Читать книгу Mr American - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 12

At eight o’clock precisely by Mr Franklin’s fine gold half-hunter his trap drew up at the gates of Oxton Hall. For the hundredth time he touched his silk hat, stopped himself from fidgetting with the tie which he had adjusted before his mirror with meticulous care, glanced up the drive to the lights of the long, low rambling house among the trees, listened to the coughing roar of motor-cars moving on its carriage sweep, and murmured, “Uh-huh”. He was aware that his neck was prickling under his collar, and his hands were sweating inside his evening gloves. He felt slightly sick.

“Now remember,” said Thornhill. “Spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs – in that order. ‘Solomon has delightful crockery.’ Four of a major suit makes a game, or five of a minor. Three no-trump makes game also. Otherwise it’s just like whist, more or less, God help you.”

“Thank you,” said Mr Franklin. “Start with the outside cutlery and work inwards. Right. Got that. My God, I don’t think I washed my face-did I? Of all the –”

“Yes, you did,” said Thornhill gently, “after you put on your right sock. I distinctly remember. My dear chap, there is absolutely nothing to worry about – there are probably fifty people in there all fretting about their dresses and their hair and their finger-nails and the awful possibility that they may break wind accidentally in the royal presence, and not one of ’em looks as well as you do, take my word for it. Poor old Clayton – not two beans to rub together, and no hostess except that idiot flapper of a daughter, and the whole damned royal circus eating him out of house and home – how he’ll pay for it, heaven alone knows. And having to put up with the county riff-raff as well – atrocious people – and going mad at the thought that his cook’s liable to poison the King-Emperor! So you see – you have nothing to be alarmed about. Just watch the rest of ’em having silent hysterics; gloat, and enjoy yourself.”

“Yes,” said Mr Franklin. “All the same –”

“Nonsense,” said Thornhill firmly. “All right, Jack,” and as Mr Prior, coachman for the evening, snapped the reins, the trap moved smartly up the drive.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Mr Franklin. He had arrived at Thornhill’s door at about five o’clock, wearing an anxious frown, with the news that he was bidden to dine with royalty, and thereafter events had passed in a frantic mist. For perhaps the first time in his life, Mr Franklin admitted, he had been off balance and at a loss; the sudden social horror of his situation had come to him while he was driving back from the hunt – he had realized that his brief acquaintance with England had left him helpless in the face of the ordeal that awaited him; he had no notion of how royalty dined, or what might be expected of him as a guest; for all he knew it might be a banquet with gold plate and footmen in old-fashioned wigs – visions, which he knew were pure fantasy, of an enthroned monarch with people kneeling before him, had flashed across his disordered mind, and he had heard the voice of the town-crier thundering: “Mr Mark Franklin of the United States of America!” while a glittering throng of lords and ladies turned to regard him with amused disdain. At this point he had remembered Thornhill, and decided to appeal to him – and the dishevelled don, after his first bewilderment, had moved calmly and precisely, guiding Mr Franklin back to the manor, explaining that a country-house dinner for the King would be no more formal than a meal in a fashionable restaurant, that the American’s manners and bearing were perfectly equal to it (“damned sight better than most of ’em, moneyed bumpkins and decayed gentry’), and that provided he took care with his dress and behaved naturally, he had nothing to fear.

This had been vastly reassuring – still, it had seemed ridiculously unreal as he dressed himself in full evening rig of white tie and tails (thank God for the expert taste and guidance of Thomas Samson, valet extraordinary – that had been money well spent) while Thornhill had ferretted about finding studs and shoes and discoursing at large of the monarch’s personality, of bridge and billiards, of evening charades and party games, and anything else that Mr Franklin might conceivably find it useful to know.

“Never met our sovereign lord myself,” Thornhill had said. “Remember he came to college to open a new building once; looked bored to tears, poor old thing; can’t blame him. They say he’s genial, but a stickler for dress –” at this point Mr Franklin, adjusting his stiff-front shirt with ponderous care, had thrust his pearl and diamond pin into his thumb “-but you’re all right there, at any rate. Beautiful duds, my dear fellow.” He surveyed Mr Franklin with approval. “Just call him ‘sir’, be respectfully polite, and you’re home and dry.”

Then there had been the problem of a driver – Mr Franklin felt that the less exertion he had on the six-mile journey to Oxton, the better his collar and cuffs would like it, and he guessed that to entrust Thornhill with the reins would mean a short sharp trip to the nearest ditch. They had driven to the Apple Tree at night-fall, Thornhill had gone in and negotiated while Mr Franklin sat in the trap in the darkened village street wondering whatever had induced him to leave Nevada, and presently a crowd of astonished villagers had emerged to gape, with Jack Prior masterfully shouldering his way through them and mounting the trap with no more than a nod to its occupant. And now they were rolling up the drive to Oxton Hall, and Prior was stopping at a discreet distance from the motor-cars, three or four of them parked on the carriage-sweep with their engineers making their way round to the servants’ entrance.

“Got the thingummy for Mrs Keppel? Good for you – in you go then, old man.” Thornhill beamed through the dusk. “Don’t eat too much, and spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs, remember? Right-ho, Jack.”

Mr Franklin watched them drive away, took a firm grip of his small parcel, squared his shoulders, and marched up the steps to be received by an elderly butler, who took his hat, case, cloak, and name, in that order. And he was just glancing apprehensively at an open door across the hall, from which loud voices and laughter were drifting when the daughter of the house, resplendent in what looked like lilac satin, emerged rapidly from a door beneath the stairs, paused for breath, and cried out in relief at the sight of Mr Franklin.

“Thank heavens you’ve come! We thought you’d missed your way, and Kingie’s been asking for you – full of foxy jokes …” Peggy rolled her eyes. “Father has been bearing up manfully, poor old soul. It’s been an absolute frost, you know – the old Teddy Bear got his feet wet, and there were no ginger biscuits at tea – well, how was I to know that they’re practically a drug with him? – but fortunately Jinks Smith slipped on the stairs and fell all the way down, and that put our gracious King in a good temper again – Arthur says Jinks did it on purpose – you’re looking at my hair, what’s the matter with it?”

“I beg your pardon – why, nothing at all.” Mr Franklin had been noticing two things; one was that her hair, which he had thought fair, was a very pale auburn, so that piled up and around her face it looked like a monstrous halo; the other, that the angel face had just a hint of petulance around the small cupid’s mouth, as though a beautiful seraph had grown impatient of posing in Botticelli’s studio. “Your hair’s beautiful, Miss Clayton.”

“Oh, my, how formal!” She pulled a face. “I’m Peggy, you’re Mark, and no nonsense. ‘Miss Clayton’ – you’d think I was a governess, or somebody’s aunt. But come on – the King’s in there, so do your stuff.”

She took him by the arm, guiding him towards the door, stopping en route to make minute adjustments to her hair and the shoulders of her dress before the hall mirror. Mr Franklin remarked that there seemed to be a great many guests, and was disillusioned.

“Oh, the house is bursting with Arthur’s disky friends – we’ve got about twenty for the week-end, but don’t you worry, they’re well out of the way in the west wing. Can’t have them ragging and racketting in court circles, so there’s just about a dozen for dinner. Everyone else takes pot-luck in the old nursery.” Peggy twitched doubtfully at her neck-line. “Too much, too little – d’you think? Oh, it’ll do – Kingie’s stopped leering, anyway. Now, then.”

Clayton himself met them at the drawing-room door, with evident relief; Soveral was smiling at his elbow, and to Mr Franklin’s surprise the packet he had brought for Mrs Keppel was twitched surreptitiously from his hand. There seemed to be about a dozen people in the room, in evening clothes – there was the King, portly but immaculate, seated by the fire, puffing on a cigarette, with Mrs Keppel at his elbow, a Junoesque figure in crimson, with diamonds in her hair and sparkling on her celebrated bosom; Soveral was attracting her attention. Mr Franklin recognised some of the faces from the hunt – the stringy man, the stout man of whom he thought as “Colonel Dammit”, the scowling Lacy, various ladies, but none of them comparable with Peggy or Mrs Keppel. Beside him he was aware that Peggy was bobbing a slight curtsey; he forced himself to make a forward inclination which might pass for a bow if a bow was in order and wouldn’t be noticed if it was not. Then the small eyes were on him, and the other guests were willing him magnetically towards the fireplace.

“Ah, Franklin. Good evening to you.” Majesty was nodding. “Brought any more foxes?” There was polite laughter, and the King went on: “Now, you’re American – you can tell us – what do they say over there about votes for women?”

He isn’t smiling, thought Mr Franklin, but he’s looking affable. Everyone else was watching him, the men attentive, the women with frozen smiles, and he sensed the nervous under-current of the pre-prandial drawing-room. What to say? – he suddenly remembered the militant young lady outside the Waldorf.

“Well, sir, that depends.” His voice was unnaturally loud, and he made a conscious effort to speak normally. “If they’re single men, I guess they know better than to say anything – and if they’re married men, they don’t get much chance.”

In that moment he knew how a comedian feels when his first joke draws a roar from the pit; in fact, he was astonished that his fairly feeble response made the King chuckle, the ladies titter, and the gentlemen laugh aloud. God, he thought, do they expect me to be the droll Yankee? Well, I can’t do it – and at that moment he was rescued by an exclamation of delight from Mrs Keppel; she was turning from Soveral to stoop so that the King could examine the open box in her hands: Mr Franklin felt a tremor of anxiety at having his present submitted for the royal inspection.

“Look what Mr Franklin has brought me! Oh, they’re simply beautiful! How very, very kind of you, Mr Franklin!” The green eyes were glowing with genuine delight as she glanced up at him. “They’re silver – how absolutely gorgeous!”

“What on earth are they?” demanded the King.

“They’re spurs, sir,” Mr Franklin explained. “Mexican spurs – the kind the vaqueros use – Mexican cattlemen, that is.”

He reflected that he hadn’t hesitated a moment that evening when, remembering Soveral’s suggestion of a gift, he had hit on the notion of presenting his spurs to Mrs Keppel. They were silver, in fact, and he had spent twenty minutes, between shaving and putting on his shirt, in polishing them fiercely in the kitchen. They had come from that small collection of personal belongings in his valise, because somehow he had felt that a present with the giver’s brand of ownership on it was better than anything bought – and he had been in no position to buy anything, anyway; Laker’s stores and the Castle Lancing dairy carrying only a limited supply of trinkets for the haut monde, as Thornhill remarked.

“Extraordinary things.” The King had lifted one of the spurs from the box, and was spinning its big rowel which tinkled musically as it moved. “Care to go hunting in those, Arlesdon?”

“Rather not, sir. Bit conspicuous, I fancy.” There were murmurs of agreement, and Colonel Dammit remarked that they were barbarous-lookin’ things; Peggy said:

“Aren’t they dreadfully cruel – to the horse, I mean?”

“Not as cruel as the ones you were wearing today,” said Mr Franklin. “Those big rowels are blunt; they won’t even dent a horse’s hide.”

“Well, I shall certainly wear them, and they will make beautiful knick-knacks of decoration,” said Mrs Keppel, smiling warmly at Mr Franklin. The King was watching him curiously.

“You’ve been in Mexico? What were you doing there?”

Mr Franklin paused, in that distinguished little assembly, and then said with a smile: “Well, sir, I was what they call ‘on the prod’; just moving from place to place, doing this and that; punching cattle – that’s driving them, you know –”

“I know,” said the King. “But you’re not a cow-hand.”

“Why, no, sir. Most of the time, when my partner and I could raise the stake, we went prospecting – mining for silver, gold, in the sierras.”

“Extraordinary. A miner forty-niner, eh?” The King sat back in his chair. “May I have one of your cigarettes?”

Mr Franklin realized that quite unconsciously he had drawn his case from his pocket, and was turning it between his fingers. He hastened to open it; the King took the case and examined its contents.

“What’s this? ‘Colonel Bogey’? Don’t know them.” He put one between his lips, closed the case and examined it, before returning it.

“And then – you struck it rich? Isn’t that the expression?” He looked directly at Mr Franklin while Mrs Keppel lighted the cigarette for him.

“Not too badly, sir. We paid for our trip.”

“And for a trip to England?” The King puffed, coughed, and peered at the cigarette.

“Why, yes, sir. My family was English, a long time back.”

“Yes – Soveral was telling me you’ve brought a house. Now, most of our American visitors ‘do’ the sights, buy up Bond Street, take all the best shooting, and marry into the House of Lords.” The King coughed and chuckled. “Can’t blame the peers – marrying rich Americans is about all they’ll be able to do if Mr Lloyd George has his way. Eh, Halford? But –” to Mr Franklin again “– you mean to stay, I gather?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Remarkable.” The King coughed again, and regarded his cigarette. “Alice, you may stop rebuking me; I shall never smoke cigarettes again.”

“Never, sir!” Mrs Keppel made a pretty grimace of mock surprise. “I can’t believe that!”

“True, though.” The King replaced his cigarette, wheezing. “I shall cease smoking cigarettes, and smoke only ‘Colonel Bogeys’. I’m not sure what they are, but they’re certainly not cigarettes. Eh, Franklin?”

Mr Franklin smiled apologetically amidst the polite laughter, and the King went on:

“Do any hunting in Mexico?”

“Hardly, sir. But I have hunted in the Rocky Mountains.”

“Someone got a grizzly bear in his luncheon basket that time, did he?” The little eyes screwed up in royal mirth, the others applauded dutifully, and his majesty went on to say that that reminded him, what about dinner?

Sir Charles Clayton had been turning anxious glances towards the door for five minutes; Peggy had vanished, presumably to see what was happening in the kitchen. At this reminder Sir Charles looked wretched and muttered an apology, Mrs Keppel covered the embarrassed silence with a bright remark, and the King sat back, grumbling quietly. Mr Franklin, from his place by the mantelpiece, observed the looks that were being exchanged among the guests, marvelled inwardly at the curious atmosphere which, he supposed, must surround royalty even in this democratic age, and decided it was nothing to do with him. Should he offer the King another cigarette? – probably better not; the portly figure had disgruntlement written in every line of it now, and even Mrs Keppel was looking anxious. Clayton, who had aged five years in as many minutes, muttered another apology and fled from the room; there were a few muted whispers, a stifled laugh, and a growl from the King. The minutes ticked by; Mr Franklin wondered if he should offer conversation, but was restrained by a vague sense that one didn’t speak in the presence of royalty until spoken to. He made the most of his time by examining the King surreptitiously: how old was he? Around seventy, and in some ways he looked it; the beard was grey, although the moustache was still dark, but the face was heavily-veined and high living had puffed up the fat round eyes which, Mr Franklin reflected, were probably small and shrewd in a King, but in a commoner might well have been described as piggy. Powerful build, though, and vigorous enough apart from that cough; in the silence he could hear the asthmatic rustle – old man Davis had sounded just the same; come to think of it, if you put a red undervest on Edward VII, and a battered old hat, he’d pass for a Tonopah silver-hog anywhere. What would Davis have thought if he could see his partner now, hob-nobbing with royalty; what would his ghost be saying if it were at Mr Franklin’s shoulder …?

“That the King? The King? King of England? Well, goddamighty! Looks a likely old feller, don’t he? Knows a few songs an’ stories, I bet. And that she-male coo-in’ over him? Say, wherever did you see a pair o’ paps like those? Ain’t those the real artickles, them; and ain’t she the finest piece of meat you ever saw in a skirt? Why, the dirty old goat, she’s wasted on him! Say, wouldn’t I like to squire her to the Bella Union, though, an’ get her playful on whisky-punch? Yessir, she’d be a real playful lady …”

Mr Franklin became suddenly aware that the King was looking at him – God, had he been thinking aloud? But in fact his majesty was merely examining him speculatively; there was even a twinkle in his pouchy eyes. Presumably some happy thought had momentarily banished his sulky impatience for dinner.

“‘On the prod’, was it? Curious expression. Not the same thing as ‘on the dodge,’ though, I fancy?”

“No, sir. No, not at all,” said Mr Franklin, and despite himself he felt a tiny prickle on his spine. It occurred to him that in their brief conversation King Edward had probably found out more about him in two minutes than most people could have discovered in two years, and was even making a little humorous speculation. No, he hadn’t been on the dodge; not really – not until now, at any rate. And this tubby old gentleman had sensed it. It occurred to Mr Franklin that possibly being a king, and presumably spending a lifetime among statesmen and diplomats and ministers, probably did nothing to blunt a man’s native shrewdness; he was certainly nobody’s fool, this one. Fortunately Mr Franklin was spared any further embarrassing inquisition by the announcement of dinner, at which royalty heaved up gratefully, and even beamed at the slightly flustered Peggy.

“Trouble below stairs?” inquired the King playfully, as he took her arm, and Peggy admitted that the cook had had a little trouble with the ptarmigan.

“Oh,” said the King. “Ptarmigan.” It was said with a weight of gloom which caused Mrs Keppel to raise her eyebrows; to Mr Franklin’s surprise she offered her arm to him, and he found himself pacing behind the King with the King’s mistress for his escort, while she enthused again about his gift of spurs. She had, in fact, been rather sorry for Mr Franklin, cut off and presumably out of his depth during the royal sulk, and exerted herself to put him at his ease – and the effect of Alice Keppel, when she set herself to charm, was such that Mr Franklin took his seat at dinner feeling quite ashamed at himself for allowing old Davis’s lewd thoughts to run through his mind.

Dinner, to his relief, was far less of an ordeal than he had expected. It was served at an enormous round table in what even Mr Franklin recognized as being a rather shabby dining-room; with frontier insight he guessed that the silver and crockery had probably been hired from Norwich or even London for the occasion; it was rather too splendid for its surroundings. He was seated about halfway round from the King, who was flanked by Mrs Keppel and another lady; Peggy, as hostess, sat approximately opposite the royal chair, next to Mr Franklin. To his surprise, she exhibited none of the nervousness that he would have expected; her slight disorder immediately before dinner, she explained to him sotto voce over the soup, had been the result of what she described as a flaming row with that bloody cook, and the bitch could pack her traps in the morning. Mr Franklin considered this gravely, and remarked that the soup was extremely good.

“D’you think so? Well, I’m glad someone’s pleased. Frankly, I don’t give a damn if the whole meal’s inedible.” Peggy sipped at her spoon and leaned forward, smiling brightly, to answer Lord Arlesdon, seated farther round the table. “I mean, it’s all just too horrid-ino for words, isn’t it?” she went on to Mr Franklin. “Why did he have to come here for the night, when he could have stayed with the Albemarles, or at Elveden? It would have been bad enough, even if Mummy had still been alive, but as it is … well, I’m not up to playing mother-hen, and I don’t care who knows it.” She laid down her spoon and pulled a face. “Poor old Daddy – how he’s suffering!”

Sir Charles was certainly showing signs of strain, Mr Franklin reflected. He was sitting beside Mrs Keppel, smiling mechanically as she talked, but every few seconds his eye would stray towards the King, who had finished his soup and was studying the empty plate with deep melancholy, crumbling a roll. Sir Charles bit his lip and turned back to Mrs Keppel, but by now she was talking to a slight, vacant-looking man across the table.

“That’s Jinks Smith, the royal whipping-boy,” murmured Peggy in answer to Mr Franklin’s inquiry. “And beside father is Lady Topping, and then Lord Arlesdon, who’ll be a duke some day and is supposed to be a prize catch, and then that distinguished American – what’s his name? Franklin, of course – and then Miss Peggy Clayton, who is going mad trying to catch the butler’s eye – oh thank goodness he’s noticed, so with any luck we’ll get the pâté before midnight. Then the Marquis de Soveral you know, and Halford, who’s the King’s equerry, and Mrs Jensen, and Ponsonby, and Smith and Viscountess Dalston. Cosy, isn’t it? The seating is all wrong – that’ll be another fault, no doubt – far too few ladies, and several distinguished gentlemen are not dining – do you know why? Simply because there isn’t room – so the Honourable George Keppel for one isn’t here, nor Lord Dalston, and if it weren’t for Daddy’s sake I wouldn’t be either. It … it makes one feel so small – knowing that things aren’t up to scratch, and that Halford and Ponsonby will be looking at each other later and sighing ever so wearily.” Peggy stabbed moodily at her pâté as though it, too, had sighed. “Arthur’s well out of it – lucky dog. He and the others will be having a jolly good time in the nursery.” She sighed. “Oh, who cares?”

Mr Franklin was not certain whether to take these confidences as a compliment or not; he guessed she would have gone to the stake rather than make them to one of her English acquaintances, but presumably he, not being of that charmed circle, and therefore unimportant, was a suitable recipient. But he could guess that for all her pretended indifference, the strain of preparing for the King’s visit, of minor crises about ginger biscuits and ptarmigan, of anxiety about being thought “not up to scratch”, of imagining arch looks and raised eyebrows, must be considerable even on this self-confident young beauty; it all mattered, in her world.

“I’m sorry your brother isn’t here,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll see him later on, though?”

Peggy giggled. “He’ll probably want to fight you again, if you do. I think he was awfully disappointed that you wouldn’t square up to him this afternoon.”

“I can imagine. And I’d guess he’s a pretty useful scrapper, too.”

“Oh, he was Universities Heavy-weight Champion – before he went to Sandhurst.” She smiled mischievously. “So perhaps it’s just as well you didn’t take him on.”

But Mr Franklin was not to be drawn. “Yes, just as well, I guess. For one thing, he seems like a nice fellow. And I make it a rule never to fight a nice fellow in front of his sister.”

“Why ever not?”

“Well, if he beats you, she won’t admire you – and if you beat him, she won’t like you.”

But Peggy was not to be drawn either. She smiled and sipped her white wine. “I take it your rule applies only with brothers and sisters. If it had been Frank Lacy?”

“Who? Oh, ‘milord”, the polite one. No, I guess I wouldn’t have minded too much if he’d become violent – for a moment this afternoon I thought he was going to.”

“You mean you hoped he was going to. I was watching, remember – do you know, Jarvie said you looked ready to do murder?” She laughed cheerfully. “Were you?”

“Not quite.” He glanced round the table. “Where is he, by the way? – he looked like the kind who would get fitted in somehow.”

“Oh, he was – until the King invited you to dinner. You’re occupying his place, you know.” She eyed him with amusement. “He wasn’t very pleased, I can tell you.”

Mr Franklin studied her thoughtfully. “No, he wouldn’t be. Would this be … his usual place?”

“He thinks it ought to be,” said Peggy carelessly. “And what Frank thinks ought to be – well, ought to be, you know.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind in the least, I may say. Do him good to have his nose out of joint for a change – Frank thinks he owns the earth, as well as half the county.”

“I see.” Mr Franklin nodded pensively, and found himself glancing across at Sir Charles. “Not two beans to rub together,” Thornhill had said, and it was confirmed by what he had seen. Good-looking daughter, wealthy young landowner showing interest – uh-huh. No wonder Sir Charles’s enforced invitation had been chilly. But his daughter didn’t seem to mind; Mr Franklin imagined that she was not the kind to be a dutiful child unless it suited her, or that she would find a nature like Lord Lacy’s to be entirely to her taste. He turned to look at her; she was catching the butler’s eye, and fish was coming to replace the pâté. She met Mr Franklin’s look and sighed.

“Let us pray for the success of poached salmon,” she said solemnly. “Cook wanted trout, but I overruled her, and it would be just like her to ruin it. Oh, well, if Kingie doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it, and that’s that.”

Mr Franklin considered his fish, and took a sip of his wine. “You don’t care for entertaining too much?”

“Not this sort – well, who would? It’s like having a particularly bad-tempered baby on one’s hands. Oh, I know he can be jolly enough, but he sulks so much, and shows how bored he is, and the people who traipse about after him are the giddy limit. Mrs Keppel’s a darling, and the Marquis is a pet …” She turned to Soveral and said: “I’m just telling Mr Franklin how divvy you are, marquis. Aren’t you flattered?”

Soveral laughed and bowed. “Alas, I am far too fierce-looking, and far too grown-up to be ‘divvy’ any longer, Miss Peggy. Don’t you agree, Mr Franklin?”

“I might if I knew what divvy meant,” said Mr Franklin, and was promptly informed by his hostess that it was short for divine. “I don’t know what we’d do without the Marquis and La Keppel, anyway,” Peggy went on. “But isn’t it ghastly, so many people having to kowtow and scrape and butter up, just to keep one odious old man from being thoroughly ill-natured all the time?”

Mr Franklin stole a glance at the table, but everyone was talking animatedly, presumably to compensate for the royal silence, and Peggy’s indiscretions went unheard. “Well, he doesn’t seem too bad, you know,” he said. “I guess when I’m his age I’ll be pretty cranky, too.” Privately, he thought on short acquaintance that his majesty had probably had too much of his own way all his life, but no doubt that went with kingship, he decided. The King, after a mouthful of his fish, had laid down his fork and was muttering to Mrs Keppel, who preserved her bland smile in the face of what was obviously a royal complaint.

“Wait till he’s had the ptarmigan pie, and he’ll wish he’d eaten his fish,” remarked Peggy. “Did you ever see anything so disagreeable? I mean, honestly, even if the fish is rotten, would you sit mumping like that if you had Alice beside you, positively slaving to cheer you up?”

“I hope not. I’d try not to, anyway.”

“I think she’s a gorgeous creature,” said Peggy, looking across the table. “And one of those lucky people who are even nicer than they look.”

He smiled at her. “You don’t need to be jealous, you know. She’s not the prettiest girl in this room.”

“Oh, come off it!” Peggy glanced at him sidelong, and her mouth took on the tiny sneer which he had noticed in the hall, but she looked pleased nonetheless. “Every woman would be jealous of looking like that, including yours truly. Anyway, look where it’s got her.”

“Is that such a happy position? I wonder what Mr Keppel thinks about it.”

She turned to stare at him, and the little sneer seemed to him even more marked; at that, he decided, that angel face was still something that Mrs Keppel, for all her beauty, might have envied.

“Don’t tell me you’re shocked? A Puritan Uncle Sam? Really!” She shrugged. “Well, I suppose he feels quite honoured, don’t you?”

“I can’t imagine it. Can’t see that any man would be. In fact, I feel sorry for him. And for Mrs Keppel. Don’t you? I mean, would …” He realized what he had been going to say, and stopped. “I beg your pardon. I …”

“You were going to say, ‘would I, if I were Mrs Keppel’, weren’t you?” He was slightly shocked to see that she was regarding him with amusement. She glanced across the table. “It’s a dreadful thought. Still, if I were her age, I suppose I might. I don’t know.”

Mr Franklin felt decidedly uncomfortable. He was far from being a prude, by his own lights, but that had nothing to do with it. What he disliked was what seemed to him a deliberate display of cynicism, assumed by this lovely young woman presumably because it was the smart, advanced thing to do; it was so much part of the hard, artificial atmosphere which he could feel round that dinner-table, and it annoyed him quite unreasonably. How old was she? Nineteen, perhaps twenty, and she was trying to pretend that she held the views and values of the women who made up the royal circle – well, he didn’t know what they were like, but he could guess. Peggy was so obviously not their sort, and he felt somehow demeaned that she should try to convince him that she was. Still, she was young, and no doubt it was natural enough that she should want to appear worldly; it couldn’t be easy for a young girl, having to play hostess to the smartest set in the world for a week-end. Mr Franklin began to eat his ptarmigan pie. It was awful, and automatically he glanced towards the King, to see how it was being received there. Sure enough, his majesty was looking displeased; his pie was untouched, and he was staring round the table, frowning.

“Thirteen,” said the King suddenly; he said it loudly, and everyone stopped talking. “Thirteen,” he repeated, and then to Mrs Keppel: “Alice, there are thirteen of us at dinner.”

“Oh, dear,” said Mrs Keppel brightly. “I never noticed. Well …”

The King muttered irritably, picked up his fork, glared at his ptarmigan pie, put down his fork, and pulled his napkin away fretfully. “I don’t like having thirteen at dinner,” he exclaimed petulantly. “Don’t people know that?”

There was dead silence round the table, broken by a sharp clatter as one of the servants at the buffet dropped a spoon. Everyone was looking at the table-cloth, except for Sir Charles, who was gazing in consternation at his daughter. Mr Franklin raised his glass and stole a sidelong glance at her; she was looking straight ahead, her face pale. Mr Franklin was beginning to wonder if he had heard right; was the King seriously objecting because the guests made up an unlucky number? Evidently he was, for Mrs Keppel suddenly said, looking across at Peggy:

“Perhaps we could have another place set, my dear? If your brother would join us? Then we should be fourteen, and …” She made a gesture that combined apology, appeal, and whimsicality all in one, but the King was growling beside her, apparently indicating that his dinner was spoiled.

“Oh, stop it, Alice. It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but it does! I feel ever so uncomfortable myself when there are thirteen.”

“Unlucky,” said one of the men helpfully. “Thirteen.”

“I’ll send for Arthur,” Peggy was beginning, and Mr Franklin could hear the trembling snap in her voice; careful, King, he thought, or you’re liable to get a plateful of ptarmigan pie where you won’t like it. He suddenly wanted to laugh aloud; it was too foolish for words, but although there was a variety of expressions on the faces round the table, astonishment was not among them. Sir Charles, who had been so cool and precise and assured this afternoon, was literally pulling at his collar, and preparing to get to his feet, but he was forestalled from an unexpected quarter.

The insignificant-looking Smith was rising. “No, no, not necessary; I’ve a much better idea.” He bowed towards the King. “With your permission, sir, I’ll take my dinner over there, on that corner table. Then there’ll only be twelve, what?”

“Shall I join you, Jinks?” said Soveral quickly, and Mrs Keppel, laughing, cried: “No, no, Jinks, it’s too silly!” but Smith was on his feet, beckoning one of the servants, telling him to mind and not spill his glass, indicating the corner table, and people were laughing as though at some excellent joke. Mr Franklin sat stupefied, watching Smith bustling about, directing the servants, until they had transferred his place to the small table by the buffet, and he had seated himself, pulling comical faces, holding his knife and fork like a caricature of a hungry small boy, and then waving to Peggy and calling: “Toodleoo, old thing! It’s ever so jolly over here!”

The King had slewed round in his chair to look at him. “Jinks,” he said, “you’re an ass.”

“Of course, sir!” cried Smith. “Here, where’s my ptarmigan pie?”

“You can have mine, if you like,” said the King, and taking up his plate he placed it on the floor beside his chair. “Come on, Fido!” he snapped his fingers. “Come, boy! There’s a good doggie!”

Smith said “Woof! woof!”, and Mr Franklin almost expected him to drop on all fours and crawl across the floor, but at that moment the King turned back to the table. He was laughing, and of course the table was laughing, too, including Peggy. Mr Franklin suddenly realized that his own features were twisted into an expression of mirth – he hurriedly took a drink, and plunged into conversation with Lord Arlesdon. What he said, he had no idea, but it occurred to him later that his lordship was almost certainly not listening. What Mr Franklin was thinking was, I don’t believe this, but I know it’s happening. Presently he took stock of the table again; the flow of conversation had resumed, the King was actually eating heartily and talking loudly to Mrs Keppel while he shovelled away at his plate, Peggy was laughing at something that Soveral was saying – and over by the buffet Smith was clamouring for another helping, and being treated to various sallies from the male guests on that side of the table. Mr Franklin continued his meal, determined not to meet anyone’s eye.

“You see what I mean?” murmured Peggy quietly. “Do you know what I think I should do, if it weren’t for Daddy? I think,” she went on dreamily, “that when the ices came I should take one and smear it all over his fat, ugly, piggy, nasty little face. Wouldn’t that be splendid?”

“Don’t they put you in the Tower for that sort of thing?” wondered Mr Franklin.

“They put you on the front page of the Express,” said Peggy. “Ah, well, daydreams, daydreams. However, he seems happy enough for the moment, the old beast.” The King’s deep laugh boomed across the table, and a moment later Peggy was laughing animatedly with Mrs Keppel, and calling across a gay inquiry to the distant Smith a fatuity about his not wanting an ice since he was dining in Siberia, which provoked a royal chuckle.

His majesty was equally affable when the time came for the ladies to rise, bowing to Peggy as they withdrew and complimenting her on a capital dinner, absolutely capital; she in turn bestowed on him a dazzling smile and curtsied magnificently in the doorway with a rustle of skirts and a gleam of white shoulders and bosom as she sank beneath the approving monarchial eye. As the door closed the gentlemen moved in to those seats nearest the King’s, Mr Franklin making haste to follow. But when Smith would have joined them, he was waved away by the royal hand.

“No, no, Fido; dirty little doggies don’t sit round for their port. Here, come to heel – come on, there’s a good boy.” He took up a decanter and saucer, turning his chair and stooping with difficulty to fill the saucer at his feet. “Now then, Fido,” the King beckoned with the cigar which Ponsonby had lit for him, while the others crowded round his chair, “come and get drinkies, there’s a good dog! Come on!”

Smith dropped obediently on all fours, and scuttled across the carpet making joyful barking noises. As he began to lap up the port, his face in the saucer, the King gravely tilted the decanter and poured its contents over the courtier’s head. There were roars of laughter as Smith shook himself like a retriever, splashing port broadcast, the King crying out in disgust and protesting boisterously that he was a dirty dog, and not fit to be in a gentleman’s dining-room. Then, good humour at its height, Soveral chuckling genially while his dark eyes strayed watchfully, Sir Charles wearing a fixed grin, and the rest chortling loudly at Smith’s discomfiture, they settled down to their cigars and conversation. Smith was permitted to take a seat, amidst much boorish banter and shoving, and was soon deep in animated talk with his neighbour, oblivious of the sticky, plastered condition of his hair, and the wine which continued to trickle down his face on to his soaked shirt-front. Mr Franklin contemplated the wine-sodden figure, the pallid face, and the nervous, unnaturally bright eyes which occasionally met his own only to slide quickly away – and wondered.

They were not long over their port. The banalities of conversation soon bored even the King, who presently heaved himself up and led the way to the drawing-room, where the ladies were assembled. Here his majesty took a fresh cigar, coughed resoundingly and announced: “Bridge. All right, Soveral? And let’s see – Alice, are you ready? That’s three –” and as he surveyed the company Mr Franklin was conscious of a tremor in his stomach. With luck one of the others … “No, no, Halford, I haven’t forgotten – you trumped my queen last week. Where’s our American friend? Ah, there you are, Franklin – come on!”

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.

“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 table Kid Curry 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.