The Matters at Mansfield

Four

Darcy shifted in his chair and stole what he hoped was a discreet glimpse at his pocketwatch. Midnight — a mere six minutes since his last covert glance. His suspicions were confirmed.

He would die at this card table.

Before evening’s end, his hair would prematurely grey, his muscles would atrophy in his chair, and his mind would utterly collapse under the exertion of attending Lord Sennex’s play as closely as his own. Quadrille had been the worst possible choice of game; the viscount was incapable of remembering not only the current trump suit for each hand, but also the resulting changes in card rankings. Indeed, his lordship, apparently unable to retain so much as which game they played, repeatedly attempted to capture tricks as if they competed at whist.

Darcy wished they were playing whist — at the next table, with the viscount’s son. Not only was it a more straightforward game, but Mr. Sennex could have shared the responsibility of keeping his father focused. A son might more easily correct a member of the peerage without constant apprehension over inadvertently giving offense. However, their party had entered the card room while Mr. Sennex was in the middle of a rubber, and Lady Catherine had seized the opportunity to form the only table devoted to the outmoded game of her youth.

A self-satisfied smile crossed her ladyship’s countenance as she led the final trick of the hand. Everyone waited for Lord Sennex, who sat on her right, to set down his sole remaining card. Play in quadrille, unlike whist, moved counterclockwise.

When it moved at all.

After eight hands, one would think Lord Sennex could retain at least that simple fact, but like most subjects, his grasp of it seemed to surface only at irregular intervals.

“My lord?” Darcy finally prompted.

“Oh — it is my turn! Of course.” He dropped his card onto the table. “Remind me again — which tour is this?”

“We are just ending the second.”

“Of how many?”

“Ten.”

Ten tours. Forty hands. Though the players could have agreed upon a shorter game, Lady Catherine had insisted upon the customary number. By the time they finished this contest, Darcy would be hosting Lily-Anne’s betrothal ball.

Miss Jenkinson played her own remaining card and Darcy quickly followed. He hoped his impatience did not show.

To compound the ordeal, it seemed Darcy’s lot to repeatedly draw Lord Sennex as his partner. Darcy had been dealt fair hands, but none strong enough to take the minimum six tricks solo. So each time he won the bid, he called a king to form a temporary alliance with whoever held the named card. The unknown ally’s identity was supposed to be revealed through play that supported the caller, but the instances in which the viscount helped Darcy capture tricks were entirely accidental. Lord Sennex’s inattention had caused Darcy to lose three hands — and considerable additional stakes in penalty.

Lady Catherine and Miss Jenkinson, in contrast, somehow managed to call each other’s kings each time either of them won the bid. Not only were the two ladies more practiced players of quadrille than the gentlemen, but their countless evenings thus spent at Rosings attuned them so precisely to each other’s particular style of play that when partnered they formed an unstoppable alliance. They had declared and won the vole — taken all ten tricks — each time, collecting bonus winnings in addition to the hands’ original pools.

While the secrecy and changing allegiances of quadrille utterly confused the viscount, Lady Catherine thrived on them.

Darcy understood why it was her favorite game.

Her ladyship collected the trick, adding it to the nine in front of her.

“We won another vole!” Lord Sennex exclaimed. “You may call my king again anytime.”

“My lord, I named a king I held myself — the king of clubs.”

“Did you now? I thought you called the king of diamonds.”

“That was the previous hand, my lord.”

“Oh, dear. Well, nothing to do about it now. So you called a king to make us think you had an ally, when in fact you secretly played solo? Very clever, I daresay. You are a formidable opponent, Lady Anne.”

An awkward silence followed. Darcy was unsure whether Lord Sennex had confused Lady Catherine with her sister, the late Lady Anne, or with Lady Catherine’s daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh.

His aunt’s expression indicated similar uncertainty.

No one ventured to correct the viscount outright.

“You will no doubt find my daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh, an able cardplayer. I cannot imagine what prevents her from joining us. I begin to suspect that Mrs. Darcy forgot to inform her that we await her here.”

“Mrs. Darcy may be relied upon to deliver the message,” Darcy said. Whether she delivered it in a fashion Lady Catherine would consider timely was another matter entirely.

“Anne is very fond of quadrille. We play at Rosings whenever we can make up a table.”

“I cannot say that I care for it,” said the viscount. “Never knowing who is one’s ally and who is one’s foe, the rules changing with each hand, and one’s strength dependent upon the random collection of cards one is dealt. Now chess — chess is my game: a clear contest between two equally matched foes, facing each other across a defined battlefield where each man has his role and the challenge ends when one of the primaries falls. My favorite piece is the rook — the only one that can castle with the king. I do not suppose Miss de Bourgh plays chess?”

“No. But had she learned, I am sure she would be a skillful player.”

His lordship sighed. “She knows only cards, I suppose. Does she play whist? Neville favors whist.”

“She does. Mr. Sennex will find her a worthy partner in all respects.”

Precisely when Mr. Sennex might have occasion to engage in a game of whist with Miss de Bourgh or anyone else in their party, Darcy could not speculate. A match certainly would not occur this evening. He was firmly entrenched at his own table and had not so much as glanced in his father’s direction since they sat down.

Lady Catherine collected her winnings. While they had agreed to low stakes, bonuses for the vole and solo win had made this a relatively expensive hand. Miss Jenkinson’s previous successes kept her well in the black, but the viscount remitted his fish wistfully, the sting of loss all the sharper for not collecting a partner’s share of the win to which he thought he had contributed.

Darcy eyed his own dwindling stack of counters. His pocketbook could certainly afford the losses; for that matter, so could his self-respect. This was his aunt’s game, and she had bested him many an evening in her own drawing room. Whatever he might think of Lady Catherine herself, her command of quadrille was without question, and in any contest there was no shame in losing to a superior opponent. He knew he should simply resign himself to an unsatisfying game, execute the motions of play without thoughts of victory. But for Darcy, playing at all meant playing to win. It was not in his character to perform at less than full measure in any endeavor, and he could no more underplay a hand and decline the challenge posed by each fresh round of cards than neglect any other test of intellect that presented itself.

His aunt placed a counter and fish into the basket and shuffled the cards for a new deal. Darcy and Miss Jenkinson also anted. Lord Sennex nodded and smiled.

“The opening stake, my lord?” Darcy prompted.

“What? Oh! Yes, yes.” The viscount dropped his counter into the basket with the others and chuckled. “Cannot have anyone accuse me of being light.”

Darcy collected his cards. It was a strong hand; if he took the bid he could probably win without a partner. Strategically, the other three players would form a tacit alliance, working together to prevent his success so that they could split the pool if he failed, but that was part of the challenge.

He waited for Lord Sennex to open the bidding.

And waited.

“Your lordship possesses the eldest hand,” Darcy finally prompted.

Lord Sennex regarded him oddly, then glanced at his own wrinkled fingers. “I suppose I do.”

“Do you care to bid?”

“Oh! No, I pass.”

Darcy won the right to declare trump, and play proceeded to the accompaniment of Lady Catherine’s unremitting discourse.

“Have you ever visited Kent, my lord?”

“I do not believe I have.”

“You will find it beautiful country. I confess that I missed the northern landscapes when I first wed Sir Lewis and moved to Rosings, but now I feel equally at home in both settings. Anne will be the same, when she has been mistress of her own home for a while. A woman adjusts rapidly to new surroundings, provided she marries within her sphere.”

Darcy heard this last statement as a deliberate slight to Elizabeth, whom Lady Catherine yet resented for her perceived usurpation of Anne’s rightful place as his wife, but he ignored the remark rather than dignify it with the response she sought to provoke. He instead would exact reprisal in the form of a more direct blow to his aunt’s overweening pride. A sound defeat in this hand, delivered while she rattled on about a hypothetical future home of which Anne was in no way of becoming mistress anytime soon, would constitute a fair requital.

Why his aunt had embarked upon the present subject eluded him. To Darcy’s knowledge, Miss de Bourgh had no current marriage prospects, and at the age of eight-and-twenty stood in considerable danger of entering permanent spinsterhood. But he could devote no more thought to the matter if he wanted to win the hand, which he fully intended to do.

“My late wife never appreciated Hawthorn Manor,” said Lord Sennex. “She was too attached to the home of her birth.”

“Anne will not have that problem.”

That, Darcy believed. He had always found Rosings to reflect the character of its mistress — all pomp and grandeur, with little warmth to solicit nostalgia or any other tender sentiment.

Darcy evaluated his remaining cards. He had taken the first six tricks and now faced a decision: whether to end the hand at this point and collect only the original pool, or attempt to take them all. If he continued the hand and succeeded, he would win a substantial bonus pool, but if he failed, his opponents would split the side stake.

He mentally reviewed the cards that had been used and who had played them. His opponents were out of trump, but two high cards remained unaccounted for. He believed Lady Catherine held them, though heaven only knew whether the viscount had been following suit throughout the hand. Continuing would require Darcy’s full concentration.

He led a seventh card.

A noisy discussion erupted at Neville’s table. Darcy did his best to bar it from his mind, but it soon reached a level that made it impossible to ignore. Neville addressed Sir John Trauth, one of his whist opponents, in a hot tone.

“You scratched your chin!” Neville’s small eyes narrowed still more as his flaccid countenance distorted in resentment.

“It itches.”

Neville rose to his feet. Short of stature, he gained the intimidation of height only when confronting a seated adversary, as Sir John remained. “You have scratched it twice whilst holding an ace.”

Sir John, for fifty years known throughout the neighborhood as a forthright man, remained calm under Neville’s ire. “Have I done so, I assure you the reflex was entirely coincidental. If losing the rubber disappoints you, examine your own play.”

“At least I played an honest hand.”

“Do you accuse me of cheating, Sennex?”

Silence claimed the room as all waited to hear Neville’s response. To accuse a gentleman of dishonesty at cards was a grave matter: Settling the issue via pistols at dawn was not unheard of. Dueling might be illegal, but that did not prevent its practice.

“Eh, what was that?” Although the question had been directed to Mr. Sennex, it caught the attention of his father. The viscount, seated with his back to Neville’s table, turned round in his chair. “Is that Neville? What is this commotion?”

No one, including Neville, ventured to answer him. Though his mind might have begun to fail him, the viscount still commanded the respect due a peer of the realm, and nobody wanted to disillusion a father about the poor sportsmanship of his son.

Lord Sennex gripped the table’s edge and slowly pushed himself to his feet. “It sounds as if there is some sort of dispute. Neville, what is transpiring?”

“A minor disagreement, that is all.”

“With Sir John? Why, he has been our friend since — since I do not know when. What can you possibly be arguing about with Sir John?”

Neville stared at Sir John a long time, his pique still evident. Finally, he said, “Nothing. It is over.”

“Is it, Sir John?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, I am glad it is settled, whatever it was. What is everybody looking at? Have you not your own games to attend to?”

The silence was broken by the riffle of cards and clacking of fish as all returned to their games. All the players, that is, except those at two tables.

Sir John rose from his seat. “I believe I have done with cards for the night. I am returning to the ballroom.” His partner made a similarly quick exit.

In the wake of their departure, Neville addressed his own partner, who was also leaving. “Surely you observed the same behavior as I?”

“Regrettably, I cannot say that I did.”

Lord Sennex and his son both remained standing. Elder regarded younger with resignation; son regarded father with indignation.

“How dare Sir John humiliate me? He a mere knight? And you — you abetted him with your interference.”

“A gentleman’s honor is his most sacred possession. It should not be challenged lightly.”

“I have had enough of your preaching about honor for a lifetime. And enough of your directing my affairs.”

“Neville, rein in your anger. This is a night for celebration, after all.” The viscount gestured toward Lady Catherine. “Join our table. Perhaps you would like to take my place at quadrille?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Neville—”

Mr. Sennex clenched his jaw, struggling to check his ire. After a moment, he addressed Lady Catherine. “I beg your ladyship’s pardon, but as you can see, I am in no mood for celebration at present. Tomorrow, however, I shall place myself at your disposal for quadrille or any other diversion in which you or Miss de Bourgh care to indulge.”

“Very well, Mr. Sennex. I shall hold you to that promise.”

He bowed. To his father, he said, “I am going home. I will send the carriage back to collect you.”

The viscount watched him leave, then sank into his chair. He picked up his cards and played on Darcy’s long-forgotten lead. “Lady Catherine, I apologize for my son’s behavior. He is not generally ill-humored. You need have no misgivings about our earlier business.”

Lady Catherine snapped down her card with such force she nearly bent it. “I hope not. Else I shall be sending an express to my solicitor countermanding this morning’s documents—”

Miss Jenkinson having played, Darcy collected the trick and glanced at his cards, trying to recall what he had intended to lead next. After such an extended disruption, he could no longer remember with certainty which cards remained in play.

“—and another to Mr. Collins canceling the banns.”

Darcy’s head jerked up. His gaze shifted between his aunt and the viscount as if he watched a game of shuttlecock.

“I assure you,” Lord Sennex said, “that is not necessary.”

“All the same, perhaps we ought to postpone the date.”

“There is no sense in postponing happiness. Besides, one month from today will have Neville home in time for the opening of foxhunting season, which will put him in especially good temper.”

“Miss de Bourgh is the granddaughter of an earl. Her wedding will not be scheduled around the pursuit of vermin.”

“Of course not.”

“Mr. Darcy, are you ever going to lead the next trick?”

Darcy stared at his aunt. Miss de Bourgh and Neville Sennex? He had never suspected such a partnership was forming. Lady Catherine was a craftier strategist than even he had realized.

“It seems that you and his lordship have effected an alliance that goes well beyond this game.”

“Yes. Your cousin has just become engaged to Mr. Sennex.”

“I shall be sure to wish her joy when I return to the ballroom.” He withdrew the queen of spades from his hand.

“Kindly defer your congratulations until the morrow.”

He dropped the card onto the table. “May I ask why?”

“Anne does not yet know.”

With a triumphant flourish, Lady Catherine played the king of spades, overriding Darcy’s queen and defeating his attempt at the vole.

“You should have called my king, Mr. Darcy. Have you not yet come to understand that you are far better off with me as an ally than as an opponent?” She collected the trick and placed it in front of her.

“That is, if you want to win.”