Farnham's Freehold (27 page)

“Then why were you staring at the cards?” Hugh had indeed been staring at the game, trying to be invisible. He had been made very nervous by witnessing a quarrel between Ponse and his nephew. But he had missed not a word, he found it extremely interesting.

Ponse went on, “Which would you prefer, Hugh? To escort me to Heaven? Or stay here and serve Mrika? Don’t answer too quickly. If you stay here, I venture you may be eating your own toes to stay your hunger before I’m gone a year…whereas Heaven is a nice place, so the Good Scroll tells.”

“It’s a hard choice.”

“Well, you don’t have to make it, nor will you know. A servant should never know, it keeps him on his toes. That scoundrel Memtok keeps praying me for the honor of being in my escort. If I thought he was sincere, I would dismiss him for incompetence.” Ponse swept the cards together. “Damn that lad! He’s poor company but I had my liver set on a few good, hard rubbers. Joe, we’ve got to teach more people to play. Being left without a fourth is annoying.”

“Certainly,” agreed Joe. “Right now?”

“No, no. I want to play, damn it, not watch some beginner’s bumbles. I’m growing addicted. Takes a man’s worries off his mind.”

Hugh was hit by inspiration. “Ponse, if you don’t mind having another servant in the game…”

Joe brightened up. “Why, of course! He—”

“Barbara,” Hugh cut in fast, before Joe could mention Duke.

Joe blinked. Then he smoothly picked it up. “He—Hugh, I mean—was about to mention a servant named Barbara. Good bridge player.”

“Well! You’ve been teaching this game belowstairs, Hugh?” Ponse added, “‘Barbara’? A name I don’t recognize. Not one of the upper servants.”

“You remember her,” Joe said. “She was with us when you picked us up. The tall one.”

“Oh, yes. Bigging, it was. Joe, are you telling me that a
slut
can play this game?”

“She’s a top player,” Joe assured him. “Plays better than I do. Heavens, Ponse, she can play rings around you. Isn’t that right, Hugh?”

“Barbara is an excellent player.”

“This I must see to believe.”

A few minutes later Barbara, freshly bathed and scared, was fetched in. She glanced at Hugh, looked startled silly, opened her mouth, closed it, and stood mute.

Ponse came up to her. “So this is the slut who is supposed to be able to play contract. Stop trembling, little one; nobody’s going to eat you.” In bluff words he convinced her that she was there only to play bridge and that she was expected to relax and be informal—no fancy talk. “Just behave as if you were downstairs, having a good time with other servants. Hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just one thing.” He tapped her on her chest. “When you’re my partner, I shan’t be angry if you make mistakes—after all, you’re only a slut and it’s surprising that you can play an intellectual game at all. But”—he paused—“when you are playing against me, if you fail to fight for every trick, if I even suspect that you are trying to let me win, I guarantee you’ll tingle when you leave. Understand?”

“That’s right,” agreed Joe. “Their Charity expects it. Just play by the book, and play your best.”

“‘By the book,’” Ponse repeated. “I’ve never seen this book but that’s the way Joe says he has taught me to play. So do it. All right, let’s cut the cards.”

Hugh hardly listened, he was drinking in the sight of Barbara. She looked well and healthy although it was startling to see her slender again—or almost, he corrected; she was still largish in the fanny and certainly in the bust. She had lost most of her tan and was dressed in the shapeless short robe all female servants wore belowstairs, but he was delighted to see that she had not had her hair removed. It was cropped but could grow back.

He noticed that his own appearance seemed to startle her, realized why. He said, smiling, “I comb my hair with a washrag now, Barbie. No matter, I didn’t have enough to matter. Now that I’m used to being hairless, I like it.”

“You look distinguished, Hugh.”

“He’s ugly as sin,” said Ponse. “But are we chatting? Or playing bridge? Your bid, Barba.”

They played for hours. As it progressed, Barbara seemed to relax and enjoy it. She smiled a great deal, usually at Hugh, but also at Joe and even at Their Charity. She played by the book and Ponse never found fault. Hugh decided that their host was a good player, not yet perfect but he remembered what cards had been played and usually bid accurately. Hugh found him a satisfactory partner and an adequate opponent; it was a good game.

But once, with Barbara as Ponse’s partner and contract in her hand, Hugh saw when Ponse laid down the dummy that Ponse had overbid in his answer. So he contrived to lose one sure trick, thereby letting Barbara make contract, game, and rubber.

It got him a glance with no expression from Barbara and Joe gave him a look that had a twinkle in it, but Joe kept his mouth shut. Ponse did not notice. He gave a bass roar, reached across and patted Barbara’s head. “Wonderful, wonderful! Little one, you really
can
play contract. Why, I doubt if I could have made that myself.”

Nor did Ponse complain when, on the next rubber, Barbara and Hugh gave him and Joe a trouncing. Hugh decided that Ponse had the inborn honesty called “sportsmanship”—plus a good head for cards.

One of the little deaf-mutes trotted in, knelt, and served Their Charity a tumbler of something cold, then another to Joe. Ponse took a swig, wiped his mouth and said, “Ah, that hits the spot!”

Joe made a whispered suggestion to him. Ponse looked startled and said, “Oh, certainly. Why not?”

So Hugh and Barbara were served. Hugh was pleased to discover that it was apple juice; he wasn’t sure of his ability to play tight bridge had it been Happiness.

During this rubber Hugh noticed that Barbara was squirming a little and seemed to have trouble in concentrating. When the hand ended he said quietly, “Trouble, hon?”

She glanced at Ponse and whispered, “Some. I was about to feed the boys when I was sent for.”

“Oh.” Hugh turned to his host. “Ponse, Barbara needs to stop.”

Ponse looked up from shuffling. “Plumbing call? One of the maids can show it, I suppose. They must go somewhere.”

“Not that. Well, maybe that, too. What I meant was, Barbara has twins.”

“Well? Sluts usually have twins, they have two breasts.”

“That’s the point, she’s nursing them and she’s hours past time. She has to leave.”

Ponse looked annoyed, hesitated, then said, “Oh, garbage. Its milk won’t cake from so short a delay. Here, cut the cards.”

Hugh did not touch them. Ponse said, “Didn’t you hear me?”

Hugh stood up His heart was pounding and he felt a shudder of fear. “Ponse, Barbara hurts. She needs to nurse her twins right now. I can’t force you to let her—but if you think I’ll play cards while you don’t let her, you’re crazy.”

For long moments the big man stared, without expression. Then suddenly he grinned. “Hugh, I like you. You did something like this once before, didn’t you? The slut is your sister, I suppose.”

“No.”

“Then you are the one who is crazy. Do you know how close you came to being cold meat?”

“I can guess.”

“I doubt it, you don’t look worried. But I like spunk, even in a servant. Very well, I’ll have its brats fetched. They can suck while we play.”

The twins were fetched and Hugh saw at once that they were the handsomest, healthiest, and loveliest babies that had ever been born; he told Barbara so. He did not immediately get a chance to touch them as Ponse took one in each arm, laughed at them, blew in their faces, and jiggled them. “Fine boys!” he roared. “Fine boys, Barba! Holy little terrors, I’ll bet. Go on, swing that fist, kid! Sock Uncle in the nose again. What do you call them, Barba? Do they have names?”

“This one is Hugh—”

“Eh? Does Hugh have something to do with them? Or thinks he has, perhaps?”

“He’s their father.”

“Well, well! Hugh, you may be ugly, but you have other qualities. If Barba knows what she’s talking about. What’s this one’s name?”

“That one is little Joe. Karl Joseph.”

Ponse lifted an eyebrow at Joe. “So you have sluts naming brats for you, Joe? I’ll have to watch you, you’re a sly one. What did you give Barba?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Birthing present, you idiot. Give her that ring you’re wearing. So many brats in this house named after me that I have to order trinkets by the basket load; they know it obliges me to make them a present. Hugh is lucky, he has nothing to give. Hey, Hughie has teeth!”

Hugh got to hold them while they settled down for combined bridge and nursing. Barbara took them one at a time and played cards with her free hand. The little maids fussed over the one not nursing and, in due time, took them away. In spite of the handicap Barbara played well, even brilliantly; the long session ended with Ponse top scorer, Barbara close behind, and Joe and Hugh tied for last. Hugh had cheated very little to make it come out that way; the cards had favored Ponse and Barbara when they were partners; they had made two small slams.

Ponse was feeling very jovial about it. “Barba, come here, little one. You tell the slutmaster I said to find a wet nurse for your brats and that I want the vet to dry you up as soon as possible. I want you available as my bridge partner. Or opponent—you give a man a tough fight.”

“Yes, sir. May one speak?”

“One may.”

“I would rather nurse them myself. They’re all I have.”

“Well—” He shrugged. “This seems to be my day for balky servants. I’m afraid you are both still savages. A tingling wouldn’t do you any harm, slut. All right, but you’ll have to play one-handed sometimes; I won’t have brats stopping the game.” He grinned. “Besides, I’d like to see the little rascals occasionally, especially that one that bites. You may go. All.”

Barbara was dismissed so suddenly that Hugh barely had time to exchange smiles with her; he had hoped to walk down with her, steal a private visit. But His Charity did not dismiss him, so he stayed—with a warm glow in his heart; it had been the happiest time in a long time.

Ponse discussed the articles he had been translating, why none of them offered practical business ventures. “But don’t fret, Hugh; keep plugging and we’ll strike ore yet.” He turned the talk to other matters, still kept Hugh there. Hugh found him a knowledgeable conversationalist, interested in everything, as willing to listen as he was to talk. He seemed to Hugh the epitome of the perfect decadent gentleman—urbane, cosmopolitan, disillusioned, and cynical, a dilettante in arts and sciences, neither merciful nor cruel, unimpressed by his own rank, not racist—he treated Hugh as an intellectual equal.

While they were talking, the little maids served dinner to Ponse and to Joe. Nothing was offered to Hugh, nor did he expect it—nor want it, as he could have meals served in his rooms if he was not on time in the executive servants’ dining room and he had long since decided, from samplings, that Memtok was right: the upper servants ate better than the master.

But when Ponse had finished, he shoved his dishes toward Hugh. “Eat.”

Hugh hesitated a split second; he did not need to be told that he was being honored—for a servant. There was plenty, at least three times as much left as Ponse had eaten. Hugh could not recall that he had ever eaten someone’s leavings, and certainly not with a used spoon. He dug in.

As usual, Their Charity’s menu did not especially please Hugh—somewhat greasy and he had no great liking for pork. Pork was hardly ever served belowstairs but was often part of the menus Memtok sampled, Hugh had noticed. It surprised him, as the revised Koran still contained the dietary laws and the Chosen did follow some of the original Muslim customs. They practiced circumcision, did not use alcohol other than a thin beer, and observed Ramadan at least nominally and called it that. Mahomet would have been shocked by the revisions to his straightforward monotheistic teachings but he would have recognized some of the details.

But the bread was good, the fruits were superb, and so were the ices and many other things; it wasn’t necessary to dine solely on roast. Hugh kept intact his record for enjoying the inevitable.

Ponse was interested in what the climate had been in this region in Hugh’s time. “Joe tells me you sometimes had freezing temperatures. Even snow.”

“Oh, yes, every winter.”

“Fantastic. How cold did it get?”

Hugh had to think. He had not had occasion to learn how these people marked temperatures. “If you consider the range from freezing of water to boiling, it was not unusual for it to get one third of that range lower than freezing.”

Ponse looked surprised. “Are you sure? We call that range, freezing to boiling, one hundred. Are you telling me that it sometimes got as much as thirty-three degrees below freezing?”

Hugh noted with interest that the centigrade scale had survived two millennia—but no reason why not; they used the decimal system in arithmetic and in money. He had to do a conversion in his head. “Yes, that’s what I mean. Nearly cold enough to freeze mercury, and cold enough for that, up in those mountains.” Hugh pointed out a view window.

“Cold enough,” Joe agreed, “to freeze your teeth! Only thing that ever made me long for Mississippi.”

“Where,” asked Ponse, “is Mississippi?”

“It’s not,” Joe told him. “It’s under water now. And good riddance.”

This led to discussion of why the climate had changed and Their Charity sent for the last volume of the
Britannica
, containing ancient maps, and for modern maps. They poured over them together. Where the Mississippi Valley had been, the Gulf now reached far north. Florida and Yucatan were missing and Cuba was a few small islands. California had a central sea and most of northern Canada was gone.

Similar shrinkages had taken place elsewhere. The Scandinavian Peninsula was an island, the British Isles were several small islands, part of the Sahara was under water. What had been lowlands anywhere were missing—Holland, Belgium, Northern Germany could not be found. Nor Denmark—the Baltic was a gulf of the Atlantic.

Hugh looked at it with odd sorrow and had never felt so homesick. He had known it was so, from reading; this was the first map he had seen of it.