India Black And The Widow Of Windsor Part 19

A hand reached up and swept off the cap, releasing a ma.s.s of strawberry blond curls that tumbled to the shoulders of the figure I confronted.

"Flora!" The sword in my hand wavered.

Flora saw my indecision and sprang for the cloak, the folds of which had concealed a small sword. It was a vicious thing, almost three feet in length, with a razor-sharp point that Flora now brandished under my nose.

I raised the broadsword in defense. From a purely objective view, this should be an interesting match: I carried a weapon with a cutting edge on each side of the blade, giving me the ability to do damage with any contact to the body, while Flora's small sword was to be used not to hack or slash, but to bury its point into the opponent. We seemed equally matched, as far as height and weight, and we were both young and in our prime. From the subjective point of view, however, I was d.a.m.ned concerned.

"You seem surprised to see me here, India." Flora had dropped the amiable housemaid act and now looked as cordial as a trapped wolverine from the wilds of Michigan. "But I am not surprised to see you. It was clear you were up to something from the moment you arrived, pestering the servants with your questions, watching Robbie Munro and Vicker like a hawk."

That made my dander rise, but I fought it down with some effort. French would have been proud.

"And thank G.o.d you and your accomplices are a pack of dunderheads," I said. "Your attempts on the Queen were amateurish."

She bridled at that, which is just what I had planned. I wanted her raving mad when she came after me with that brochette in her hand.

"Your ignorance was breathtaking. You knew nothing about Scotland and its n.o.ble families. You had no idea that Lady Dalfad held the t.i.tle in her own right, as Scottish peerages are allowed to pa.s.s through the female line."

I mentally applauded the liberality of the Scots in permitting aristocratic ladies to enjoy the same privileges as their menfolk, but the subject did not warrant much consideration at the moment, especially with the point of Flora's sword inches from my face.

"Indeed, I knew you weren't a lady's maid the moment I set eyes on you."

"Having never been a servant," I said, "I did find it hard to behave like one, unlike you, who seemed d.a.m.ned good at tugging your forelock."

Her eyes flamed, and a bitter smile formed on her lips. "Och, we've tugged them for too long, to a pack of rascals who care not a whit for our proud nation. But that will change soon enough."

"The Queen is still alive, Flora."

"She won't survive long. I'm not the only one prepared to sacrifice my life to rid the land of the Sa.s.senach plague." She took a step toward me.

"Do your best, Flora."

Her face twisted with rage. "I am not Flora," she spat. "I am Fionnghuala MacGhillechoinnich"-I admit, I learned this later, as when she flung the words at me, they might have been Lithuanian for all I knew-"of the Clan MacGhillechoinnich, hounded by the British, our lands and kine confiscated in the Clearances, our sons reduced to dying for a monarch we loathe, our daughters forced into servitude, our name erased from history and anglicized to Mackenzie for the convenience of the b.l.o.o.d.y English."

Nothing I might have said could have provoked her more than her own fiery speech. She lunged at me, howling like a Fuzzy-Wuzzy intent on breaking the British square, the cruel point of her small sword aimed at my breast. I pivoted to avoid the rush and got my blade up to counter her thrust. I felt the shock along my arm and into my shoulder as the blades met, and I stumbled backward. Flora (and I'll continue to call her that, as the name she prefers takes such a deuced long time to write out on the page) pursued the advantage, advancing on me while I tried to regain my balance, the tip of her sword weaving like a black mamba about to strike. Then she flexed her wrist and the point of the blade flicked across my cheek. Shocked, I clapped my hand to my face and felt the warm gush of blood between my fingers.

But this was no time to worry about finding a mirror. Flora's successful strike had infused her with energy. She charged toward me, and I thrust my blade between us, shoving hers upward as she bore in on me. Once more, I staggered backward at the ferocity of her attack. Previous thoughts of delivering the Marischal to French were chucked out the window. The way things were going, I'd be lucky to survive this bout.

Flora swept forward and came in under my arm, dropping her shoulder and stabbing upward. I leapt away, hammering my blade down on hers and parrying what might have been a fatal thrust. I would have congratulated myself for escaping almost certain death, but I now had a real problem: my back was against the wall. Literally. Flora had pushed me backward until I had run out of room. I felt the damp, cold stone through my dress. Flora tilted her head, a mocking smile playing around her lips. Then her eyes hardened and every sinew of her body tensed. I knew she would be coming in for the kill.

I could almost hear French's voice in my ear, telling me that now was the perfect time for a counterattack. I thought so too, but not because I'd had the odd lesson in fencing strategy. No, it was pure, unadulterated fear at the prospect of being spitted on Flora's small sword that caused me to consider launching my own a.s.sault.

Flora was bobbing and ducking, looking for an opening, when I sprang off the wall, sword slashing upward. I found her blade and lifted it cleanly, but Flora was too fast for me to press home the advantage. She danced away from me before I could touch her, but I could see my attack had flummoxed her. She didn't look half so c.o.c.ky as when she'd had me pinned against the wall, and I was b.l.o.o.d.y glad to have dented her confidence. I feinted toward her, and she swung gracefully out of reach of my blade, then glided forward with her own extended. I stepped to one side and blocked her advance. Steel rang on steel and the blades quivered. Flora sprang away and I followed, slashing at her retreating figure. Her hands moved deftly, countering my every move.

By now I was winded, and I could see that Flora had lost a good deal of her spark as well. We conducted a slow waltz in that tiny stone room, orbiting each other like two dying planets. Now and then, one of us would skip forward, trying to lure the other into a fruitless charge, but neither of us wanted to take the bait. The room echoed with our labored breathing, our slow, measured footsteps, punctuated now and then by the thump of an unsuccessful foray and the grating and sc.r.a.ping of blade against blade. We'd been at it like that for a while, and I was wondering whether Flora would be amenable to calling it a draw, shaking hands and having a wee dram together in the spirit of good sportsmanship, when her head snapped up and her eyes were drawn to something beyond my shoulder.

"Marischal," she breathed, a look of adoration on her face, which dissolved into puzzlement and then melted into a mask of disbelief. "No!" she cried, and I started to turn, to see what had horrified her so, when the world exploded.

The concussion from the shot sent me reeling. The d.a.m.ned gun must have gone off right in my ear; I believe I lost my hearing momentarily, for the room was quiet as a tomb, and the flash of the gunpowder had half-blinded me. I collapsed to my hands and knees and finally keeled over, like a ship that had been holed below the waterline. I rolled over onto my back, moaning loudly.

Then my hearing returned, though I wish it hadn't, for the sounds I heard now, albeit coming to me faintly, were sounds I never wish to hear again. I don't suppose many of you have heard the sounds of a woman dying of a sucking chest wound, and I hope you never will. I turned my head to see Flora stretched out beside me, the bodice of her blouse and jacket soaked with blood. There was blood everywhere, it seemed. My silk gown was spattered with the stuff, and for one crazy moment I dreaded the look on Flora's face when I told her I'd ruined her second-best dress. Flora, however, was past caring. Her eyes were still open and she was still breathing, but it was a dreadful hissing noise I shall never forget as long as I live. She was staring with an unfocused gaze at the ceiling, as though she could see beyond the veil and didn't much care for the view. Blood gushed from between those rosebud lips.

"Oh, my Christ," I whispered, forgetting for a moment that I was not a practicing member of the C of E.

Over the ghastly sound of Flora Mackenzie's last breath, I heard a footfall and the soft rustle of cloth. You'd think I'd have been glad to hear this tangible evidence of my rescuer, but some instinct stirred in me. No Good Samaritan would be so furtive. Turning my head painfully, I searched for my sword and saw it lying in a pool of blood, inches from my hand. I stretched out my fingers, and a slippered foot descended onto my wrist. I looked up into the face of Lady Dalfad. I was also looking down the barrel of a revolver.

"You!" I exclaimed, which was a bit lame, but it was all I could manage after being concussed by that explosion in my ear.

Those sea green eyes were as calculating and merciless as a panther's. She kept her gaze locked on me as she lifted her foot from my wrist and used it to nudge my sword out of reach of my extended arm.

"That's better," she said. "I wouldn't want to raise your hopes by leaving that sword nearby."

"You're a cool one, considering you just shot one of your lieutenants in cold blood." I was rather surprised that my voice sounded almost normal but for a slight tremor and the tiniest hint of shrillness.

The countess spared Flora a glance and made a moue of distaste.

"I did hate killing the girl; she's a d.a.m.ned sight more intelligent than half the peers in Scotland. But unfortunately, I had to sacrifice her. She's one of the few people who could identify me as the Marischal. And, she's rather upset my plans. I was expecting the Queen to die at Scottish hands, on Scottish soil. Now, I shall have to wait for another time."

I'm no Socrates, but even I grasped the logical implications of that statement: if the countess was to have another crack at Her Highness, India Black would have to be removed from the picture.

"You can't escape, you know. Superintendent Robshaw's men are everywhere."

The countess smiled mirthlessly. "I don't intend to escape, Miss Black."

"But, what . . ."

"I intend to kill you. Then I shall run from here in hysterics and raise the alarm. No doubt the prime minister and Mr. French will be thrilled to hear of your gallant effort to prevent the Marischal's escape. Unfortunately, you died trying. I happened upon the scene not long after the Marischal had shot you, and I grasped at once that here was the villainess who had attempted to a.s.sa.s.sinate my Queen. I was too late to save you, but I did fling myself upon Flora, and by sheer luck, I managed to turn the revolver upon her and kill her." She looked down at her ball gown. "Pity, I've always liked this dress, and now I shall have to ruin it by smearing it with Flora's blood."

"Your story is weak," I sneered, but I was glad the light was dim; with luck, the countess might not notice my lips flapping like a ship's pennant in a stiff breeze. "How did you know about the pa.s.sage, and why did you decide to venture into it alone? Why did you a.s.sume Flora was the Marischal? I can think of any number of questions you'll be asked, and you won't have any answers to them."

Lady Dalfad's nostrils flared. "You stupid girl. Do you think anyone will presume to challenge my statement? I am a lady of the bedchamber, the Queen's trusted confidant. No one would dare imply that I was involved in the plot against the Queen, least of all that fat, silly, selfish wretch who dares call herself a monarch."

"I agree the Queen leaves a bit to be desired in some areas, but then none of us are perfect. Is it really necessary to scribble the old girl?" I didn't expect a rational answer; it was clear the countess had stepped over the thin line dividing "dedicated patriot" to "one sheep short of a flock." I just hoped to keep her talking until help arrived, for surely someone in the castle had heard the gunshot and should even now be rushing to the sound.

Lady Dalfad's face contorted into a mask of disgust. "The Queen isn't fit to rule Scotland. She dresses her servants in tartans like they were dolls. She cannot venture into the countryside without an army of servants to carry her tea and her sandwiches. She covers the walls with thistles and tartans and she thinks that makes her a true Scot. She has no appreciation of what it means to be born in this country, to live and die here. And have you noticed that fake Scottish brogue she affects? Just yesterday, she was saying that the Baroness of Kirkcudbright is 'woon prood wumman.' I could have screamed with disgust. For her Scotland is a fairy realm, and the Scots are picturesque rascals who cater to her every whim. Just look at me, a member of one of the great families of Scotland, reduced to stirring her cocoa and sitting in on seances while charlatans play upon her gullibility. Thank G.o.d for her stupidity, though. It was dead easy planting the idea that Albert wanted her here at the castle."

She shook herself then and leveled the revolver at my heart. "But I've wasted enough time talking to you. Good-bye, India Black."

"Lady Dalfad!" The voice belonged to French. "Pray put down that revolver, my lady. If you surrender, it will go much easier for you at the trial."

The countess spun and fired in the direction of French's voice. For the second time that night, the chamber rocked with the concussion of the explosion. I heard shouts from the pa.s.sage, including an agonized cry that chilled me, but there was no time to lose. I rolled to my side and swept my leg in the direction of Lady Dalfad. My shin connected with her ankles, and I felt her stumble. The revolver in her hand waved wildly, then with an effort she steadied herself and aimed the weapon at me. There was despair in her eyes, the hollow anguish of someone who knows that the battle is lost. But there was hatred, too, and there was murder. I closed my eyes. This was the point where I presumed I should have a quick word with the Chairman of the Cosmos, but as he and I weren't on familiar terms, I thought it might be a bit presumptuous on my part to bother him with my present situation.

As it turned out, I was spared the indignity of having to cram my confession of sins into the seconds I had remaining (G.o.d knows, I wouldn't have been able to account for many in that amount of time), for there was an almighty bellowing from the other side of the room. I opened my eyes in time to see Vincent launch himself at Lady Dalfad, cutting her down at the knees and seizing the hand that held the revolver. The countess screeched and clawed Vincent's face like a wildcat, but the little pagan hung on grimly and did not let go of the weapon.

Munro arrived, with a look of grim determination on his face, and fell on the heaving pile that was Vincent and Lady Dalfad. More men of Robshaw's appeared, until we were having a veritable lodge meeting with all the Masons in attendance. The superintendent himself followed shortly. He was clutching his arm, and the sleeve of his tweed coat was dark and wet. It's the least the b.u.g.g.e.r deserved, in my opinion, for leading us astray and making our job that much more difficult. In a moment, Munro had wrestled the revolver from the countess's hand and Vincent was counting the furrows in his face left by her fingernails. I looked round for French, and then I felt his arms encircling me. His hands roamed my body, searching, I presume, for wounds.

I shoved him aside. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, French. I've had less intrusive exams by my doctor."

"Are you alright? Did she hurt you?"

I remembered Lady Dalfad's eyes, the cold green of the North Sea, and shuddered. "She was about to shoot me."

French pressed my face into his chest, his hands in my hair, murmuring soothingly in my ear. "It's all over," he said. "She can't do anything to you now."

I sat for a moment, inhaling the pleasant smell of sweat (he had been tussling with Munro, as you recall), tobacco and whisky. His fingers moved slowly through my hair. Was I swooning? My reverie was fated to end.

"She'd 'ave plugged you, India, if I 'adn't shown up." Vincent squatted on his heels next to us. "Look wot she done to my face."

"If anyone asks, you can tell them they're dueling scars," I said, disentangling myself from French. It had been pleasant there, in the coc.o.o.n of his arms, but Robshaw's men, having subdued and carted off the countess, were now looking at French and me with entirely too much interest.

TWELVE.

It was a far jollier carriage ride from Balmoral to Ballater, where we caught the train for Perth, than the trip from Ballater to the castle so many days ago. We weren't traveling with Lady Dalfad, naturally, as her transport back to England had been arranged specially for her by Superintendent Robshaw. Effie, shocked to the bone by her employer's treason (or so she said-I never did trust that girl), had been reduced to sobs and was last seen being comforted by one of the under butlers, who, I was reliably informed, had been carrying a torch for her lo, these many years (poor fellow). The marchioness and I shared a carriage with Red Hector, who turned out to be a charming chap, being only half-drunk at this time of day. He and the marchioness ga.s.sed on about foaling stalls and stud fees and proper conformation, and when they were finished with the equine world, they moved on to canines, and I had to listen to a lengthy panel discussion of distemper and worms that left me breathless with boredom.

It wasn't until the marchioness and I were settled in our carriage for the journey back to Perth, and Red Hector had seen us off with a cheery wave and an invitation to the marchioness to visit his breeding kennels in the summer, that I had a chance to bounce the old girl about Lady Dalfad.

"Alright, my lady, time to come clean. How did you know about the Marischal?" I demanded.

"We've got newspapers in Scotland. O' course I knew the Marischal and the Sons of Arbroath were collectin' English heads and blatherin' on about killin' the Queen. And ye'd have to be a prize ninny not to know there was a ruckus brewin' at the castle. When the Queen said she'd be comin' to Balmoral for Christmas, I saw the hands of those Scottish traitors in it. Her Majesty's a great creature of habit, she is, and if she comes to the Highlands in the winter, ye know somethin's afoot."

There were several largish leaps of logic in that statement; I was not convinced. "Are you sure someone didn't tell you the Marischal would be at the castle?" I could think of some likely culprits, namely Dizzy, French or even Robshaw, though I found it difficult to imagine the superintendent exposing a spotless tweed suit to Her Ladyship's presence long enough to brief her on the nationalist plot.

The old trout gave me a crafty look and wagged her finger. "I canna tell you that, la.s.s."

Was it possible my employer was also an agent of the government? Hard to credit, I know, but if the prime minister could employ a tart, he surely wouldn't balk at a decrepit aristocrat dripping snuff. If the marchioness was in the Queen's employ, I'd extract the information from French and make sure it was a painful exercise. Or was the marchioness herself a disaffected member of the Sons of Arbroath, who'd grown tired of Lady Dalfad at the helm? Well, even if she were, I didn't like to think of the old crone in a cold cell, trickling snuff over her straw mattress.

"Why didn't you just tell me that the countess was the Marischal?" I asked as I draped a blanket over her knees and put her snuffbox close to hand.

"I didna know she was."

"Come, now. She must have given you some reason to be suspicious."

"All I knew was that someone close to the Queen had turned traitor, and after thinkin' on it for a spell, I thought she was the most likely candidate, knowin' her family history as I did. I tried to give ye a hint, startin' ye out with those stories of Delilah and Criseyde, but ye didn't catch on. I figured I was goin' to have to throw ye a lifeline, and so I turned to Rahab and Mrs. Greenhow, but ye still kept flounderin' around like a drownin' sailor."

She fumbled for the snuffbox, and I handed it to her impatiently, priming myself with a large lawn handkerchief. I waited until she inhaled and expectorated, and wiped the trickle of tobacco from her nostrils.

"Anyway, I gave ye enough b.l.o.o.d.y clues, a blind pig could have found that acorn," she snuffled.

"What clues? We read a heap of maddening drivel about treacherous women. I thought you'd tumbled to my ident.i.ty, and you were trying to tell me you knew I wasn't a lady's maid at all."

"I knew the day you dropped yer first curtsey to me that ye were no more a maid than I was a hippopotamus."

"What? How?" I spluttered. The old bag's criticism was a bit harsh, considering I've played every role from virginal shepherdess to Nell Gwynne without a word of complaint from my customers.

"Ye tried, I'll give ye that, but ye're about as docile as a collie b.i.t.c.h in heat. Besides, when Horace showed me yer resume, I knew there was a worm in the apple somewhere. n.o.body with references like yers would be chompin' at the bit to work for the likes of me. I've got a reputation to keep up as the worst employer in Scotland." She nudged me with her cane. "And I'll thank ye not to spoil it fer me by tellin' everyone how I took pity on ye and solved yer little mystery for ye."

"And how did you know I was here to solve a mystery?" I snapped. My suspicion of French was growing rapidly. He had been the one who'd arranged this little masquerade, after all.

The marchioness pursed her lips and gave me a prim little smile. "Since ye weren't at the castle to do my hair, I reckoned ye had another job to do. I've never seen such a one as you for snoopin' and askin' questions and skulkin' around the halls."

"How would you know what I was doing? You were asleep most of the time."

She batted an eyelid at me. "Maybe I was and maybe I wasn't. Ye ain't the only woman who could ha' had a career on the stage."

My money was still on French having had a word in the marchioness's ear; I simply couldn't have been so transparent, especially to an ancient narcoleptic who had trouble distinguishing face powder from snuff. I felt the slight sinking sensation (quite rare, that) of my ego deflating.

"It's not my fault ye couldna find your a.r.s.e with both hands." The marchioness heaved a great sigh and twisted the dagger she'd plunged into my self-respect. "I suppose I should have told ye what I was aimin' at, but I thought ye were bright enough to figure it out on yer own. Well, I suppose I'm to blame, really, for overestimatin' ye."

"I'm sorry to have disappointed you." I said it sarcastically, but of course that was wasted on the marchioness. She looked at me as though I was the village simpleton and to be pitied.

"Och, it's simple, really. The countess may be a tiger, but she's descended from an utter jacka.s.s: James Dalfad, fourth Earl of Haldane. Despite being an heir of old King Duncan, Dalfad was a ne'er-do-well of the first order. Next to him, Bertie looks like a Presbyterian missionary. The earl was just a young chap when he inherited the t.i.tle, and within a year or two, he'd run through all the money his pa left him and had mortgaged the estate to pay for his bad habits. Luckily, 1707 rolled around, and the English government was lookin' for tame Scottish peers to sign the Act of Union. Dalfad took the thirty pieces of silver the English were offerin,' but instead of payin' his debts like a sensible lad, he gambled and drank it away, just as he'd done the family fortune. He was desperate for money, but he found he had no friends in Scotland. Half the country despised him for signin' the act, and the other half, who'd drunk his whisky, disappeared when they found out the money was gone. Dalfad went up to London, but the King wasn't partin' with any more gold. Weel, who can blame him? Dalfad would ha' spent it and been back beggin' for more within a year. But the King needed a few Scottish peers in his pocket, so ever since then, the monarch offers some middlin' post to the earl's descendents, which provides a little money and a smidgen of prestige, provided they can stand all the bowin' and sc.r.a.pin' that goes along with it. It's a tragic fate for a n.o.ble family."

I'd been following this with difficulty, still trying to wrap my mind around the central thesis of the marchioness's history lesson. "Do you mean to tell me that Lady Dalfad became the Marischal and decided to kill the Queen because she was ashamed of something her great-great-grandfather had done?"

"Naturally," said the marchioness, astonished at my ignorance. "There's many like her who canna live down the shame of havin' a traitor for an ancestor. And it must have been humiliatin' for Lady Dalfad to have to follow the Queen around like a pet spaniel. I'd be mad enough to choke if I had to converse with the old biddy and watch her paint and listen to her whinge about Albert all day long."

"I see your point," I said. The latter would have been reason enough to scribble Her Highness, in my book. I had a more difficult time imagining that the actions of some long-dead ancestor of mine would engender enough shame to drive me to murder. Of course, family ties were rather loose in my case, and I'd long since ceased to feel any remorse for my own actions, let alone those of my forefathers, whoever they might have been. Try as I might, I simply couldn't fathom how the countess could get so worked up about events that took place almost two centuries ago and then take out her anger on that dull dumpling Vicky. I expressed as much to the marchioness, who hooted loudly.

"Ye're not from here. Unless ye are, ye'll never understand. We Scots thrive on thievery, religion and bloodshed, and our feuds are older than time itself. We've an ancient quarrel with England, and it will likely never end, unless the English get tired of our broodin' and mutterin' and cut us loose someday. Until then, there be plenty of caber t.o.s.s.e.rs who'd be glad to raise the cross of St. Andrew and welcome back the heirs of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Ye know what they say: 'All ye need are twelve Highlanders and a bagpipe, and ye've got a rebellion on yer hands.'"

"If you suspected that I was there to winkle out the Marischal, why didn't you say something to me, or pa.s.s the word to the prime minister or Superintendent Robshaw?"

"And what would I ha' told 'em? The same thing as I'm tellin' ye, and I can see from the look on yer face that ye're havin' a hard time graspin' the essential point. What do you reckon that Robshaw would ha' thought of my intuition pointin' the finger at Lady Dalfad? Those chaps from Scotland Yard deal in facts, and I didna have any to give 'em. Yer Superintendent Robshaw would ha' rolled his eyes and sent me back to my room with a hot water bottle and somethin' to calm my nerves. Ye know how men are about acceptin' help from a woman. They'd rather have a leg cut off with a dull saw than take advice from the fairer s.e.x. And the older you get, the harder it is to get a fellow to pay you any mind at all."

I had to leave it at that, as I was no closer to understanding Lady Dalfad's motivations after the marchioness's explanation than I had been before (though I concurred heartily in her a.s.sessment of the male s.e.x). I suppose I find it hard to get worked up about such notions as patriotism and national ident.i.ty and whether my monarch was weaned on porridge or roast beef. My concern had always been with more immediate and pressing matters, like whether I'd have a crust to eat that day.

The marchioness put her head back and fell asleep then, snoring like a bulldog until we shuddered to a halt at the station in Perth. She woke with a jerk and reached for her snuffbox. For the last time, I held the container for her while she shoveled a healthy measure into her nose, and for the last time, I stood well to one side to avoid being drenched by the deluge. Sir Horace Wickersham's ruddy face and halo of white hair appeared around the door. He cleared his throat bashfully.

"Horace," the marchioness cried. "We've had a deuced fine time at Balmoral."

"I read about it in the papers," said Sir Horace, twisting his hat in his hands.

"The papers!" the marchioness said scornfully. "What do they know about it? I'll give ye the inside story on the journey home."

"Wonderful," said Sir Horace, without much enthusiasm.

The marchioness flung the traveling rug from her lap. "Let's get on with it. I've seen garden statues move faster. Get my baggage, Horace. Ina, collect my things. Hurry, Horace, our train leaves in twenty minutes."

The beleaguered Sir Horace and I hopped to it. He summoned porters for the luggage, and I gathered up the snuffbox and the marchioness's Bible, and rolled up the rug and strapped it to her trunk. We straggled out of the carriage together, with the marchioness wobbling along on Sir Horace's arm while I brought up the rear. The train to Tullibardine was waiting on the other side of the platform, and I helped guide the marchioness into her carriage while Sir Horace deferentially asked the porters to look lively and have a care, please, which requests were rather rudely ignored by the hulking gentlemen who were busy tossing the bags into the baggage car.

The marchioness plopped down on the seat, and I placed the rug over her knees and her snuffbox in her lap, along with a supply of handkerchiefs, though I doubt the old p.u.s.s.y would have use for them.