India Black and the Widow of Windsor (11 page)

“No fires during the day,” Flora said cheerfully. No doubt they were used to this temperature in Scotland. “We’ll light one tonight, after we’ve finished our duties.” She pulled open a drawer. “You can put your things in here. I’ll take your spare uniform down to the laundry each day and bring it back each night. The Queen doesn’t like to see anyone without the proper amount of starch in her skirt.”

She flopped on the bed. “Ooh, that feels nice. I’ve been running my legs off since we heard the Queen was coming. Sent everyone into a flutter when we heard she was on her way. Poor Miss Boss almost had a fit.”

Flora turned over on her stomach, elbows on the bed and her chin in her hands. “I don’t mind a bit of excitement. Usually, it’s dead up here this time of year. But now the Queen’s come and the ghillies will get their ball, just you wait and see.”

“Their ball?”

“Och, you don’t know about the ghillies’ ball? We always have one in the fall, when the Queen comes. It’s ever so much fun. All the servants and the ghillies are invited, and the Queen leads it off with a grand march around the ballroom. Then we dance and drink and drink and dance until dawn.”

“Sounds marvelous,” I said. “What are the choices for men around here?”

Flora hooted with laughter. “Rough and hairy, and that’s how we Scottish lasses like them. But I’ve got my eye on someone new this year.”

“Robbie Munro?”

“How did you know?” Her eyes narrowed. “You haven’t got plans for him yourself, have you? I must warn you, I’ve already picked that flower out of the bouquet.”

“Not to worry, Flora. I’ve got a beau back in . . .” Bloody hell, where had I supposedly worked before the marchioness had employed me?

I needn’t have worried about supplying a name. Flora heaved a great sigh of relief at the news and bounced off the bed.

“Have you anything to wear?” She rummaged hastily through my things, which unsurprisingly yielded nothing in the way of a party dress. She fingered the dull woolens with dismay. “Well, now. We’ll have to find something for you. None of these will do. But we’re about the same size, and I’m sure I’ve got something that will fit you.”

She sprawled on the bed again. “Did you meet Effie, Lady Dalfad’s maid?”

“The countess’s maid? Oh, yes, we’ve met.”

“Bit of a twit,” said Flora. “Gives herself airs.”

“So does the countess,” I said, remembering her condescension toward the marchioness.

“You’d expect that, wouldn’t you? They all do. The nobs, I mean. I say”—she bounced upright—“did you see that good-looking fellow with the black hair waving in the wind? The one with the grey gelding? I’ve never seen him here before. Do you know him?”

I disclaimed all knowledge of French.

Flora examined her manicure, which, truth to tell (she being a housemaid), was not in the best of condition. “He’s a handsome devil. Looks a regular scoundrel.” She giggled. “I
love
scoundrels.”

Miss Boss opened the door. I suppose the idea of knocking first had yet to make it to the Highlands. Then I remembered that I was a servant and expected to perform such niceties, not personally experience them.

“Flora! I’ve been looking all over for you. The Princess of Wales’s sitting room needs a dust. What have you been doing with yourself? Wasting time gossiping, of course. Now get on your feet and get downstairs. And you”—she glared at me—“the marchioness is ready to dress for dinner. You’ve thirty minutes.”

I bolted out of the room, hastily arranging my cap. Truth to tell, I was the teeniest bit glad to get away from Flora’s prattle. My head was still spinning from the journey, not to mention meeting the marchioness and the legion of servants whose names I would never remember.

“Not that way,” roared Miss Boss.

I reversed direction and scurried past her. I needed a cartographer in the worst way. I hustled out of sight of the housekeeper and down the stairs, where I lassoed a housemaid carrying a dustpan and broom and extracted directions from her to the marchioness’s room. I was haring along like a hunted rabbit down one of the hallways when I turned the corner and ran smack into the most notorious womanizer in Britain: Bertie, Prince of Wales and the heir to the throne. He was a middle-aged swell with a spade beard and the girth of a pregnant Percheron, but elegantly dressed in tweed trousers, soft leather boots and a Norfolk jacket. He looked like an ordinary chap, but the dark circles and sagging pouches under his eyes marked him as the libertine he was.

Poor old Bertie. He liked a bit of fun and wasn’t too particular where he found it: actresses, prostitutes, the wives and daughters of his closest friends. He wasn’t a discriminating chap, our Bertie, but then he had so little to do with his time except drink, dice and whore. His mama (Her Royal Highness) despised the poor stick, blaming him for his father’s death. It’s like this, you see. Bertie was away on maneuvers with his army unit in Ireland when some of his fellow officers decided to play a joke on him and invited the actress Nellie Clifton to his tent. A scandal ensued, and a few weeks later, Prince Albert, though ill with the typhoid fever that eventually killed him, traveled all the way to Cambridge to remonstrate with his son about his ethical shortcomings. Two weeks later poor dear Albert shuffled off this mortal coil, leaving Bertie with lashings of guilt and the Queen with an intense dislike of her own son. But I digress.

The prince caught sight of me and assessed me the way most gentleman do, starting at the toes of my shoes, eyeing with approval my trim waist and luscious breasts, and ending his survey with an appreciative smile at the sight of my milky skin and cobalt blue eyes. His wife, Princess Alexandra of Denmark, was following close behind her husband, rattling on about their son Albert Victor’s education and daughter Louise’s accomplishments at the piano. She couldn’t help but notice that Bertie’s attention had wandered away from her fascinating conversation and was now focused on me. She glared at me, a look that contained enough cyanide to quell a lesser woman, but I was sanguine. I’ve never understood why wives direct their poison at other women; it’s their wandering husbands they ought to take outside and beat with a horsewhip. I’m a handsome woman, and there’s no point in trying to hide my light under a bushel; why should I be blamed for a man’s natural reaction to me?

The princess stalked past, head high, looking down her nose at me (which took some time, as it was quite a nose—one of those you see frequently on the faces of the inbred European aristocracy). I felt a bit sorry for the old hay-bag. She wore an expression of impending doom, as though she’d just gotten word that another of the prince’s mistresses was pregnant. She was followed by several gloomy, horse-faced children (at least the Prince had done his royal duty in that department), who, from their expressions, had learned of their father’s nefarious ways from their mother. They sulked along the passageway, out of sight, and I put on speed for the marchioness’s room.

She was sitting at the dressing table, wearing a stained silk bathrobe and a look of bewilderment.

“Good evening, Your Ladyship.” I dropped a curtsey.

“Ah. There ye are, Irene. I’ve been wonderin’ where ye’d got to. It’s almost time for clobber. They put on a superb feed at dinner here. Well, ye can tell that just by lookin’ at the Queen, can’t ye?”

I picked up the marchioness’s comb and brush and looked dubiously at her hair. “I’ll have you ready soon, m’lady.” I poked experimentally at the white tangles. “Is there anything in particular you’d like me to do with your hair?”

“Just comb it, ye idiot girl. I’m long past the age of carin’ what I look like. Passin’ presentable, that’s good enough for me.” She patted the top of the dressing table irritably. “Where is that snuffbox?”

“Here it is, Your Ladyship,” I said, retrieving the container from the bedside table and turning to the marchioness just in time to see her insert her nail into her powder box, draw forth a goodly portion of that cosmetic and cram it up her nose. She inhaled deeply, shuddering, then a strangled note issued from her throat and her body quivered. I looked round frantically for something to staunch the inevitable eruption. Where’s a blooming towel when you need one? I considered my options—One of the marchioness’s dinner gowns? My skirt? (No)—then settled for the closest thing to hand: a pillow from the bed. I clapped it over the marchioness’s face just as she detonated.

I was sure the muffled roar would bring Superintendent Robshaw’s men rushing in, looking for bombs, but no one came. I removed the pillow and surveyed my handiwork. Well, there was one piece of the Queen’s linen that would never be used again.

The marchioness shook herself vehemently, like a wet Scottish deerhound. “Most unusual. I’ve never had that reaction to Mitchell’s snuff before. Must be an inferior stock. I’ll have to put a flea in that man’s ear when I get home.”

“It was face powder, ma’am,” I said gently.

The marchioness swung round, her faded eyes alight with suspicion. “Face powder! ’Strodinary! Why would ye give me face powder instead of snuff? Are ye tryin’ to kill me, Irene?”

“No, ma’am, of course not,” I said hastily. “I didn’t . . .” Oh, what was the point? I took a deep breath. “My apologies, my lady. Very stupid of me. It won’t happen again.”

The marchioness rubbed her face with her hand, then wiped it on her dressing gown. “Don’t just stand there gapin’ like a fish. Do up my hair and get me dressed or I’ll miss the pâté de foie gras. The Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin always sends it to the Queen for Christmas.”

So I did my best to tidy the marchioness, wrestling her coarse, frazzled elflocks into some semblance of a coiffure, dabbing the powder on her withered cheeks with a practiced hand, applying the rouge sparingly, and otherwise doing what I could with the material at hand. I have to say, I was rather proud of my work when I finished. The marchioness certainly looked less seedy than when we’d met at Perth. She was, in fact, just this side of respectable. Not that the old dear noticed, of course, having fallen asleep while I brushed and combed. I gave her a kindly poke, and she awoke with a snort, gazing wildly around her.

“Balmoral,” I reminded her.

“I know where I am,” she snapped. I allowed myself to feel a moment of pity for her dinner partners tonight.

I shoved her into her dress while she tottered about like the Prince of Wales on a bender, helped guide her wavering feet into her kid shoes, tucked a handkerchief into her sleeve (not much chance of that being used, but I owed it to the other guests) and placed her snuffbox into her evening bag. Someone knocked discreetly, and I opened the door to find Robbie Munro on the threshold, looking, I might add, simply stunning in a dark green jacket, snowy white shirt and a kilt that showed a fine pair of legs.

He gave me a dazzling grin, which I returned.

“I’m to escort Her Ladyship to dinner,” he said.

The marchioness wobbled past me, like a cork on a wave. “Don’t flirt with the footmen, Ilene,” she hissed in my ear. I tried to look abashed, but I fear that I failed.

 

 

 

It was getting on for nine o’clock when I finally staggered into the room I shared with Flora. I untied my laces, removed my shoes and stretched out on the lumpy mattress, pulling a blanket over me. Someone had lit a mean little fire in the grate. They were generous with the coal here at Balmoral; there must have been three pieces in the fireplace. I shivered. Cyprus next time, I promised myself. Or Athens. The prime minister must need somebody on the spot in a warm climate from time to time. Hell, I’d even take Cairo at this point. I huddled under my blanket, feeling very sorry for myself.

I must have dozed off, because when I came to Flora had bustled in, humming a tune.

“You look ragged, India.”

“It’s been a long day. And I still have to tuck my old lady into bed.”

“That’ll be midnight or later, unless she likes to retire early.”

“She retires frequently during the day, and I expect she’ll drop off once or twice during dinner.”

“Old pussies are like that.” Flora removed her cap and pulled the pins from her hair.

I struggled upright, brushing my hair from my face and giving it a good scrubbing with my palms. I wanted nothing more than a few hours repose, but the sooner French and I uncovered the would-be assassin, the sooner I could stop wiping the marchioness’s nose and head home to London. While I had a few minutes alone with Flora, I might as well see what I could learn about the Balmoral servants.

“How long have you been in service here at the castle?”

She brushed her hair vigorously. “Donkey’s years. Since I was a slip of a girl. Mama is the cook here, and it seems like I’ve always worked alongside her. When I was ten, I was hired to do the washing up, and then I did laundry, and a few years ago I became housemaid.”

“I’ve met your mother. She’s very nice.”

“Mama’s nice to everyone, even John Brown and those heathen chaps from India. She’s a good cook, too. She came to work here when the Queen and Prince Albert built the house, and she’s been here ever since. Her Majesty’s quite fond of Mama’s puddings, and she says no one roasts beef nearly so well.”

One glance at the Queen’s figure and you could tell she wasn’t finicky about her vittles, but I wasn’t about to point out to Flora that her mother could have put sawdust with gravy on the table, and the Queen would have bolted it down.

“Your mother has been here since the castle opened? Goodness! Have the other servants been here as long?”

Flora massaged her scalp, studying herself intently in the mirror. “Lots of them have been. And the newer ones are usually sons or daughters or cousins, taking over from someone in their family who is retiring from service.”

“And the scrumptious Robbie Munro? He told me he had only been here a little while.”

At the mention of Munro’s name, Flora swooned dramatically, hand over her heart. “He is tasty, isn’t he? Yes, he’s new. Started work just a few days ago. His uncle is the under butler here, and he recommended Robbie. He was a footman at a house somewhere in the Borders. Kelso, I think he said. Or maybe it was Jedburgh. Anyway, we needed a footman here and Robbie’s uncle said he’d do. One of the other footmen just upped stakes and left. Nobody knows where he went or why he was in such a hurry. You mark my words, though”—Flora laughed—“we’ll find out in the spring, when one of the laundry girls shows up in the family way.”