The vicar looked aghast. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘I do not,’ Dorothea said, ‘but that doesn’t mean I should not be afforded the opportunity.’
‘What I want to know,’ said Celia, emboldened by her new friend’s candour, ‘is why gentlemen need to secure themselves a room so firmly immune from feminine intrusion. Are we ladies so very threatening?’
‘I’m relieved to hear you don’t indulge in smoking,’ the vicar said to Dorothea, overlooking Celia’s provocation. ‘I always think that women who smoke have dubious morals.’
‘I smoke,’ Celia lied, boldly holding the vicar’s eye till he turned away to readdress the Commander.
‘What outrages me, Captain, is that the tables are monopolised, not by gentlemen, but by,’ he paused to inhale the word, ‘gamblers. And not desiring to come into contact with men of this sort, I was compelled to go back on deck, my evening and my cigar entirely ruined.’
‘How very tragic,’ Celia said, taking a small sip of wine.
‘Indeed!’ the priest agreed, and he gestured with his sherry glass at a grinning, red-haired man at an adjoining table. ‘He’s the ringleader. He’s from some God-forsaken place like Texas, I imagine.’
‘Mr Brown,’ the Commander said. ‘I believe he’s from the West.’
‘Oh, the pioneer spirit!’ Dorothea exclaimed, with evident admiration.
The Commander went on to explain that the gamblers’ sole objective in crossing the ocean was to infiltrate a class of gentlemen players whom, under ordinary circumstances, they would never meet.
‘Mr Brown and his ilk affect their clothes and manners,’ he told them, ‘so as to resemble men of refinement,’ adding, ‘obviously the American kind – and we Europeans are quickly and easily deceived.’
‘I was not deceived!’ the priest said, irritably.
Dorothea tried to change the subject, but Celia was intrigued. She inquired of the Commander if he had any jurisdiction in these matters and he was forced to admit that he was afforded no authority whatsoever to prohibit gambling on his ship.
‘I did have a small placard mounted on the wall. Perhaps you saw it? “Gentlemen are respectfully requested not to play poker for high stakes.” ’
‘I saw it!’ the priest bristled. ‘I pointed it out to our Mr Brown over there, but he told me that as he wasn’t a “gentleman”, the rule didn’t apply to him and then he suggested I stick the sign up in my rectory . . .’
Dorothea guffawed.
‘What on earth is amusing about that?’ the clergyman demanded indignantly. But, before he could expose himself to further ridicule, the Commander leant in to whisper a few words of explanation in his ear and, as the priest listened, his cheeks turned a distinct shade of puce and he began to sputter involuntarily like a kettle.
Celia glanced discreetly at the blithe Mr Brown, who immediately caught her eye and raised his glass. She raised an eyebrow in reply and turned away. So that was why he appeared so insouciant, she thought to herself. It was not in the company’s interests to abolish gambling; the smoking room would certainly be furnished with an unending supply of wines and liquors that were not included in the price of passage and – if Frank and his cronies were anything to go by – men who played poker also drank, and copiously too.
‘If you wish,’ the Commander was saying to the vicar, ‘to lodge a formal complaint concerning Mr Brown, I can arrange for the detective, Mr Marron, to meet me at quarantine.’
‘Consider my complaint lodged!’ the vicar declared, and he folded his hands together and glared at Mr Brown with peevish satisfaction.
‘I’ve just remembered,’ Celia said, already rising from the table, ‘I packed playing cards in my luggage . . . Dorothea, could I tempt you to a game of whist?’
‘Splendid!’ Dorothea exclaimed. ‘I’ll just nip to my cabin,’ she said, adding with an exaggerated wink, ‘to fetch my purse!’
‘Do excuse us,’ Celia said to the gentlemen. ‘And thank you, your conversation has been most . . . inspiring.’
The priest’s expression – as she’d anticipated – was a grimace of perfect disgust, but when the Commander rose to give her a small, formal bow, she was gratified to catch a discreet, moustache-shrouded grin.
The new friends made for one of the First Class lounges where they easily recruited a couple of ladies to make up their whist party. Though Dorothea was not as accomplished as Celia, she was undeniably shrewd and, without much difficulty, they won twelve out of their thirteen tricks. A small crowd of spectators had gathered and another pair of enthusiastic ladies immediately asked to play. By the time they’d won this game, they had generated so much excitement that Celia – feigning reluctance at first – agreed to organise a tournament.
Before they commenced, Celia took Dorothea to one side and acquainted her with a few of the more ethically debatable practices of the game, or, as she delicately put it, ‘the more nuanced language of whist’.
‘If a player discards a high card followed by a low card of the same suit,’ she explained, ‘they are inviting their partner to lead with a trump.’
‘Isn’t that somewhat an unfair advantage?’ Dorothea asked, adding, ‘Not that I’m objecting.’
‘It isn’t an advantage if our adversaries have taken the time to master the rules . . . and are observant.’
Dorothea tried to apply her new knowledge, but she soon grew inattentive and, though Celia knew it was unscrupulous, she resorted to giving her friend the occasional surreptitious nod or prod, strictly as guidance. When the tournament was over and they’d been declared the undisputed victors, Celia set about dividing up their winnings.
‘Keep it. You earned it!’ Dorothea insisted. ‘When my husband died, I found myself richer than I could ever have imagined . . . in more ways than one. Besides,’ she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, ‘don’t be offended, but that paste and glass jewellery of yours really is in need of replacing.’
Celia wasn’t offended and accepted Dorothea’s pot without further protestation. She would wire the bulk of it home for her children. Her only reservation was that she hadn’t relished winning money from her fellow women. She doubted, however, that she’d experience the same discomfort when it came to men.
By the following morning, Celia had concocted a plan. Now all she needed was to find the instrument to put it into practice. As it was raining heavily, she made a circuitous perambulation around the deck’s interior.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ the Commander said, intercepting her.
‘Oh yes?’
‘What with the weather being so intemperate, it struck me as rather discriminatory our not providing a smoking room for the ladies.’
He lowered his voice and told her that she’d have to keep it ‘on the q.t.’ but there was a private antechamber off said room that was usually reserved for the aristocracy and, as there wasn’t anyone of that particular milieu on the voyage, he suggested temporarily elevating Celia’s status to that of a Duchess.
‘I’ve always thought,’ Celia said, ‘it would be churlish to turn down a title,’ and, when she added the word ‘Captain’, she saw his moustache ripple in gratitude. And so it was settled and, after promising to notify the necessary stewards, the Commander took a low bow and her leave.
Resuming her seemingly directionless stroll, Celia entered one of the lounges. It was there that she spotted the red-haired poker player. He was sitting at a discreet table, barricaded in by an array of aspidistras one might have found in an old-fashioned drawing room.
‘Mr Brown?’ she said, making an approach.
‘Guilty!’ the man replied with easy charm.
‘It has come to my attention,’ she began, settling herself in the chair opposite, ‘that you are a man who enjoys a wager at cards.’
‘Really?’ Mr Brown said, affecting gentlemanly outrage. ‘May I ask who’s levelling this slander at me?’
‘I’ll come to that,’ Celia told him calmly, ‘but
first I have a proposition for you.’
Intrigued, Mr Brown leant in. Celia, keeping her proverbial cards close to her chest, explained that she possessed pertinent intelligence that would prevent Mr Brown from running into difficulties when he reached New York. In exchange for this information, she had two requests.
‘You mean demands.’
‘I would hardly call them that . . . You see, I find I’ve grown tired of whist and bridge,’ she told him, ‘so I’d be obliged if you’d teach me how to play a man’s game. Let’s say . . . poker.’
‘I like your pluck, Missy, but knowing how to play poker and being able to play it are two distinctly separate skills.’
Celia smiled. ‘If you assist me with the former, Mr Brown, I trust that, with practice, I shall actualise the latter.’
Mr Brown pressed to know her second ‘demand’ and to deliver up her ‘pertinent intelligence’, but Celia refused to be coerced.
‘As I am sure you know,’ she said, drawing a notebook and deck of cards from her purse, ‘a good player never reveals his – or, in my case, her – hand until the game is quite over.’
A steward escorted Celia to her private antechamber. It was sumptuously decorated and had three round tables perfectly suited for the playing of cards.
‘Kindly remove two of these, and I shall need no more than six chairs.’
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ the steward said, with a suitably servile smile.
‘I’ll be receiving guests,’ she told him, casually. ‘Please ensure their glasses are always brim-full. I’ll be drinking gin and tonic. If I ask you to “hold the lime”, I mean “hold the gin”.’ And to seal the deal, she tipped the man, heavily, from her previous night’s winnings.
When the room was arranged to her design, she took out her cards and a freshly bought packet of Lucky Strikes, placing them squarely on the table. Never having smoked before, she thought it prudent to practise before anyone arrived. She was not a natural smoker; the colour drained from her face, her stomach heaved, and her head spun. Concluding that she did not need to be seen smoking, and that evidence that she had smoked would suffice, she lit two more cigarettes and watched them burn down.
At nine o’clock there was a knock on the door and Mr Brown’s florid face appeared.
‘Evening, Missy.’
‘Duchess!’
‘Sorry, Duchess.’ He asked if she was ready for battle and, after taking a slow sip of her gin, she declared that she was.
‘You guarantee,’ he said, ‘that if I keep my word, you’ll keep yours?’
‘Of course. Women, unlike men, invariably set some store by the promises they make. Now, remember, if I touch my ear, substantially raise the bet. I’ll reimburse you for any losses incurred.’
‘Yes,’ Mr Brown agreed. ‘You will.’
Half an hour later, five men, including Mr Brown, joined Celia in her enclave. She didn’t bother to learn their names; she didn’t plan to keep their acquaintance for long.
‘The Duchess is intrigued by the game of poker,’ Mr Brown told the assembly, ‘though she only knows the rules of five-card stud . . . if no one has any objections.’
The gentlemen collectively grinned and none of them put up any objections.
‘Pity me if I play poorly,’ Celia begged, ‘but don’t pity me with your stakes. I assure you, I have money to lose . . . And the drinks are on me.’
The men laughed, making encouraging, patronising remarks; the cards were dealt, and the game commenced.
Celia was careful never to lead the betting. If she had a favourable hand, she simply touched her ear and let Mr Brown raise on her behalf. Then, on the subsequent round, as arranged, her accomplice would fold and Celia would opt to stay in, ‘just to learn’.
‘Oh, have I won again?’ she’d ask, artlessly.
‘Yes, you have!’ came the men’s replies. ‘Well done, little lady.’
‘Beginner’s luck,’ she’d insist . . . every time.
Whenever the cards Celia had showing implied a winning hand, but her hole card hid a losing one, she would pose a seemingly innocent question to the table:
‘Am I right in thinking a flush is all cards of the same suit?’ or, ‘In a straight, can an ace be either high or low?’ and she watched her opposition politely fold. She was also careful, as her tutor had advised, not to win every round.
Mr Brown had taught her well, but Celia didn’t feel inclined to cover his losses any more than was strictly necessary, and so, after an hour of play, she wrinkled her nose at him – her signal that she no longer required his collaboration – and, obediently, he excused himself from the game.
Inevitably, by close of play, Celia was up, and by a princely sum of two hundred pounds. She considered quitting while she was ahead, but she had her children to think of and so, as she had rather enjoyed sharpening her wits on these dull whetstones, she asked Mr Brown to provide a nightly supply of lambs to her sacrificial parlour.
On the third evening, however, Celia became too emboldened. She played rashly and it cost her every penny she had carefully accrued.
‘Oh Dorothea,’ she lamented. ‘I behaved like that cocksure cretin, my husband, and wantonly abandoned logic for luck.’
Dorothea shook her head. ‘This is nothing more than a temporary setback and you have learned an invaluable lesson. When we women lose our cool, we lose our advantage.’ She took Celia’s hand and, when she released it, a roll of notes curled up in her palm like a stack of fortune fish.
‘I couldn’t—’ Celia began.
‘You must,’ Dorothea interrupted. ‘As Croesus’ widow I am fortunate; I’ll never have to rely on patriarchal patronage again. Please me by beating these men at their own game.’
‘I’ll pay you back,’ Celia told her, her eyes misty with emotion.
‘My dear,’ Dorothea smiled, ‘of that I have no doubt.’
Celia decided it would be pertinent to further enlist Mr Brown’s services.
‘You must teach me,’ she instructed him, ‘the art, if you will, of double-dealing.’
Her mentor duly obliged and, by the next evening, she was able to deftly glance at the underside of each card that she dealt and, when the round was over, and she retrieved the spent hands, she slyly secreted a few choice cards to utilise herself. Unbeknownst to Mr Brown, she’d put another measure in place to ensure her success; she had marked the backs of the kings and aces, making almost imperceptible grooves and crosses with her fingernail. This way, she could more easily deduce her opponents’ hands . . . or bluff with importunity about her own.
Celia continued to lose the occasional game – now by strategy not stupidity – and by the time the liner docked in Manhattan, she had not only recouped all her losses and paid back Dorothea, she found herself well over a thousand pounds the richer.
Celia was happy to fulfil her promise to Mr Brown and she smuggled him through quarantine as her manservant – easy to achieve now that she was a known Duchess – thereby evading the waiting detective, Mr Marron.
When they’d safely set foot on terra firma, Mr Brown asked Celia what she planned to do next.
‘Firstly,’ she told him, ‘I’ll write two cheques; one to reimburse my uncle, since I no longer need his offer of employ, and another, larger one, to send home to my family.’
‘And then?’
‘Lunch with Dorothea.’
‘What I mean is,’ Mr Brown said, somewhat impatiently, ‘what will you do with the rest of your life? Will you stay in New York?’
‘Oh no. I think another trip is in order,’ she told him with a sprightly smile. ‘I have heard that the West Indies are very fine at this time of year.’
‘Duchess . . .’ Mr Brown said with a tug of his thick red fringe, ‘would you like your manservant to accompany you? We make a good team, you and I.’
Celia hesitated.
‘It’s an interesting and a tempting proposition, but from now on,’ she told him, ‘I fully intend to govern mysel
f.’
By her fiftieth birthday, Celia was one of only two women who owned a Las Vegas casino. She named it The Pioneer Spirit, in tribute to Dorothea de Vere. The two friends had grown inseparable over the years and, after several prolonged trips, Dorothea took up permanent residence in The Pioneer Hotel.
In a town like Las Vegas there were, of course, rumours that Dorothea and Celia – who had declined many offers of marriage – were lovers, but they refused to deny them or fan the flames. They simply smiled and held their heads up high as they promenaded, arm-in-arm, along the Strip.
Celia’s children, now grown up, often came to stay. She remained closest to her youngest, Pamela Grace, whose infant wailing had saved them all from certain immolation.
‘Tell me again how you two met,’ Pamela Grace said, as the three women sipped their dry Martinis.
Dorothea smiled, wistfully.
‘She was on her maiden voyage. It was also,’ she said with a sniff and a swift stir of her silver cocktail stick, ‘where she met Mr Brown.’
‘Did you ever see him again?’ Pamela Grace inquired, with a twinkling curiosity.
‘Once or twice,’ Celia said, ‘though we never acknowledged one another. I’m told he was involved in some brawl en route to New Orleans. The Captain locked him in the detention hospital and had him arrested the minute they docked.’
‘Poor man,’ said Pamela Grace.
‘Not poor,’ Celia corrected. ‘He was very, very rich. He just never learned when to cut his losses.’
The detective, Mr Marron, caught all of Celia’s fellow sharks in the end. For years, he had made it his sole purpose to apprehend ‘The Duchess’ too, but he could never find anyone to testify against her. The men she played fell into two neat categories: those who couldn’t credit a woman with being a professional gambler and those who wouldn’t admit they’d been outsmarted by one.
Celia lit a Lucky Strike – she had long since acquired a taste for cigarettes – and took a moment to admire a new ring – a ring that would never be pawned.
‘I’m sure Dorothea will agree,’ Celia said to her daughter, with a slow, appreciative smile, ‘that it just goes to show, a woman can – against the most unfavourable odds – always assume the upper hand.’
He Played for His Wife and Other Stories Page 18