Autumn Glory and Other Stories by Bárbara Metzger Page A

jacket, greeting friends and neighbors, getting in the way of the grooms bringing the horses and the servants handing around stirrup cups. The day was overcast and blustery, but not too inhospitable for the hunt. Never that. Finally everyone was mounted, the horn was ready to be blown. Bannister ordered that the keeper be signaled to release the hounds.
    Nothing. The horses grew restive and unruly. The baron sent another servant around to the kennels. Nothing. “Thunderation!” he bellowed, and kicked his horse onto the track leading behind the stables. Many of the assembled riders followed.
    At the kennels, only two excited young pups bounded toward the horses, getting underfoot and causing at least one high-strung gelding to unseat its rider. Fat old Bridey heaved herself up and plodded out to greet the party.
    “What the hell?” Bannister muttered as he dismounted by a ring of kennel men, grooms and two whippers-in who were nudging, coaxing, cajoling the rest of the hounds to get to their feet. His dogs, his prize black and gold hunting pack, were asleep! If not asleep, they were barely awake, tongues lolling out of the sides of their mouths, tails barely managing a thump or two. And they all had bloated bellies. Some rascal, everyone agreed, some spoilsport, fox-loving, bleeding-heart rascal had feasted the pack, with drugged meat. Most of the neighbors knew exactly which rascal it had to be, the same one who put pepper on the trails and unstopped the earths. They rode off, laughing, at Squire Thurkle’s invitation to get up a good ride at his place. He could guarantee the dogs were eager for a run, Squire crowed, for he’d never let that minx of Bannister’s next or nigh his hounds, his horses, or his sons.
    Lord Bannister wasn’t laughing. Red-faced, he made his way to the stables, followed by a few disappointed huntsmen and some smirking grooms who came to gather the mounts from the house-guests who decided not to follow the hunt so far a distance on such an inclement day. Lord Wingate dismounted and led Toledo after the others.
    “Irmagard Snodgrass!” he could hear Lord Bannister bellow. “Get out here now.”
    Irma stepped from her mare’s stall, straw on her skirt, her curls tumbled down her back, but her chin thrust upward as she faced her father across the stable aisle. “I am right here, Papa, you needn’t shout.”
    Bannister was so angry, words stuck in his throat. “Did…did you…?” He slapped his riding crop against his booted leg in frustration.
    Irma’s arms were crossed defiantly across her chest. “Did I feed the hounds and lace their meat with laudanum? You know I did. You needn’t worry about the dogs; I was very careful with the dosages. I couldn’t be sure with the puppies or old Bridey, so I just fed them, with no drugs.”
    “How in God’s name could you do such a thing, miss?” he thundered. “Just tell me how?”
    “How not?” she answered. “Fox hunting is barbaric, and so is this practice of handing your daughters over willy-nilly to the first available man. Or boy, like Algernon Thurkle. I got rid of him, didn’t I?”
    “Oh, that you did, missy. He’ll never be back, nor half my friends and neighbors! And willy-nilly is it? I haven’t seemed to hand my daughters over to anyone I want. First a rake, then a cleric. That’s not who I chose for sons-in-law. And I begin to see your hand in all of this, you misbegotten brat. Why, if your mother wasn’t such a coldhearted woman, I’d swear she played me false, to beget such an unnatural child!”
    Irma noticed the grooms and others moving around the stable, not nearly out of hearing. “Papa,” she began.
    “Don’t you try to turn me up sweet now, you impossible baggage. Hand you over to any man I want? Why, I’ll hand you over to the first man who asks, with good riddance to you and good luck to him!”
    “You cannot mean that, Papa. You are just angry at missing your hunt. Look, it’s coming on to rain