Autumn Glory and Other Stories

by Barbara Metzger

  The captain ignored his servant’s overly familiar comments. He and Browne had been through too much together to take offense, especially as the old sergeant only spoke the truth. “I’ll see what I can do. Don’t carry our bags up yet.”

  So Arthur limped back across the leagues-long lobby to the reservations desk. The clerk, who gave his name as Kipling, seemed ready to weep that he was not able to accommodate the captain, especially when Arthur reached for his purse. The Grand Hotel might be recently opened, but it was already gaining a reputation for its elegant appointments, for its kitchens, and for being so pleasantly located near the parks. In other words, the hotel had no vacancies. With so many visitors in Town for the victory celebrations, every facility of note was full, including this newest. Kipling puffed out his thin chest at the success of his establishment.

  Arthur asked to see the manager. “Oh, Mr. Simmons is much too busy, Captain. And truly, there is nothing he could do.”

  Another guest approached the desk, simpering that his shaving water had arrived cold that morning, and how the deuce was a gentleman supposed to shave with cold water, he wanted to know. Many were the times on the Peninsula when Arthur shaved with tepid water, or no water at all, and he would have told the loutish lordling to grow a beard. That way, no one would notice that he had no chin. The desk clerk, of course, was trying to explain how they were still slightly short-staffed and what help they did have was somewhat inexperienced. The Tulip was not appeased and poor Kipling was near tears again. Arthur stepped around the desk, managing to nick the fop’s high-polished shoes with his cane, and knocked on the door marked MANAGER in gold letters.

  Mr. Simmons was seated at a paper-strewn desk in a well-appointed office. He stood, straightening his waistcoat, when the captain came in. Arthur did not waste either of their times with preliminaries, he simply stated: “I am Captain Hunter, here to translate for the Ziftsweig delegation, and help plan Princess Henrika Hafkesprinke’s reception for Lord Wellington. She was thinking of holding it at your hotel, by the way. Oh, I suppose I should be using my title now. That’s Viscount Huntingdon, don’t you know.” He paused a moment for Simmons to absorb all the pertinent details, and calculate how much business the Grand Hotel could win or lose on the officer’s say-so. “I need a room on the ground floor.”

  “I am dreadfully sorry, sir, ah, my lord. There simply are no available rooms, not on any floor, and none of the guests is due to leave soon.”

  Arthur was staring past Simmons to the tidy bedchamber and small sitting room tucked behind the office. “What about your quarters? If you don’t have another residence, perhaps you could ask some of the staff to double up for a short while, freeing a room for you. I realize that’s a great imposition, and a slight to your dignity, but I am willing to beg.”

  Instead of getting down on his knees, from which he was liable never to recover, Arthur removed his purse from his coat and started counting out pound notes. “Of course, this is in addition to the suite already reserved in my name. I might try the stairs occasionally, or dine there with her highness, so you need not worry about having to let those rooms out again.”

  “But…but my apartment?” Simmons had just recently returned from his sister’s house, where he’d been recuperating from the gout. He did not wish to return there.

  “You could use the desk here, of course. I’ll be out most days, showing the princess the sights, you see.” Arthur kept stacking the pound notes.

  Simmons licked his lips. This would be his money, not the hotel’s, wouldn’t it? And Mortimer’s room belowstairs was still vacant. Or perhaps he could convince the housekeeper to take pity on him and share her bed. “I’ll do it.”

  “I thought you might. My man will help you move your things. He’ll look after me so your staff won’t have to, and he’ll sleep on a pallet bed in the sitting room. You see how easy it is to keep your guests happy? Now if you would only provide some hot water…”

  Happy? Arthur was nearly ecstatic. He’d escaped his sister-in-law, and could hide from the hot-blooded Henrika. Best of all, he wouldn’t have to drag himself up those blasted stairs in public view. Compared to his tent in Portugal or the officers’ quarters in Spain or the hospital in France, this cozy suite was heaven. A hot bath, a good meal served by his own fireside, a cigar, and a bottle of cognac—now that was Arthur Hunter’s idea of a homecoming celebration. He fell asleep reading the paper Simmons had on his nightstand, a notice, it seemed, that the man was composing for the hotel guests: The management requests…

  Children should be on leashes? No, that was pets.

  2

  No loud noises in the public areas.

  Captain Hunter felt like singing, by George. It was a new day, and he was that much closer to a new life. He’d awakened early, with barely a headache from the cognac, and well rested for once. He put on his old civilian clothes, even though they were undoubtedly out-of-date, a bit threadbare, and tended to droop where he’d lost so much weight after the wound and the fever that followed it. Arthur’s old coat was comfortable, however, and better suited to London in July than his uniform. Gads, what an absurd idea, he thought, holding the victory celebrations in the City, in the summer. They should all be in the countryside enjoying what the war was fought to preserve. Some nodcock must have decided the Londoners deserved a reward for living in the heat, dirt, and congestion; most likely the same nodcock who decided to build a Chinese pavilion in Brighton while his army went hungry.

  The day was not stifling yet. Better still, Arthur did not have to face either his sister-in-law, Princess Henrika, or Boney, for at least a few hours. And only a handful of the other hotel guests were stirring to see him make his slow way to the dining room. He took a table close to the door and proceeded to sample nearly every dish on the hotel’s menu: kippers and omelettes and beefsteak and kidney pie, flaky rolls and thick jam, all washed down with rich, dark coffee. He sent his compliments to the kitchen, but the waiter only told him to wait for dinner, if he thought breakfast was something fine. Their Monsieur DuPré had been fussing with the menu since dawn.

  Lud, Captain Hunter thought, his clothes would be snug in no time at all. He intended to pay a call on his tailor today, and his bank, the solicitor, and the War Office. A visit to Tattersall’s to see about a carriage was also on his agenda. If he had a curricle, at least he could ride in the nearby park or out to Richmond. A phaeton might be faster and showier, but the captain knew he’d need a ladder to climb aboard. No, a curricle would do fine, a red one with black wheels, or a black one with red wheels, with no crests on the door either way, Arthur decided over a bowl of fresh strawberries and cream. Then he pushed himself away from the table and hobbled back to his room to fetch his hat, whistling lightheartedly. He did whistle softly, as befitted the lush, hushed lobby.

  But the Grand Hotel was not reposing in stately silence, even without Arthur’s cheerful tune. Some kind of contretemps was occurring at the reservations desk, the desk Arthur had to step behind to reach his, or Simmons’s, rooms. The complainant this morning was a female, so the captain could not very well poke her with his cane, although he’d like to, in return for having his delightful morning destroyed.

  He could not see much of the woman from the back, although she appeared fashionably dressed, with only a few brown curls escaping a straw bonnet. She was of medium height, but of mighty voice as she demanded a room. Her companion was an older, more sturdy-looking female garbed in black who stood to the side guarding their trunks and trappings, wringing her hands and murmuring, “Oh, dear, oh, dear. Oh, my stars and scriptures.”

  She’d need more than a prayer to find a decent room in London this fortnight of celebrations, Arthur thought as he neared the desk.

  The other woman, obviously the one in charge and in a pique, echoed his thoughts. “There has to be a room. Every other respectable hotel is booked,” she shouted. “And we drove through the night to get here early.”

  A different, younger cle
rk was on duty this morning, and he was anxiously tugging on his shirt collar as he apologized once more: “I am that sorry, miss, truly I am, but every available room’s been bespoke. The Princess of Ziftsweig is due to arrive today or tomorrow with her entourage, don’t you know.”

  “I didn’t know, but now I see your underhanded intent. You want more money than mentioned in your advertisement. A bribe, in other words.”

  “Oh, no, Miss Thurstfield. I couldn’t find you an empty room for a monkey.”

  The female clutched her tapestry carpetbag. “I don’t want a room for a monkey; I want a room for me and my companion, Mrs. Storke. And I want it now, or I shall complain to the manager, the owners of this establishment, every newspaper in Town, and…and the mayor of London. And they’ll all listen, I’ll have you know, because my father is Baron Thurstfield of Interlaken, near Windemere.” She stamped her foot, in case the poor harried clerk did not recognize her ill humor.

  Lord save him from pampered, petulant females, Arthur prayed as he tried to edge past the self-important harridan, especially green girls fresh from the country. By Zeus, if he’d wanted to encounter sharp-tongued, demanding ladies at breakfast, he could have stayed at Huntingdon House.

  The young clerk gave him a beseeching look as he sidled by the desk, then seemed to shrink when he realized Captain Hunter was not his relief, come to rescue him.

  “Where’s Kipling?” Arthur asked.

  “The dastard—pardon, miss—decamped this morning when some old bat—pardon, miss—hit him with her reticule because her chocolate arrived cold at her bedside. I’m George, the footman. Leastways I was until I got promoted an hour ago.”

  Judging from the lad’s expression, Arthur did not think George considered his promotion much of a step up. Miss Thurstfield did not think much of an erstwhile baggage handler overruling her wishes. She tapped her foot again. George cringed. Arthur had seen such looks on new recruits facing their first battle. He wished he could help. “Where’s Simmons?”

  “Where he is every morning, telling that blasted frog—pardon, miss—in the kitchen that he’s a better chef than Prinny’s man. Else DuPré cries in the batter, ruining his pastries. Either that or Simmons is off sweet-talking the housekeeper hoping she’ll—pardon, miss.”

  Arthur shrugged, not at the inner workings of the hotel, but that poor George would just have to deal with the difficult damsel on his own. Before he entered his room, the captain turned and glanced at George’s tormentor.

  Miss Thurstfield was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. No, she was not classically beautiful in the blond-haired, blue-eyed ideal, but she was appealing in a way that made ensuring the Huntingdon succession of paramount importance. Soft and smooth and feminine and absolutely adorable, she had brown ringlets framing a heart-shaped face, with a small, straight nose and a tiny smattering of freckles on golden cheeks. And she had lips just meant for kissing and a body meant for loving. Suddenly the July heat was welcome, for it kept Miss Thurstfield from donning her spencer, so Arthur could see the rounded rise of her breasts above the neckline of her gown.

  He was not in love, of course. The captain did not believe in love at first sight, especially not with some bucolic beauty who was full of her own self-worth. He turned back to his door, the one marked MANAGER, and felt a touch on his arm.

  “Sir?”

  He looked down at the graceful gloved hand that sent a shiver right to his toes. Then he looked up, into her eyes. And what eyes they were, fawn brown, with green and gold flecks and black rims. They were honest eyes, trusting eyes, eyes that could mend a soldier’s weary soul. Or send him back into battle, to make her world right.

  “Perhaps you can help, my good man?”

  He was not her good man, Arthur considered, not good at all, not when he was having lewd and lascivious thoughts about the young woman’s luscious figure. “I am afraid there’s nothing anyone can do for you, miss, without a reservation.”

  “But I do have a reservation. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell this dunderhead.” She put her carpetbag on the floor and untied the strings of her reticule to find a folded sheet. “See, I have confirmation for this date forward.”

  She had a reservation and wasn’t just trying to bully poor George? No wonder the little dear was indignant. Why, Arthur would be tearing the walls down to find himself in London with no place to lay his head. Of course, he had Huntingdon House, the army barracks, any number of friends and acquaintances he could ask for a bunk, but he was not a well-bred young lady whose reputation had to be preserved at all costs. He could not begin to imagine what possessed her father to let such a beauty traipse off alone except for a dithery companion, but here she was, causing a righteous ruckus. None of the other top-drawer hotels would even accept an unescorted, single female, if there were rooms available, which there were not.

  He looked at the clerk, who nodded. “But the ambassador said the princess needed the extra rooms. And it wasn’t like there was a deposit or anything. The mort—pardon, miss, the young lady’s name ain’t even mentioned in the reservations box.”

  “Then it was erased. I was assured my accommodations would be available today, and I trust you gentlemen to make them available now, so poor Nancy can lie down.” She raised her chin. “Is that understood, George, and you, sir?” She turned inquiring eyes on the captain, whose tongue seemed to have lost touch with his brain.

  “Arthur,” was all he could say. He could have said “Captain Hunter.” Hell, he should have said “Viscount Huntingdon,” since she seemed to think a title was a useful thing for tossing around. But “Arthur” was what he wanted to hear from those rosy lips. Of course he wanted to hear it lying down, with her beneath him, those shining curls fanned across his pillow. A baron’s daughter, of course, was not for dalliance, however.

  “Mr. Arthur?”

  He tried to recall his wayward thoughts. A bed, that was it. She needed a bed and it could not be his. That is, it could not be the bed he was currently occupying. “I do happen to have a suite of rooms that might be available.”

  George coughed and rolled his eyes, but Miss Thurstfield gave Arthur such a smile that the clerk could have choked to death without Captain Hunter noticing. Why, that smile was enough to make Arthur forget that he was a crippled old soldier with a world of responsibilities on his shoulders. “They are on the third floor, however.”

  “But the only empty rooms there are yours,” George protested.

  “Exactly. Mine to hold for emergencies. This counts as an emergency, don’t you agree, George?” He nodded encouragingly until George bowed his own head.

  “If you say so, Captain.”

  Miss Thurstfield was too excited to notice the byplay. “Oh, the stairs won’t matter. We have five stories in Interlaken, and neither I nor Mrs. Storke has the least difficulty. But these reserved rooms are not exorbitantly priced, are they?” She started to untie her reticule again.

  “Oh, no. In fact, they are already paid for.” Twice. And Arthur would likely have to bribe both George and Simmons their price again to forget that the suite was held in his name. Miss Thurstfield of Interlaken near Windermere could not be staying in a gentleman’s apartments. “That is, we don’t charge for them. Can’t, since your misplaced reservation was the hotel’s fault in the first place.”

  “Why, that is quite generous. I am sure the hotel will continue to be a great success if you strive to keep your customers so content. You can be sure I will recommend your establishment to all my friends when they travel to the City.”

  “And I am sure the management will appreciate your kind words.” He turned the guest book for her to sign. “George, why don’t you find someone to carry Miss, ah, Hope Thurstfield’s bags up.” He pulled the key out of his pocket and placed it in her palm, forcing himself not to hold her hand, or squeeze it, or bring it to his lips. Damn, but he was acting like the veriest mooncalf. He was not in love, by Jove, Arthur told himself; he’d just been living th
e soldier’s life too long.

  She gifted him with another heart-stopping smile—Lud, she had a dimple—and bent to pick up the satchel, which barked.

  “You’ll have to keep your satchel on a leash, you know. Hotel policy.” Arthur was teasing, trying to work himself into confessing that he really was not part of the management staff. He had no excuse for letting her believe he was the concierge except that he’d been ensorcelled by a pair of brown eyes, which was, of course, no reason to continue her misconception. Besides, plain Mr. Arthur was no eligible parti for a peer’s daughter. Captain Hunter was passable; Lord Huntingdon was a premier catch.

  Before he could speak up, however, Miss Thurstfield graciously bobbed her head and said, “You’ll be sure to make note of my room number, won’t you, for when my intended arrives?”

  Her intended? Miss Thurstfield was betrothed? Arthur’s feet hit the ground, with his heart plummeting after. That French cannonball hadn’t hit him half so hard. He nodded and turned to enter his room, the one marked MANAGER. It might as well have said: ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER.

  3

  That all valuables be secured. The Hotel is not responsible for theft or loss.

  Why should he bother with new clothes? The best tailoring in all of England could not hide Arthur’s limp. What need had he for a curricle? So the fashionable world could gawk when he clambered down? No, what he needed was some solitude and a bottle. Or a ladybird, and a bottle. If he paid enough, perhaps a Covent Garden convenient would not cringe at the sight of his mangled limb. For sure no proper young lady would look at him with admiration, affection, or amour. Not that he couldn’t find any number of modish misses willing to marry him; a title and wealth could sweeten any bitter pill. Was it too much to want a wife who wanted him, though, not his money or social standing?