George Fraser - Mr American

“Final rubber,” announced the King. “This time, eh, Franklin? Here, let’s have another of your – what-d’ye-call-em’s? – Colonel Bogeys, will you? Never you mind, Alice, just mind the business of shuffling and leave me alone – and you needn’t shuffle the spots off ’em, either. It won’t do you a bit of good.” He coughed rackingly on the cigarette, mopped his little eyes, and chuckled with satisfaction as he picked up his cards.

He was less satisfied five minutes later, as Soveral totted up a grand slam in spades; on the next hand Mrs Keppel made five clubs having bid only two, which slightly restored the royal temper. “Had the rubber then, if you’d had the courage,” he reproved her. “Let off for us, partner. Come along, then, we’ll have to fight for it. What d’ye say, old monkey?”

To Mr Franklin’s surprise, this was addressed to Soveral – he did not know that the Marquis’s unusual ugliness had led to his being christened “the blue monkey”, nor did he know, of course, that Soveral disliked it intensely. But he did become aware that a change came over the marquis’s play – Mr Franklin had the decided impression that the Portuguese was out to win at last; there were limits, apparently, to leaning over backwards in and for royalty’s favour. Mrs Keppel may have sensed it, too; she became nervous in the next hand and badly underbid, but Soveral, playing in earnest, pushed their partnership relentlessly towards game; once he was within two tricks of the rubber, and Mr Franklin, with two cards left, and Soveral’s last trump staring up at him, hesitated in his discard – nine of hearts or six of spades? He had no idea of what had gone, but as he prepared to throw down the spade some perverse bell tinkled at the back of his mind and he dropped the heart instead. Soveral sighed, swept up the trick, and led – the four of spades. Mr Franklin played his six, Mrs Keppel squealed as she and the King played rags, and his majesty thumped the table in triumph and cried “Well, held, sir! Oh, well held!” before going off into a coughing fit that had to be relieved by a further application of whisky and water.

“He had ’em counted, Soveral!” the King exulted, and Mr Franklin wished it had been true. Mrs Keppel smiled her congratulations, the cards went round again, and the King clinched the game with a bid in no-trump.

He was thoroughly boisterous now, as they went into the final game, and the other guests, sensing that he was poised for victory at last, came to surround the table at a respectable distance and lend sycophantic support. The King snapped up each card as it was dealt, his face lengthening as he assembled his hand; he stared hopefully across at Mr Franklin, but Soveral went straight to four clubs and made the contract. Again he and Mrs Keppel stood within a trick of the rubber, and the King was leaning back wearily, gnawing his cigar and staring dyspeptically before him, his momentary good humour banished by the prospect of defeat. Peggy came to stand beside Mr Franklin’s chair, and he glanced up at her and smiled; she was looking apprehensively towards the King, and suddenly, conscious of his own cramped limbs and slightly aching head, he thought, oh, the blazes with this: why must everyone be on tenterhooks just because one peevy old man isn’t getting it all his own way in a stupid game of cards? What does it matter, whether he wins the rubber or not?

He glanced at the people behind the royal chair, the deferential figures, the concerned aristocratic faces, the ladies trying to look brightly attentive, Clayton’s worried eyes seeking his daughter’s – and with a sudden insight realized that it did matter, to them. In their peculiar world, royal disappointment and ill-temper, with their implications of lost favour, were vitally important. How much face would Clayton lose among his Norfolk neighbours, among the sneering, artificial London “society”, if this royal week-end were a failure? How much might it hurt Peggy, for all her brave pretence at indifference? And it could easily depend on whether the King got up from that table a winner – on something as trivial as that. But to them it wasn’t trivial – only Soveral, in that courtly assembly, didn’t seem to care a damn whether the King was kept sweet or not – couldn’t the man see that it mattered to Peggy and Clayton and the others? Or didn’t he care? Mr Franklin felt a sudden unreasoning dislike of the marquis, and with it a reckless determination to contrive the King a winning rubber in Soveral’s teeth, to send the royal old curmudgeon happy to bed, and do the Claytons a good turn – and if he failed, well, it didn’t matter, he was an outsider here anyway. He was sick of this false, uncomfortable, stuffed-shirt atmosphere and pussy-footing deference. With that reckless imp in control he leaned forward, rubbed his hands, and said:

“All right, your majesty, we’ve gone easy on them long enough, I reckon. This is the hand where we wring ’em out and peg ’em up to dry! Spread ’em around and let’s go!”

He heard Peggy gasp, saw the stunned disbelief on the faces round the table, and Mrs Keppel holding her breath at such vulgar familiarity. The King stared, and then his eyes puckered up and he began to heave and cough, laying down the pack and leaning back to guffaw while the shocked faces relaxed and joined in his mirth. When he had recovered and mopped his eyes he shot the American an odd look, half amused and half resentful, and concluded the deal, shaking his head.

“Very good, partner. Let us go, indeed. I trust I have … ah, spread them to your satisfaction.”

There were relieved faces behind his chair, and Mr Franklin was aware that Peggy’s hand had momentarily touched his shoulder, and was now being withdrawn. The King fanned his cards, muttering “Peg ’em up to dry, though!”, frowned uncertainly at Mr Franklin, and then announced: “One club.”

Soveral said “One spade” quietly, and Mr Franklin surveyed his hand – six hearts to the king, the ace of spades, a singleton diamond, and rags. By his lights, hearts were in order, so he bid two of them, and the King grunted and sat forward. Mrs Keppel, obviously wishing to pass, but uncomfortably aware that her hand was visible to the watchers behind her, smiled nervously and said “Three diamonds.”

The King shot her a quick, doubtful look, glanced at his cards, and grinned. “No use, Alice.” He leered playfully at her. “Struggling against fate, m’dear. Three hearts.”

Soveral studied the score-card, his face impassive. “It’s not a game bid, monkey – yet,” said his majesty, with a glance at Mr Franklin which was a royal command if ever there was one. Soveral smiled with his mouth and said: “Four diamonds.”

There was a strangled noise from his majesty, and an anxious glance at Mr Franklin, who promptly did his duty with a clear conscience, and said: “Four hearts.”

“Ha!” said the King, relieved. “Excellent. Very good, Alice, lead away.” His glance invited Mr Franklin to gloat with him. “Come along, Alice, come along.”

“Pass,” said Mrs Keppel, smiling sweetly, the King grunted his satisfaction, and Mr Franklin realized beyond doubt that Mrs Keppel would cheerfully have gone five diamonds in normal circumstances, but had desisted because she knew the King desperately wanted the rubber. Soveral, however, had plainly made the same deduction, for as the King passed he said without hesitation: “Five diamonds.”

There was a buzz of astonishment round the table. The King, on the point of laying down his hand as dummy, stared at Soveral in disappointment and deep suspicion. Mr Franklin felt his stomach muscles tighten a fraction. It might be a spoiling bluff – but was it? Looking at his own hand, Soveral could have five diamonds for him … on the other hand, the King had supported Mr Franklin’s hearts … dammit, the old man must have something going … but five. Mr Franklin took another sip of hock. What the hell, anyway … “Five hearts,” he announced and the King’s eyes widened in dismay.