He laughed. “No, I don’t think I would. You’re sure your ancestor was a full-grown man?”
Pamela laughed. “Oh, yes. But the Battle of Agincourt happened over four hundred years ago, and I believe people were smaller then.”
“Four hundred years?” Hawke said, shaking his head. “I find it amazing that people can keep track of their ancestors for so long.”
“That is an important date in our family, for that was when Geoffery Dorchester was invested with the Earldom of Preston,” Pamela explained.
After a tour of the rest of the house, Pamela escorted Hawke to the dining room, where Dorchester met them at the door. He had changed clothes since Hawke arrived, and was now wearing a white uniform of some sort, with a red sash running diagonally across his chest, gold-fringed epaulets on his shoulders, and a splash of medals on his breast.
“Well, are you ready to eat?” Dorchester asked.
“If you knew me well enough, you’d know that is a question you never have to ask,” Hawke replied. “I’m always ready to eat.”
Dorchester led them into the large room with polished oak wainscoting running halfway up the walls, flocked cream and green wallpaper finishing it off. At strategic spots, large portraits hung by wires from the picture rail. One of them was of James Spencer Dorchester astride a horse, wearing the same uniform he wore now. Another was of a beautiful woman. For a moment Hawke thought it was a portrait of Pamela. Upon a closer examination, however, he realized that the young girl standing beside the woman was Pamela.
“That was my mother,” Pamela said, seeing his interest. “She died the year before we left England.”
“She was very beautiful.”
“Yes, she was,” Dorchester agreed.
“I see that you are wearing the same uniform now that you wore for that painting,” Hawke remarked.
“Yes,” Dorchester said. “I still hold a brigadier’s commission in the Royal Reserves, though I seriously doubt that the Queen will ever call me to active service.”
“My father fought in the Crimean War,” Pamela said. “He was at Balaklava as a leftenant in the Light Brigade. You may have heard of the famous poem written by Tennyson, ‘Theirs not to make reply/Theirs not to reason why…’”
“‘Theirs but to do and die,’” Hawke continued, taking over the poem. “‘Into the Valley of Death rode the six hundred….’ yes, I have heard of it.”
“You never cease to impress me, Mr. Hawke,” Pamela said.
“I was always impressed by the bravery of those soldiers,” he replied. “It’s an honor to actually meet one of them.”
“I was young and imprudent,” Dorchester said. “It was a foolish battle in a war fought with honor but no sense. Of the six hundred troops we committed to the charge, four hundred were killed. But then, I needn’t tell you about such things. Your country has recently come through its own war, with battles just as foolish, just as deadly, and just as honorable. And, unless I miss my guess, you were there.”
“I was there,” Hawke said without elaboration.
“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Pamela said. “War is so distressing.”
“Of course, my dear,” Dorchester replied. He pointed to the center of the dining room, at a long table covered with a damask tablecloth and set with crystal candelabra, silver chargers, and glistening china. “Won’t you be seated?” he invited.
The meal was brought to the table in various courses. The main course was a pastry-wrapped beef.
“Beef Wellington,” Dorchester explained. “It is said that distant cousin, Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, came up with the recipe. I doubt that is true, but this magnificent dish does bear his name.”
After the meal, Dorchester invited Hawke into his library. Here, twenty-foot-tall bookshelves lined the walls, and books of various sizes and colors filled the shelves. Dorchester gestured toward the leather chairs. Brandy was served and Pamela offered them cigars. When the offer was accepted, she trimmed the ends, ran her tongue down the length of each side, lit each of them, then sat down as well.
“I hope you find them satisfactory,” Dorchester said. “They are from Cuba.”
Hawke took the cigar out of his mouth and examined the burning tip. “It is an excellent cigar.”
“I suppose you heard about the gold strike up in the Sweetwater Range?” Dorchester said.
“Yes, it’s all anyone has been talking about, almost ever since I arrived in town.”
“By now it’s gone out by telegraph and the whole country knows about it. No doubt we are about to have a rush.”
“I imagine so,” Hawke said.
“Will you be going up there?”
“What, to hunt for gold?”
“Yes.”
Hawke shook his head and squinted through the wreath of cigar smoke. “No, sir. I’m not one for chasing rainbows. Even if there is gold up there, there won’t be one in a hundred who will benefit from it.”
“You have a wise head on your shoulders,” Dorchester said. “I just hope I don’t lose all my cowboys.”
“Lose your cowboys?”
“Three have already left, and I hear talk that more soon will.”
“The cowboys who are leaving aren’t our biggest problem, Father, and you know it,” Pamela said.
“I think you may be making a mountain out of a molehill,” Dorchester told her, then explained the situation to Hawke: “The most logical access to the Sweetwater Range is through Northumbria.”
“Can you imagine all those people tramping out across our rangeland?” Pamela asked. “At best, they are going to be in the way. And at worst, they are going to get hungry and start stealing our cattle.”
“Oh, surely it won’t be all that bad,” Dorchester said. “And we have twenty thousand head. We could afford to lose one every now and then if that is all that stands between a man living and a man starving to death.”
“If that’s all there is to it, we’ll be lucky,” Pamela said. “And you know who is probably chortling with glee over our situation? Bailey McPherson. Bailey and that scar-faced ogre of hers.”
Hawke squinted at Pamela through the aromatic cloud of cigar smoke. “Scar-faced ogre? Are you talking about Ethan Dancer?”
“That’s exactly who I’m talking about,” Pamela said. She frowned. “Good heavens, Hawke, don’t tell me you know that loathsome creature?”
Hawke shook his head. “No, although I did see him in the saloon the other day. What does he have to do with Bailey McPherson?”
“He is her bodyguard. She probably needs one. Nobody can be as conniving and as manipulative as she is without making enemies. But why she chose a cold-blooded killer like Dancer, I’ll never understand.”
“Yes, well, enough discussion about that unpleasant fellow,” Dorchester said. “Mr. Hawke—”
Hawke held up his finger. “Couldn’t you just call me Hawke?”
“You prefer to be addressed by your surname, as opposed to your Christian name?”
“I’m used to it,” Hawke said.
“Very well, Hawke. You said you wanted to play the piano. I have something that may interest you.”
“I’m listening.”
“How would you like to go to Chicago?”
“Chicago?”
“To play the piano.”
“Mr. Dorchester, for reasons I’d rather not go into, I have no desire to go back on the concert tour.”
Dorchester laughed. “If you accept this job, you’ll be touring, all right. But not at all the way you think.”
“I must confess that you do have me curious,” Hawke said.
“Hawke,” Pamela interjected. “Before you and father get into all that, would you play the piano for us?”
Dorchester reached out to touch his daughter on the arm. “Now dear, I promised Hawke that he would not be expected to play for his supper like a performing monkey.”
Hawke chuckled. “That’s all right,” he said. “I would like to play your new piano for you. You should see some of the things that pass for a piano that I’ve had to play over the last few years.”
“I can imagine,” Dorchester said. “You’re sure it would be no imposition to have you play?”
