Autumn Glory and Other Stories

by Barbara Metzger

Green. Her eyes were bright green, and his connoisseur’s heart breathed a sigh of satisfaction. “Ah.”

  Irma jerked herself upright and groped for the pistol. But, “Ah?” What kind of threatening sound was “ah?” The attractive stranger did not seem menacing, especially when he knelt on one knee so that he no longer loomed over her.

  “I mean you no harm, miss,” Irma’s fuddled mind heard him saying, over the pounding of her heart. She took a deep breath and a better look at the gentleman, for such he assuredly was, even from her narrow experience with the breed. His coat and boots, albeit dusty, proclaimed he patronized the finest London tailors, and the dark gray stallion she could see tied nearby was as neat a piece of horseflesh as anything in even Mr. Frye’s stable. The rider’s accent was refined, his voice low and pleasant. The breadth of his shoulders and the buckskin-clad muscles on his flexed thigh showed him to be in superb condition for a man with as many gray hairs as brown.

  “Do I pass inspection, or shall you shoot me after all?” Warm brown eyes flickered to the pistol, still out of her reach. But he smiled.

  Irma blushed furiously to be caught staring like a gapeseed, all the while thinking that the gray hair was deceiving. He was not old at all; the boyish grin took ten years off his age. Which, she belatedly reflected, made her encounter with him on this hillside even more improper. She hurriedly got to her feet.

  “Please don’t let me frighten you away from your, ah, artistic endeavor,” he said indicating the watercolor painting.

  Irma could feel her cheeks grow still warmer. She straightened her hat and started packing up the paint box, her sister Nessie’s set since Irma never possessed such a thing. She could feel his smiling regard while she folded the blanket. Then she realized the feather on her hat—why ever had she let Ellie talk her into such an absurdly useless little bonnet?—was dangling straight between her eyes. As she lowered her hand after adjusting the plume, she noticed with horror the orange streaks on her fingers, streaks which must have been transferred to her forehead. She couldn’t blush any harder, could she? A quick glance at the stranger showed his eyes twinkling, but he gallantly refrained from comment, only holding out a fine-edged linen handkerchief.

  “Thank you, but I have one right…” But she’d used hers to wipe the brushes, having forgotten to bring a rag. Her own scrap of cloth looked quite as atrociously colorful as the painting. There was nothing for it but to borrow his after all, a perfect stranger’s! Mama would have a spasm. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Then she stood looking at the cloth, already blotted with orange. No mirror, and the only water was the jug she’d used to wash the brushes. Why did these things always happen to her? Iselle could walk through a soot storm and not get smudged.

  Winn took the cloth back, held it toward her mouth, and said “Spit.”

  “My lord?” She couldn’t have heard right.

  “I said spit. Or ride back to your house looking like a Red Indian on the warpath.”

  The earth wasn’t about to open up and swallow her, no matter how Irma might dearly have wished it, so she stuck her tongue out, dampened the cloth, and permitted an attractive stranger with dancing eyes and casual neck cloth to wipe her face. In a lifetime of misdeeds, never had she done anything this far beyond the line. Never mind Aunt Irmintrude; Mama would ship her to the Antipodes.

  “There,” he was saying, tucking the messy linen back into his pocket. “Pretty as a picture.” He smiled toward her drawing pad. “Prettier than some.”

  Irma felt she’d used up her month’s supply of blushes, and she wasn’t the fainting type, so she did what came naturally to her, she grinned.

  Winn noted two adorable dimples, said “Ah” again, and grinned himself.

  “I really must be going, sir. This is highly irregular.”

  “But enchanting. Besides, no one can fault you for giving directions to a poor lost soul who has been wandering in circles for hours.”

  “Oh, are you lost then? Where is it you wish to go?”

  There was no place on earth the viscount would rather be than here on this sunny hillside with this laughing girl, but he said, “I just need to know if this is the main road to Wallingford and the name of that structure across the way.”

  “Why yes, although Wallingford is still some miles away. The house you see is Bannister Grange. In fact, this is Lord Bannister’s property.”

  “Then, might I have the pleasure of addressing one of the legendary Bannister beauties?”

  Irma looked down at her boots, which were smeared with dirt, of course, wishing more than ever she was more like her tall, blond, graceful sisters. Then she looked at the gentleman’s boots. They were even more disreputable than hers. She flashed her dimples again and replied in perfect truth and some modesty: “I am one of Lord Bannister’s daughters.”

  “Then, may I introduce myself, Miss Bannister? I am—”

  “Oh no, Bannister is Papa’s title. The family name is Snodgrass.”

  Lord Wingate blinked once but smoothly continued, “Miss Snodgrass, I—”

  She interrupted again. “Only my sister Iselle gets to be Miss Snodgrass. She is the eldest, you see. I come after Inessa.”

  “Wait, let me guess.” He cupped his chin in his hands and pretended to study her. “Ivy? Inez? Imogene?”

  That determined little chin of hers raised a notch. “Irmagard,” she pronounced. “Miss Irmagard Snodgrass.”

  Not even all those months at the Vienna negotiations could keep Lord Wingate’s lips from twitching, but the mainstay of the British diplomatic corps rose to the occasion: “No, I was right before. You are the Glory of Autumn, and so I shall call you.”

  Thrilled down to her dusty boots, Irma still had to say, “Mama would not approve.”

  “Nor of your being out here alone, I think. So I won’t tell her if you won’t, Glory. It suits you.”

  Laughing, she admitted, “My sisters used to call me Irm the Worm.”

  “And here I thought there was nothing more cruel than little boys. They used to call me Brig the Prig at school. That’s short for Brigham.”

  “And were you? A prig, I mean.”

  “I suppose. I was studious and hadn’t many friends. All I’d been taught till then was about duty and responsibilities.”

  Irma giggled to think of anyone calling him serious now, with his clothes in disorder and the breeze ruffling his hair. He looked more like a dashing hero from one of Maria Edgeworth’s romances than any kind of scholar. She couldn’t help wondering where he was going, and if he would be at any of the parties during the hunt week. Mostly she worried that he might ride away and she’d never see him again. To delay the parting, she asked if he had seen a carriage go by. “Actually, more like a caravan, I’d guess, with baggage carts and outriders and crested coaches.”

  “No, I came through the woods over that hill.” He indicated the opposite direction from the road. “I haven’t seen anyone in an hour. Is that what you were doing up here with a pistol, Glory, waiting for some wealthy nob to waylay on the king’s highway? And I thought you were painting.”

  She laughed again at his teasing, and felt so comfortable with him that she confessed, “I did mean to stop that stiff-rumped viscount before he reached the Grange, but only to put a flea in his ear, not lighten his purse.”

  Wingate couldn’t think of too many other viscounts, stiff-rumped or otherwise, who might be on their way to Bannister Grange. The chit was full of surprises, even if this one did wipe the smile off his face. Stiff-rumped, indeed. The child should be back in the schoolroom till she learned some manners. “Might I ask why you needed to stop the fellow here, rather than greet him at the front door, or would that be too commonplace? I am only asking out of curiosity, you know.” He pretended to wipe a speck of dust off his sleeve.

  Irma took on a militant look, staring down at the roadway as if willing the carriage to arrive. “I am not ashamed of my motives. I need to speak to him before he sees my sister. Once h
e gets a glimpse of Iselle, it will be too late and he’ll ask for her hand no matter what I say. They all do.”

  “And you don’t want this, ah, well-breeched viscount to offer for your sister? That doesn’t sound like any female of my ken.”

  “What I want doesn’t matter. Iselle does not want Lord Wingate to offer because Papa will make her accept.”

  “Is she committed to another, then?”

  “That is not for me to say. She does not wish the connection, and so I shall tell his toplofty lordship, if he has not gone by already.”

  Winn couldn’t help probing. “And what if he is as toplofty as you say and cannot be dissuaded?”

  “Then I shall tell him that insanity runs in the family. If he knows about Mama and the War Office, he won’t doubt me for a minute.”

  His own mother hadn’t mentioned anything about Lady Bannister and Whitehall, but that could wait. For now he had to find out what was so objectionable in his suit. “What has you and your sister so set against the poor chap, if there is no other suitor she prefers?”

  “He’s ancient and fusty and never smiles. He speaks eight languages and collects art. Why, Ellie cannot understand a London hackney driver, and she collects broken hearts! Old Iron-Breeches will only intimidate her and make her miserable.”

  Winn swallowed hard. “You are young. Perhaps your parents know what is best for your sister. She has remained unwed all these years, after all.”

  “She still may wish to marry a man of her own choice.” Irma turned to him. “Are you wed?” she asked bluntly.

  “Why, no.”

  “See?” At his blank look she tried to explain. “You have to understand, a man of your parts.” She waved her hand around, unfortunately the one with the pistol she’d belatedly grasped. Wingate stepped back. “Sorry. But look, your expensive horse, your fancy tailoring, and your cultured accents.” His raised eyebrows made her hurry on: “I am not trying to offer Spanish coin, I am just stating facts. You must have had lots of females thrown at your head…unless you are ineligible?” He shook his head, no, smiling again. “There, that proves my point. You have not married out of your own choice. Iselle should have the same right.”

  “Ah, but Glory, there are duties and responsibilities that go beyond one’s own wishes.” He almost reached out to tuck one of her reddish curls back off her forehead. Almost. “Speaking of which, I have stayed too long off the correct road, and I am sure you will be missed. Au revoir, Glory.”

  “Farewell, sir, uh, Lord…?

  “Just call me Iron-Breeches, Glory. And that’s six languages, not eight.”

  4

  With so many houseguests at Bannister Grange that week, clandestine visits between bedchambers would not have been surprising. Lady Bannister’s scratching on her husband’s door, however, was enough to give that gentleman severe palpitations. He grabbed for his nightcap, then he grabbed for the decanter of brandy. Whatever Irene wanted in the middle of the night, in her curl papers and face creams, Isa was going to need fortification.

  “Well,” she said, “when are you going to do it?”

  “It?” He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat.

  “Bring Wingate up to scratch, you clunch. He’s been here three days already, and nary a sign of an offer. Everyone knows that’s why he came, so why the delay?”

  “Fellow’s been deuced slippery, I can tell you. Whenever I mention the gel’s dowry or hint about all the young bucks coming to call, he changes the subject. Wingate’s a born politico, that’s for sure.”

  “I can’t like it. Letting him spend too much time in Iselle’s company might not be the best idea.”

  “You mean he might realize she’s a beautiful bacon-brain.” He took a swig and made a sour face. “Only fair to let the chap know what he’s getting before stepping into parson’s mousetrap.”

  Lady Bannister ignored both his grimace and what could only be aspersions on their own arranged marriage. “It’s that wretched Irmagard. I ordered her to stay by Iselle’s side, to carry along the conversations, you know. What does the impossible chit do? She turns scarlet the minute Wingate enters the room, then turns tail and hides among the dowagers. Thank goodness I did not take her to London, if this is how she acts at her first introduction to a highly placed peer.”

  Lord Bannister nodded. “I never thought I’d see that brazen chit turn craven. Lud knows she never minded her tongue before. Leastways she hasn’t had a chance to lecture Wingate on the sins of fox hunting yet. She ain’t been next or nigh him.”

  Lady Bannister dismissed her youngest child’s vagaries; she’d given up on drumming the rudiments of decorum into the thick red head ages ago. She nervously rearranged the items on his lordship’s dresser. “There’s more. I cannot rest easy with a rake in the house.”

  Isa tried to smother a snicker. She couldn’t be fearing for her own virtue, not in those five yards of flannel. “Don’t see how anyone not up to snuff got on your invite list anyway.”

  “I didn’t invite Sir Evan Farrell, you jackanapes. As if I ever would, when we are not even at home to him in London. Lord Rothingham got the gout, so the baronet escorted Lady Rothingham, of all the luck. She’s his godmother, can you believe it? And still one of the highest sticklers in polite society. I couldn’t do anything but ask him to stay, even if he is a womanizer and a gambler.”

  “Don’t see what’s got you in the boughs. The fellow’s a man milliner. Barely sits a horse. Not even Iselle is ninnyhammer enough to take some coxcomb over a regular out-and-outer like Wingate. ’Sides, I ain’t heard much talk about Farrell in the clubs recently, no duels, debts, or debauches. Nothing to his discredit except his taste in clothes.” He snorted. “Farrell’s naught but a caper merchant.”

  Now it was Irene’s turn to sneer. “If you could see beyond your fat red nose, you’d know Sir Evan is also devilishly handsome, with every compliment to turn a girl’s head on the tip of his silver tongue. I had to warn him off some years ago, but it was easier to divert Iselle’s attention in London than here at our own house party. You’ll just have to work a little harder on Wingate.”

  What Lord Bannister wanted most from the viscount was that steel gray stallion for stud. He also wanted a good night’s sleep without his wife’s prune face giving him nightmares, so he nodded and bowed and swore to have a private talk with Wingate on the morrow.

  *

  Most of the company was assembled in the drawing room before dinner when Lord Bannister strolled in with a smile on his face and his arm about Lord Wingate’s shoulders. They’d come to terms about the stallion; somehow Iselle’s name never entered the conversation. Isa’s smile disappeared when he caught his wife’s eager expression. He solemnly shook his head no, glad he was across the room.

  Wingate also took note of the silent communication between his host and hostess, and grinned to himself. It was a near-run thing. As his eyes scanned the roomful of elegantly dressed lords and ladies, he observed how Glory was dressed this evening in shell pink sarcenet, which brought out the flames in her hair, even across the room. He saw she was quick to offer another glass of ratafia to Lady Rothingham as soon as he entered. The middle sister, Inessa, was doing her duty by quietly conversing with the local cleric, a likable young fellow named Allbright. That sister was a sweet, well-behaved miss, from all Wingate had observed, with the eldest’s beauty but not the same allure. Inessa was more reserved, not a social butterfly like the stunning Miss Snodgrass.

  His mother had been right: Iselle Snodgrass was one of the most beautiful creatures he’d seen, in the boudoirs and ballrooms of half the European capitals. She’d make a lovely duchess, if he wanted to spend the rest of his life doing the social rounds with a gorgeous goosecap. If ever there was a chit with more hair than wit, it was Miss Iselle Snodgrass. Why, she couldn’t even be on time for dinner, he saw, watching Lady Bannister’s anxious eyes keep flicking toward the door.

  Wingate was listening idly to Lord Bannister crowin
g to his neighbor Frye about the mare he was going to breed, when he caught Lady Bannister crook her finger toward her youngest daughter. Glory bounced over to her mother’s seat—Lud, the chit never seemed to move at anything but a hurry; her curls were already escaping their pins—and stooped to hear Lady Bannister’s whisper.

  “Of course I’ll go find Iselle,” she said aloud, loudly enough for others to hear. “But she cannot be so late, Lord Farrell is not down yet either.” Then she clapped a hand over her mouth. Lady Bannister rolled her eyes. There were a few twitters from various corners.

  Wingate stepped into the breech, thinking again how very young his Glory was, how unready for polite drawing rooms. “I saw Farrell’s man hurrying with another batch of fresh neck cloths when we passed in the hall. I’m sure he’ll be here momentarily to dazzle us with another new creation.”

  Lord Bannister muttered something about dashed popinjays, and conversations resumed. Irma flew from the room, likely in search of the truant sister.

  Wingate waited a moment, then slipped out after her.

  The hallway was empty, as was the grand stairwell spiraling to the upper reaches. “Now where the deuce has that baggage—”

  “Ssh,” he heard, from behind an enormous arrangement of chrysanthemums on a hall table. Winn stepped closer. The youngest daughter of the house was flat against the wall, out of sight of the drawing room and the stairs. If ever there was a minx up to some devilment, he decided, this grinning, green-eyed sprite was it. “What the devil are—”

  “Hush, you’ll ruin everything.” And she boldly reached out and took his hand, pulling his dignified lordship into the shadows beside her, wedged between a grandfather clock and a flowerpot. He really ought to demand an explanation; he definitely ought to release her warm hand. He did neither.

  The grandfather clock started to chime the hour, uncomfortably close to Wingate’s ear. Irma squeezed his hand, peering up the stairs. He followed her gaze and was finally rewarded with the sight of Iselle gliding down the upper hallway toward the landing. She was gowned in ivory silk, with a blue net overdress that flowed about her willowy figure from ribbons that tied just beneath the minute bodice. Her gold hair was piled on top of her head like a crown, with one long tress falling over her shoulder to rest along the expanse of creamy flesh left exposed by the plunging décolletage. The viscount took a deep, loud breath, and found his hand cast into the flowers.