Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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