George Fraser - Mr American

He stumped across to the card-table in the alcove where packs and pads were already laid out; Mr Franklin preserved an unmoved countenance, despite a grimace and commiserating wave from Peggy across the room, and followed. As he pulled out a chair for Mrs Keppel, and Soveral moved to join them, the King flicked over the top four cards – “Alice, Soveral, Franklin, and the head that wears the crown – uneasily, too, since I’ve got you as partner, Alice. Come along, then – England versus the United States and Portugal, what? Stakes – no, none of your two penny whist stakes, Soveral –” he nudged the Marquis ostentatiously – “heavens, your partner’s a silver millionaire, and you can pay up out of diplomatic funds! Shilling a point, eh?” He beamed genially over his cigar while Mrs Keppel cut and Soveral dealt, and the game began.

For Mr Franklin it was a disconcerting experience. He had a reasonable knowledge of whist, picked up in the parlours of those dimly-remembered Western school-houses where he and his father had sometimes played with a local doctor and his wife, or it might have been a parson and his sister – but that was a long time ago. Thanks to Thornhill he knew that the principle of bridge was to bid for tricks, and he kept trying to remember the little mnemonic about suit seniority: “Solomon has …” What did Solomon have – some kind of crockery – spades, heart, something, and clubs; well, it must be diamonds, then … He arranged his cards carefully, conscious of the heavy bulk of the King at his right elbow, the heavy asthmatic wheezing, and a subtle mixture of cigar smoke and pomade; to his left, even more distracting, was the perfumed beauty of Mrs Keppel, which at a range of two feet was positively overpowering; whatever he did, he must not allow his glance to rest on the white splendour of her superb bust, which was difficult, since it seemed to project alluringly halfway across the table. He shifted his legs, accidentally touched her shoe, muttered an apology, received a sweet smile of reassurance, and heard the King mutter: “If you must kick someone, Alice, kick me – right shin for major suits, left for minors, remember!” followed by a throaty chuckle.

“Club,” said Soveral, and the King promptly said: “A heart,” and replaced his cigar, his small eyes turning challengingly in Mr Franklin’s direction.

Mr Franklin examined his cards – he had the ace, queen, ten, and two other hearts, the king of clubs, and nothing else. Which, in view of his majesty’s bid, was interesting, but to a novice like Mr Franklin, of no particular use; he hesitated a second, and then for no good reason said: “Two clubs,” at which Mrs Keppel gave a little fluttering sigh and smiled winningly round the table.

“Well, well, come on, Alice,” growled the King. “They’ve got clubs, we suspect. What have you got to say?”

“Let me see …” Mrs Keppel puckered her flawless brow and tapped her lips thoughtfully. “I think …. one diamond – oh, no, of course, two diamonds. Yes, two diamonds.”

“Double two diamonds,” said Soveral, to Mr Franklin’s total bewilderment – did that mean Soveral was bidding diamonds himself? (Thornhill’s instruction had not gone the length of doubling.) The King growled cheerfully, and leered across the table.

“Shall I leave you, Alice? Or redouble, eh?” In reply to her squeak of protest he grumbled happily, said “Two hearts,” and squinted at Mr Franklin.

“Double two spades,” said Mr Franklin, in total confusion.

“You mean double two hearts?” said the King, staring.

“Oh – yes, sir. I’m sorry. I should have said hearts,” said Mr Franklin hastily; he had no idea what he should have said, but he was not going to contradict royalty.

“Just so,” said the King, frowning. “Two hearts doubled, Alice – but at least we know where the spades are,” he added contentedly, puffing at his cigar – his notions of bidding etiquette were evidently informal, when it came to communicating with his own partner. Mrs Keppel surveyed her hand in pretty consternation, while the King grunted impatiently, tapping his cards and puffing audibly.

“I’m not … I don’t … oh, dear!” Mrs Keppel hesitated, and shot a glance of entreaty at the King. “Three … hearts?” she wondered. “Really, I …”

“About time, too!” exclaimed the King, surveying his hand with satisfaction. “Come on, Soveral!”

“Double three hearts,” said the Marquis smoothly, the black eyes smiling across at Mr Franklin, and there was a mutter of alarm from the royal seat. “Double, eh?” The King lifted his cards and frowned at them. “Double, you say. I think you’re bluffing, Soveral … very well, then, I’ll larn you. Re-double!” His cigar jutted out at Franklin in a manner that dared contradiction. “Three hearts, re-doubled. Come on, Alice.”

Mrs Keppel toyed nervously with an earring. “Perhaps Mr Franklin would like to bid again?” Her face was a picture of comical despair – not entirely comical – as she laid a hand on Mr Franklin’s. “Please, dear Mr Franklin, are you sure you wouldn’t like to bid again? Just a teeny little bid – to please me?”

“Stop that!” said the King testily. “He doesn’t want to bid, so keep your wiles to yourself, and let’s see dummy.”

Mr Franklin shook his head in apology, and Mrs Keppel gave a great sigh. “Oh, well,” she said, and laid down her cards. “God save the King.” And added, with a flustered giggle: “And heaven help Mrs Keppel.”

“My God!” The King was staring at her cards in disbelief. “And you said … three hearts! Are you entirely out of your mind, Alice?”

When Soveral had discreetly nodded to Mr Franklin to start leading, the slaughter commenced. Mrs Keppel’s fine diamonds were so much decoration in a hand devoid of trump; it soon became clear that the power lay with Soveral, and the King’s hearts, strong in themselves, fell easy prey to Mr Franklin’s, lying in ambush for them. It was plainer sailing now to the American, and he collected the tricks as they fell and the King writhed and muttered; at the end of the hand, only five tricks lay before the royal place, and the storm broke over Mrs Keppel’s beautiful head.

“And why didn’t you double first time round?” demanded the King of Mr Franklin. “Every heart in the pack, dammit, and you said clubs!”

“And thereby informed me of his heart strength,” said Soveral quickly. “Correct, partner?” Mr Franklin tried to look knowing, and the King muttered testily that he supposed it was another of these blasted new conventions. But he shot Mr Franklin a look in which respect was equally blended with annoyance and suspicion, before returning to the demolition of Mrs Keppel, who bore it with sweet contrition.

The rubber continued, Mr Franklin playing in a fog as regards the finer points of bidding, but manfully assisting Soveral simply by declaring the strongest suit in his hand when he got the chance, and thereafter leaving the marquis to his fate. Since Soveral was an extremely good bridge player, and their initial disaster had reduced the King and Mrs Keppel to growling recklessness and twittering lunacy respectively, the Soveral-Franklin axis prospered, with the assistance of rather better cards than their opponents. Mr Franklin even developed a psychological trick of his own; when he knew he was going to pass he took his time about it, eventually saying “Pass” in a soft, thoughtful tone which did not deceive Soveral for a minute but filled Mrs Keppel with alarm. The result was that the marquis and the American took the rubber in two straight games, Mr Franklin having to play only one hand, an easy two spades in which he made a couple of over-tricks. The King crashed heavily on a five-diamond bid which emerged from pure frustration and left Mrs Keppel biting her necklace in dismay; his majesty’s temper was not improved on the next hand, when she passed in terrified silence after his one-club opener, and they made six.