Helen moved away from Mr. Darcy and sat back down. She could see that Mr. Vest was somewhat reassured by this defence of Mr. Darcy and that Vincenzo was rapidly revising his plan of attack. However, she was too craven to raise her eyes to gauge Mr. Darcy’s reaction to this discourse.
“A commendable point of view,” Vincenzo said, retreating gracefully, “and I beg your pardon for the offence that my words have dealt you. But I must persist on my poor sister’s behalf, as painful as it must be for you. Her virtue asks this of me.”
“Her virtue, sir, must have been questionable long before Mr. Darcy came along!” Helen replied roundly, having become a little carried away.
Vincenzo assumed an air of indignation. “I shall presume that you were moved to utter such an affront to my family in the heat of the moment,” he said convincingly, “so I shall not regard it. My motivations in following Mr. Darcy this far and laying the situation before you are, I assure you, of the most pure. I come neither for so base a purpose as to exact payment for your husband’s ignoble deed, nor to meet him on a field of honour, as satisfactory as that course of action would be to me! No, although my sister’s virtue is now irretrievable, some of her personal effects are not. I have come, in fact, to recover the tokens of affection that your husband bestowed on my sister.”
“The tokens of Mr. Darcy’s affection?” Helen said, her lips quivering with laughter once again.
“They are in her portmanteau, which you have in your possession,” Vincenzo replied without a blink.
“Ah, yes, I was forgetting the portmanteau,” Helen said, mastering her mirth.
“You will understand that my sister did not want to bring the matter up to you in these terms when she saw you yesterday. She was hoping to spare your feelings, signora.”
“That was thoughtful of her!” Helen concurred.
“She did not know, of course, that you would take such a… large view of your husband’s activities.”
“Of course she could not!” Helen responded brightly. Keeping a straight face, she asked, “But can you not describe these tokens of affection?”
Vincenzo rolled an eye towards Mr. Vest. “They are of a personal nature, I believe.”
Helen looked to Mr. Darcy. “Richard, dear, you must know something about this. Perhaps you can enlighten us as to the nature of these personal effects.”
“I should like to be helpful, my dear,” Mr. Darcy said with perfect gravity, “but you see, I had, er, forgotten about Miss Graziella until Signore Bartolli reminded me, and I cannot recall what I gave her in the way of, ah, tokens—if anything at all.”
Mr. Vest had received several shocks during this extraordinary exchange, but this admission of Mr. Darcy’s shook him to his core. “Forgotten? Cannot recall?” he exclaimed.
“Mr. Darcy’s memory is shocking, is it not?” Helen offered by way of explanation. “I am forever reminding him of the most obvious things!”
“I say!” was all Mr. Vest could utter.
Vincenzo majestically ignored these interpolations. “They are in the portmanteau that is in Mrs. Darcy’s possession.”
Helen decided to be helpful. “Well, you must tell us what they are, so that we can fetch them for you.”
“Out of consideration for my sister,” Vincenzo said with great dignity, “I desire the entire portmanteau back.”
This was something of a check. “I must remind you, sir,” Helen said with a smile, “that we know nothing of your sister’s baggage.”
“And I claim,” Vincenzo said with a kind of grim satisfaction, “that my sister’s portmanteau is in your possession.” After a dramatic pause, he continued with a challenge, “Do you doubt this, Signore Vest?”
All eyes turned towards the consternated magistrate. On Mr. Vest’s interpretation of the situation rode the success or failure of Vincenzo’s gamble in bringing the affair before an official third party. Mr. Vest was not a perceptive man, but he was beginning to realize that all was not as it seemed. He was torn between the suspicion that Vincenzo’s accusation was a hoax and an eagerness to discover the tokens that Mr. Darcy had bestowed on Miss Graziella. There now came several unanswered questions into his mind: first and foremost among these was the mystery of what was keeping Mr. and Mrs. Darcy in Igglesthorpe. As fond as he was of his birthplace, Mr. Vest still could not help but wonder at the distinguished couple’s interest in the village, for he had never known of a traveller to spend more than one night at the George, unless he had specific business to transact or relatives in the immediate neighbourhood. Mr. and Mrs. Darcy had revealed no apparent purpose for their visit and no apparent plans for leaving in the foreseeable future.
Secondly, experience had taught Mr. Vest that behind every confrontation between two parties lay two versions of the same truth. He could not, therefore, dismiss Miss Graziella’s claim or Signore Bartolli’s story out of hand. He did not need a Bow Street Runner to tell him that the stories given by the four people involved with the accursed portmanteau simply did not add up. Mr. Vest had a natural inclination to distrust the Italian fellow and his sister, but he hoped that he was a fair man. As much as he would have liked to have sent the foreign pair packing, his sense of justice told him that there should be no harm in investigating the seemingly innocuous claim that Miss Graziella’s portmanteau was in Mrs. Darcy’s possession.
“Well,” Mr. Vest said, drawing in a long breath and glancing anxiously at Mr. Darcy, “I can see no harm in at least investigating the matter. I should think the whole thing might be ended by a look into the portmanteau that Mrs. Darcy has.”
Vincenzo’s eye gleamed with a satisfaction that was to vanish at Mr. Darcy’s next words. The noted gamester decided to take his chances. “Yes,” he said, “I see that the matter must be resolved. Therefore, I can see no harm in pursuing Signore Bartolli’s claim. It is quite impossible to retrieve the portmanteau at the moment, however, for my wife made, ah, several purchases yesterday at the dressmaker’s, and I fear that her room is presently in deep disarray with all the boxes. Is that not so, my dear? So, if Signore Bartolli will come back tomorrow, I am sure that one of the maids will have had an opportunity to sort through our belongings and to retrieve the portmanteau. Then we shall be happy to accommodate Signore Bartolli.”
Vincenzo was not to be fobbed off so easily. “How do I know that you will not run off with it during the night?” he demanded with unnecessary force.
“You will just have to take my word for it. We have no intention of ‘running off,’ as you say, with the portmanteau during the night,” Mr. Darcy replied calmly. He turned to the official arbiter for a ruling. “Mr. Vest?”
In the spirit of compromise, Mr. Vest agreed to Mr. Darcy’s request. He could see no reason why the matter could not be attended to the next day. After a brief discussion, it was decided that Signore Bartolli would wait upon Mr. Vest in his office first thing in the morning. Signore Bartolli gracefully declined Mr. Vest’s suggestion that Miss Graziella should accompany him.
Smiling a little sourly, Vincenzo bowed himself out of the room. He was comforted only by the knowledge that if Mr. Darcy and his accomplice had not discovered the hiding place of the most valuable item by now, they were not likely to do so before morning, even if they were to rip the portmanteau itself to shreds.
Mr. Vest was about to bid his host and hostess a respectful good-night when Mr. Darcy said, perfectly at his ease, “Well, now. That’s settled. Easy resolutions always put me in the mood for cards and brandy. Shall we play, Mr. Vest?”
CHAPTER NINE
“PLAY?” Mr. Vest echoed blankly. “At cards?”
“Indeed, why not?” was Mr. Darcy’s tranquil response. “I thought we had agreed on it for this evening, in fact.”
The magistrate plunged into a tangle of incomplete sentences. “Yes, of course, we had agreed to But, now after… after Mr. Bar… Bar… that dashed Italian fellow’s accusations… Not but that I thought we should at least oblige… Yet, the awkward
ness… Dear sir, I hope that you have taken no…”
“Signore Bartolli’s appearance and disclosures were a trifle irregular, perhaps,” Mr. Darcy said to this, “but I did not find them entirely out of the ordinary, either. Such things invariably arise. I think you did quite right, by the way. The matter will soon be settled.”
Such a sanguine view of the proceedings naturally had a sobering effect on Mr. Vest, who had been strongly of the impression that never had he witnessed so extraordinary a scene. Mr. Darcy’s calm acceptance of the vagaries of life was certainly a worthy example to follow. For the briefest moment, Mr. Vest allowed himself to fancy that, were he and his wife faced with a similar situation, they would react as reasonably as had Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. However, the image of the rather excitable Mrs. Vest accepting the idea of her husband’s infidelity without a blink defied even Mr. Vest’s fertile imagination.
Furthermore, Mr. Darcy obviously bore Mr. Vest no ill will, and Mr. Darcy’s expressed approval of Mr. Vest’s arbitration of the “irregularity”—as Mr. Vest would henceforth label it—could not but flatter. All in all, Mr. Vest decided that Mr. Darcy was right to treat the matter so casually and that there was nothing to prevent him from accepting Mr. Darcy’s offer of cards.
Thus, Mr. Vest assented to a few rubbers of piquet. He had some lingering doubts about the affair of the portmanteau, but these he stoutly pushed to one side, reminding himself that all would be taken care of come morning. While refreshment and cards were being summoned, Mr. Darcy moved a branch of candles onto the table where they would play, and with a slight movement of one hand, invited Mr. Vest to be seated. The maid presently appeared with a tray carrying a fat bottle of brandy, two glasses, and two packs of cards.
“What stakes do you care to play for, Mr. Vest?” enquired the man who was most famous in Florence for having broken two personal fortunes and two gambling banks on four successive nights.
“Shall we continue with the stakes we agreed upon last evening?” Mr. Vest said.
“Yes, certainly,” Mr. Darcy answered, “if you do not consider shilling points too tame.”
Throwing caution to the wind, Mr. Vest recklessly offered to double the stakes, and in a moment of bravado, he suggested they play for a pound the rubber, in addition.
Mr. Darcy, who more often than not played for pound points, smiled faintly and nodded. He pushed the pack across to his opponent. Mr. Vest cut for the deal and lost it. “Well, well!” he said jovially. “I hope this does not augur ill luck to follow!”
“I hope not, indeed.”
The play opened quietly. After the first few hands the number of points were as evenly distributed as they had been the evening before. The cards and the luck seemed to be running fairly evenly, but the partie went to Mr. Vest, although there were less than a hundred points for the game in it. Mr. Vest was inclined to think Mr. Darcy a pretty competent card player, and he was at a loss to discover the reason for Mrs. Darcy’s initial apprehensions about her husband’s intention to engage in some friendly play. Well, females were females, when all was said, and even such a cool customer as Mrs. Darcy could take an unaccountable maggot into her head.
The object of Mr. Vest’s reflections, who had gone to get her needlework, paused for a rather lengthy and somewhat inconsequential conversation with Mrs. Coats, which made only passing reference to an odd Italian visitor to the George. When she returned to the back parlour, she discovered that Mr. Vest was slightly ahead in the second partie.
That was to be the last time Mr. Vest was to see the column of numbers total in his favour that evening. The next hand was constructed along slightly different lines. Mr. Darcy won a capot that earned him forty points for taking all twelve tricks.
“Well, I say!” Mr. Vest said in some surprise. “That rather sprang up on me. Wasn’t expecting it!”
“One does not, usually.”
“Must have had my mind on the previous hand, though I was not conscious of it,” Mr. Vest went on, trying to find an explanation for the circumstance.
“Most probably,” Mr. Darcy replied. “It is your deal, I believe.”
The next hand went just as badly for Mr. Vest, with Mr. Darcy scoring a pique, which earned him an additional thirty points.
Mr. Vest was taken aback. “Well, I did it again! Must have been thinking of your capot from the last hand. Bad habit to fall into, upon my soul it is! One must always concentrate on the play at hand. Do you not agree, sir?”
“I agree completely.” Mr. Darcy held the bottle poised over Mr. Vest’s glass. “Brandy?”
“Yes, I should think so!” Mr. Vest said, reaching out eagerly for his refilled glass. “But you should not have had that pique, and on my deal, too!”
“But only the non-dealer can score a pique,” Mr. Darcy gently pointed out.
“Very true! Yet, coming after a capot—!”
“You cannot have all the luck, Mr. Vest.”
“Indeed not!” he replied, wondering if luck had anything to do with it. “I am thinking rather that my play was at fault.”
“A few unfortunate discards on your part that played into my hand, which was exceptionally strong. That was all. I should not regard it if I were you.”
Mr. Vest accepted this advice cheerfully and the game proceeded. Mr. Darcy was scoring the big games with a little more, but by no means alarming, regularity. Mr. Vest, however, kept up his end. Once, when Mr. Darcy scored successively a pique and repique, Mr. Vest won in the next hand the most tricks and scored a Ten for the Cards. In the following hand, each player took six tricks, producing no score for either. Thus, Mr. Vest was emboldened to think that they were still evenly matched, although Mr. Darcy went on to win the partie decisively. Fingering the glass that Mr. Darcy considerately kept filled for him, Mr. Vest was not keeping precise track of the points piling up in Mr. Darcy’s favour, and so maintained the comfortable impression that they were still at least equal in the number of games won, if not the points.
As the evening wore on, a subtle and insensible change in Mr. Vest’s attitude took place. No longer was he playing for the attacking hand, even when it was not his deal. His discards were aimed primarily at staying even. Throughout several parries he was able to persist in the mistaken belief that his playing skill equalled his opponent’s by telling himself he had saved himself from one or two complete disasters. If one of Mr. Darcy’s very rash discards was calculated to make Mr. Vest think that he was still alive in the game, then Mr. Darcy succeeded admirably.
At the end of the second hour of play, Mr. Vest chanced to glance at the score at his elbow. He suffered a distinct shock. He had been thinking that Mr. Darcy had been creeping ahead, but by no stretch of the imagination had he imagined that there could be a spread of over seventeen hundred points. He did not stop to compute what this would come to in pounds sterling, for the brandy fumes were curling through his brain, but he knew that it was more than he had ever lost—or won for that matter—at the gaming table. His first thought was for how he might hide from his wife the removal of a large sum of money from the family treasury. His second was for discovering how he might set about winning back some points. He held no wild hopes of winning the match. He was interested only in narrowing the disastrous margin that separated the two scores.
Mr. Darcy’s next words gave him hope. “Your luck ran through a long, dry stretch there for a while,” he said, “and you received the bad cards that I myself am accustomed to being dealt.”
“Wretched cards!” Mr. Vest agreed, unsure of himself.
“That is, until the end, when you had several strong hands. You see that I narrowly escaped a pique in the last hand.”
“But I needed a capot!” Mr. Vest exclaimed mournfully.
Mr. Darcy observed that when playing piquet, one could always use a capot.
Ignoring this, and in a state of disbelief, Mr. Vest said, “I fear that I am done up. I dare not continue and must settle with you now before I find myself up the River Tick
.”
Mr. Darcy apparently had other ideas. “Nonsense!” he said encouragingly. “Ill luck cannot last forever, and I believe that yours was already on the turn. Moreover, you cannot go away now and have me pocket your losses without offering you an occasion to make them up! It would give me very little pleasure!”
Mr. Vest thought this an extremely gentlemanly approach to the matter and gathered up the cards for his deal. After all, he had held the better cards towards the end, as Mr. Darcy had noticed. “Yes, yes!” Mr. Vest said, mechanically shuffling the cards as he tried to convince himself that he was doing the right thing. “I believe my luck will change.”
“So I should hope,” Mr. Darcy said, cutting the cards towards him.
It seemed at first that luck had indeed veered in Mr. Vest’s direction. Helen, however, discreetly looking up from her needlework now and again, better saw the trend of things. After having observed the play from the evening before, she concluded that Mr. Darcy must be a very fine player, for he seemed to have controlled both his own points and Mr. Vest’s. After this evening’s performance, she realized that he had only been trifling with his opponent. She was now quite awed by Mr. Darcy’s skill, which combined a distinct flair for cards with a formidable capacity for cool calculation. She had always assumed that the deepest play in the gentlemen’s clubs must unfold in an atmosphere of single-minded intensity. Surely Mr. Darcy’s mind was on the game, but Helen could sense the degree of his mastery in his style, which was consistently pleasant, even casual, and appeared to involve a great deal of luck.
Helen guessed that as an adversary, Mr. Darcy must be maddeningly unbeatable, and she wondered if he had ever met his match. Of course, Helen had never crossed the hallowed thresholds of White’s or Brooks’s and so could not say for a certainty if Mr. Darcy’s skill was at all common in elevated circles of play. Nevertheless, she imagined it to be very rare and knew that she had never seen the like.
Julie Tetel Andresen Page 11