India Black and the Widow of Windsor (31 page)

“Perverse behavior, my lady?” I was innocence itself.

The marchioness sniffed, detecting sarcasm. “Don’t mock me, India.”

India?

“I know ye lasses think ye know all there is to know of the ways of men, but believe me, I could tell ye stories that would raise your hair.”

Doubtful, that. More likely I could provide an education to the marchioness she wouldn’t forget, but it would be a waste, wouldn’t it, as the days in which she might have made use of my lessons were long past.

“Choose yer dance partners well. The youngsters from the castle are good boys. They know they’d be flogged within an inch of their lives if they step out of line. As much as it pains me to admit it, the real cads are to be found among the guests. Reports have reached me that ye’ve been seen on several occasions with that Mr. French. And I myself have stumbled upon ye with the Prince of Wales.”

“I am completely blameless,” I said, and I didn’t have to feign my indignation. If the marchioness wanted to school someone, why didn’t she march off to Bertie’s room and shame him? But it was ever thus: men are free to impose their will on women, while women are denounced as sluts and bobtails for submitting to it. Give me the old-fashioned exchange of goods and services any day; there’s no disgrace in conducting a business transaction among consenting men and women.

The marchioness waved away my protests. “Regardless, I am instructin’ ye to refrain from flirtin’ with that French fellow, or ye’ll end up just like . . .” She shut her trap abruptly and glared at me in the mirror. “Anyway, just do as I say, and remember that I’ll be watchin’ ye.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said obediently, but it would be bloody hard to slip around the ballroom and follow suspects if the marchioness kept her eye on me.

When the marchioness had finished chastising me before I had sinned, I spiffed her up until she bore a passing resemblance to the title she carried and then escorted her down the hall, where we joined a stream of excited guests and eager attendants. She doddered along on my arm, her eyes alight and her few visible teeth displayed in a deranged grin of pure delight. We descended the stairs into the main hall, where all was chaos. Everyone and his second cousin had arrived to join the grand march into the ballroom, and there was a bit of shoving and braying about seniority and there were ill-humoured remarks, all from the toffs, of course. I am proud to say the servants conducted themselves with a bit more dignity.

As one of the Queen’s oldest relatives, the marchioness had a place of honour near the front of the pack. Vicker, face blanched white and lathered like a Boer’s ox, was carrying around another of his infernal lists. When I presented the marchioness, he thumbed through the pages, then barked at me to conduct Her Ladyship to the fourth place in line. Mr. French would join her there and escort her into the ballroom. I nearly made myself sick with silent laughter as I positioned my employer in line, thinking of the fastidious French offering a snowy cuff upon which the marchioness would place her snuff-stained glove. I hoped he had an adequate supply of handkerchiefs, as he’d likely need them ere the night was over.

I realized that I had not found my own place in line, so I reluctantly consulted Vicker again and endured the subsequent snarling and spitting. I was walking in with one of the ghillies, a shy youngster named Jock MacBeath, with jug ears and red down on his cheeks, who blushed when I introduced myself. But I’m a dab hand with raw youth, and within ten minutes I had the pup twisting around my legs in delight. Thank God, I’d be spying tonight, or I never would be able to shake my new admirer.

It was quite a sight, that assemblage of hairy, kilted men and bright-eyed ladies in their best dresses. The male servants wore the Royal Stewart tartan, topped with black wool Argyll jackets with gauntlet sleeves and epaulettes on the shoulders, or the more elaborate Prince Charlie, a cutaway jacket of fine wool with short tails and braided epaulettes. Each wore a bristling sporran of fox or rabbit fur (the Scottish version of a wallet, though I suspect most of the chaps had a flask tucked in there tonight) dangling over his goolies (a dashed odd place to carry your cash, but then the Scots are an odd lot). I’ll tell you true, those men were so dashing and romantic, I almost wished I’d been born in the Highlands, so I could gaze on their hirsute magnificence to my heart’s content. All the male guests wore white ties, though some had put a sprig of thistle through their buttonholes. The female guests were decked out in ball gowns of pink satin, gold moiré silk and cerise tulle. There was gold blond lace, red velvet bows and trains of light blue silk and white satin in abundance. Even the female servants were decked out festively, in muslin gowns in pastel shades, which contrasted sharply with their reddened hands and large knuckles.

Flora was a fantasy in a creamy satin dress with a swatch of the Royal Stewart tartan for a shawl, her strawberry curls twisted into an elaborate affair. Her pale cheeks were flushed with excitement, and her eyes sparkled. She had provided me a simple silk gown of robin’s egg blue, with a low neckline that set off my décolletage to full advantage (which I must admit, is a considerable advantage indeed) and accentuated the cobalt of my eyes. I’d put up my hair and rouged my cheeks, and the male staff went down before me like wheat before a threshing machine. I looked ravishing, if I do say so myself. But I digress.

Silence fell over the assembly, and the Queen, looking as pink, plump and complacent as a well-fed pig, descended the stairs. She was dressed in black, of course, but she’d made some concessions to the occasion by donning a striking little hat of ermine and an ermine collar and cuffs, with a miniature rosette of the royal tartan pinned to her breast by a yellow cairngorm. Bertie had been loitering about, flirting with anything in skirts and trying to avoid the irate gaze of his dearly beloved, Princess Alexandra. When the Queen appeared in view, Bertie stiffened at the sight, broke off his conversation with the youthful baroness he’d been ogling and scrambled to the front of the line. I expected him to escort his mother into the ballroom, but he slunk up to his wife and took her arm, while she looked with loathing at the baroness and the baroness pretended not to notice.

’Twas John Brown who materialized at the Queen’s side, tucking her arm under his and gazing about with an arrogant grin. Bertie snarled. Disraeli, third in line and spanned with Lady Dalfad, looked bored. He’d wriggled his way into the Queen’s good graces, and he didn’t fret about sharing them with Brown. In fact, the crafty old Hebrew had encouraged the Queen’s affection for Brown, earning Dizzy the Queen’s devotion. Bertie, pondering whether the monarchy would survive the lurid tales in the newspapers of “Mrs. Brown” (and thus be worth inheriting), could hardly contain himself when Brown was in the room.

From inside the ballroom I heard the scrape of fiddle strings and the wheeze of an accordion. There was a buzz amongst the crowd, with a few of the youngsters standing on tiptoe for a glimpse of the band and gabbling excitedly. Then Brown, acting as drillmaster, raised his hand and signaled for silence, and an expectant hush settled upon the revelers. The band issued a desultory note or two to finish tuning their instruments, and then they launched into “Hielan’ Laddie,” which young Jock MacBeath was pleased to inform me was the regimental quick march of the Forty-Second (Royal Highlanders) Regiment of Foot, popularly known as the “Black Watch.” It’s a damned fine song, inspiring enough to induce young soldiers from the glens to forget their fear and charge the French line at the Battle of Quartre Bras, and John Brown and the Queen marched into the ballroom to its stirring refrain with their heads held high. We followed after them, making a circuit of the room with everyone grinning foolishly (except Dizzy, who looked as though he’d rather be having a tooth extracted). Red Hector, already well in his cups, was bouncing along, probably hoping for a chance to slaughter some English infantryman before the night was over. The marchioness looked as giddy as a schoolgirl at her first dance, and even French’s lips were quirked in a tight smile. I’m not ashamed to admit I was beaming; the prospect of an evening of dancing and drinking and . . . oh, curse it, I’d forgotten I had to be vigilant tonight. Well, it always pays to make the best of things, as my mother used to tell me when we’d been chucked out onto the street because we couldn’t make the rent (again), and I resolved to enjoy myself (a bit of dancing and a nip of whisky now and then) while keeping a close eye on Munro and Vicker.

When the whole troupe had squeezed into the room, we formed off into groups of eight (Jock MacBeath still dancing attendance on me), and the band swung into the “Reel of the Fifty-First Division.” I hardly knew what I was doing, but MacBeath proved as lively and quick as a hare and had me weaving and bobbing right along with the others in no time at all. Scottish country dancing is simple, really, once you pick up the basic steps, as you tend to repeat them several times before moving on to another set of steps, which are then repeated, and so on. Sounds dull, but in fact it was great fun, even if I was dancing with a spotted youth with ears the size of water pitchers.

I caught sight of French, with a grim expression on his face, dutifully flinging the marchioness around the room. Dizzy had opted out of the athletics and was nursing a whisky at one of the tables with Lady Dalfad, a prim expression of disapproval on her face as she watched Effie dance with one of the under butlers. The Queen . . . Lord, there was a surprise. She and Brown were scampering about like a pair of frisky fox cubs. For a plump woman, Her Highness proved remarkably spry. It was said that she couldn’t stand anyone touching her, and so I was amazed to see Brown grasping both her hands and draping his arm around her shoulders during the dance. Perhaps there was some truth to the rumours of conjugal visits between the two.

Between twirls, I checked the room for assassins. Flora had proved prescient; she had Robbie Munro in a chokehold as they cantered among the other couples. Vicker was studying the buffet table, ticking items from the list he carried and frowning. Now and then, he reached down to straighten a bowl or line up a fork with its fellows. I hoped he wasn’t sweating into the horseradish.

Those two were my responsibility, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to check on the other fellows. Archie Skene had a pewter tankard in his hand and was disporting himself with the boys from the stables. They were dressed formally, in jackets, ties and kilts, but they still looked as if you could pull hay from their hair. Vincent had attached himself to Archie, and as I watched, he took the old man’s jug and filled it for him from a barrel of ale standing nearby. Ho, ho, Vincent, I thought. What a clever way to keep tabs on the fellow: get him falling down drunk and you won’t have to move ten feet from the liquor the whole evening long. Red Hector’s ginger hair was tousled and his face flushed with brandy. He was gamboling with one of the housemaids, who was pleased as punch to be dancing with one of Scotland’s eligible bachelors. I could have warned her things wouldn’t end well, but it wasn’t my business to interfere, so I turned my attention back to Jock MacBeath.

Dancing was hard work, so after the reel ended the band gave the crowd a chance to slake its thirst and sample the comestibles on the buffet. French sauntered up with a glass of whisky in his hand.

“You and the marchioness make a fine couple.”

He scowled. “It’s not the dancing I mind; it’s the sneezing. It’s like swimming upstream through a Nile cataract. Care to dance?”

I’d danced once before with French, a waltz at the Russian Embassy several weeks ago, and he proved as attentive a partner now as he had then, which is to say, he paid no mind to me at all, except for the minimum of effort required to rein me in and set in on the right path when I was inclined to miss a step. He was busy looking over my shoulder for Red Hector and Munro and the others. We executed a mechanical turn and I bumped into Flora, who was dancing in the next group to ours. She did not look happy.

“Here,” she hissed at me. “I’m supposed to dance with French.”

“You’ve Robbie Munro attached to your arm. Don’t be selfish.”

We swung away from each other, and the next time she glided past she gave me a meaningful glance.

“Don’t spoil my chances, India. I loaned you that dress, remember?”

“Don’t worry yourself, Flora. You can have him next, as long as you hand over Robbie.”

What better way to keep an eye on the lad than holding his hand and laughing up into his eyes? His red gold curls and handsome knees were merely icing on the cake.

We did switch out on the next dance (“The Rakes of Auld Reekie,” if I recall correctly), with Flora and I changing partners so deftly the two men looked surprised to find themselves in another woman’s arms. I had thought French a distracted partner, but Robbie was worse. We whirled and jigged and stepped our way through dance after dance, but the footman never once looked at me. His eyes were constantly active, and he was as twitchy as a stag on the first day of the hunting season. Naturally, this made me suspicious, as he did seem to be the leading contender for the role of Marischal, but curiously, his attention seemed to be everywhere but upon the Queen, who had retired to the chair on the dais and was now fanning herself energetically, while Brown looked on with a lofty air.

After a blistering rendition of the “The White Cockade,” the band finally cried off, pleading for drink, and Robbie bowed shortly and hurried away through the crowd. I followed him just long enough to see him safely ensconced at a table with some of the other servants, sinking a glass of the Scottish national drink. I refreshed myself with some of the same and was pleased to combine business with pleasure as Vicker had taken up residence behind the table containing the liquor (to ensure that none of the servants made an ass of himself, I suppose), and I could watch the man while I sipped my whisky.