Or, Old Red’s Brain Is Put Through Its Paces—and Comes Up Lame
The 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 demerits, 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.
“In case you’re still wonderin’,” I said as I swiveled around to face Edwards and the Duke, “the queen of England is just plain Victoria. Her kin are the Hanovers, not the ‘Reginas.’ There ain’t no king. The lady’s husband—Albert was his name—he died years ago. Most likely their son Edward’ll take over the family business when his mama passes on. And if there’s anything else you need to know, why, just come out to the bunkhouse and ask me. I’ll set you straight.”
I topped it all off with a wink.
The men stared at me, slack-jawed, and I turned to go before they could get those jaws working. On my way out, I gave the lady a nod and a polite “Good evenin’, ma’am.”
Old Red was waiting for me in the foyer.
“Jee-zus Christ,” he snapped. “Must you be so goddamn—”
Whether I’d been goddamn stupid or goddamn reckless or goddamn foolish I didn’t discover, for the next words stuck in my brother’s throat as he caught sight of something behind me.
“I sincerely beg your pardon, Miss St. Simon,” he said, blushing.
Lady Clara had followed me. She acknowledged Gustav’s words with a slight bow of her head.
“I believe I owe an apology to you. My father can be. . .”
As she searched for the proper word, a look came over her face that suggested the phrase a big, fat asshole might actually escape her lips. But good manners prevailed, of course.
“. . . ungracious,” she said.
Old Red gave her a shy little shrug.
“Don’t trouble yourself over it, ma’am,” he managed to mumble.
Unlike my brother, I’ll seize any opportunity to bandy words with a comely woman, and I couldn’t resist now.
“But your concern is most deeply appreciated, my lady,” I threw in, placing both hands over my heart. It made me feel like a character out of Ivanhoe. If I could’ve gotten away with it, I would’ve planted a kiss on the back of her dainty hand.
Lady Clara graced me with a smile that instantly became the highlight of my life up to that point.
“You certainly took the gentlemen by surprise,” she said. “Are all ‘cow-boys’ so well versed in England’s affairs of state?”
I let loose with a not particularly modest chuckle. “Oh, hardly. I’m a special case. My mother pushed a book in my hands every chance she got. And before takin’ up with cattle, I clerked in a granary for a spell, which gives a feller plenty of free time for newspapers and magazines and other edifications.” I shot what I thought was a sly glance at my brother. “But even the drovers without as much learnin’ as myself can surprise you. They might look like a drawer of dull blades, but there’s usually a sharp one mixed in there somewhere.”
“I’ll remember that,” the lady said, looking both amused and remarkably sincere, as if I’d offered advice she actually planned to follow.
Footsteps echoed down from above, and we turned to see Brackwell descending the staircase, done up in dark tails and tie like Edwards and the Duke. Though his clothes probably cost as much as I’ve earned my entire life, it still draped over the young man’s lanky form like a sheet thrown over the back of a chair. Oddly enough, the only outfit I’d seen the kid wear that truly fit were his crazy circus cowboy duds.
“Well,” Lady Clara said to us, “good night, gentlemen.”
Gustav and I offered goodnights in return, and the lady moved off to the foot of the stairs to meet Brackwell. We threw a couple of hello/good-bye nods up at him ourselves, then we left.
“Did you hear that?” I said as we headed toward the bunkhouse. “ ‘Gentlemen’ she called us.”
Old Red rolled his eyes. “We walk out of there with a regular banquet to chew on, and you pick out that measly little crumb?”
“Oh, no—it ain’t no crumb. Anything from the lady’s lips is sweetest sugar to me.”
“While most of what comes from yours is steamin’ horseshit.”
“Awww, you’re just jealous cuz she obviously fancies me over you.”
Gustav went from eyeball rolling to head shaking. “Better get it through your head, Brother—people like that don’t ‘fancy’ people like us.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Emily said somethin’ about the lady bein’ ‘a commoner’s leftovers.’ What do you think that means?”
“You really want to know what I think?”
“Yes, I really want to know.”
“Alright. I think”—Gustav took in a deep breath and let it out slowly—”it is a capital mistake to theorize before you—”
“Oh, shut up.”
We were almost to the bunkhouse by now. Tall John and Swivel-Eye stood in the doorway gabbing over cigarettes, so I had to keep my next words low.
“And you say I’m full of horseshit.”
Once we got inside, I quickly fell into conversation with the boys about the day’s happenings, giving them a heavily expurgated account of our adventures in the castle. Predictably, they were most interested in the food and the women. Gustav retired to his bunk, lying there stiff as a board, his hands folded over his stomach. This was the position he sometimes assumed when he had vigorous cogitating to do, and I was happy to leave him to it. I didn’t bother with a “Good night” when I climbed into my own bunk an hour later.
Sleep didn’t come quickly. I kept thinking about that “banquet” of facts Old Red had spoken of. What we’d heard in the castle didn’t seem like any banquet to me—it was more like the stale bread and scraps of gristle dive saloons lay out for their “free lunch.”
So the Duke couldn’t resist a good wager—or a bad one. So the lady had some kind of scandal behind her and felt a bit frosty toward her father. So Edwards was a social climber and Brackwell was the “black sheep” from a noble flock. It was good enough gossip, I suppose, but how any of it tied in with Perkins’s death was beyond me.
Thinking of Perkins reminded me of my brother’s little chat with Boudreaux earlier in the day—and the possibility that Boo had already repeated every word of it to Uly. That line of thought didn’t exactly put me in a relaxed, restful state of mind, so I herded my brain along to a far greener pasture.
I finally drifted off to sleep thinking of Lady Clara, of course, dreaming myself into the center of a whole new scandal for her. But somewhere in the night, my mind took a less pleasant turn, and my dreams were spiced with the sound of gunfire.
The noise of it rang so loud and so real it popped my eyes open. I stirred, awakened just enough to be aware of dim light and snoring men.
Soon enough I settled into slumber again, certain it had been nothing more than a nightmare.