‘Not me, my friend,’ William rejoined. ‘Concentrate on Mr Wyatt Earp here.’
‘I prefer to concentrate on this excellent beef. Most interesting flavour to it.’ Jonathan momentarily won Auguste’s approval.
‘Call this beef stew?’ growled Red, elegantly holding a piece of meat up with two fingers.
Auguste in fact called it a beef hare, a dish whose spicings of onion, clove and nutmeg appealed to him.
‘Any Leadville chef would get booted out of town for this,’ Red continued in disgust.
Auguste made an instant decision never to visit Leadville, but refrained from active interference in the conversation in the interests of earning his fee. So far his betting was even on the two rivals, and if there was any tripping up to be done Jonathan Luckens was more than capable of doing it.
‘In New York, fortunately, we can appreciate the finer blessings of life.’ One point to William!
‘Including money, I’ve no doubt,’ Jonathan quipped. ‘Although both of you have quite an interest in that, don’t you?’
‘Pa,’ Red looked soulfully up at the painting, ‘I’m here to get acquainted with my old Grandpappy while there’s still time.’ Minus one to him.
Auguste had been so entranced by the battle, he realised he had forgotten to worry about whether the potatoes were cooked as the Elizabethan court would have enjoyed this newly discovered delicacy.
Old Grandpappy growled something Auguste failed to catch, but William and Jonathan both looked pleased. What he did hear was Lord Luckens’ next order: ‘Show them the letters, William.’
William needed no urging, and produced a small bundle of letters tied with tape. He extracted one, and leaned forward to pass it to Jonathan, but Red was too quick for him and tore it from his hands.
‘Can you even read it?’ William asked politely.
‘Sure can, when old Red smells a rotten fish. When was this written, yesterday?’ he snorted, waving it in the air.
‘Read it out, Red,’ Lord Luckens commanded.
Red obliged, albeit slowly. ‘My darling Amelia, Denver is just dandy. Wait till you see it. Our claim is sold, and we’ll be rich, just like I promised you. You’ll be strolling along the New York streets before the fall. I’ll be back in Leadville to sort things out, and then we’ll be clip-clopping our way to happiness. Your loving George.’
‘My little George.’ Lady Luckens looked pleased. ‘He always had a poetical streak in him. How sad he never reached New York.’
‘Sad,’ echoed Miss Twistleden.
‘No, ma’am,’ Red hooted with glee, ‘but he never reached it because he never intended to go at all. He remained in Leadville, married to my ma, Mollie, until he got run down by that darned wagon.’
‘Then how could he have written this letter?’ Miss Twistleden was emboldened to ask.
‘Ma’am, he didn’t. Our William here wrote it and the rest.’
‘For once I agree with you, Red,’ Jonathan sniggered. ‘It’s a most interesting letter in many ways.’ He picked it up from the table where Red had let it fall, and looked at it with an air of faint amusement.
‘Forgive me,’ Lord Luckens said heavily, ‘but I should, I suppose, recognise my own son’s writing?’
‘You’d be only too eager to do so, I’m sure,’ Jonathan agreed sweetly.
Lord Luckens looked at him sharply. ‘My solicitor’s checked it out with a handwriting authority.’
‘Then why this charade?’ Jonathan asked politely. ‘Unless -’
‘Yes, mister, I got letters too,’ Red drawled. ‘Not so many, ‘cos Pa and Ma were never separated more than the once, when he comes to Leadville from San Francisco in ‘77, and she followed a month later. Pa wasn’t one for writing much – guess he’d have written you more, Grandpappy, if he had been. Look at this.’ He tossed a scrap of yellowing paper onto the table, narrowly avoiding his beer glass (a refinement demanded of the butler, to Auguste’s combined horror and amusement).
Jonathan picked it up: ‘Moll, miss you, sweetheart. Come to me March. George,’ he read out.
‘How thoughtful.’ Lady Luckens’ eyes filled with tears at which her husband growled:
‘Time to move, Viola.’
‘What the heck for?’ Red demanded. ‘This your quaint English custom of getting rid of the ladies?’
‘No, sir,’ Jonathan chortled. ‘An even quainter custom of repairing to the banqueting house for our dessert.’
‘In Chuck’s Diner you get the food brought to you.’ Red snapped his fingers at Auguste and the butler. ‘Maybe you fellows could learn a thing or two.’
‘Perhaps you could learn even more, Red,’ William said disdainfully. ‘Good manners, perhaps?’
The banqueting house at Luckens Place was a separate building about two hundred yards from the main house, with one large room, a serving area, and a retiring room. Luckens ancestors stared down in beneficent envy of their descendants’ banquets of elaborate sweetmeats and jellies. Auguste had contented himself for this small gathering with orangeflower and rosewater creams, lettuce suckets, two leaches, candied marigolds, and apricots, raspberry cakes, some preserves and a moulded and iced marchpane centrepiece of the Luckens arms.
He cast an anxious eye over his work. At least here with a more informal atmosphere he could pass among the guests and keep an eye both on his culinary work and on the two claimants. He was puzzled about the latter, who at the moment seemed to have forgotten their differences, as they demolished his Elizabethan delights with great gusto. No doubt their animated tête-à-tête was comparing them favourably with home fare.
‘Blasted titbits,’ Lord Luckens commented on a plate of kissing comfits, presented to him by Auguste. ‘Nothing like a savoury to end a meal.’
Auguste agreed. It was revolting, in his view, to kill the pleasant afterglow of a meal with strong anchovies or cooked cheese, or kidneys.
‘Ever tried hominy grits?’ Red asked, strolling up to them, with one hand busy feeding a slice of the Luckens arms into his mouth. ‘I’ll sure miss it when I get to come here for good.’
‘Don’t concern yourself, Red.’ William was following hard on his heels. ‘You’ll be on grits for the rest of your life.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that, pal.’ Red helped himself to a candied marigold, then elegantly spat it out into his empty glass, which he handed to Auguste.
‘I think you both can be sure of it,’ Jonathan remarked complacently. ‘I shall be the next Lord Luckens.’
‘How about waiting till I’m dead?’ his present lordship shouted furiously at his guests.
Lady Luckens’ brow was clouded as she added her own contribution to the conversation. ‘I am a great admirer of our dear Queen, especially in her Jubilee year, but I feel she has enough palaces already. And there’s Osborne, of course.’
‘Don’t follow you, Grandmammy.’ Red looked puzzled.
‘I believe my aunt refers to the fact that I myself have no heirs and if no others can be traced the estate is likely to revert to the Crown after my death,’ Jonathan explained kindly.
‘Over my dead body,’ William declared.
‘Dear Victoria,’ Lady Luckens said brightly. ‘How she loves the Isle of Wight. We took our honeymoon there, do you remember, Alfred? We walked to Alum Bay, visited Carisbrooke Castle – ah, the peace. I don’t wonder our dear Queen loves it so.’
‘Grandma, I can assure you the Queen will not be the recipient of this estate ever. I myself am married, with a son,’ William said earnestly. ‘Little Jefferson is your great-grandson.’
‘Bunkum,’ Red yelled. ‘I’m your grandson, and I can tell you Red Luckens is gonna sire a whole wagonload of kids. No nancies here.’ He smirked at Jonathan. ‘No wife, no heirs, eh?’
‘But after meeting you two gentlemen this evening, I am quite sure – forgive me, Uncle – who will be wearing the coronet next,’ Jonathan retorted quietly. ‘I should like a word with you both later.’