“Caroline Bingley cheats at cards!” Elizabeth exclaimed, shortly after the lady aforementioned had excused herself from the table with a tidy sum in her reticule, a self-satisfied smirk upon her lips
Her husband and his sister, both models of propriety in comparison to Elizabeth herself, appeared non-plussed.
“One would think she’d become more subtle about it,” Georgianna said.
“I suppose she lacks motivation,” Darcy replied.
“You are neither of you surprised nor aghast! I find this incredible,” Elizabeth said.
“Once, perhaps, but one grows accustomed,” Darcy shrugged.
“And her brother always sends along funds to off-set her winnings,” Georgianna said.
Written for @janeuary-month Day 13 prompt "card-playing"
At Glamis Castle, in the 15th century, there arose the story of Earl Beardie, who intended to play cards on the Sabbath. He was advised to stop playing, but Earl Beardie became so furious that he claimed he would play until Doomsday or with Satan himself. A stranger appeared at Glamis Castle and joined Earl Beardie in cards, in some versions of the story, he takes Earl Beardie’s soul, in other versions, he is condemned to play until Doomsday.
(Earl Beardie picture from Pinterest https://www.pinterest.com/pin/361836151290505166/)
“My dear Miss Woodhouse, you have arrived at the most splendid time, for we have received a letter from Jane just this day and you must hear her news, you simply must!” Miss Bates announced, her hands fluttering about, her greying curls peeping from below her cap. The mob-cap had a very narrow edging of lace, another indication of her poverty, and Emma resolved to listen to the latest of Jane Fairfax’s missives with the patience and grace of a true gentlewoman and to send over a second basket with a larger cut of mutton and several jars of Cook’s best preserves; Emma didn’t care for gooseberry and Miss Bates notably did, so she would make sure there were at least three of those and Mr. Knightley might raise an eyebrow all he wanted in her direction.
The basket would be far easier to accomplish than listening to the news from Miss Fairfax but at least Mr. Knightley was not present to critique her attempt.
“Oh yes, let me see,” Miss Bates said, her spectacles trembling on the tip of her pointed nose or perhaps her nose was trembling and Emma had already gone wool-gathering before she’d had to hear a word from the divine Jane. “She sends all her best love to us, as always, and greetings to everyone in Highbury, at Hartfield and Donwell Abbey, to the Westons, she is such a dear and thoughtful girl, Jane, she forgets no one, even when she has such news to share, a positive lightning-bolt, Miss Woodhouse, I’m sure you’ll agree—”
“I feel certain I will, when I learn what’s occurred,” Emma said, striving for an amiable tone.
“Well, you’ll never guess, no one could, it’s astonishing and so well-deserved, Jane has always been the kindest, most generous girl, ever since she was a small child and how it gave us a pang, an indubitable ache, if you will, when she went to stay with the Campbells, to be trained as a governess, not even a companion, though she has all the accomplishments of a companion, such watercolors she sends us and when she visits, to hear her upon the pianoforte, never a false note and ever so many of them—”
Emma felt an interruption, if politely made, was warranted; she might otherwise grow into her dotage waiting for the news and leave the Bates’s home in a horrid cap of her own.
“I’m terribly interested to hear what Jane wrote, Miss Bates. May I learn her news?”
“Of course, Miss Woodhouse! It’s the most marvelous, most miraculous news—Jane is an heiress! She writes that through a turn of events, she has inherited quite an extensive estate in Derbyshire of all places, a great house and all the land that goes with it, she’ll need a steward, and it’s quite a prosperous place, she writes, she shall have three thousand a year and we’re to go there with her after she comes to visit Highbury one last time. It will be a tremendous wrench, to leave everyone we know, dear Miss Woodhouse, to leave you and your father and dear Mr. Knightley, but to be together with Jane, all of us under one roof—”
“Rather a large roof,” Emma murmured. She was in shock, for the news was incredible to hear from anyone and especially from Jane Fairfax, whose letters were ordinarily quite the prettiest and most boring Emma had ever heard, full of praise of people Emma did not know, places Emma had not gone, reflections on books Emma had not read or pictures Emma had not seen.
“Yes, indeed! We shan’t be crowded any longer and Mother will be able to eat whatever she pleases, Jane writes there’s a cook who makes good English food, no nonsense about sauces or anything too French,” Miss Bates said happily. “We shall have a roast every Sunday and crumpets every day, she says.”
“How did it happen?” Emma asked. A turn of events was as vague as one could imagine. Emma could imagine nothing, save that her mouth must be gaping like hooked trout’s.
“She did not say more than that. But she did say that with our permission, which she would venture to take as given, she would write to Mr. Knightley to ask for some advice about running an estate, so perhaps he will know,” Miss Bates said.
“She could hardly ask anyone more knowledgeable,” Emma replied, feeling dizzy. Jane Fairfax, an unattached heiress, writing a letter to Mr. Knightley! If it were not for the long acquaintance between the Knightley and Bates families, Jane’s actions would be thought intolerably bold, a breach of all propriety, unladylike in the extreme.
“You could not be more right! She was wise to expect our approval, for who would advise her better than Mr. Knightley? And as I said, he may have more intelligence to share regarding her great good fortune,” Miss Bates said. She glanced at the cup of tea in Emma’s hand. It could have turned into a rabid fox and Emma would not have noticed.
“I could make a fresh pot, dear. We needn’t be so careful now, and cold tea is worse than poison, I always say,” Miss Bates offered.
“Oh no, don’t go to any trouble. I must be on my way, in truth, but I do appreciate you sharing Miss Fairfax’s letter and I’m so glad to hear of her change in circumstance, though we shall all miss you in Highbury,” Emma said.
“How the letters will fly between Surrey and Derbyshire!” Miss Bates said. “It will be a treat to receive a letter from Miss Woodhouse!”
*
“And then she said, it would be a treat to receive a letter from me and almost shooed me out the door,” Emma said. Mr. Knightley was sitting across from her, having found her at home at Hartfield before she could think to call upon him at Donwell Abbey. How she had made her way home, she could not rightly account for, and it was a blessing no vagabond crew had waylaid her, for she would not have had the wits to flee or even cry out.
“It shall be a treat to receive a letter from you,” Mr. Knightley said. “She will be telling all her new friends and neighbors about the delightful and gifted Miss Woodhouse and regaling all Derbyshire with praise of your watercolors.”
“I hardly think that likely,” Emma said. “My watercolors leave much to be desired, my bouquet of roses looked remarkably like a hedgehog covered in raspberry jam—”
“You are a harsh judge of your own work,” Mr. Knightley replied.
“What I cannot understand is how it happened! Did Jane come across buried Viking treasure when she was out running errands for Miss Campbell? Is she truly the long-lost daughter of a wicked duke who repented on his deathbed of the wrong he’d done his innocent child—”
“She is a Fairfax and a Bates, a gentlewoman daughter of a gentleman, there’s no Gothic novel explanation to be concocted, Emma,” Mr. Knightley said quite firmly; he did not like her taste for Mrs. Radcliffe’s work and he must also be able to see how astonished and shaken she was by Jane Fairfax’s alteration in station and position.
“Can you make it out then, Mr. Knightley?”
“I don’t have to. Miss Fairfax told me herself, in the letter she wrote. She came by the estate honestly, though I shouldn’t like you to be in the same situation,” he said.
“Whatever can you mean?” Emma asked, beginning to be annoyed.
“She won it. In a game of piquet,” he said.
“Good heavens!” Emma exclaimed. Gentlemen and men of the lower orders had other terms available to them when they were amazed and dumbstruck, but she was restricted in what she might say, however little satisfaction she could gain so while keeping her reputation and Mr. Knightley’s esteem.
“I gather the Campbells were at a house-party and Jane was pressed into playing, though she had preferred to remain at the pianoforte, and her opponent thought to make a mock of her, but did not account for her being able to play cards with any degree of skill,” Mr. Knightley said.
“She won an estate playing cards,” Emma repeated.
“Think on it, Emma. On Jane Fairfax and what you know of her,” Mr. Knightley said.
“She always was clever, with her hands and with numbers,” Emma said.
“And she would not have touched a drop of liquor, not even ratafia, I suspect,” Mr. Knightley said.
“Still, I shouldn’t like to have come by my home in such a manner,” Emma said, rallying a bit, seeing the approbation in Mr. Knightley’s expression, the subtle curve of his lips, a certain light in his eyes, which she noticed were actually quite a dark grey, not blue at all. “Poor Jane and Mrs. and Miss Bates, they must be grateful for any improvement in accommodation and I am sincerely happy for it.”
“I quite agree. I should not wish you to win another estate playing piquet or to hazard Hartfield,” Mr. Knightley said.
“It would be not terribly ladylike, I fear,” Emma said.
“There is that,” he said. “I fear, dear Emma, that you might win and then where would we be?”
Written for Janeuary 2025 @janeuary-month Day 11, prompt "card-playing"
The police were baffled by the crime scene. No gun was found, but the bullet that killed Joseph Bowne Elwell was neatly placed on a table.
Joseph Bowne Elwell was a New York City resident and an expert on the game of Bridge. He had written on the subject and was well-known in the card-playing community. He also had the reputation of being quite a lady’s man. His private address book contained the names and contact information of more than fifty women, some of whom were married.
