“Then allow me to initiate you into the practice known as sinking,” Mr. Darcy said,
Helen was fascinated to learn that when counting the hand, a player is not compelled to declare all that he holds. It is in order to mislead one’s opponent by declaring less than one holds and to conceal thereby one’s strength. Mr. Darcy pointed out that Mr. Vest could have employed that practice during the declaring of a strong hand he held during the second partie.
“So you knew that Mr. Vest had the spade guard,” she said pointedly.
“Only after he played his hand,” Mr. Darcy said smoothly.
She raised one mobile brow in disbelief. Since she would never get him to admit that he had lost to Mr. Vest on purpose, she asked only, “Is not sinking a form of cheating?”
“Not at all!” Mr. Darcy responded. “It is accepted practice, especially in the very best play.”
Helen considered his. “Well, I suppose that you are right, but I should think one must still guard against cheating in such situations.”
“Oddly enough,” Mr. Darcy commented, “the cheater rarely plays at this level of refinement.”
“Are you so acquainted with cheaters?” she asked archly.
“One must be!” he replied, ignoring her jibe. “For they always turn up. I am sure that I have seen them all, from the back-alley pantaloon and the easily detected bungler to the smooth professional cheat, and I have not seen one among them who was an excellent card player. If they were, they would not resort to cheating.”
This made sense to Helen, and she said so. “But I had always thought of the card-sharp as someone of intelligence. That is to say, it is no mean feat to be able to remember where all the cards are in the deck when one has stacked it!”
“The sharper does not live who can riffle the pack and retain in his memory the location of every card.” Mr. Darcy laughed. “As a matter of fact, knowing—absolutely knowing—the position of just one card, say the knave of diamonds at the bottom of the deck, will give the skilled cheat an amazing advantage.”
Her attention was fairly caught, and Helen drew Mr. Darcy out of the intricacies of cheating, for which all opportunities seemed to take place either during the shuffling or the dealing. She soon announced herself ready to play, but refused any suggestion of stakes, monetary or otherwise. She found herself having to concentrate very hard, but Mr. Darcy was a patient player and did not rush her. Her efforts paid off very well, for at the end of the first partie, she was down by only a respectable fifty points, a loss far from disastrous.
The second round went much better for her, a little too much better. And she won more during the last hand.
“Piqued, repiqued, and capoted,” Mr. Darcy said, taking his defeat with the same composure as his victories. “I suppose this proves that my luck is not in this evening.”
Helen did not look at all gratified by her win. “Your luck, fiddlesticks!” she said with a frown. “You let me win, just as you saved me from the rubicon in the last partie. And just as you allowed Mr. Vest to win!”
“I did nothing of the sort,” he replied calmly. “Shall we try another partie? Your deal, I believe.”
She accepted the cards with a mischievous light in her eye.
“And no crimping or shifting on the cut, if you please,” he admonished her.
“As if I would!” Helen cried, a model of outraged virtue.
The play was smooth and quick, and Helen observed at various intervals how she was getting the hang of it now. In the end, she found herself far ahead.
“I win!” she declared with satisfaction. “The game and the partie!”
“Yes, but you must learn to palm the cards on your deals less conspicuously,” Mr. Darcy said placidly.
“Oh! You noticed!”
“I should hardly fail to detect a technique I taught you myself,” he replied reasonably. “But on all three deals, my dear? Really, Nell!”
“Can you not be fair, Mr. Darcy?” Helen complained.
“I am compelled to remind you that cheating is not generally included in the notion of fair play, Miss Denville.”
Helen was conversant with the gentleman’s code of honour, but she was a practical-minded female. “But, Mr. Darcy,” she said seriously, spreading her cards on the table, “how was I to beat you if I did not equalize the terms?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NEXT MORNING passed uneventfully. It was even, to Helen’s way of thinking, a very pleasant morning. She and Mr. Darcy broke their fast in a leisurely fashion, and then decided to take a stroll together through the village. Arms linked, they proceeded to make their way down the main street towards a pretty copse in whose depths meandered the much-maligned Inkleford, meeting along the way such notables as Miss Sarah Canfield, who chattily identified herself as a cousin to Mr. Vest and assistant to Mrs. Hemmings; the prim Mrs. Chartley; a man who introduced himself, somewhat improbably, as the local doctor, dentist and game warden; and the Vicar and his wife.
Mr. Darcy remarked on the bustle and opined that the main street was every bit as crowded, relatively speaking, as Hyde Park at the time of, as he phrased it, the Grand Strut. Helen, who had a strong suspicion that she and Mr. Darcy were the cause of all the activity, replied that a drive through London’s most fashionable showcase could not have been nearly so entertaining as this promenade through Igglesthorpe.
When left to themselves, Mr. Darcy and Helen discussed such unexceptionable topics as the weather, both agreeing that the barest hint of spring was in the air, and the half- timbered architecture of the village, which Mr. Darcy conservatively dated from the Cromwellian era and Helen more extravagantly as pre-Elizabethan. The point was decided in Mr. Darcy’s favour, much to Helen’s disgust, when they sought information from a native. On their way back to the George, Helen pointed out to Mr. Darcy Mrs. Hemmings’s establishment and very skillfully described its interesting interior.
After a light nuncheon, Mr. Darcy begged leave to enter Helen’s chamber in order to examine, once again, Vincenzo’s portmanteau. Helen granted him permission and announced her intention of paying a visit to Mrs. Hemmings. As much as Helen enjoyed Mr. Darcy’s company and as amiable as he was towards her, she saw no point in thrusting her presence upon him for the entire day. While he naturally betrayed no hint that he was tiring of her company, she supposed he might welcome the freedom to do whatever it was that a gentleman did on a lazy afternoon in a small village while waiting for a rather elusive thief to show up.
Helen spent a delightful hour amongst the silk and lace cobwebs of the seamstress’s sewing room. She spared no thought for Mr. Darcy’s activities, save for wondering briefly if he had met with any success in uncovering in the portmanteau the evidence he was seeking. Upon her return to the inn, she learned that he had not found anything of interest, but he once again expressed the belief that Vincenzo would eventually lead him to it. He also mentioned that he had sent Keithley on an errand that would take the manservant away for at least the day and night.
After a fine evening meal, but before the time Mr. Vest would come for cards, Mr. Darcy intimated a desire to peruse the day-old London Times. Helen excused herself and went to seek Mrs. Coats’s company in the family parlour, where the two ladies had agreed to exchange tips on needlecraft. They were trading methods of preserving melon rinds in jams and condiments when Helen caught the sounds of new arrivals at the inn. She immediately recognized Mr. Vest’s voice in conversation with Mr. Coats and thought she detected the name “Mr. Darcy” in the exchange. She also believed she heard two pairs of footsteps in the hallway but was not completely certain. A strong feminine intuition warned that Mr. Vest was not calling for cards.
Helen allowed several minutes of housewifely chat to elapse before taking any action. Then, with an abrupt “Oh!” she put her embroidery hastily down beside her. As if out of the blue, she said, “I have just remembered that I forgot to tell Mr. Darcy about my hairpins!” She rose from her chair and crossed the room, sayin
g, “Pray, excuse me! I need so many hairpins, and it is quite a bother that I have broken three today. I want to ask Mr. Darcy to purchase more for me tomorrow when he takes the chaise into Thrapston. I must mention things to him as I remember them, else they fly right out of my head!”
Mrs. Coats smiled and nodded at this purely domestic detail, so Helen was encouraged to think her exit effective and only hoped that her entrance in the back parlour would be equally so.
She went quietly down the hallway and was able to distinguish several voices but could not hear what they were saying. She paused for a moment to compose herself and then opened the door to the private parlour without hesitation, her words ready on her lips.
“Richard, dear, I have just bethought myself of something that I have been meaning to mention to you. It’s about hairpins— Well, my dear, I had no idea we had guests! Mr. Vest, you have come already for cards? How good to see you—” She executed a well-feigned little start when her eye fell on a slim, blond man. “And good evening to you, too, sir.”
One look into the room assured Helen that Mr. Darcy stood in need of her help and that whatever was going forward, Mr. Vest was extremely vexed. A second glance convinced her that the slim, blond man was none other than Vincenzo and that, if she was any judge of his indignant stance and expression, he had chosen a role somewhat in the style of the Avenging Brother. She hardly needed Mr. Darcy’s warning glance to inform her that they were in a tricky corner.
Mr. Vest was the first to reply. “No, no, Mrs. Darcy, this doesn’t concern you. Not in the least! Upon my honour, whatever it is you have to tell your husband, it can wait!” He spoke with considerable consternation and in a tone that would have inspired in the most incurious wife a burning desire to get to the bottom of the matter.
Helen remained cheerfully impervious to Mr. Vest’s hint. Smiling brightly at him and advancing into the room, she chose a chair next to where Mr. Darcy was standing and sat down so that she faced both Mr. Vest and Vincenzo.
“Please, do not let me interrupt you, dear sirs. And you are entirely right, Mr. Vest! I shall wait and discuss the matter of my hairpins with my husband later, for I cannot conceive that the subject would be of the slightest general interest!”
A silence fell, broken only by Mr. Vest’s uncomfortably clearing his throat.
“Richard dear,” she said sweetly, looking up at Mr. Darcy, pretending to be ignorant of the strained atmosphere, “are you not going to introduce us?”
Helen had the impression that Mr. Darcy had been weighing the benefits of her entrance on the scene. She did not know whether he would gently hint that she go away again, but when she lifted her eyes to his, she saw his decision crystallize.
“You will allow me to introduce Signore Bartolli to you, my dear,” Mr. Darcy said smoothly. “Mrs. Darcy, Mr. Bartolli.”
Vincenzo made her an elegant leg, and when his gaze met hers, she saw that he, too, had been calculating the effect of her sudden appearance. His eyes narrowed momentarily.
“A pleasure, Mr. Bartolli,” she said, and added with an ingenuous smile, “Are you Italian, sir?”
“Si, signora,” the fair-haired man said with punctilious civility and in a deep voice that held nothing of his feminine counterpart’s warm charm.
“Mr. Vest,” Helen said, turning towards the flustered magistrate, “is that not famous?! We have had two Italian visitors to Igglesthorpe in two days! Why, just yesterday we had a most interesting visit from Miss Graziella, and she was from Italy, was she not? You remember, Mr. Vest! We were speaking of it just last evening.”
Mr. Vest mumbled something inarticulate and turned very red.
“Yes, Graziella has told me she met you,” Vincenzo said. “I take leave to inform you that I am her brother.”
“Indeed!” Helen cried happily. “Then that accounts for the resemblance! I knew you looked familiar, sir, yet I could not remember ever having met you before. Your kinship with Miss Graziella certainly accounts for it. Do you not perceive the similarity, Mr. Vest? Such a handsome family you have!” Helen seemed likely to fall into a gush, but she caught herself up short. “Now, what seems to be the problem?” she enquired with a smile, folding her hands calmly in her lap.
Mr. Vest, the presiding official, knew his duty and asserted himself manfully. “Mrs. Darcy,” he said, “I am afraid that several, ah, complications have arisen concerning Miss Graziella’s portmanteau.”
“Oh!” she said, clearly disappointed. “I thought we had laid that unfortunate misunderstanding to rest. Not that I am unsympathetic to poor Miss Graziella’s plight, you understand, but I do not think we can help her in any way.”
“I am afraid the matter is a bit more delicate than what Miss Graziella described to us yesterday,” Mr. Vest said with visible discomfort.
“I am sure it is!” Helen agreed. “But what it has to do with me is quite beyond my comprehension.”
Mr. Vest saw a dim light of hope. “That’s it, Mrs. Darcy! It doesn’t have anything to do with you. No doubt you have things to do elsewhere?” he asked optimistically.
Helen resolutely swallowed a laugh. Mr. Vest was in the suds, and she feared she and Mr. Darcy would be, too, if she behaved in an unbecoming manner. It behooved her to remain true to the character of a slightly obtuse woman. “I assure you, I do not, Mr. Vest,” she said with only the slightest quiver of her lips.
There was nothing more for Mr. Vest to say.
“I believe I may explain the matter to you. I—we—are, after all, the injured parties,” Vincenzo said, having sized up the situation to his satisfaction.
Mr. Vest looked painfully at Mr. Darcy and then apologetically at Helen. Helen invited the Italian visitor to continue.
Assuming a tone that she could only describe as “high operatic,” Vincenzo spoke. “My sister, the lovely, the virtuous Graziella, has been seduced and cast off by this villain!” he intoned tragically, pointing accusingly at Mr. Darcy.
This pronouncement was not without its complexities. First, Helen had to quash another ill-timed desire to laugh. Only then could she apply her thoughts to responding to the situation. She imagined that Vincenzo meant to embarrass Mr. Darcy in Mr. Vest’s eyes and, perhaps more important, to drive a wedge between Mr. Darcy and herself. Vincenzo most probably did not believe her to be married to Mr. Darcy and was also depending on the possibility that she did not suspect the lovely and once-virtuous Graziella to be a creation of Vincenzo’s artistry. Helen had a good notion that Vincenzo, in choosing so outrageous a strategy, was desperate.
He had also underestimated the temporary Mrs. Darcy. In a split second, she considered and discarded the idea of succumbing to either hysterics or the vapours. Instead, adopting Mr. Darcy’s matter-of-fact style, she said, “Well, I must say that I never thought my husband would behave so improperly.”
This statement affected each man differently. Mr. Vest was profoundly shocked to hear a lady of consequence talk so unblushingly of her husband’s amorous adventures. Helen’s calm acceptance of infidelity struck Mr. Vest dumb. Mr. Darcy also retired from the lists, but for very different reasons. He leaned his shoulders against the wall and folded his arms across his chest, without deigning to exonerate himself from Vincenzo’s charges. He resigned himself to Helen’s theatrics. Vincenzo, on the other hand, saw the need to redouble his efforts.
“I have come, of course, on behalf of my sister,” the Avenging Brother said, “but I can assure you that I speak in the name of many ladies, for the list of conquests of your husband—” he emphasized with irony the last two words “—is long and shameful to contemplate. When I think that this Englishman has come upon Italian soil and ruined so many of our trusting young girls—! And I warn you not to disclaim, for I have proof!” he concluded triumphantly.
“Do you, dear sir?” Helen said, unruffled. She was intrigued by imagining the form this proof might take, but she declined to challenge Vincenzo to present her with the evidence. “I shall not need any proo
f,” she continued, “for I never did think my husband was a monk, or anything of that sort, before our marriage.”
“I refer to events as recent as two months ago, signora,” Vincenzo said with a malicious smile.
Helen dealt with the implications easily enough. “So recently?” she said without a trace of the agitation that Mr. Vest might have expected. “Then I need hardly point out that your sister can have had no expectations. That is, Mr. Darcy and I were already married. Thus, I still fail to see the object of these disclosures. I do not believe that your errand is a mean-spirited attempt to set me against my husband. It must be that you have come to remind Mr. Darcy of his obligations. So unpleasant for you, to be sure! Or perhaps you have come to defend your sister’s honour? I must say, though,” Helen continued reflectively, “that if you propose to meet my husband in a duel, it must be a trifle awkward, given my presence, you know!”
“So you are willing to accept your husband’s indiscretions?” Vincenzo asked with derision.
“By no means, sir!” Helen said swiftly. “I should be poor-spirited indeed to offer my husband to any passing female! We are speaking frankly, and so I do not scruple to tell you that I simply do not believe you. As for your accusations and your proof, allow me to have formed my own opinions of Mr. Darcy. I do not know why I ought to trust your judgement more than my own.”
She rose and stepped to Mr. Darcy’s side. He had the presence of mind to put his arm around her shoulder and to let his hand slip to her waist. “Moreover,” she continued without hesitation, for she had warmed to her role as Steadfast Wife, “I see no reason to fall into hysterics at the mere suggestion that my husband has indulged himself in an affair, for if a husband is not true to his wife, is she not at least partly to blame? And so, sir, if I do not cavil at the attention shown to me by my husband, I fail to see why I should heed the malicious words of someone whose motivations I have strong cause to suspect!”
Julie Tetel Andresen Page 10