Carrie Bebris - The Matters at Mansfield

“I cannot say that I care for it,” said the viscount. “Never knowing who is one’s ally and who is one’s foe, the rules changing with each hand, and one’s strength dependent upon the random collection of cards one is dealt. Now chess — chess is my game: a clear contest between two equally matched foes, facing each other across a defined battlefield where each man has his role and the challenge ends when one of the primaries falls. My favorite piece is the rook — the only one that can castle with the king. I do not suppose Miss de Bourgh plays chess?”

“No. But had she learned, I am sure she would be a skillful player.”

His lordship sighed. “She knows only cards, I suppose. Does she play whist? Neville favors whist.”

“She does. Mr. Sennex will find her a worthy partner in all respects.”

Precisely when Mr. Sennex might have occasion to engage in a game of whist with Miss de Bourgh or anyone else in their party, Darcy could not speculate. A match certainly would not occur this evening. He was firmly entrenched at his own table and had not so much as glanced in his father’s direction since they sat down.

Lady Catherine collected her winnings. While they had agreed to low stakes, bonuses for the vole and solo win had made this a relatively expensive hand. Miss Jenkinson’s previous successes kept her well in the black, but the viscount remitted his fish wistfully, the sting of loss all the sharper for not collecting a partner’s share of the win to which he thought he had contributed.

Darcy eyed his own dwindling stack of counters. His pocketbook could certainly afford the losses; for that matter, so could his self-respect. This was his aunt’s game, and she had bested him many an evening in her own drawing room. Whatever he might think of Lady Catherine herself, her command of quadrille was without question, and in any contest there was no shame in losing to a superior opponent. He knew he should simply resign himself to an unsatisfying game, execute the motions of play without thoughts of victory. But for Darcy, playing at all meant playing to win. It was not in his character to perform at less than full measure in any endeavor, and he could no more underplay a hand and decline the challenge posed by each fresh round of cards than neglect any other test of intellect that presented itself.

His aunt placed a counter and fish into the basket and shuffled the cards for a new deal. Darcy and Miss Jenkinson also anted. Lord Sennex nodded and smiled.

“The opening stake, my lord?” Darcy prompted.

“What? Oh! Yes, yes.” The viscount dropped his counter into the basket with the others and chuckled. “Cannot have anyone accuse me of being light.”

Darcy collected his cards. It was a strong hand; if he took the bid he could probably win without a partner. Strategically, the other three players would form a tacit alliance, working together to prevent his success so that they could split the pool if he failed, but that was part of the challenge.

He waited for Lord Sennex to open the bidding.

And waited.

“Your lordship possesses the eldest hand,” Darcy finally prompted.

Lord Sennex regarded him oddly, then glanced at his own wrinkled fingers. “I suppose I do.”

“Do you care to bid?”

“Oh! No, I pass.”

Darcy won the right to declare trump, and play proceeded to the accompaniment of Lady Catherine’s unremitting discourse.

“Have you ever visited Kent, my lord?”

“I do not believe I have.”

“You will find it beautiful country. I confess that I missed the northern landscapes when I first wed Sir Lewis and moved to Rosings, but now I feel equally at home in both settings. Anne will be the same, when she has been mistress of her own home for a while. A woman adjusts rapidly to new surroundings, provided she marries within her sphere.”

Darcy heard this last statement as a deliberate slight to Elizabeth, whom Lady Catherine yet resented for her perceived usurpation of Anne’s rightful place as his wife, but he ignored the remark rather than dignify it with the response she sought to provoke. He instead would exact reprisal in the form of a more direct blow to his aunt’s overweening pride. A sound defeat in this hand, delivered while she rattled on about a hypothetical future home of which Anne was in no way of becoming mistress anytime soon, would constitute a fair requital.

Why his aunt had embarked upon the present subject eluded him. To Darcy’s knowledge, Miss de Bourgh had no current marriage prospects, and at the age of eight-and-twenty stood in considerable danger of entering permanent spinsterhood. But he could devote no more thought to the matter if he wanted to win the hand, which he fully intended to do.

“My late wife never appreciated Hawthorn Manor,” said Lord Sennex. “She was too attached to the home of her birth.”

“Anne will not have that problem.”

That, Darcy believed. He had always found Rosings to reflect the character of its mistress — all pomp and grandeur, with little warmth to solicit nostalgia or any other tender sentiment.

Darcy evaluated his remaining cards. He had taken the first six tricks and now faced a decision: whether to end the hand at this point and collect only the original pool, or attempt to take them all. If he continued the hand and succeeded, he would win a substantial bonus pool, but if he failed, his opponents would split the side stake.

He mentally reviewed the cards that had been used and who had played them. His opponents were out of trump, but two high cards remained unaccounted for. He believed Lady Catherine held them, though heaven only knew whether the viscount had been following suit throughout the hand. Continuing would require Darcy’s full concentration.

He led a seventh card.

A noisy discussion erupted at Neville’s table. Darcy did his best to bar it from his mind, but it soon reached a level that made it impossible to ignore. Neville addressed Sir John Trauth, one of his whist opponents, in a hot tone.

“You scratched your chin!” Neville’s small eyes narrowed still more as his flaccid countenance distorted in resentment.

“It itches.”

Neville rose to his feet. Short of stature, he gained the intimidation of height only when confronting a seated adversary, as Sir John remained. “You have scratched it twice whilst holding an ace.”

Sir John, for fifty years known throughout the neighborhood as a forthright man, remained calm under Neville’s ire. “Have I done so, I assure you the reflex was entirely coincidental. If losing the rubber disappoints you, examine your own play.”

“At least I played an honest hand.”

“Do you accuse me of cheating, Sennex?”

Silence claimed the room as all waited to hear Neville’s response. To accuse a gentleman of dishonesty at cards was a grave matter: Settling the issue via pistols at dawn was not unheard of. Dueling might be illegal, but that did not prevent its practice.

“Eh, what was that?” Although the question had been directed to Mr. Sennex, it caught the attention of his father. The viscount, seated with his back to Neville’s table, turned round in his chair. “Is that Neville? What is this commotion?”

No one, including Neville, ventured to answer him. Though his mind might have begun to fail him, the viscount still commanded the respect due a peer of the realm, and nobody wanted to disillusion a father about the poor sportsmanship of his son.

Lord Sennex gripped the table’s edge and slowly pushed himself to his feet. “It sounds as if there is some sort of dispute. Neville, what is transpiring?”

“A minor disagreement, that is all.”

“With Sir John? Why, he has been our friend since — since I do not know when. What can you possibly be arguing about with Sir John?”