Holmes on the Range (15 page)

“If the Duke wanted to inspect the ranch, why didn't you and the lady just stay behind in Chicago for the Exposition?”

“Oooooo, you don't know ‘Lord Clara.' Headstrong, that one is. She
insisted
on coming along—to keep the old man from making a cock-up of things, I'd wager. She's got more sense with a pound than all the men in her family combined. . .little good it can do them now. Now look—it's fork fork fork, then knife knife spoon.”

Soon she was instructing us on the proper placement of “finger bowls.” Old Red gave me a glare that told me to get her back to gossip.

“It's a shame Mr. Perkins ain't here to see all these beautiful eatin' wares laid out like this,” I said. “The Duke and the rest of ‘em must be mighty downhearted they came all this way to see the man only to find he's dead.”

“Oooooo, you wouldn't know it from their moods tonight. I've never seen them more cheery. Except that Edwards. The only time he bothers with a smile is when he can use it on my lady. Everybody knows what he wants—and he just might get it. After all, she can hardly make a match with a nobleman, can she? Someone's already taken a bite of that plum, and the gentry won't touch a commoner's leftovers. Although I can think of one who wouldn't mind a taste. Ho! That puddinghead Brackwell's got as much money as Edwards, but to my lady he's nothing more than a pet. The boy's family would never stand for it, anyway. Even their black sheep's too good for the likes of her. Ooooooo, I'll never understand the high and mighty. If they've got respectability, they want money. If they've got money, they want respectability. And if they've got both, why, then all they want is more of each! Ho!”

We were getting more gossip alright—though not much I could make any sense of. Trying to steer Emily in conversation was akin to riding a buffalo without benefit of a bridle. You were sure to go someplace fast, but you had little choice in where.

Nevertheless, I hoped to get Emily's tongue pointed in the direction of the Duke's daughter again. Lady Clara's social woes would probably be the last thing Old Red wanted to hear about, but I didn't care. I was smitten with the lady, and I couldn't defend her honor if I didn't know what had stained it.

But before I could fire off a question, the door to the parlor opened, and the Duke stepped in looking like he was on his way to an opera house. He was decked out in formal evening clothes, complete with tie and tails, and his fat fingers were wrapped around a smoldering cigar.

Given that he'd just stumbled upon two dirty ranch-hands pawing
over his silverware, I expected rage to overtake him, or at least shock. Instead, the old man shocked
me
by hanging a grin betwixt his mutton-chops.

“Well, well,” he said. “Just who I've been looking for.”

Or, Old Red's Brain Is Put Through Its Paces—and Comes Up Lame

T
he Duke told the
three of us to follow him into the parlor. We found Edwards there awaiting us, slicked up like the old man in a high-collared white shirt and black suit, his thick lips making a pink
O
around the butt of a cigar. He was leaning back stiffly upon the very divan Pinky Harris had made himself so comfortable on the night my brother and I sneaked into the castle. Like Pinky, Edwards was putting a glass of hooch to good use, though he was limiting himself to just one, ruby-red liquid.

The Duke had a glass of his own waiting for him, and he picked it up and took a slurp as he settled into an armchair so large and ornate it could've been a throne. Sitting there together, he and Edwards almost looked like portraits of the same man—one as he came into the full bloom of maturity, the other as he faded into decay.

Neither one invited us to have a seat.

“You can't use both,” the Duke said to Edwards. “Pick one.”

By
both
, the Duke evidently meant Old Red and myself. Edwards
got to inspecting us like he was judging cows at a county fair. His eyes narrowed to dark slits behind his spectacles as he looked at my brother, reminding me of the lip Gustav had given him that morning.

“That one,” he said, stabbing his cigar at Old Red. Even as small a movement as that seemed to pain him—a grimace twisted the lumpy loaf of sourdough he used for a face. Evidently his back was still buckled up from the pounding it had taken on horseback that day.

“I'll go first,” the Duke announced, sounding like a man who
always
goes first. He pointed his jowls at my brother. “What's your name?”

“Gustav Amlingmeyer.”

“That question doesn't count,” Edwards said, managing to smile as if this were a very clever remark indeed.

The Duke grunted out a gruff chuckle. “Tell me, Amlingmeyer,” he said, “where is the seat of the British Empire?”

“The seat, sir?”

“The center. The capital.”

“You mean to say you don't know?” Old Red said, deadpan.

“I want
you
to tell
me
,” the Duke growled.

“Alright . . .I suppose it must be London.”

The old man leaned back in his plush chair, jutting out his equally plush belly.

“Very good,” he said.

“Emily,” Edwards said, “what is the capital city of the United States?”

The servant girl blushed and brought her fingers up to stifle a giggle. “Ooooo, I'm not much for geography, Mr. Edwards. Is it New York, then?”

The Duke wheezed out a mirthless grunt that was apparently a laugh. “That's fifty dollars for me!”

“I'm sure Emily's American counterpart will even the score quickly enough,” Edwards replied, throwing a sneer my brother's way.

Emily kept up her tittering, blissfully unaware that she was a pawn in some cruel game. But Gustav's face was beginning to burn as red as his mustache.

“Amlingmeyer,” the Duke said, lifting his glass for another slurp. “Can you tell me who rules the British Empire?”

“You folks've got yourselves a queen.”

“Yes, but what's her name?” Edwards asked.

Gustav's face went another shade darker, almost appearing purple by this point.

“Do the letters
VR
mean nothing to you?” the Duke prodded, incredulous. “Victoria Regina?”

“Now, Your Grace—no hints, if you please,” Edwards chided gently. “Answer the man, Amlingmeyer.”

Of course,
I
knew the answer. Anyone who'd ever read a newspaper would, what with the woman running half the world and all. But to Old Red, a newspaper was just something you used to swat a fly or light a fire. I had to hope his deducing would see him through, as the Duke had waved the answer right under his nose.

“Well. . .I suppose this Mrs. Regina must be the queen,” Old Red said, making exactly the deduction I'd hoped he
wouldn't
make.

The Duke and Edwards nearly burst their starched collars they got to cackling so, and Emily added her own shriek of a laugh to their howls.

“Behold—the common American!” Edwards hooted. “That's fifty for
me
!”

I just barely kept myself from stomping across the room and herding Edwards's teeth from his face with my fist. Not only did he have some sort of bet going as to my brother's ignorance, he was kissing up to the old Englishman by cutting down Americans. One might expect a highborn European so-and-so like the Duke to feel more pride in his class than his countrymen, but for Edwards to do the same struck me as akin to treason.

For his part, Old Red seemed less enraged than shamed. He'd always been sensitive about his lack of learning. I figured that had something to do with his desire to detect and deduct—a lot of folks assume “uneducated” and “stupid” are one and the same, and he aimed to prove them wrong. He just stared down at his boots now, looking like he was counting off the seconds till the laughter would stop.

“Now, Emily,” Edwards said after one last giggling snort. “Who is the president of the United States?”

“Oooooo, I know that one,” the maid said proudly. “It's Mr. Lincoln, innit?”

Her answer didn't set Edwards and the old man off into hysterics as had Gustav's, but it did give them another chuckle.

Emily blinked at her employers, an unsure smile dimpling her round cheeks. “Is that not right, then?”

The men didn't bother explaining their amusement.

“Nervous, my boy?” the Duke said to Edwards. “You're falling behind again.”

“Falling behind? Whatever are you two up to?”

We all turned toward the doorway, finding there a vision of loveliness so breathtaking it could've stepped straight from the canvas of some master painter. It was Lady Clara, of course, entering the parlor in a white evening gown so dazzling yet demure a rough-tongued son of a farmer like myself couldn't describe it without despoiling it.

And it wasn't just her beauty or the elegance of her attire that made her the very picture of feminine perfection. A shallow man might point to the faint lines around her mouth or the slight shadows beneath her eyes or the stray strand of gray in her ample dark hair and say that time had tarnished the lady's charms. Yet with age had come a poise that runs deeper than mere looks, and she carried herself with a combination of delicacy and strength, grace and steel, that elevates a woman from pretty or even beautiful to
ideal
.

The two gentlemen sat up straight in their seats, Edwards paying
for it with another jolt of pain that curled his face into a wince. The Duke suddenly became curious about his cigar, inspecting it with the same air of innocence adopted by little boys trying to hide mischief from the schoolmarm.

“We've just been settling a debate,” His Grace said.

Lady Clara arched an elegant eyebrow. “And a wager, as well, I expect.”

“Nothing wrong with making things a little more sporting.”

“That depends on
how
sporting,” the lady replied coolly.

“Just a trifle. Five dollars a point—eh, Edwards?”

Edwards backed up the old man's lie with a quick nod and a feeble smile.

“Surely you can't begrudge me that,” the Duke went on. “Not after seeing. . .”

He suddenly remembered us peons, and he washed away whatever he was about to say with a gulp from his glass.

“. . . what we saw today,” he finished after giving his lips a wet smack.

Lady Clara didn't speak or move or even change the expression on her face, yet a chill descended upon her so icy cold I could feel my toes go frostbit. Edwards, on the other hand, was sweating worse than a preacher in a whorehouse, his gaze darting back and forth from the lady to her father. He obviously wished to please each, but smooching two sets of backsides can be a tough feat indeed if the people they're attached to are going toe-to-toe.

My brother, meanwhile, was watching all this like it was a night at the theater, his red-faced humiliation replaced by open fascination. If he could've pulled up a chair and opened a bag of peanuts, he would've.

“So, what is this debate of yours?” Lady Clara asked.

The Duke squirmed his fleshy behind around in his chair, leaving it to Edwards to explain.

“His Grace and I had been comparing the relative merits of hired
help in Europe and America—or their relative
de
merits, to be more precise.”

The smirk Edwards unfurled at his own play on words went limp quick—Lady Clara was not amused. As Edwards forged on, he finally had the decency to look embarrassed.

“I felt that American workers lack the requisite mental . . . well . . .” He shot a glare at Gustav and myself, apparently unhappy with us for placing him in this awkward situation. “That one can't find common Americans with . . .ummm. . .that English servants would be superior in certain—”

Oh, just spit it out, you stuck-up son of a bitch
, I wanted to say.
You think we're dumb, but the old man thinks Emily's dumber
.

“Yes, yes, she understands,” the Duke interrupted, to Edwards's very apparent relief. “I think we've settled the matter—wouldn't you say, Edwards?”

It was easy for the old man to call an end to the game—he was fifty bucks ahead. But Edwards didn't argue. He just nodded and said, “Oh, yes. Most definitively.”

“You may go,” the Duke said, and from his sharp tone it was clear who he was speaking to, though he didn't trouble himself to look at us as he said it.

Emily curtsied and scurried toward the dining room, while Old Red headed for the door to the foyer. I followed him, pleased that we'd be passing close to Lady Clara on our way out.

Perhaps it was for her benefit that I paused in the doorway. Perhaps it was for my brother—or Amlingmeyer family honor. Whatever the reason, it was a whim that hit me so fast I was acting on it before I could stop myself.