India Black And The Widow Of Windsor Part 13

I was having a bite of luncheon with some of the other lady's maids in the kitchen, spinning an elaborate tale of a tumble on the stairs and the consequent damage to my face, when Robbie Munro came rushing in, his curls askew and his cheeks flushed with excitement. He scanned the room until his eyes came to rest on me, and he bustled over with the all the urgency of a Viennese soldier come to deliver the news that the Saracens were at the gates.

"You're to come at once, Miss Black," he panted, skidding to a halt at the table.

"What's the matter?"

"It's the marchioness. She was dining with the Queen. There's been an incident."

"An incident?"

"Come along," said Robbie impatiently. "I've been sent to fetch you and we mustn't tarry. I'll tell you on the way."

I dabbed my mouth and straightened my cap and off we went, with Robbie galloping along in front of me, kilt swishing from side to side (offering a tantalizing glimpse of clearly defined hamstrings), and me struggling to stay up with him.

"What has happened?" I called to him.

He slowed to a trot. "The marchioness stuffed a wad of pepper up her nose. I saw her myself. You wouldn't believe what happened next."

"Yes," I said wearily. "I would."

"The Queen was not amused. You're to take the marchioness away." He grimaced. "You'll have to do a bit of cleaning up. Of the marchioness, I mean."

The dining room was unexpectedly quiet when we entered. There was the embarra.s.sed silence among the occupants that one encounters at family dinners when Auntie Rose loses her false teeth in a winegla.s.s or Uncle James breaks wind during grace. The marchioness sat sullenly at the table while a couple of footmen hovered over her, attempting without much success to mop up the table and sponge off the old lady's dress. Her nearest neighbors had the dazed look of survivors of an artillery bombardment. I caught sight of French at the end of the table, grinning like a schoolboy with Red Hector. Lady Dalfad was rigid with disapproval, lips pursed. As for the Queen, her little pudding face was quivering with fury. She crooked a finger at me.

d.a.m.n and blast. So much for slipping into the room and extracting the marchioness without drawing attention to ourselves. I crawled up the room like an obsequious spaniel and dropped an inexpert curtsey. The Queen fixed me with a pale and murderous eye. She noted the developing bruise and scratches on my cheek (evidence to her, no doubt, of the kind of disreputable maid the marchioness would employ), but she was so infuriated that she did not comment upon my appearance.

"Have you been told what occurred here today?" Her voice was trembling with suppressed rage.

"I have, Your Highness."

"We are not amused." She pointed a plump finger down the table. "You will escort the marchioness to her room and remove that, that . . . filth from her clothes and her person."

"Yes, Your Highness."

"In the future, you will accompany the marchioness to meals. You will stand behind her until she has finished eating. Your attention to her will be unremitting, and you will see that nothing like this ever occurs again." She waved her hand in dismissal.

"Yes, Your Highness."

I collected the marchioness, and we skedaddled out of the room, with the marchioness holding her head erect, clutching my arm and teetering defiantly. I had to hand it to her; the old trout had pluck.

"It wasn't my fault," she rasped when we'd escaped the view of the scandalized diners. "Some fool put pepper on the table in front of me."

"Anyone could make the same mistake," I said soothingly.

This blatant lie mollified the marchioness.

"Indeed," she said. She squinted at me. "What the devil has happened to ye?"

I gave her the same fallacious account I'd provided to the servants.

"Clumsy oaf," she said, clutching my arm as we tottered along.

In her room I stripped off her gown and tossed it in the basket for the laundress to clean. Then I moistened a flannel and applied myself to removing the dried grains of pepper that had adhered to the marchioness's face. This was as laborious as performing surgery, and my eyes were beginning to cross by the time I'd scrubbed her clean. The marchioness's head was drooping by then, and I left her snoring comfortably under an eiderdown and headed to the kitchen for some refreshment. A cup of tea would be nice. A belt of brandy would be better.

Alas, there was no brandy in the offing, so I settled down on a bench beside Flora with a cup of a tea and one of Cook's scones.

"I suppose you've heard the news," I said. "My employer has disgraced the house of Tullibardine."

"I hear the Queen threw a wobbly. I'd have given anything to see it." She poked me in the ribs. "And I hear you're going to attend the marchioness at meals. That should be a treat. I'd love to hear what the toffs talk about after a few gla.s.ses of wine. And I'd love to spend a couple of hours staring at that fine Mr. French over the table."

"I hadn't thought about it that way," I said. "It might be entertaining, as long as I don't forget my duties and let the marchioness stick any foreign objects up her nose."

"Oh, do. I'd love to hear what the Queen does if it happens again."

"Probably consign the marchioness to the Tower and lop off my head."

Flora clapped her hand on my arm, sloshing tea onto the floor. "I almost forgot to tell you! There was a robbery last night in Ballater."

"Oh?" This would not be news in London, but apparently Ballater did not see much criminal activity beyond the theft of the odd ewe.

"Someone broke the window out of the chemist's shop and cleaned out the place. They say whoever did it made off with enough medicine to kit out a hospital."

"Fancy that," I said. "Do the authorities have any clues?"

"Not a single one. Of course, that's no surprise. Grant, the constable in Ballater, is dimmer than a dying candle. He'll never find the thief."

"Pity," I said. I finished my tea and wiped the crumbs from my ap.r.o.n. "Well, I've a few minutes before I have to wake the marchioness and beautify her for dinner. I think I'll step outside for a breath of air."

I popped out of the servants' entrance, prepared for a blast of searingly cold Highland air in my lungs, only to be met with the eye-watering aroma of curry. In a corner of the courtyard, a pair of shivering Hindoos huddled over a wood fire, stirring a vile yellow swill in a blackened pot. I pulled my ap.r.o.n up over my nose and hurried around the corner, where a stiff breeze from the Cairngorms brought the tears to my eyes and scoured the odor from my nostrils.

I found a bit of shelter behind one of the turrets that dear departed Albert had added to the exterior of the castle, and surveyed the grounds. Except for the visits to the stone hut in the woods, I'd scarcely been out of the castle since arriving, and I was getting heartily sick of swabbing down the old lady and reading the Bible until the wee hours. A bit of fun wouldn't go amiss, and I set to wondering about the ghillies' ball and whether the dour Scots race was capable of throwing a party that didn't involve a lot of morose, bearded coves comparing notes on sheep. However, Flora had indicated the ball would be festive, and she looked like a miss who enjoyed getting oiled and sharing a romp on the dance floor with a likely lad. She'd made clear her intention to dance with French at the ball; although, I've had the pleasure of waltzing with the bloke, and I could have told Flora not to bother as the man was about as attentive as a ten-week-old fox terrier. But at the time we'd shared our dance at the Russian Emba.s.sy, French had been playing serious-minded government agent. Now that he was masquerading as an aristocratic b.o.o.b, he might be pleasant company.

I was gazing aimlessly around the grounds (which, at this time of year, were not at their best), wondering why on earth the Queen would choose to vacation in this frigid clime when the contents of the royal treasury were available to her, when a black blur caught my eye. I watched with interest as Robbie Munro slunk furtively from the castle. At this time of day, he should be polishing silver or laying cutlery in preparation for dinner. I perked up at the prospect of following him; this was real espionage work, unlike playing nursemaid to a dotty member of the Upper Ten. Munro walked rapidly, hugging the wall of the castle, head swiveling as he scanned the area. He was clearly nervous, checking over his shoulder every few seconds to ensure he wasn't being followed. I applied myself to the granite as well, ducking in behind turrets, pillars and bowed windows (thank G.o.d, Prince Albert had been inordinately fond of such decorations and piled them on with a heavy hand), keeping a close eye on the footman.

Robbie turned the corner and exited the courtyard, glancing behind him as he did so. I found refuge behind a b.u.t.tress until my quarry was out of sight, then rushed forward, gathering up my skirts and skating over the slippery cobblestones. At the corner I paused and cautiously inched forward for a peek. Munro was in view, hands jammed in his pockets, nervously describing circles at the side of the stables, out of sight of the main entrance and the horse stalls. He pulled a watch from his pocket and looked at it anxiously, then resumed his nervous pacing. He kept a sharp lookout, peering back at my hiding place from time to time, making it difficult to stay out of sight. As he was clearly waiting for someone, I cooled my heels for a bit, tucked up behind the corner. After a few minutes, I took a gander and found that Munro's appointment had arrived: Archie Skene.

The two had their heads bent close together while Munro talked and Skene listened, nodding now and then and tugging thoughtfully at his beard. I conned the area between me and the men, but there was no way I could get any closer, unless I just sauntered out and joined them, which of course would have meant the end of the conversation I so wanted to hear. I waited impatiently as the two conversed. Munro did most of the talking, jawing away while Skene looked up at him from under those furry eyebrows of his. Skene shook his head a couple of times, once vehemently, at which Munro looked frustrated and spoke sharply to the older man. Skene drew himself up to his full height (which wasn't much, as he could just about look over the withers of a Shetland pony when he did so) and tapped Munro on the chest. The footman took a step back, then raised a placating hand to Skene. Well, if Munro was the Marischal and Skene the lackey, the Scots clearly had different ideas about the deference due to the leader of the cabal.

The cold had seeped into my bones and I started to shiver. It was also getting onto the hour when I should be sprucing up the marchioness and donning my best uniform to attend her at dinner. If Skene and Munro didn't finish their confounded conversation soon, I'd have to leg it back inside the castle. I hugged myself and jogged quietly in place, willing Munro to get on with it. After an eternity, he ceased jabbering, and Skene bowed his head, as though considering what the footman had said. Then the two shook hands, Skene headed to the stables and Munro strode purposefully in my direction.

Curse it. I'd been so absorbed in watching Munro and Skene that I hadn't given a thought as to what I would do when Munro returned to the castle. No use looking for a hiding place; those turrets and towers had served very well to slither behind while tailing the footman, but as he walked back to the servants' entrance, I'd stand out like a Pathan at a picnic. Nothing to do but brazen it out, so I a.s.sumed an expression of affability and sauntered around the corner to meet Munro.

He started guiltily when he saw me, halting abruptly and giving me a stony stare. By now he must be wondering why I kept appearing like a magician's apprentice.

I smiled amiably. "Why, Robbie, I didn't expect to see you out here. Don't you have duties to attend to?"

"Don't you?" He said it coldly. He was not best pleased to encounter me.

"I do. I was just having a stroll before the evening's work commences. You know I'm to accompany the marchioness to dinner. I needed to steel myself for the task."

He grinned and relaxed visibly. "I can't say that I blame you. I suppose I'll see you at dinner, then."

I nodded, and he marched away, leaving me to ruminate about the scene I'd just observed.

I suppose in my senescence, I'll be able to tell my grandchildren (if such creatures should ever exist) that their old grammy dined with Victoria Regina, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India. There'll be no need to mention that I did so decked out in a sober black skirt and shirtwaist, with a lacy white ap.r.o.n and a matching cap, standing several feet from the table. The little beggars won't believe me anyway. They'll hoot out loud at the news and say cruel things about my mental state, and I'll cuff them on the ear and send them running in tears to their mama. Ah, the joys of old age.

Dinner with the Queen was as stiff an affair as I've ever attended. The Queen sat at the head of the table, of course, where she could keep an eye on things and tamp down any fun in the offing that did not meet her approval. The chairs nearest her were occupied by officious-looking coves in black tie and gaudy ribbons and medals and such, and their pale, overfed wives stuffed into gowns of crimson and bottle green velvet. Dizzy had pride of place, next to the Queen, and he was putting on a brave face, though he looked pale and haggard, and he shook violently now and then as draughts of cold air circulated through the room. Even his dress was subdued this evening; he had donned his monkey suit like the rest of the men, and his only concession to his peculiar fashion proclivities was a pair of spotless white gloves and a half-dozen rings worn over them, their jewels winking in the firelight. He spent a good bit of time jollying the Queen along and making her giggle like a schoolgirl, but you could tell his heart wasn't in it. When one of the other chaps in the Queen's circle would jump in with a story about the campaign at Sobraon, Dizzy would lean back in his chair and let his eyes wander over the table while he sipped sparingly at a gla.s.s of champagne. On one of his surveys of the room, he caught my eye, and one of his own heavy lids drooped briefly in what might have been a wink.

Bertie, Prince of Wales, was situated at the other end of the table, which was both boon and burden. From this distance, he was free to fondle the knees of the ladies seated on either side of him and talk cards and horses with the men, but he had to keep a watchful eye on his mater, lest she catch him engaging in some hilarity. I rather enjoyed watching the royal lecher swill champers and gorge down course after course of fine French cooking while he pawed his female companions, all the while darting nervous glances the length of the table to see if his mother had noticed that he was enjoying himself. I felt a swelling of sympathy for the sybaritic swine, until I noticed he had noticed me and was leering over his winegla.s.s in my direction. I dropped my eyes and strove for modesty.

Just down the table from Bertie, French and Red Hector had been seated opposite each other, and I had my first good look at the chap. He had the complexion of a dedicated sportsman and boozehound: chapped, freckled, pitted and pocked, and the colour of a well-used saddle. Flaming red hair receded from a domed forehead, which indicated a larger brain than French had indicated it actually held. The piggy eyes held not a glint of intelligence but plenty of malice, and his lips were the loose, red, wet lips of a libertine. All in all, he was the sort of coa.r.s.e, crude character that French would have studiously avoided had he had the choice. I was glad to know that French's life at Balmoral was not without its complications.

Their dinner companions were considerably older than French and Red Hector (in one instance being so ancient and still I thought she might have left this vale of tears during the first course). I enjoyed a smirk at that; no doubt the crones who had been seated near the two men had been deliberately placed to stifle any untoward behavior. One of those crones happened to be the marchioness, and I breathed a prayer of thanks to the Bearded Cove in the Firmament that I was well placed to hear whatever indiscretions Red Hector might utter. He and French were engaged in a contest to see who could empty the Queen's cellar first, with Red Hector quaffing champagne as though it were water and French following suit. Red Hector looked as though he'd just rushed in from coursing hares, thrown off his outdoor garments and climbed into an ancient dinner jacket, doubtless handed down with the baronet's t.i.tle. There appeared to be a blade of withered gra.s.s still tangled in his ginger hair. French was neater (no surprise there; he was as fastidious as a cat when it came to his appearance), although his hair had obviously not made acquaintance with a comb in some time. The two were cracking jokes and crowing with laughter, while their nearest companions looked askance and inched away from them. They were prattling on about the steeplechase circuit, each one trying to top the other with stories of the debaucheries they'd enjoyed at various races. The old p.u.s.s.ies were growing purple and trembling with indignation, except for the marchioness, who was shoveling salmon mayonnaise into her mouth with all the finesse of a starving stevedore and grinning foolishly at the two young ruffians as she listened to their tales. That reminded me that my purpose tonight was to keep the marchioness from spraying the Queen's guests like an out-of-control fire hose, so I took note of the location of the salt cellars, pepper pots and sugar bowls. None appeared in reach of the marchioness, but I doubted that would stop Her Ladyship from embarra.s.sing herself; she was remarkably adept at doing so. I poised like a ballerina, ready to leap if the marchioness's hand strayed toward any powdery substance.

Evidently, French had judged that Red Hector was ready to be plucked, for he leaned across the table in a confidential manner, cast a wary glance toward the Prince of Wales to see that he wasn't listening (of course he wasn't; he had his left hand up the petticoats of the nearest la.s.s and was mooning like a love-struck calf into her eyes) and said: "I say, old chap, have you heard the latest about the Queen and that bounder Brown?"

Red Hector snorted. "Good Gad. An aging widow sporting about with a younger man is bad enough, but when she's the Queen and he's a commoner, it beggars belief. At least the bloke is a Scot. You know we Scots have a rough charm the ladies find irresistible." He smiled ferociously at the marchioness, who cawed with laughter.

"Apparently, Brown and the Queen have been seen sharing a gla.s.s of whisky before bed."

Red Hector's eyebrows waggled.

"And," French said, "Her Highness has commissioned a painting of Brown, to hang at Windsor. His Highness won't be pleased." French nodded significantly toward Bertie. It was no secret that the Prince of Wales hated John Brown and would have sent him packing with a foot up his kilt, but the Queen wouldn't allow it.

Red Hector shot a condescending glance at Bertie. "A Scottish mother wouldn't dare behave in such a way, and a Scottish son wouldn't allow it if she did. Those two have nerve, calling themselves royalty and ordering the rest of us about. It's bad enough they're not Scottish. Why, they're not even English. The Queen's half German, for Christ's sake. Her mother was princess of some insignificant German duchy, and then the Queen married that oaf Albert, who couldn't even speak English properly. What a tribulation for a great nation to bear."

French toyed with his champagne gla.s.s. "You mean England?"

"Of course I don't mean b.l.o.o.d.y England," roared Red Hector. Silence descended upon the dining table. The Queen looked up sharply.

Red Hector grinned at her and waved his gla.s.s. "A pleasant wine, Your Highness," he said. The Queen glowered at him, but Dizzy leaned toward her with a witticism that brought a smile to her lips, and she settled down to flirt with her prime minister.

Red Hector wiped his face, which was shining with sweat and flushed from heat and drink. "I mean Scotland. We Scots have mortgaged our heritage, and for what? A chance to trade in the English colonies and be ruled by a cl.u.s.ter of German dolts who wear the plaid and pretend they're ent.i.tled to do so. My ancestors are turning over in their graves right now."

French shrugged. "There is nothing to be done. You Scots have tried to gain your independence and failed." He sipped his wine and added, by way of an afterthought, "Many times, in fact."

Red Hector swelled like a puff adder. I thought he'd pop his collar or have a stroke or pull out his sgian dubh and go for French's throat. The marchioness cackled appreciatively, and I contemplated whether it would be pistols at dawn or edged weapons on the lawn at noon.

"If I didn't like you so much, French, I might take offense at that. It's true, you cursed English have beaten down every uprising, but a few English toffs have watered the soil of Scotland with their blood in the process."

"Just stating the facts, old man," said French. "I don't have a dog in this fight. I really don't care if we have a German or a Scot or a b.l.o.o.d.y Hottentot on the throne, so long as it doesn't interfere with my fun. Besides, the present lot aren't going anywhere. Bertie's ready to a.s.sume the throne as soon as Mama corks it, and he's got a litter of half a dozen to choose from next, not to mention plenty of offspring from the other side of the sheets."

"Och, weel, you never know what the fates have in store for you."

"The clans may rise again, eh, Hector?"

Red Hector gave a sly smile and finished his wine. "Hard to say, French. We Scots are unpredictable. The only loyalties we have are to kith, kin and the old ways."

"Hear, hear," mumbled the marchioness through a mouthful of veal, though I detected a note of disappointment that the two strapping young fellows weren't going to fling off their jackets and climb into one another.

After that, dinner pa.s.sed without incident. I suppose French felt he'd baited Red Hector enough for one evening, and I suppose he was right. The Scot might hate the English monarch, but he wasn't foolish enough to openly advocate knocking her off while he enjoyed the delights of her table. The marchioness behaved herself admirably; only once did she grow restless and her fingers stray toward the salt cellar, but I leapt forward like a startled deer and shoved her winegla.s.s into her outstretched hand. She seemed surprised to find it there, but she drank dutifully, and then the footmen carried in an enormous Bakewell tart and a variety of sherbets, and the marchioness forgot all about snuff.

I knew the test would come after dinner, when my employer would be hankering for the consolation of tobacco, especially given the joyless company she had to endure with the Queen and Lady Dalfad and more of their ilk, until the men finished their port and cigars and joined the ladies for a few hands of cards and some lively conversation. During the procession of the ladies from the dining room to the parlor, I spirited my old gal away to a dark corner, where I plied her with a healthy dose of Mr. Mitch.e.l.l's best, held a thick napkin to her face while she expectorated most of what I had shoveled into her, and dabbed her clean. Then I shoved her back into the parade and followed dutifully.

After an evening among the swells, I could understand why their menfolk made a beeline to the likes of Lotus House at the first opportunity. I have never been as bored in my life as I was that night (save for the incident that ended the evening, which I shall recount in detail in half a mo). There were a few rum coves (French and Red Hector among them) who migrated to a distant corner and engaged in much merriment, a.s.sisted by the consumption of gallons of brandy, but the rest of the crowd was as flat as one of Mrs. Drinkwater's Yorkshire puddings. A doughyfaced girl played the piano, and a pale youth, slender as a whippet, sang sentimental songs in a reedy tenor that made the Queen wipe her eye. We were all made to suffer through "The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond" and "My Ain Folk" and a particularly dreadful version of "Dark Lochnagar," sung no doubt for the Queen's benefit to remind her of the brooding rocky crag that loomed over Balmoral from a distance. Then one of the minor Scottish aristocrats got nervously to his feet and cleared his throat and, after much blushing and mumbling, treated us to a recitation of a number of Rabbie Burns's poems. By the time he'd worked his way through "Man Was Made to Mourn" and "The Farewell," the Queen's face had screwed tight and her eyes were gushing, being reminded, I'm sure, of dear departed Albert. By then, I was considering running up to French's room to borrow his straight razor so as to slit my wrists and put an end to my misery.

But while the Queen was snuffling into her handkerchief and Lady Dalfad was patting her hand and whispering consoling words in her ear, I noticed Red Hector stagger away from the group in the corner and approach the Queen. French made a halfhearted attempt to catch the fellow's arm, but Red Hector jerked it away and lumbered on, his swinish eyes glittering with spite. He planted himself before the Queen, and she looked up in astonishment, her nonplussed expression quickly altering to one of fury. Apparently, Red Hector hadn't gotten the memorandum that informed houseguests they were never to approach the Queen without being asked to do so by Her Highness, but then, as the man was clearly potted, he couldn't have read it any way. Now, this, I thought, could be interesting.

One of the military chaps who'd sat near the Queen at dinner stepped in with a snarl. "See here, old boy . . ."

Red Hector brushed him aside like a troublesome mosquito. A terrible silence descended upon the room. The ladies huddled together, dismayed, with their lace mittens over their mouths. The responsible male members of the party were holding sotto voce conversations about the best way to subdue this drunken sot, and the servants were exhibiting an unhealthy interest in the spectacle taking shape. Dizzy's ebony ringlets bounced in agitation. French looked on with a cold eye. I noticed he had followed Red Hector and now stood nearly at his side, within easy striking distance of the man. French's right hand had strayed into his pocket, where no doubt it rested upon his Remington .41 rimfire derringer, beloved weapon of American gamblers in the saloons of the western frontier, and a deadly weapon at such short range.

Red Hector swayed dangerously, then regained his balance. "I'm pleased to see that Your Majesty is a great fan of our Rabbie. He was a d.a.m.ned fine wordsmith. There's a song of his that I'm verra fond of, and I think you'll like it, too."

He thrust back his head, fixed his eyes on the stag's head over the mantle and opened his mouth. I can't say much for Red Hector's singing voice, but it hardly mattered. It was the song that he sang that made the Queen's eyes pop out and shouts of protest ring around the room. If you're the literate type, you'll recognize it immediately as "Scots, Wha Hae," which is the bard's rendition of Robert the Bruce's address to his army of Scotsmen, just before they whipped King Edward's English forces at the Battle of Bannockburn. If you haven't heard this verse before, I've set it out below, just so you'll get the flavor of the thing and understand the row it kicked up when Red Hector belted it out before the Queen.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,

Scots wham Bruce has often led;

Welcome to yer gory bed,

Or to Victorie!

Now's the day and now's the hour;

See the front o' battle lour: