India Black And The Widow Of Windsor Part 4

"Um." He now seemed mesmerized by my hat. At this rate, the train was going to be leaving for Aberdeen before the marchioness boarded.

"I'm looking forward to meeting the marchioness," I said brightly, trying to prod the old codger into action.

"Yes. Quite." Silence, while Sir Horace examined the floorboards of the carriage.

"Does she need some a.s.sistance in boarding?"

"No. No. I'll fetch her." He shuffled his feet and spun his hat in his hand like the captain of a ship headed for the rocks. "Look here," he said stiffly, "has anyone told you about Her Ladyship's, um, habits?"

"Habits?" I echoed. d.a.m.n that b.a.s.t.a.r.d French.

"You know, the-"

"Horace?" It was less a voice than the cawing of a demented rook.

Sir Horace leaped like a show jumper at the last hurdle. "Joshua and Jeremiah! It's the marchioness."

I was preoccupied with planning slow tortures for French, but Sir Horace's reaction snapped me back to attention.

"Where are ye, Horace? d.a.m.n and blast, ye must be here somewhere. Come out where I can see ye."

Sir Horace darted to the doorway. "In here, m'lady. I was just conversing with Miss Black. Catching up on old times, you know." He laughed nervously.

"b.u.g.g.e.r the old times. Come and help me, ye fool. I need an arm to lean on." The raspy voice subsided into a raspy cough.

Sir Horace roused himself to action and disappeared into the corridor to escort the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine into the carriage. Oh, French, I thought. The torture will be long and slow. I pasted a smile on my face and prepared to meet my employer.

I had thought that voice had issued from an amazon, but the marchioness was a tiny woman, no bigger than a flea and as wobbly on her feet as a faulty skittle. She shuffled in on Sir Horace's arm, leaning on a cane, and flopped like a rag doll onto the bench, from which she glared up at me through rheumy eyes. She was accompanied by a musty odor, equal parts camphor, tobacco and lavender. I had been harboring a secret fantasy of a kind, matronly and progressive aristocrat, one who was careful not to overwork the help and who made sure they were paid generously. My fantasy dissolved in smoke when the marchioness looked up at me. G.o.d, what a death mask. Her Ladyship's skin was the colour and texture of the papyrus on view at the British Museum. Someone (and from the looks of it, it must have been the old girl herself) had applied a thick dusting of powder, which had settled into the cracks of her face. A wide streak of rouge had been smeared under each eye, giving her the appearance of a Comanche ready for the warpath. Her eyes were clouded with cataracts, and her mouth hung open, displaying a few discoloured teeth and a vast expanse of mottled pink gums. And her hair-good Lord, what was I going to do with that rat's nest? Still, knowing that a great deal was at stake (i.e., the Queen's life), I hid my dismay and tried to look servile and obsequious, which, if you're as naturally handsome and confident as I, is deuced difficult.

The marchioness poked me in the shin with her cane. "Who's this?"

Sir Horace grimaced apologetically at me. "This is the girl I told you about, m'lady. India Black. Your new maid. You'll recall that I recommended her; she gave excellent service to my late wife."

"Indian? What sort of name is that for a la.s.s?"

"It's India, Your Ladyship," I corrected her gently.

"India." She stared balefully at me. "d.a.m.ned silly name. Who names a girl after a country? Especially one full of little brown people who don't eat beef. Somethin' wrong with them, I say. Give me a good bit of rare English beef any day. Horace, where's my snuffbox?"

Sir Horace rummaged hastily through the marchioness's baggage until he produced a beautiful little mother-of-pearl box with a painted miniature of a dyspeptic geezer on the lid. He offered it to the marchioness, who dipped a yellow nail into the snuff and shoveled it into her nose, inhaling deeply. She sighed like an addict smoking the evening's first pipe of opium, then her face contorted in agonizing pain. I sprang to my feet, looking wildly at Sir Horace for a.s.sistance, but it was only the commencement of a series of violent sneezes from the marchioness, who, I don't mind telling you, could have benefitted from a handkerchief. So could I; I wiped a few droplets from my skirt and shuddered.

My employer swiped her nose with the back of her hand. "Well, Imogen, tell me about yerself."

"It's India, ma'am," I said.

"d.a.m.ned silly name."

Before she could cover the racial and dietary characteristics of the Hindoos again, I launched into a brief precis of my experience as a lady's maid in various grand Scottish houses. The marchioness listened attentively, closing her eyes and nodding at the mention of the Baroness Haggis and the d.u.c.h.ess of Kneeps. I finished my spiel and glanced at Sir Horace, who was wearing out the brim of his hat again and stealing glances at his watch.

"What are ye doin' still hangin' about, Horace?" the marchioness snapped. "Get off the train or ye'll be going to Balmoral with us, and ye know how the Queen hates uninvited guests."

Sir Horace looked relieved, tipped his hat to me with a sympathetic smile, kissed the marchioness's hand and vanished. I couldn't help but envy him.

"Don't just stand there gawpin', girl. Put away my things and find a rug fer me. It's b.l.o.o.d.y cold in here."

THREE.

And so my life as a lady's maid began. I stored the marchioness's luggage and covered her thin frame with an ancient woolen rug, moth-eaten and smelling of wet dog. I propped her upright in the seat and poured her a cup of tea from the bottle Sir Horace had thoughtfully provided, and I dipped her biscuits into the tea so as not to strain the few remaining teeth in her skull. All the while she peppered me with questions. Where was my mother from? Had she been in service? What about my father? I don't mind telling you that I'm at my best when it comes to total fabrication; it's all that practice I've had in telling gents how handsome and clever they are. I spun a grand tale for her, of a family tradition of decades of humble service to the great (nugget of truth in that, I suppose), until the marchioness tired of the subject and spied the Bible on the seat beside me.

"Ye're a Christian, Ina?"

"It's India, ma'am," I corrected, not for the first or last time that day. Well, that sent her off on another tirade over the foolishness of my mother, who'd seen fit to christen me for a country renowned for heat, dust, cobras, squalor, monsoons and swarthy little nudists who worshipped cattle. The Mussulmen (heathens who wouldn't appreciate a good piece of gammon) and the Sikhs (d.a.m.ned fine soldiers, but they never cut their hair, and they wear those peculiar undergarments) didn't escape her wrath either. When she'd vented her contempt for the jewel in Britain's crown and fortified herself with more snuff (I stood well clear this time and succeeded in avoiding the worst of the deluge), she snorted happily and reverted to her question.

"Ye're a Christian, Irma?"

"Um." I wouldn't say I'm superst.i.tious, but why tempt a bolt of lightning from the Old Chap Upstairs? "As much as any other person, I suppose."

"Ye can read the Bible?"

I hefted it in my hand. "Yes, ma'am, I can. My father was a great one for the Good Book. He taught me to read it at an early age." There was a low rumble of thunder on the horizon, but I figured a white lie in service to the Queen might deflect any lightning bolt from the heavens. "Would you like me to read to you?"

"Proverbs," she said, giving me a sideways glance. I sighed. Hours to Aberdeen and all of it to be spent in moral instruction. Why couldn't she have been a Song of Solomon type, or at least enjoyed the Psalms? I cracked the book and started reading, with the marchioness grumbling and scratching beneath her wool rug and snuffling like a truffle-hunting pig as she inhaled tobacco.

Sometime later, just as we had reached that delightful verse about the dog returning to his own vomit, I detected a stillness in the seat opposite me and looked up to see the marchioness sitting silently, head slumped forward, a tiny line of dark flakes issuing from her nose. I put down the Bible without a sound, grateful that the old trout had succ.u.mbed to sleep. If reading aloud from the Bible was the marchioness's chief entertainment, then by the time I'd finished my a.s.signment, I'd be able to take up a second line of a work as a missionary to the G.o.dless infidels in Africa.

This thought amused me no end, and I whiled away a good bit of time imagining myself urging the inhabitants of the Dark Continent to turn to the light, until it occurred to me that the marchioness seemed preternaturally quiet. I got up from my seat and peered closely at her. I waved a hand in front of her face, but the movement did not arouse any response. Her withered bosom lay motionless; I could detect no rise and fall indicating that she was still breathing. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. What if Her Ladyship had crossed the River Styx (barking orders all the while to Charon, or "Charlie," as she'd no doubt call him)? What would happen to my mission if the marchioness had kicked it? There couldn't be too many doddering old p.u.s.s.ies lying around sans maid and with an invitation to Balmoral in their pocket. I was contemplating my options, wondering how I was going to reach French to break the news and staring rather absently into the marchioness's face when her eyes popped open.

"What are ye doin', ye silly goose? Get away from me."

No need for that directive, as I'd nearly fallen over myself springing to the other side of the carriage. I couldn't have been more surprised if she had died and her corpse had reached out and throttled me.

"Sorry, m'lady. I thought you were ill."

"I'm never ill. I merely closed my eyes for a second. Now where were we? Ah, yes. 'As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.' Carry on, Ivy."

That journey was the longest of my life. First we read the Bible, and then when the old lady had grown tired of the uplifting maxims of Proverbs, she had me rummage through her bags until I found a battered copy of Bleak House. Not the most uplifting of d.i.c.kens's stories, but at least it was a better read than Proverbs, and I started in heartily enough, until the marchioness demanded I "do the voices." She was quite insistent, and so I delivered, in my opinion, a credible rendition of the different characters. The grasping Richard Carstone and the wicked Tulkinghorn were easy enough for me, having a good deal of acquaintance with such characters, but that Esther Summerson was a hard slog; I'm not at all sweet or long-suffering, and I tend to think that Esther is a bit of a stick. It's confoundedly difficult for a lady of the evening to portray a virtuous ninny. My performance was not improved by the fact that my audience kept nodding off, but every time I stopped reading, the filmy eyes flew open and that rasping voice commanded that I continue. So I persevered until the chimneys of Aberdeen shot into view and we transferred onto the tracks that led to the village of Ballater, where the railway ended and we would complete our journey to Balmoral by horse and carriage.

By then I was so hoa.r.s.e I could have croaked. I'd have given a half share in Lotus House for a pint of ale and a stiff peg of whisky. I could only hope that the marchioness's time at Balmoral would be occupied with luncheons and teas and reminiscing with the Queen about dear departed Albert. Otherwise, I'd have no time for detecting, not to mention a bad case of laryngitis. It was tempting to blame French for saddling me with this snuff-dipping, narcoleptic bibliophile, but in truth I realized it was my own fault for agreeing to come to Balmoral (the fact of which I did not intend to inform French). The next time I felt the urge for adventure, I'd just have to take up needlework or bicycling or, G.o.d forbid, fencing.

Fortunately for my voice and my patience, the marchioness's interest in reading had declined in favor of enjoying the Scottish countryside. I followed her example and gazed out the window, to be greeted by a bleak landscape of rocks, hills, roaring burns, snow-covered firs and larches, and sheep. We pa.s.sed several wind-blasted hovels of stone and sod, thatched with heather and looking as cold and desolate as the last outpost before the Arctic Circle. To the west, the ice-shrouded peaks of the Cairngorm Mountains gleamed in the sun. Here and there in the twilight, tiny pinp.r.i.c.ks of lights shone from isolated cottages. Picturesque, I suppose, if you liked desolation and gloom. It was a bit mournful for my taste, though I could see how it would appeal to the melancholy Widow of Windsor.

At the station at Ballater, a footman appeared to usher the marchioness to the Queen's waiting room in the station. Her Majesty had her own private room, no doubt with a roaring fire and refreshments. I was instructed to wait in the carriage (without so much as a cup of tea) until the horses were harnessed and the carriages were ready to depart. I took a turn in the hallway, stretching my legs, and watched as the nags were hitched to a series of landaus and broughams. All the crates and parcels that had been loaded onto the train in London were now unloaded onto a dozen wagons and carts. The effort to get the old bag to Scotland was considerable, and on behalf of the British taxpayer, I was outraged. All this because the dead prince had wanted his wife to holiday in the Highlands. Surely, there were better uses for the money expended-a nourishing meal for homeless children, a hospital for the poor, a reduction in the property taxes for the owner of Lotus House. Perhaps it would be best if the Marischal and his band of fanatics dispatched the Queen and all her near relatives. I was not sure the country could afford them.

A footman appeared to collect the marchioness's luggage and my own.

"Follow me," he said. "You'll be travelling to the castle with Her Ladyship and Lady Davina Dalfad, Countess of Haldane. And her maid, of course. The countess is one of the Queen's ladies of the bedchamber."

Was she now? Being one of those myself, I thought perhaps the countess and I might find some time to share a few amusing anecdotes of our experiences. Perhaps not.

"How far is it to the castle?" I asked the footman.

"Nine Scotch miles or thereabouts. You'll be there in time for tea. Here's the coach. Watch your step." He handed me into a comfortable vehicle, handsomely swagged out with tufted leather seats and velvet curtains. I took the only seat available to me and surveyed my fellow pa.s.sengers.

I shared a bench with the countess's maid, who nodded her head in my direction but did not smile when I sat down. She had a prim little mouth and an air of superiority. I decided I did not like her. The marchioness sat across from me, swathed in the same moth-eaten rug she'd used on the train. And next to her, straining not to come into contact with the marchioness's covering, sat Lady Dalfad, the Countess of Haldane.

Handsome in her youth, no doubt, with those high cheekbones and the sculpted mouth, thick honey-coloured hair now changing to ash at the temples, and sea green eyes that flickered briefly in my direction and then dismissed me. Age had softened the flesh of her face, however, and there was a web of thin lines at the corners of her eyes.

"Ida, my snuffbox," the marchioness commanded. I poked about in the old gal's valise until I found the container and handed it over.

The countess stiffened.

"Would ye care for snuff, my dear?" The marchioness extended the delicate little box to the countess.

Her lip curled. "Thank you, no. I don't partake of snuff." She turned away, adding under her breath: "Filthy habit."

"Suit yerself," said the marchioness, loading a fingernail and inhaling noisily. I pulled my handkerchief from my sleeve and bent my face to it, feigning a speck of dust in my eye. The top of my hat absorbed the shower that inevitably followed. The countess's maid mewed with disgust and dabbed at her skirt. The countess cringed. The marchioness returned the snuffbox to me with what I swear was a wink. She sponged her upper lip with her coat sleeve and grinned toothily at the countess (no small feat, with so few teeth in her head).

"Invigoratin' stuff," she said.

The countess nodded coldly.

"I hope they've got tea laid on when we get there. I'm famished. Nothin' to eat all day but some toasted bread and a few biscuits." The marchioness smacked her lips.

The countess looked down her nose. "The Queen always provides generously for her guests."

"I should hope so. Filthy rich, she is."

An expression of pain crossed Lady Dalfad's face. "Really, Your Ladyship, I think that comment extremely rude."

I waited for the marchioness to whack Lady Dalfad across the shins with her cane. I'm no expert on the peerage, but I do know that a marchioness outranks a countess. She might be one of the Queen's ladies of the bedchamber, but the countess was walking on thin ice, speaking to the marchioness like that. I felt a stirring of outrage on behalf of my employer, but I shouldn't have troubled. The marchioness just chuckled and coughed loudly, spitting up flakes of snuff and swabbing them away with her gloved hand.

We rode the rest of the way to the castle in stony silence, the marchioness dropping off to sleep a couple of times and then starting awake whenever we hit a b.u.mp or crossed a bridge. The countess's maid sat rigidly in her seat, staring at the floor, and Lady Dalfad occupied her time by peering out the window at the great conifers that lined the road, and the craggy hills beyond. What a delightful house party this was going to be. I could only hope that I wouldn't have to share a room with the countess's maid.

The sun was setting as we pulled into the drive of Balmoral. It was an impressive old pile, if your taste runs to ma.s.sive granite buildings in the neo-Gothic style, complete with castellated gables, a porte cochere, and towers crowned with turrets and crenellated battlements. There was a bleakness about the building that all the hustle and bustle of the arrival of a trainload of servants and guests could not dispel. The castle was nestled in a valley, surrounded by the Cairngorms. The rocky heights of Lochnagar, that dark and forbidding mountain, towered over the place. It had begun to sleet; tiny pellets were bouncing off the roof of the coach and pinging against the window. I shuddered. Trapped here for three weeks with the likes of the marchioness and Lady Dalfad. I could only hope that the Sons of Arbroath were an efficient lot and would attempt to knock off the Queen sooner rather than later.

The coach was driven to the front of the castle, where the marchioness and the countess were a.s.sisted to the ground and escorted through the main entrance into the building. I caught sight of Dizzy's profile through a carriage window (no mistaking that bowsprit). He was bundled in rugs and blankets, shoulders hunched against the bitter cold, and he looked thoroughly miserable. French stood bareheaded in the courtyard, his black hair blowing in the wind, smoking a cheroot and talking animatedly to the cove he'd annoyed at King's Cross. The cove looked even less amused than he had in London. French broke off his monologue to bark orders at his stable boy. Vincent had many gifts; he was a first-rate fingersmith, blackmailer and cracksman, but unfortunately, none of those were useful in leading an ill-tempered gelding across the icy cobbles to the stables. The lad had a tight grip on the halter, but his feet were dangling in the air, and the horse was dancing across the courtyard toward a cart laden with crates of French wines. French strode after the duo, shouting instructions. I was eagerly awaiting the destruction of the Queen's entire stock of champagne (well, it would serve French right for allowing Vincent to tag along), but alas, a h.o.a.ry figure with bristling eyebrows jumped forward as spryly as a youth and rescued Vincent, snagging the horse's halter and taking him in hand.

Our carriage started forward and I lost sight of the show. We circled the castle and arrived at the servants' entrance. I was delighted to see a welcoming glow in the windows and an open door, spilling warmth and light into the growing darkness. I needed a cup of tea, or something stronger, if it were on offer.

The countess's maid and I alighted from the carriage. The footman collected our luggage and motioned for us to follow him into the house. He dumped our bags unceremoniously in a heap on the flagstone floor.

"Wait here for Miss Boss, the housekeeper," he flung over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bowels of the castle.

We didn't wait long, for the housekeeper arrived within minutes, bearing a notebook and pencil, pink with exertion and looking very cross. Now most people you meet are inconsequential little swine that have as much presence as a wet flannel. Miss Boss was a formidable biddy, with a tiny squashed face and the beady eyes of a watchful bird of prey. She gave me a look that said, "I've seen your type before, girl. Stay out of the pantry, don't make any unnecessary noise, and if I catch you flirting with the male servants, I'll skin you alive." I found myself nodding, though she hadn't said a word.

She consulted her list. "India Black, lady's maid to the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine. You'll be sharing with Flora Mackenzie. She's the cook's daughter and a housemaid. She'll be able to help you find anything you will need for the marchioness." She checked her list. "Effie Clark, Lady Dalfad's maid. You'll be in your usual room, with Lady Thorne's maid. You know the way. I'll have your baggage sent up. India, follow me."

We hustled through the kitchen (a cavernous s.p.a.ce capable of feeding a smallish army) and into a hallway, where a boatload of servants was milling about, jostling against each other as they scurried to and fro, bearing linens and teapots, scuttles of coal and platters of sandwiches.

Miss Boss bore down on a lone footman. "Robbie, Robbie Munro. This is Miss Black, lady's maid to the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine. Miss Black will be sharing with Flora. Fetch her luggage and show her the way, please."

"Yes, Miss Boss." Robbie gave me a diffident smile. Well. Things were looking up. Munro was a comely lad with golden red curls, a dimpled chin and the manly physique of a member of the Household Cavalry. He wore a black waistcoat and jacket, and a kilt in the Royal Stewart tartan. He collected my bags, hefting them casually and tucking them under his arms.

"This way, miss."

It was a mighty long hike to the room I'd be sharing with the housemaid. I've heard there are a hundred thirty rooms in Balmoral, and I do believe we traversed each one of them. We marched along what seemed like miles of corridors, with Munro setting a ground-eating pace the likes of which hadn't been seen since the march to relieve the siege of Luck now. I scampered after him, trying to match his stride and straining for a glimpse into some of the rooms as we pa.s.sed them. Not being the recipient of many royal invitations, I was curious as to how the other 1 percent live. We exited the servants' staircase and entered the main corridor. I can't say I cared much for the furnishings here, which consisted of large numbers of stags' heads mounted on walls painted to look like marble, a.s.sorted pictures and busts of the dead Prince Albert (draped in black crepe, in case anyone in the English-speaking world was unaware he'd joined the great heavenly choir some years ago), heraldic shields and an astonishing array of Scottish weapons: axe heads of granite, serpentine and greenstone; dirks; basinet helmets; spears; pikes; great two-handed swords that looked as though they should be wielded by giants; broadswords; flintlocks; targes; and dozens of sgian dubhs, those nasty little pigstickers the Scots love to carry in their stockings and whip out after a dram or two. An aficionado of edged weapons would have thought he'd died and gone to heaven. If Vincent got word of the abundance of arms within reach, there'd be no telling how many daggers and such he'd cart away in his luggage. I hoped the Queen had insurance.

We pa.s.sed a few open doors that led into some of the sitting rooms and parlors and such, and I have to admit at being rather shocked. Not from the elegance or the grandiosity, but from the sheer b.l.o.o.d.y awfulness of the rooms. The Queen and Prince Albert had clearly been besotted with Scotland; the carpets on the floor were the Royal Stewart tartan or the green Hunting Stewart tartan (pretty, I suppose, in a throw rug, but covering what seemed like acres of floor, it was a bit much), the curtains were tartan, the chairs and sofa were upholstered in the same tartan designs, and the wallpaper was covered with thistles. I felt woozy.

Munro grinned at me. "It's something, isn't it? I couldn't believe it myself. I've never seen anything like it."

"Have you been here long?"

"A few days. I'm just learning my way around the place."

As if to prove his point, we turned a corner into a dead end.

"Must have taken a wrong turn back there. Ah, here we are. This way." We set out again, Munro carrying my bags effortlessly.

"What is your job here?" I asked.

"I serve at meals, open and close doors for guests, and if any of the gentlemen guests require a valet, I perform that function as well." He leaned closer to me, and I could smell the pomade on his hair. "I don't mind telling you, I'm a bit nervous."

"So am I. I was just hired by the marchioness today. I've never met her before, and the first thing I have to do is attend to her at the Queen's castle." Might as well play up my inexperience (fact) and my anxiety (also fact); the handsome Munro might take pity on me and show me the ropes. He might also provide some intelligence about the other servants.

"Not to worry. You'll do fine." He opened a thick oak door. "Here we are. This is the marchioness's room. Her baggage has been brought up already, as you can see. I'll take your luggage on to your room. Once you've put away the marchioness's things, come back to the kitchen and have your tea."

The marchioness's room resembled all the others at Balmoral: a plethora of tartan and thistles, with watercolours of the surrounding Cairngorms and Highland lochs on the walls. A wood fire had been lit in the fireplace, and I stood before it warming my hands for a bit while my head stopped spinning. Lord, a few nights in this place and I'd never be able to read a Walter Scott novel again. Unpacking the old girl's things was the work of a moment: clothes in the wardrobe; combs and brushes and powder on the dressing table in front of the window; Charlie d.i.c.kens, the Bible and her snuffbox on the table beside her bed. I checked to see she had a good supply of wood and candles, then hoofed it back to the kitchen. I was famished.

I should have left a trail of bread crumbs to follow, for it took me a good long while to find my way there. You'd think you could follow the smells, for it was teatime with dinner not far off, but in a castle the size of Balmoral the smell of food cooking didn't penetrate the granite walls and long corridors. I'd been busy gaping at the hideous decor and not paying any attention to the route Munro had followed, so I had to b.u.mble around the halls, peering into doorways and over bal.u.s.trades, trying to figure out where I was going. If not for the directions proffered by a succession of po-faced servants, I might still be wandering the halls of the Queen's Highland retreat. I finally staggered back into the kitchen, having taken the two-shilling tour of the castle.

Miss Boss pounced on me like a hawk on a field mouse. "You've arranged Her Ladyship's belongings?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then let me introduce you to some of the servants you will need to know."

We made a hasty circuit of the room, with Miss Boss introducing me to a dozen bewhiskered gentlemen in kilts (Royal Stewart, naturally) who acted as under butlers, footmen, equerries and such. I thought the odds were good that I'd remember their names, as they were all Archie or Jock. Surnames seemed in short supply in Scotland as well, as they shared just a few: Grant, MacBeath and Macdonald. As we were introduced, each muttered some greeting in an incomprehensible Scottish accent. I might as well be in Hungary, I thought. Thank goodness for Munro and Miss Boss. I could at least understand them when they spoke.

I met Edith Mackenzie, the cook, a tubby, moon-faced woman with freckles and untidy red hair under her white cap.