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“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.
“And some idiots want to give them the vote!” observed the King acidly as Soveral totted up the score after the first rubber. “Pray notice, my dear Alice, that when Mr Franklin says ‘Pass’ it does not necessarily mean that his hand is utterly void; he and the Marquis pay heed to each other’s bidding, which is the usual practice in this game.”
“I know,” said Mrs Keppel, “but I am so fearfully stupid, and when Mr Franklin fixes his cards with that baleful stare and says: ‘One heart’ as though he were going to eat it, I quite lose my wits. Never mind,” she added cheerfully, lifting her evening bag, “I shall pay for the rubber – please whisper what we owe you, Marquis, so that I am not too shamed.”
“Nonsense!” said the King, and rummaged in his pockets; he pushed sovereigns on to the table. “Can’t have our womenfolk stumping up for us,” and he even unbent so far as to wink heavily at Mr Franklin, who realized that next to winning his majesty probably enjoyed playfully brow-beating his partner – fairly playfully, at any rate. “Play a bit, do you?” went on the King. “Thought so; I don’t quite get the hang of your bidding yet, but it’s damned effective, eh, Soveral?”
“Mr Franklin has the American gift – his face tells one nothing,” said Soveral blandly; he might have added that his partner’s bidding didn’t tell him much either, but tactfully forebore. “Shall we cut for partners for the next rubber?”
“Please do,” said the King heavily and Mr Franklin prayed that he would not be drawn with his majesty; the cards gave him Mrs Keppel, and the King said: “Thank God for that” gallantly, and changed places with Mr Franklin. “Now, Soveral,” he said, lighting a fresh cigar, “let’s have no more nonsense; we want some Yankee dollars from the rubber, what?”
But he did not get them in the two rubbers that followed. Mrs Keppel, sparkling at Mr Franklin across the table, ran into a succession of those hands which bridge-players dream about; aces and kings dropped from her dainty fingers at every hand, long runs from the honours down seemed drawn to her as by a magnet, her singletons invariably coincided with Mr Franklin’s aces, and when their opponents played a hand her queens were always there over his majesty’s knaves and her kings over his queens. Twice when Mr Franklin opened in no trump she took him straight to three, and when her dummies came down – lo, there were the slams ready-made. The King growled and muttered about under-bidding, Soveral sighed and shook his head, Mr Franklin began to enjoy himself, and Mrs Keppel gleefully exclaimed: “What? Is that another rubber to us? Splendid, partner! God bless America!” and raked in her winnings, assuring the King that it was all in the run of the cards.
“Don’t be so confounded patronizing, Alice!” snapped the King. “No, Soveral – never mind cutting. We’ll stay as we are and break these Klondike sharpers yet.” He growled impatiently at the deal, picking up his cards as they were dealt, and exclaiming with disgust at each one. “Whoever saw such rubbish! What’s that, Franklin? One no-trump? Oh, lord, they’re doing it again!”
Another two rubbers went by, and Mr Franklin began to feel uncomfortable. Bad hands he had seen, in his time, but what his majesty was picking up was past belief; he seemed to have a lean note of everything from seven downward, and Mr Franklin found himself picking up his own hands with a fervent prayer that they might be bad for a change – but no, there was the usual clutch of pictures, with a couple of languid aces among them to round things off; he even resorted to the shameful expedient of passing when he knew he should have bid, to save royalty from further humiliation. But that could be dangerous, too; once he passed a powerful hand only to have to lay it down as dummy for Mrs Keppel; she shot him a quick glance over her cards, and Soveral’s silence spoke louder than words, but the King only said: “And how the deuce is one to lead into that? Go on, Soveral, let’s get it over with.”
It was well past midnight when the fifth rubber ended, and Mrs Keppel artlessly suggested a change of partners; once again, to Mr Franklin’s relief, he drew Soveral, and another two rubbers were played, both of them marathons; the cards still favoured Franklin and his partner, but he sensed that Soveral was now deliberately underplaying, skilfully and subtly, and the games ran on endlessly. But still nothing could contrive the King a rubber, and Mr Franklin noticed with interest that as the royal temper grew shorter, so its owner became quieter; he had ceased berating Mrs Keppel, which obviously troubled her, and played his cards with a grim, desperate intensity.
During one of his own dummy hands Mr Franklin took the opportunity to survey the rest of the party. Another bridge game was in progress; Smith and Lady Dalston were playing backgammon; Peggy was turning the pages of a magazine, and Sir Charles was talking to one of the other gentlemen – or rather, he was listening, with half an ear, for his attention was anxiously fixed on the royal table. Presumably he knew the King was losing; his eyes met Mr Franklin’s for a moment, and seemed to be saying: “Please, forget about those unpleasantnesses of 1776 and 1812, and do me the great favour of allowing his majesty to win now and then.” Mr Franklin would have been glad to; he was not only embarrassed but extremely tired. Did no one go to bed – not even the ladies? He was unaware that protocol demanded that no one should retire until his majesty did, and that the more experienced courtiers were perfectly prepared to be there at four in the morning.
At one point Peggy approached the table to announce that a supper was being served in the dining-room; thank God, thought Mr Franklin, at least we can stretch our legs, but to his dismay Mrs Keppel said quietly: “Do you think we might have sandwiches at the table, my dear? – it’s such an engrossing game, you see.” His majesty was at that point intent on trying to make one diamond, and going down below the nethermost pit in the process; when the sandwiches came he engulfed them steadily without a break in the play; there was a hock to go with them, but the King gruffly demanded whisky and soda. Mr Franklin stirred to ease his long legs, and received a warning glance from Mrs Keppel; the rubber finally petered out with Soveral winning a three-bid in spades which was virtually a laydown.
He’ll have to call it a day now, thought Mr Franklin; the King was looking old and tired, his cough was troubling him, and he wheezed and went purple when he exchanged his cigar for a cigarette. Mrs Keppel was prattling carelessly about the next day’s programme, in the hope of reminding his majesty that a night’s sleep might be in order, but she was far too clever to press the point. The King emerged, coughing and heaving, from the depths of his handkerchief, took a long pull at his glass, and said huskily: “Cut ’em again.” Mrs Keppel did so, and this time Mr Franklin drew the King.
And, as is the way with cards, the luck changed in that moment. Not that the hands began to run loyally to the throne, but they evened out, and they became interesting – the occasional freak deal in which three players each had only three suits, or all the strength lay in the hands of two opponents, their partners having rags. Mr Franklin had gradually got the hang of bidding during the evening, and knew enough not to disgrace himself; his play would have caused raised eyebrows in any well-conducted club, but in the slightly eccentric game in which he found himself, it served – just. He and the King squeaked home in the first rubber, to universal satisfaction, and then lost the second by the narrowest of margins; his majesty cursed the luck, but he did it jovially, and even congratulated Mr Franklin on his defence against Soveral’s two-no-trump on the last hand – this came as a gratifying surprise to Mr Franklin, who had dutifully followed suit throughout.
“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.
“My goodness,” said Mrs Keppel, and seemed about to add a light remark, but a glance at the King made her change her mind. He was busily excavating his cards again, breathing heavily, and when she passed he stared anxiously across the table, passing in turn. Soveral lighted a cigarette, musing, and then the ugly face turned to smile thoughtfully at Mr Franklin. “Five hearts?” he said softly, and placed his finger-tips together. “I do believe that you want to … wring us out, Mr Franklin. Mmh? Six diamonds.” And in that moment the game changed, for Mr Franklin, and he thought: showdown.
“Dealer folds,” as Cassidy threw in his cards. “Too many for me,” from old Davis, and the greasy cards being pushed away; across the tableKidCurry with his wolf smile and eyes bright through the smoke of the oil lamp, matching him. “What about you, Mark? Had enough?” The jeering smile, disdaining him with his pair of kings, an eight, and an ace on the table; in front of Curry lay two tens and two threes – was there another ten or three in the hole? On the face of it, two pairs against his one, and Curry might have a full house – the cagey, greasy bastard with his sly smile, he’d seen him go the limit on a single pair, and men drum their fingers and throw in better hands, and Curry with his jeering laugh raking in the pot – and never failing to face his cards and show the pikers how he’d bluffed them. But then, he was Kid Curry, the Mad Dog, with the Colt in his armpit and ready to use on anyone who turned ugly; not even Cassidy, or Longbaugh, was quicker than the Kid, and everyone knew it. Deaf Charley throwing in, Jess Linley’s watery eyes sliding to his cards and away again as he too folded. “Had enough, Mark? Why don’t you quit, little boy? I got you licked!” Old Davis’s dirty face under the battered hat, his mouth working: that’s our stake, son, that’s to take us to Tonopah, don’t fool with Curry, son, it isn’t worth it; fold and call it a day. His own voice: “A hundred, and another hundred,” Davis muttering, oh Jesus, that’s it, and the smile freezing on Curry’s face, the long silence before he covered and called, and Franklin turned over his hole card, a second ace – and the snarling curses as Curry swept his own cards aside and came to his feet, and Cassidy snapping: “That’ll do, kid!” And it had done, too; Curry had taken his beating and old Davis had scooped in the pot, cackling and swearing, and Franklin had tried to keep the relief from his face as, under the table, he quietly uncocked the Remington that he had held trained on Curry’s chair, and slid it back into his boot.
Instead of Kid Curry – the Marquis de Soveral, smiling confidently, and Mr Franklin, with four to five sure losers in his hand, met the smile with a composure which he certainly did not feel. If I’d any sense I’d let you go down the river on your raft of diamonds – but would it be down the river? Suppose Soveral made it? Suppose nothing, this was the hand, as Soveral had reminded him, when he’d vowed to wring the opposition out. The King, slumped in his seat, was eyeing him morosely; Mrs Keppel was absently fingering a flawless eyebrow; the faces behind the royal chair were waiting expectantly – and it crossed his mind, who’d have believed it, here I am, with the King of England, waiting on my word, and an Ambassador calling the shot, and the flower of the mighty empire’s nobility waiting to see what the Nevada saddle-tramp is going to do about it. And it was pure five-card stud training that made him ask for another glass of hock, while the King writhed and muttered impatiently (the words “double, double, for heaven’s sake!” being distinctly audible), and only when the wine was being poured did Mr Franklin say casually: “Six hearts.” Smith jerked wine on to his sleeve, and the King stared across in stupefaction.
“D’you know what you’re doing?” he demanded. “Six … oh lord! Well, I hope you’ve got “em, that’s all! Six …” mutter, mutter, mutter.
“Double six hearts,” murmured Soveral, and “Re-double,” said Mr Franklin, in sheer bravado; he had a sketchy idea of what it would mean to go down, in points, redoubled and vulnerable, but that didn’t matter. Money was the least of it to that bearded picture of disgruntled alarm across the table, losing, and Soveral’s smoothly apologetic satisfaction, and (worst of all) Mrs Keppel’s nervous condolences – that was what he couldn’t stand. He was glooming apprehensively over his cards, as Mrs Keppel led the ace of clubs; the King spread the dummy and sat back, staring resentfully at his partner.
Ace and four hearts, king of spades, king of clubs – and one hideous rag of a diamond. They were one down, for certain; Mrs Keppel’s ace of clubs took the first trick, Soveral scooped it in, and waited for the inevitable diamond lead that would break the contract. But Mrs Keppel, possibly because she had in her own hand a profusion of diamonds to rival Kimberley and feared that Mr Franklin might be void, led a spade instead; Mr Franklin dropped his ace on it, and then – in the view of Sir Charles, who was standing apprehensively behind his chair – began to thrash his way through trump with reckless abandon. In fact, Mr Franklin, having bid himself into an impossible situation, was simply going down with colours flying; he could not get rid of his diamond loser, and there was nothing for it but to plough on to the bitter end, with occasional sips of hock along the way. The King would not be pleased. Well, it had been interesting meeting royalty, anyway.
He paused, with the last three cards in his hands – two trump and that singleton diamond leering obscenely at him in its nakedness. He knew from Soveral’s discards that Mrs Keppel had the ace and king; the problem, more akin to poker than to bridge, was to make her discard them both, and short of wrenching them from her hands he could see no way of doing it.
“Three to get,” muttered the King, presumably in case Mr Franklin had not noticed. His majesty had roused slightly from his gloomy apathy, and was regarding the table as a rabbit watches a snake: there were nine tricks in front of the American – perhaps the age of miracles had not passed. His majesty’s asthmatic wheezing rustled through the room as Mr Franklin led a heart, and Mrs Keppel dropped her diamond king. Perspiring freely, Mr Franklin led his last heart and smiled hopefully at Mrs Keppel, who frowned pathetically and said: “Oh, dear.”
She fingered her cards and bit her lip. “Oh, it is so difficult … I never know what to play. And I always get it wrong, you know.” The green eyes met Mr Franklin’s, and his tiny flickering hope died; they were smiling quizzically – she knew perfectly well he had a diamond, it seemed to him. She toyed with her cards, hesitating – and played the ace of diamonds. The King choked, Soveral sighed, Mr Franklin gathered in the trick, played his nine of diamonds, and Mrs Keppel emitted a most realistic squeal of dismay as she faced her queen of clubs. There was an instant’s sensation as Soveral’s last card went down – a spade – and the King was roaring with delight, coughing and slapping the table: “Well done, Franklin! Oh, well done indeed! Game and rubber! What, Soveral? Pegged out to dry, hey? Oh, Alice, you foolish girl! The Yankee sharper bluffed you into the wrong discard, didn’t he? Oh, my!”
That’s what you think, reflected Mr Franklin, as Mrs Keppel feigned pretty confusion and exclaimed: “Oh, I am such a goose! I always get it wrong – if only I would count the cards, but I always forget! Oh, marquis, what must you think?”
What the marquis thought was fairly obvious, at least to Mr Franklin, but of course he gallantly brushed her penitence aside, and said seriously that it must have been an extremely difficult decision; he was not sure that she had not, in theory, been right. Mr Franklin wondered if there was irony in the words, but if there was, the King did not catch it; he called for whisky nightcaps, clapped Mr Franklin on the shoulder and said they must play together again, and twitted Mrs Keppel unmercifully as he led her to the centre of the laughing group at the fireplace. Mr Franklin offered his arm to Peggy.
“Thank goodness you won at last,” she said. “I shudder to think what he’d have been like at breakfast if you hadn’t. Daddy said he was sure you must go down.” She studied him sidelong. “Do you do everything as well as you play bridge?”
“I hope not,” said Mr Franklin, and as Soveral joined them, he added: “Mrs Keppel was the one who played well, I thought,” and Peggy wondered why Soveral laughed. By the fire the King was being noisily jovial at Mrs Keppel’s expense as he sat back, contented, whisky glass in hand, cigar going nicely, and the beautiful Alice, sitting gracefully on the rug by the royal knee, laughed gaily at what she called her own feather-brain; her expression did not change when she met Mr Franklin’s eyes, and he wondered, with a momentary revulsion, if it was always like this in the royal circle – the petty deceits and subterfuges to keep the monarch amused, to order events for his satisfaction. Was the King himself deceived, or did he, too, join in the pretence? Perhaps it was the warmth of the room, the smoky atmosphere, the long game, the over-indulgence in hock, but Mr Franklin felt vaguely uncomfortable, even ashamed – not for himself, really, but for being a part of it all. It was so trifling, and yet – he listened to Mrs Keppel’s tinkling laugh at one of the King’s sallies, and realized that once again he, too, was smiling mechanically and making approving noises. Soveral, score-card in hand, was announcing smoothly that the last rubber had comfortably levelled up his majesty’s score over the night, and Mr Franklin received a handful of sovereigns from the marquis and polite applause led by Mrs Keppel, tapping her palm on her wrist and smiling up at him. He bowed and pocketed the coins, reflecting that she probably considered it money well spent, and the game well lost, if it ensured his majesty a happy repose.
8 (#ulink_dc1fae41-278c-55d5-ba0b-72f433ce4de2)
Finally, it was over; the King, yawning but affable, withdrew, a collective inward sigh was heaved, Sir Charles Clayton was smiling a tired smile of pure relief, and the party drifted out into the hall, the dinner guests to go to their cars, and one or two, like Mr Franklin, to be shown their rooms for the night. He, having arrived late, had not yet had one assigned to him, and Peggy summoned her brother from the other end of the house, whence came a sound of distant revelry; the younger set, it seemed, kept hours just as late as their elders, but probably a good deal more happily.
“You ought to have the chamber of honour,” said Arthur, as he led Mr Franklin upstairs. “Peg says you saved the day. Good scout.” And he patted the American affectionately on the shoulder. “But this is the best we can do, I’m afraid –” He led the way along a narrow corridor which seemed to lead to the very end of the gloomy upper floor. Mr Franklin noticed that the doors they passed had visiting cards pinned to them; his own, when they reached it, had a sheet of paper marked “Mr Franklin’.
“If you need anything, pull the bell, but don’t be surprised if it comes out of the wall,” said Arthur cheerfully. “We’re rather in need of repair, I’m afraid. Someone’ll bring your shaving water in the morning. Good night, old chap.”
Repair was about right, thought Mr Franklin, as he prepared to undress; the room was decidedly shabby – much shabbier than he’d have expected from the comfort of the rooms downstairs. Probably the Claytons hadn’t had so many guests in living memory, and of course all the attention would be lavished on royalty’s apartments. But he remembered the hired cutlery and crockery and wondered again, idly, if old Clayton was perhaps pretty well stretched. None of his business, of course, but they seemed nice folk – Peggy was an uncommonly attractive girl, not just for her seraphic beauty, but for the spirit that lay underneath; she looked like an English rose, but there were some pretty sharp thorns on that shapely stem, or he was much mistaken.
What a strange day it had been – how long since he set off to West Walsham? Eighteen hours? And then the ridiculous fox business, and his frantic preparations with Thornhill, and the dinner, and that astonishing game which he still didn’t know how to play properly – and he’d met and talked to the King of England, and shared that intimacy of bridge partnership – that was the odd, unbelievable part, that for a time he had occupied the King’s thoughts, and been the object of his attention: he, Mark Franklin, nobody from nowhere. And yet he was just as much somebody as the King was, after all – just not so many people knew him. And he’d sniffed the air of a court, and in its way it was just like the history his father had taught him – about the Caesars, and the Italian tyrants, and Henry VIII, who slapped people in jail because their faces didn’t fit, or clipped their heads and ears off. Would he have bid six hearts with Henry VIII sitting over the way? There was a thought, now. He turned down the lamp, rolled into the creaking bed, and felt his head throb and spin as soon as it hit the pillow. He knew he wouldn’t sleep easily.
From far off, below him, he could hear the distant murmur of voices, and music, amd muffled laughter; Arthur’s friends were still whooping it up down there. No doubt they were at a safe distance from royalty; it was quite a soothing murmur, anyway, and Mr Franklin must have dozed off, for suddenly he was conscious that the voices were sharp and clear and much closer – in the corridor outside his room, feet clattering, and laughter, and the squeal of feminine laughter. “Where’s Rhoda? Oh, Jeremy, you utter idiot – well, you’ll just have to go back for it!” “Which is my room, then?” “I dunno, can’t you read, Daphne?” “I say, Connie, old thing, give us a ciggy.” “Oh, lor’, look at my dress?” “What is it – custard?” Squeals of laughter, young men’s babbling, idiot catch-phrases: “Oh, a divvy party!” “Oh, Jeremy, how too horridino! Take it away!” Squeak, giggle, clatter, at the tops of their shrill voices, doors slamming – Mr Franklin groaned softly and wondered how long it would be before they shut up. After a few moments it subsided, with only occasional cries and laughter muffled by the walls; then whispers and stifled giggling, furtive rustlings as later arrivals hurried along the passage; Mr Franklin dozed again, uneasily …
His door opened and closed, feet swiftly crossed the room, and in one instinctive moment he was out of bed before he was even awake, crouched and ready, his hand automatically snaking under his pillow. A lamp was turned up brilliantly, dazzling him, a female voice cooed playfully: “All right, Frankie, here’s a little coochy-woochy come to get you!” and Mr Franklin had a horrifying vision of a plump, dark-haired young lady throwing aside her frilly dressing-gown and sprawling naked on the bed he had just left. “Where are …” she began, surveying the empty bed, and then her eyes met his, a yard away, and she squealed aloud, putting her knuckles to her mouth. “Oh, my God! You’re not Frank! Oh! Oh, my God!”
“I’m Franklin,” he said mechanically, and the young lady squealed again and belatedly snatched the sheet up to her chin.
“Oh! Oh, my God! What are you doing here? This is Frank’s room! Go away!”
“It’s my room!” Mr Franklin crouched, appalled. “Franklin. You’ve made –”
“What?” The dark eyes stared in panic. “Oh, my God, my God! But the door …” She squealed again. “That bloody Jeremy! He’s changed the cards! The swine! Oh, God!” She dived completely under the covers. Her voice sounded muffled. “Go away!”
“I can’t.” Mr Franklin, standing in his nightshirt, observing the heaving sheet with alarm, was at a loss. “This is my room – I … I … can’t just … here.” He walked round the bed, picked up the discarded flimsy gown, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Take your … your robe, and get out, quick. Before someone comes.”
“What?” An eye peeped from beneath the sheet. “You mean you’ve got someone …”
“I don’t mean anything of the dam’ sort!” hissed Mr Franklin. “Look – take it and vamoose, will you?”
“No! I can’t! Oh, God, why don’t you go away! If Frank finds out he’ll …”
“Will you get out of here – please?” whispered Mr Franklin, desperately. “Look, you can’t stay here –”
“Damn that rotten little toad Jeremy!” Suddenly her head came out. “My God – I wonder whose name he’s put on Frank’s door? Here, who are you, anyway?”
“That doesn’t really matter!” He was beginning to get thoroughly annoyed. “Will you please go?”
“You’re American,” said the young lady. “I say, what an utter frost!” She brushed the hair out of her eyes, still keeping the sheet firmly in place. Then, alarmingly, she giggled; Mr Franklin wondered was she going to have hysterics. But she seemed to have regained her composure remarkably.
“That little brute! Of all the mean tricks!” She giggled again, considering Mr Franklin. “You weren’t in the crowd downstairs, were you? I’d have seen you – I mean, I’d have noticed you.” She nibbled the top of the sheet. “You’re rather divvy, really.” And she giggled once more, infuriatingly.
Mr Franklin took a deep breath. Then he dropped the dressing-gown on the bed, walked to the door, took hold of the knob, and jerked with his thumb. “Out,” he said.
The young lady looked at the robe and tossed her head. “You’re not very gallant! I mean, it’s not my fault I mistook your rotten room, is it?”
“Out!”
“Well, it isn’t! So there’s no need to be horrid. I mean, it could happen to anyone.” Again the giggle. “It’s rather a lark, really – gosh, what would Frank say?” And to his alarm, the young lady snuggled down in the bed. “Anyway, it’s awfully comfy here.”
Mr Franklin felt the hairs rise on his neck. He was not a prude, and faced with Pip Delys in a similar situation, he had been human enough not to hesitate above a moment. But that had been entirely different: Pip had known precisely what she was doing, and he doubted if this young woman did. This was a silly, feckless, no doubt promiscuous but completely irresponsible little piece of … of English upper-class stupidity – or so he supposed. My God, was the country just one great cat-house? Or had he got her wrong? Was she just so dam’ stupid that she didn’t realize what she was doing? Was she drunk – probably under the influence, slightly, but not so that it mattered. No, she thought it was just a great lark – and since she’d been going to roll in the hay with someone – Frank, whoever he was – well, presumably the next best thing would do. Mr Franklin swore softly, and at that moment there were feet moving in the passage, and a voice was whispering irritably:
“Poppy? Poppy? Where the devil are you?”
There was a muted squeak and giggle from the bed. “Oh, golly – that’s Frank!”
“Poppy? Oh, come on! What are you playing at?” The voice was louder, and impatient. “Poppy! Damnation! Poppy!”
“Poppy’s killed in South Africa,” called a distant male voice, and a girl laughed shrilly. The footsteps paused outside Mr Franklin’s door, and he heard a match being struck; a distant door opened and a young voice called: “What on earth’s up, Frank? Why the blazes can’t you go to bed?”
“Which is Poppy’s room?” The questioner was on the other side of the panels, loud and truculent. “Blast! Oh, go to hell, Jeremy!”
Convulsive rustlings came from Mr Franklin’s bed; he could hear Poppy giggling hysterically. The young voice was coming closer, laughing: “Oh, leave off, Frank! You’re tight, you silly ass! Poppy’s fast asleep by …”
“Shut up!” Another match scratched, followed by heavy breathing. “What? This is my room – but it’s not … what the hell?”
“Well, if it’s your room, Poppy’s probably in there, don’t you think?” The malicious amusement in the young voice was evident, and then abruptly the door was thrust open almost in Mr Franklin’s face, and in the bedside light’s gleam a large young man in evening dress shirt and trousers stood framed in the doorway. As Mr Franklin had deduced from the voice, it was Frank, Lord Lacy, his acquaintance from the foxhunt.
“What the hell?” Lacy glared at him, blinking in the light. Behind him a fresh-faced young man was doubling up with laughter, and on the other side of the passage another man’s head was emerging.
“You!” Lacy stood, his face blank. “Oh! Where’s Po –” He broke off, his eyes bulging, as he looked beyond Franklin to the bed. “Christ! Poppy!”
“Take it easy,” said Mr Franklin, but Lord Lacy seemed to be having difficulty in taking in anything at all. He stared from the bed where Poppy, eagerly apprehensive, was huddled up bright-eyed, hugging her knees beneath the sheet, to the American.
Mr Franklin spoke quickly. “The young lady mistook my room for yours. The names seem to have got switched.” He looked past Lacy at the fresh-faced young man. “She just this minute got here, and was on the point of leaving.”
“Leaving?” His lordship gurgled. “Leaving? She bloody well looks like it, doesn’t she?” He plunged forward towards the bed before Mr Franklin could stop him. “You dirty little bitch!” he roared, and made a grab at the squealing Poppy who slithered frantically out of the other side screaming: “No, Frank, no! Leave me alone!” She was pulling the sheet with her, but Lacy caught it, dragging it from her grasp. Left naked, Poppy covered her eyes and dived wildly towards the door, Mr Franklin obligingly side-stepped to let her past. She stumbled into the fresh-faced young man, bringing him down, the corridor was suddenly full of staring faces, female shrieks, cries of astonishment, and hurrying feet, and Mr Franklin took his forehead in his hand and swore, with feeling. Someone began to have hysterics, and then he was aware of Arthur, half-dressed, emerging from the confusion. “What on earth’s happening?”
Mr Franklin explained rapidly; Arthur glanced quickly from the door-card to the errant Poppy, now huddled in semi-decency in someone else’s gown, to Lacy, who was still gaping foolishly at the sheet in his hand, and nodded, grinning. “I see. Just so. Poppy, you half-wit, what the –”
“Twasn’t my fault!” Poppy, with several people between her and her bewildered lover, was prepared to enjoy the excitement. She tossed her head. “I wasn’t to know, was I? Jeremy, you pig, you changed the cards – I know you did! Beast!”
“What happened?” “Poppy, what on earth?” “The wrong room?” “A likely story!” “Whose room was it?” “Oh, crumbs! Isn’t it priceless!” The babble of the bright young things was drowning Poppy’s giggling protestations when there was a sudden roar from Lacy. His lordship might be slow on the uptake, but a thought had evidently occurred to him. He turned on Mr Franklin, his face working in rage, and before Arthur could intervene, he flung himself at the American, head down and fists swinging.
