain reflected for a long moment, his eyes never leaving the melting amber of Autumn’s. He smiled tentatively.
“Then I should be able to manage it for . . . well, at least the next fifty years.”
“It won’t be as hard as you think, my darling,” she told him, holding his hand tenderly. “Facing challenges can be most invigorating. And winning, of course, has its own rewards.”
Chapter 25
The wedding took place at the Old St. Sophia’s Church on Fourth Street. Autumn was escorted down the aisle by both Alistair MacKenzie and Robert Moffat, and she and Cain stood before an assemblage of their friends and family and uttered vows as weightless as feathers, as consequential as ocean tides. The elegant simplicity of the ceremony was matched by the fluid elegance of Autumn’s gown, which had been made for her by Philadelphia’s premier dress designer, Isabel Thackeray. It was of a creamy satin, draped about the hem to reveal a lacy underskirt and caught by tiny seed pearls. The bodice and skirt were appliquéd in a deeper, richer ivory. The sleeves, long and sheathing, were of the pristine lace of the underskirting and piped in shimmering ivory. Entwined in her upswept hair were sprays of baby’s breath. She carried a bouquet of gardenias, small white hydrangea florets, and trails of tea-stained satin ribbons. For Vanessa, Isabel had made a dress of peach-patterned beige watered silk with a draping bodice that graced that woman’s figure with a regal, if modest elegance. For herself, Isabel had stitched a pale bronze lace with rich coffee accents at the collar and sleeves. At the reception, held later at the Olympus, they stood together, the two women, lost in their own joyous contemplation, their men beside them.
Autumn greeted Cain’s sisters, who had traveled with their families from many parts of the country. Emily Doyle, the eldest, managed to maintain her dignity even as her second-to-youngest child, three-year-old George, found his way beneath her skirts. Caroline Westervelt smiled sweetly and congratulated her brother. She took Autumn’s hand and said, “Cain has never looked happier. And mother looks so beautiful. She has you to thank for that, Autumn.”
“Mother is well, isn’t she, Cain?” asked June McCrimmon, who had traveled all the way from Buffalo, New York. “How is her marriage to that sailor working out? I have been so frustrated,” she confided to Autumn, “living so far from home.” She glanced at her mother and Robert. “They seem quite happy. But I would like to have been here for the wedding.” She sighed. “As you might imagine, it is difficult to travel with five children in tow.”
“Is it only five now?” asked Abiah Devereaux, the youngest sister. “You’ll have some job keeping up with me, June,” she said heartily. “I’ll be the mother of seven,” she told Autumn, “come the end of December.” Autumn regarded the woman’s full-bellied middle worriedly.
“Should you have come all the way from Ohio in your condition?” she asked.
“For my brother’s wedding?” she asked. “Of course, I should have. I wouldn’t have missed meeting the girl who finally trapped him for all the world.”
“Traps are for bears, Abbie,” Cain put in with a small laugh. “And the woman who uses one gets exactly what she deserves.”
The newlyweds left for Cape May the next morning. They had decided to delay their honeymoon till after Christmas, affording Cain the opportunity to put his practice in order. He was leaving Philadelphia with a certain understanding of Isabel’s way of life. In any event, he no longer scorned the choices she had made. She and Alistair were so obviously, so completely, so composedly in love that he could admit to a confidence in their happiness and even an admiration for their abundant courage. Less consequentially, he had to admit that Isabel’s sewing machine, though a mannish contrivance, was a timesaver in her work, and her icebox, if unconventional, was certainly useful. He had to admit as well, though quite privately, that the convenience of the indoor bathroom far outweighed his aversion to the idea. All in all, he felt an esteem for Autumn’s mother that he had not thought possible in himself. Autumn regarded his admiration for Isabel with great hope. And the positive attitude he’d adopted toward Robert boded well for their future.
Upon their arrival at Byron Hall, Autumn’s wish was to see Carrie right away. Her babe was a month old now, and Autumn wanted to make sure Carrie and the child had come through the trauma of birth well. She arrived at the Inman farm to find Carrie gaunt and tired. Henry and several of his farm hands had come in for lunch, and Carrie was busy with the preparations, the baby girl firmly planted on her hip. Even when the men had withdrawn, Carrie found it hard to relax. Autumn insisted that she would clean up the dishes and planted Carrie and her baby firmly in a chair. Carrie informed Autumn that she’d been spending much of her time helping out other farm ladies, some of whom were pregnant with second or third or fourth children.
“Since I’ve had me own,” Carrie explained, “I’ve realized what a lot of work it is to run a house and look after a babe.” She sipped at the tea that Autumn had made her and reflected how fine a thing it would be if those ladies had a tranquil setting in which to prepare themselves for their deliveries and recover from them. It was not unusual, she mentioned, for a woman to deliver her child at her own house, amid the chaos of older children, demanding husbands who were often intoxicated in celebration of the new arrival, and equally demanding drop-in guests. Often, the mother, delivered of her newborn, would be up within hours, feeding animals, wiping up after family gatherings, and seeing to the needs of her household. All this she did with a tiny b
abe at her breast.
“Imagine how exhausting that must be, Cain,” said Autumn that night over dinner. “It can’t be good for the mother’s health, nor for the baby’s. I am not suggesting that a woman must retire from life simply because she gives birth,” Autumn added, “but don’t you think a few days of rest are in order for such a monumental achievement? Wealthy women receive such rest, why not poor women as well? My thought is that we might turn Byron Hall into a place for the ladies.”
“But if we invite women to stay here,” returned Cain, “we’ll have to move out.”
“Precisely my thought, Cain dear,” said Autumn tranquilly. “Is that really such a bad idea?” They had been to visit Vanessa’s new home—a pretty farm overlooking the ocean—and Autumn had fallen in love with it. “Wouldn’t Byron Hall, with all its rooms and servants, serve perfectly as a hospital for ladies in their confinement?”
“Absolutely not,” said Cain, splaying an authoritarian hand. “My father would spin in his grave.”
“A spinning might do him the world of good,” Autumn returned brightly. “It’ll clear his head. It might even change his perspective.” Cain frowned and asserted that he would discuss the matter no further. Byron Hall, he said, though he had never personally loved the house, was his father’s proudest accomplishment.
“That’s very true,” agreed Vanessa when Autumn brought up the matter at the family’s Thanksgiving dinner. She looked around the dining hall, reflecting on all the years she had spent in the house. Sitting about the long, heavily laden table were Cain at its head, Robert, Vanessa, Carrie and Henry Inman, and their little girl. “Cain’s father,” continued Vanessa, “bought every stick of furniture in this house with an eye to its elegance. He had the house built as a showcase.” She smiled ruefully. “We had many Thanksgivings here much like this one today.” She glanced at her son. “Do you remember those dinners, Cain? Your father would sit at the head of the table, as you are sitting today. And I,” she said, her glance drifting to Autumn, “would sit at the other end of the board, as Autumn is. Everything was absolutely perfect— except one thing. It was all show. There was never any real warmth beneath the perfection of the display.” Vanessa paused. “I think it is time this house was put to some real use. It has stood long enough for cardboard lives and imitations of happiness. Don’t you think so, Cain?”
Before her son had the opportunity to voice his resistance, Vanessa pronounced without fanfare, “It shall be with great pleasure that I endow Byron Hall with a fund of its own—from my share of the profits from Isabel’s business—and turn it into a clinic for pregnant women.” In a blaze of irony, she announced that Byron Hall would be transformed into the “Cain Byron, Sr. Memorial Women’s Building.”
“You cannot be serious, Mother,” said Cain through Carrie’s spontaneous applause.
“I am quite serious, my darling,” she assured him.
“Naturally,” Autumn put in, “it would be wonderful if you would stay on here to treat the ladies, Cain.”
Carrie added her own encouragement. “Everyone trusts you so, Dr. Byron.”
“You could maintain the same office,” Autumn commented spiritedly. “And we could even introduce the new notion of voluntary motherhood. We could place reading materials about and . . .” Her voice trailed off, for Cain’s regard settled on her with a withering chilliness. He stood rigidly and invited Robert and Henry to join him for brandy and cigars in the front parlor. His glare defied Autumn to scold him about it. Autumn mentioned simply that the men would find Vanessa and Carrie and her in the back parlor when they finished their cigars.
“A very nice bit of compromise,” Vanessa offered when the women were alone.
“Thank you, Mother-in-law,” Autumn returned, but her gaze dipped sorrowfully. “I just hope Cain is not too angry,” she said. “No matter what happens, however, you have done a wonderful thing, Vanessa.”
“I did the right thing, Autumn,” Vanessa reminded her.
“Yes, you did, Mrs. Byron,” Carrie affirmed jubilantly. “This is a great day for everyone hereabouts.” She smiled and undid her bodice. Her baby squirmed contentedly as she began to suckle. Carrie looked up. “In honor of this great day, I’ve decided to name her Vanessa.”
In the front parlor, Cain offered cigars and poured three snifters of brandy from a Bristol-blue decanter engraved with a design of grapes and vine leaves. He considered the proud old piece thoughtfully before setting it down. It was the same decanter from which his father had served his own brandy. He looked up, not unaware of the discomfort of the other two men. Cain, too, felt a sense of disorientation in this overly lavish parlor with its wealth of history and pretension. He had not sat in this room in a very long time. He noted with some humor that Henry Inman searched surreptitiously for an ashtray. Cain managed not to smile as the man held an internal debate with himself as to whether or not to use a porcelain model of a human hand. He glanced up finally, sheepishly, a question in his regard.
“It’s alright, Henry,” Cain said, “we’ve used that as an ashtray since father noticed a chip in the wrist frill.” They all shared a spontaneous chuckle, but Cain glanced hastily away to stare out onto the patchy lawns beyond the French windows. He felt the older men’s keen scrutiny upon him.
“We have never been so companionably together, the three of us,” Robert said and paused, exhaling a long ribbon of smoke. “It’s an excellent thing for gentlemen to get together and share important thoughts,” he said. “Don’t you think so, Henry?” His eyes twinkled with merriment. Henry smiled and shrugged a bit shyly. His brows furrowed a bit, however, as he tried to focus on some “important” thought. “What, for instance,” continued Robert with an oblique glance toward Cain, “did you make of Vanessa’s announcement? What do you think of the idea?” Henry attempted a reply, but Cain rounded on Robert.
“I think,” he said wrathfully, “that, at the age of nearly thirty, a man might expect to be out from under his mother’s thumb.” He tossed down his brandy and poured another for himself. “Please pardon my bluntness, gentlemen.”
“Is that how you see it?” asked Robert.
“That is how I see it,” he responded flatly.
“Well, now,” put in Henry thoughtfully, attempting to live up to Robert’s assessment of their conversation, “that’s not how I see it. But, then, I’m not as smart as you, doc.”
“Nor am I,” Robert acknowledged. “But that’s not how I see it either.”
Cain smiled thinly. “Of course, neither of you are being tossed out of your own houses.”
“Oh, well,” offered Henry, “if you want to look at it that way . . . See,” he continued, “I wasn’t seein’ that part of it.”
Robert, stroking his beard thoughtfully, said, “Neither was I. My thoughts ran on a different track entirely. I was thinking that, in a way, Cain, your mother is forcing you out from under her thumb. This is her house. And the life you’re leading isn’t yours, it’s your father’s, if you’ll pardon me for saying it. Of course, it’s all a matter of perspective.”
“And I was just considerin’ everything from the ladies’ point of view,” Henry reflected. “It’s a kind and generous thing your mother’s doin’, doc. Could be you don’t see it that way, ’cause you didn’t make the decision.”
Cain sipped quietly at his drink. He watched his stepfather shift uncomfortably within the rigid planes of the chair in which he sat. He glanced about the room, realizing that it was not, after all, his taste. In his new house, wherever that turned out to be, he would demand a smoking parlor—and very comfortable chairs.
“You both make a certain sense,” he acknowledged to the older men. “It is only that things happened so fast. One day, Autumn visits Carrie, and the next I’m being tossed out of the house where I was born.”
“Born and bred,” Robert said, toasting him and placing significance on the last word. He looked down into the swirling amber of his drink. “Change doesn’t really happen al
l that quickly, son,” he said gently, “we just think it does. We aren’t always expecting change, so it catches us off guard. I’ve known enough change in my life to be sympathetic with your dilemma.”
Robert Moffat, Cain reminded himself, had always been sympathetic. Robert had not judged him during those terrible days after Autumn had left; he’d taken care of him as a father might, as the gentle Henry would undoubtedly take care of his sons. These two men, Cain conceded, were the wisest he had ever known. Their role in their marriages, like Alistair MacKenzie’s in his relationship with Isabel, was hardly traditional, and yet they seemed, like Alistair, content. He longed for their serenity.
“Let me ask you this, doc,” said Henry. “Don’t you think it’s a good idea to turn this house into a hospital?” Cain nodded reluctantly. “Like I said, I’m not as smart as you, but I can’t figure out what difference it makes whose idea it was in the first place.”
“In truth, Henry, neither can I.”
During the next weeks, Autumn and Cain searched for a new home. By mid-December, Autumn believed she’d found one. With the spicy scent of pine and old apple trees filling the frosty air, Cain led their wagon up the sun-warmed drive of a whitewashed, two-storied cottage on a knoll that sloped, tree-shaded, to the sea. It had been abandoned some years past, and the farm had been worked tentatively and with little conscientiousness. Autumn assured Cain that he could bring his horses with him to fill the stable yards, and that she would see the fences mended, the gardens cleared, and the far-flung tillage restored to its refulgent potential.
“Vanessa is determined to have the hospital opened by the end of summer. By summer,” she told him with certainty, and oddly, with urgency, “this farm will be a perfect haven for you. You can go to your office at the women’s building during the day and return here at night to the bosom of your little family. It will be perfect for us.”