Autumn Glory and Other Stories

by Barbara Metzger

  Still, Kirby did know how to tie a neckcloth, iron a suit of clothes, and put a shine on a pair of boots that the Beau himself would envy. The old soldier was also coming to appreciate the best attribute of the British aristocracy: its money. Hugh had been so generous with his blunt, and the lady so gracious, offering to teach him to read and write, that Kirby had decided to retire from the army and accompany them back to England. He was not about to let Lord Hardesty turn tail and cost them all that rosy future.

  “She’ll be here soon enough,” he said when Hugh reached for the chain stretched across his white brocade waistcoat to check his fob watch yet again. “Unless she chose young Allenby instead.”

  Corporal Allenby was the youngest, least valuable member of the general’s staff, so he had been used to carry messages and instructions from the command tent to the convent. Second son to a Berkshire baron, he was seventeen, skinny and spotted, and considered himself a poet. The lad was no more suited to army life than a three-legged kitten, but he adored Lady Marian. He reminded her of her younger brother, she said, and she treated the boy with kindness. She even listened to Allenby’s dreadful verses, which more and more were dedicated to her eyebrow, her lip, her angelic voice.

  “My arse,” Hugh told Kirby, smiling at the thought of his black-clad bride wedding a green-as-grass youth. Then he turned forward—and she was there. Not his Nurse Marian, not the grim scarecrow he was expecting, but a true vision. This could not be his bride, could it? No, some fairy creature must have left her bower in the woods and wandered into this little chapel in error.

  She was dressed in sunbeams, all yellow and bright, with hair like honey flowing down her shoulders—her nearly bare shoulders. Lud, the swell of her breasts above that scant neckline left little to the imagination. Hugh did not need Allenby’s creative mind to supply a rhyme. His heart was beating in iambic pentameter on its own.

  And her face… No mortal poet could do justice to that face. An artist could, perhaps, if he had magic in his fingers to capture the worry in her blue eyes, the determination in her pointed jaw, the pride in her graceful carriage—along with her astonishing beauty. No, he amended, his Maid Marian was not beautiful. She was too thin, too pale, too unsmiling. But, Zeus, she was stunning.

  Perhaps he’d merely been away from pretty women for too long. The nuns did not merit a second look, although he did find the three hairs on Sister Paloma’s chin to be intriguing. No, Marian would stand out in any crowd, he told himself, and not merely because she was taller than most women. The acknowledged belles of the ton had more perfect features, and a rounder, softer beauty, which was often marred by an artificial smile, a practiced, polite charm.

  There was nothing false about Marian, except possibly the hint of color on her cheeks. She was lovely, and she was frightened, obviously as nervous as he was about this ordeal, and Hugh admired her the more for it. Feelings he did not know he possessed rose in him like an underground stream seeking the daylight. Protectiveness, possessiveness, pride, he was ready to burst with all three. Something else, recently gone missing from his life, rose slightly, lifting his spirits with it. Hallelujah! Dampened by the occasion and the environment and lack of exercise, that inappropriate twinge quickly dissipated, but it was a start. Hugh said a short prayer of thanksgiving.

  He might have been forced into this marriage, but now he had hopes of making a success of it. Marian would fit into his world, into his arms, once the broken one healed, and into his life. She was beautiful and well-bred, everything his father wished for in the mother of a future duke, and Hugh might just be able to beget those necessary babes. She was beautiful and he was attracted to her. A man would have to be dead not to be, which proved how close to death’s door he had been, that he did not see the diamond under the coal. She was beautiful and she was his bride.

  Of course, he had said they would not consummate the marriage yet, and she disliked him on principle.

  Heaven help him.

  *

  So the wedding proceeded, with more prayers than expected. The chaplain, more familiar with “dust to dust” than “dearly beloved,” fumbled a few times, but the short service went on. The groom made his vows in a firm voice full of conviction. If the bride sounded less convinced, or convincing, she managed to repeat all Lord Hardesty’s names in the proper order. The duke’s son did not faint, and the earl’s daughter did not fling her bouquet at him, which was all that mattered to the general. He cleared his throat a few times, signaling the reverend gentleman to get on with the thing. War did not wait on sermons and such.

  The chaplain decided to forgo the words he’d prepared about the duties and the demands of marriage. He went right on to the part about the ring.

  Hugh had not forgotten the necessity of a wedding band. He’d intended placing his signet ring on his bride’s finger until he could replace it with another of her choosing from the family vaults, or a London jeweler’s if she wanted something more modem. He started to take the signet ring off the hand of his broken arm, but Kirby nudged him. The sergeant had located a plain gold ring somewhere, likely from the pocket of a fallen soldier. A secondhand wedding band was better than Hugh’s heavy, masculine ring, so he started to reach for it, hoping the thing was not inscribed.

  The general cleared his throat and held out a small box that held two rings. They looked deuced familiar to Hugh, who had last seen the Hardesty diamonds on his mother’s hand. The wedding band was a circle of perfectly matched diamonds, while the paired engagement ring had a huge stone in the center, surrounded by sapphires. They must have been sent over to Spain with the government dispatches, or by carrier pigeon, Hugh thought. That or his father had sent the set to the general as soon as he received word that Hugh was injured. The two of them, along with his loving mother, must have planned this ambush, knowing a likely bride was already at hand. Damnation, he wanted to refuse the rings out of pique, but he supposed his marchioness was entitled to wear the family jewels. They had to be more satisfactory than a plain band from who-knew-where, certainly more fitting to a real lady.

  Before he could lift the rings out of the box, Marian placed yet another one in his hand. This one was made of alternating pearls and emeralds. “My mother’s,” she said, a catch in her voice.

  The general looked displeased. “The Hardesty set is more impressive.”

  Marian told him, “That is because this is not the official family heirloom ring. My brother will give that one to his bride when he is old enough. This is the one my mother wore every day of her life, though. It came to me when she died.”

  “Perhaps she is watching us today, then,” Hugh said, taking a firmer grip on the ring and handing it to the chaplain to be blessed. “And perhaps she will give us her blessings, too.”

  Marian sent him a smile of appreciation, as if he’d brought her the moon. Hugh felt as if he’d climbed Mount Olympus. He’d made her smile, at last. He vowed, along with the other tripe the chaplain was nattering on about, to keep her smiling, to make Lady Marian Fortenham, momentarily to be Lady Hardesty, the happiest of brides. She’d never regret this day, he promised himself, not if he could help it.

  Marian kept her eyes on the ring, her mother’s gift to her and the man she would someday marry. She repeated her vows without hearing the words, swearing to herself instead that she would try to be a good wife to Lord Hardesty, as her mother had been to Papa, despite their differences. Mama had accepted her husband’s foibles and found contentment in her children, her friends, and her community. Marian vowed to do no less. She would give the marquess no cause to regret this day, not if she could help it.

  The vicar pronounced them man and wife, and Hugh leaned over to kiss his bride. After Kirby and the duke hauled him back up onto his unsteady feet, he glared at the giggling nuns, then made do with raising Marian’s hand to his mouth. “Until later.”

  Marian took her hand back as if she’d been scalded. She might be married to a rake, but she was not going to fall prey to his
charm. That way lay only heartbreak. She would give him her loyalty, her respect if he earned it, her maidenhood eventually, his heirs gladly—but she would not give him her love to shatter.

  So they were wed, this groom who liked women too well, and this bride who liked men not at all.

  Heaven help them both, for the devil was having a good laugh.

  8

  Did you see that?” Old Nick asked the dog.

  Of course the dog had seen the wedding. He’d had another bath and had a bow around his neck. He was hiding under one of the pews in embarrassment.

  “They’ll never make a go of this marriage.” The devil cackled. “He’ll be committing adultery in a heartbeat, until some irate husband finally shoots him. Unless his new wife does the deed. Hmm. Then I’ll have two souls for the price of one.” He rubbed his hands in anticipation. Then he kicked the dog. “And you’d better make sure they never get any closer, or I’ll reach down your throat and pull your tail out from the inside. Understand?”

  Impy understood. So he sat between Marian and Hugh during the whole carriage ride to Lisbon. Anxious to see them safely out of his domain, the general had provided a luxurious travel coach and driver, plus a wagon for Kirby and their baggage, and a detail of mounted soldiers for protection. He also sent Corporal Allenby to act as equerry, to carry messages to the Lisbon headquarters, and to get the versifying fool out of the way of any French forces.

  When they had to stop, Allenby made sure they had the best quarters available at whatever inn or cottage or casa grande belonging to the Spanish allies they found. He made sure his goddess had a room of her own, even if Lord Hardesty had to bed with the men and the horses in the stable. The arrangements suited both of the newlyweds, and the dog. Impy slept on the bed with Marian, just in case Hardesty decided to visit. The bed was softer, and the lady did not take up as much room as his lordship, besides.

  By nightfall Hugh was so exhausted from the jostling and the jolting over the rough roads, and in so much pain from his various wounds, that he did not care where he slept, or with whom. He could not have pleasured his wife if his life depended upon it. Nor could he protect her from marauders, so he was happy the mongrel had come along to act as watchdog.

  Marian was happy with the dog’s company, for she was tired of being alone with her thoughts. She was worried about what she would face in England, despite Hugh’s assurances. What if her reputation traveled ahead of them, embarrassing Hugh until he grew to despise her? What if he sent her to live in the country by herself or, worse, with his father, who sounded thoroughly unpleasant, and as dictatorial and domineering as her own? Worst of all, what if he kept her with him in London, and kept his mistresses?

  Hugh slept, Marian fretted, and the dog snored.

  The days were easier. They never seemed to run out of things to talk about: their childhoods, their families, books they had read, politics, the war. Hugh told her about the people she would meet in London and his estate in the shires, as if, she thought, he really cared that she shared his life. In return, she helped perfect his Spanish, and started to organize his ledgers and account books, which were in a hopeless jumble in one of his trunks. They played cards and chess and charades and riddles, childish games that made the dusty roads less dreary. They tried to learn Portuguese from a textbook, and told each other about their favorite foods and colors and music, and lied about their worst nightmares.

  His was purely physical; hers was purely mental. He feared not being a man to his wife; she dreaded falling in love with her husband. His infirmity seemed to be improving; hers was growing worse by the hour. The more Hugh looked at his beautiful, clever wife, the more he wanted her; the more Marian knew of her spouse, the more she liked him.

  He did not have to be charming to her anymore, Marian considered. They were not courting, so he did not have to impress her with his good humor despite his pain, his care for her every comfort, his lively wit, and his ability to make her feel as if she truly mattered to him. Oh, how she wished that were true. A few days in Hugh’s company were enough to show her how happy she could be if theirs were a real marriage, not one of the general’s war maneuvers. Hugh was not perfect, but he was perfectly wonderful, and Marian feared she was well and truly lost. This was no infatuation, as she’d felt for Captain Sondebeck, where she could not see his faults, would not hear of his failings until it was too late. She knew Hugh at his worst, and still found him appealing. Her best efforts not to be smitten, like so many other women, were lost on the road to Lisbon. Her intentions of staying heart-whole were blowing in the Spanish dust.

  For heaven’s sake, how could she not be hopelessly attracted to the handsome, auburn-haired devil? She was only a woman, after all. He was good-looking and broad-shouldered, with a smile that could melt glaciers, much less one female’s heart. He smiled and teased and listened and shared his thoughts. For the first time the idea of sharing his bed was intriguing.

  Why not? He was her husband, after all. She had no hope of holding him to his wedding vows for a sennight without the conjugal bliss that poets—although not Allenby, thank goodness—wrote about. She was already at a disadvantage compared to Hugh’s other women in that she was inexperienced and nearly ignorant of the marriage act. Who was she supposed to ask, Sister Lupe? But she did have one big advantage: her mother’s ring on her finger.

  If the dog had not been lodged so firmly in the middle of the cushions of the carriage, Marian might have been tempted to expand her knowledge by narrowing the distance between Hugh and herself.

  Instead she delayed until they reached Lisbon and the elegant quarters Allenby found for them while they waited for the next ship that could carry them to England. With the help of two maids, Marian had the most luxuriously hot, long, perfumed and oiled bath she had enjoyed since leaving England, a lifetime ago. The servants fixed her hair and pressed her clothes, filling her bedchamber with flowers and wine and their giggles.

  After a meal fit for a king, or at least a marquess and his bride, Marian cleared her throat twice, then announced that she was ready.

  “And you look exquisite, my dear, but I did not know we were going out this evening. I thought you would be so worn down from the journey that you’d want a quiet night. I promised to stop in at the officers’ quarters to tell them what I know of the war’s progress.”

  “Oh,” was all she could say past the embarrassment she felt. At least he did not suspect that she had been planning their belated wedding night. “Have a good evening, then.”

  Hugh fled, not waiting to see the disappointment in his wife’s eyes. Lud, he was liable to disappoint her a great deal worse if he stayed and accepted that invitation she had almost choked on. He was not ready, deuce take it.

  The next day he made plans, bribing the captain of a private yacht to carry them home tomorrow. Now they would not have to wait for the army carrier, and now he would not have to be alone here with his tempting wife while he doubted his potential. There was nothing like doubts to dampen a fellow’s desire.

  For that night, he accepted an invitation to a reception for the departing officers and their wives at the ambassador’s residence.

  “I wish you had discussed it with me first,” Marian said. “I thought we were to be partners.”

  “And so we are, but you would have said no.”

  “Of course I would have. I know these people, and they are cruel in their love of gossip. We will be their target.”

  “All the more reason to go. Put on your prettiest gown and your brightest smile and show them you have nothing to hide. Prove them wrong, whatever they think.”

  “Is that what you do when you are in the midst of a scandal?”

  “Oh, no. They all think the worst of me anyway, so I prove them right by causing a bigger scandal.”

  “Then that is what I shall do, flirt with all the husbands, drink too much, laugh too loudly. I’ll see how many improper offers I receive from those women’s husbands—and then tell the wives.
”

  Flirt? Laugh? Improper proposals? “Perhaps I am too weak still to attend such an affair, after all.” He coughed once or twice to prove his febrile state. The idea of his wife playing the seductress was appealing, but only if he was the one being seduced.

  “No, you are right. We have to face society sometime. Better to know how they will accept our marriage, rather than in London among your family and friends.”

  As soon as Hugh saw her dressed for the reception, in a blue gown that matched her eyes, with a diamond pendant between her breasts, he damned himself for his doubts—and his plans for the evening. He was ready, all right, ready to tear apart any other man who looked at her, and ready to rip that pretty gown to shreds.

  Marian had been lovely at their wedding. Now she was magnificent. His heart swelled with pride, and something else swelled with want. Oh, he was more than ready, ready to bring a smile of satisfaction and satiation to his wife’s face, if it killed him by morning. Unfortunately, they had to get through the ambassador’s reception first.

  Marian was everything proper, Hugh was relieved to see, astonished that he wanted his bride to be better behaved than the women he usually escorted. She was a perfect lady, and they made the perfect pair, both handsome, wealthy, titled. Heads nodded in approval, and the ambassador beamed that he could make the first toast to their marriage. Everyone laughed at Marian’s blushes, at Hugh’s refusal to let her stroll the portrait gallery with anyone but him, at the way they caught each other’s eyes in silent communication. Why, one could get scorched by the sizzle between the pair. This marriage was no disastrous misalliance to reclaim reputations; this union was the envy of everyone there.

  Except one guest. The recently widowed Mrs. Captain Sondebeck was not envious. She was resentful and bitter in her black crepe, angry at being forced to return to England. Instead of being an officer’s wife, she would be nothing but an unwanted poor relation in her sister’s residence. And it was all that female’s fault. She turned her back when she saw Marian approaching on Hugh’s arm.