India Black and the Widow of Windsor (12 page)

I joined in her laughter, but my mind was elsewhere, namely on how to communicate with French that he should enquire into the case of the disappearing footman and the background of handsome Robbie Munro.

“Do you like working here?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. It’s the best job in the world, if you have to be in service. The Queen only comes up here once or twice a year, and then just for a few weeks, excepting this year, of course. While she’s here, it’s always a bit of a panic, all that rushing about and cleaning rooms and cooking for dozens of guests and all the servants. Still, it’s worth it in the end. We have the ghillies’ ball, you see, and that’s ever so much fun.”

“You mentioned the ball earlier. Tell me about it.”

The ghillies’ ball was a tradition instituted by the late Prince Albert, who liked to reward his faithful ghillies for their services in assisting the prince in slaughtering stags and netting salmon in the lakes. The prince landed on the idea of a Scottish country dance, rustic and simple, with plenty of victuals and enough liquor to slake the thirst of a Highland regiment, and thus the custom was born. Each year, when Prince Albert and the Queen visited Balmoral in September, a ball was held, with the royal couple leading a grand march into the ballroom, followed by their guests, the ghillies and all the other servants.

“’Tis a wonderful affair,” Flora gushed. “You wouldn’t believe it, but the Queen steps as lively as a wee lass on the dance floor and stays up until all hours just to watch the fun.”

I did find it hard to imagine Her Highness jigging to a Scottish reel (you’d have to step lively yourself to avoid coming in range of those flapping jowls), but I remained silent.

“Some of the lads will dance the sword dance, and the old folks will clap their hands and keep time to the music,” Flora went on. “And this year, I plan to dance with that dashing chap with the black hair. There’s always a ‘Ladies’ Choice,’ and I intend to claim him.”

I assumed she was referring to French. I’d have to warn him of the impending assault.

“I’ll snaffle the handsome Robbie, then,” I told her, and she chucked her shoe at me. “Sounds like the Queen does well by her good and faithful. Do the rest of the servants like working here?”

Flora shrugged. “I can’t see why they wouldn’t. We eat better than we would if we were crofters or shepherds or spun wool for a living. And when the Queen isn’t here, it’s very quiet. We do our work during the day and enjoy ourselves in the evening, playing cards and games. The only complaints I’ve heard are from some of the men. Her Majesty insists they wear kilts at all times, and most of the men hate to wear those things, especially in the cold weather. And then there are the Indians. No one likes having them about. The place smells of curry for weeks after they’ve gone, and we’re always finding chicken heads in the courtyard.”

She yawned widely. “I’m for bed. The day starts early for me tomorrow.”

She shed her clothes and donned a nightdress, crawled under the covers and was snoring softly in minutes. I dozed restlessly until eleven o’clock, when I staggered downstairs to peel the marchioness out of her clothes and tuck her into bed, while she regaled me with stories of
tortue claire
and chine of pork, whatever the hell those were. Then I bade her goodnight, wandered wearily through the halls until I found Flora’s room and collapsed on the bed, where I fell asleep like an innocent babe.

I
slept soundly until roused by a hammering at the door.

“Miss Black, are you there?”

I fumbled for the matches and managed to light a candle. “Who is it?”

Flora grumped and mumbled but didn’t wake.

“It’s Robbie Munro. The marchioness is asking for you.”

“Damn and blast,” I said. I put my feet on the floor and yelped at the cold. “I’ll dress and be right there.”

“Can you find her room, or should I wait and accompany you?”

Not even the prospect of roaming the halls with the dazzling Robbie Munro excited my interest. At this hour,
nothing
could excite my interest, except the warm bed I’d just left.

“I’ll find it. Thank you, Robbie.” I scrambled into my uniform (which looked a bit worse for the wear, since I’d dropped it in a heap on the floor) and began the long trek back to the marchioness’s room. I found her sitting up in bed, with a log fire blazing and all the candles lit.

“Took ye long enough,” she said by way of greeting. “Where’ve they put ye, out in the stables?”

“I’m sorry, Your Ladyship. The castle is so large, and I haven’t learned my way around it yet. I shall endeavor to improve.”

The marchioness thrust a book at me. “I canna sleep. I want ye to read to me.”

Well, I suppose if you spend the day napping, a good night’s sleep is hard to come by. I sighed resignedly, settled myself comfortably in a chair near the fire (at least it was warm in here) and looked over the reading material the marchioness had selected.
Troilus and Criseyde
. I groaned. Possibly one of the most boring stories I’d ever read. I couldn’t see why people made such a fuss about Troilus, raving about the purity of his love for Criseyde, his decency and goodness, his honour, and all those other qualities that supposedly make up the perfect gentleman. Personally, I found him cloying. There’s nothing the least bit manly about crying and mooching about, feeling sorry for yourself. And the fellow is deuced stupid, in my view. If you’re thick enough to get taken in by a woman, then it’s your own fault when things go pear-shaped. And Criseyde? There’s another sore point with me. She’s supposed to represent the fickle nature of women, betraying Troilus by going off with that hairy Greek ape Diomedes, but what was she supposed to do, eh? Her scheming father Calchas had engineered her removal from Troy because he was sure the city would fall to the Greeks, and he wanted her out of harm’s way. And what woman wouldn’t throw in her lot with a virile chap like Diomedes, instead of that sheep Troilus? I know I would. (And as for Troilus throwing himself frenziedly into battle after learning of Criseyde’s choice and getting himself skewered, there’s only one thing to say about that: how typical of a man.) I suppose it’s plain by now how much this particular fable annoys me, but I digress.

“From the beginning, my lady?”

The marchioness nodded and snuggled down in her blankets, snuffbox in hand, while I launched into the tale of star-crossed lovers and tried not to wretch. The marchioness nodded and snuffled, smiling gently whenever Troilus demonstrated his love for Criseyde by weeping like a schoolgirl and begging his friend Pandarus to stay with him through the long, lonely night (something fishy about that, I tell you). Her Ladyship frowned at Criseyde’s perfidy while I silently cheered her on, and we read the whole damned story from start to finish. Thank God it’s short, but even with that my voice was getting husky and my lids felt like iron bars near the end. The marchioness, damn her eyes, stayed awake for the entire performance. When I’d finished the book, it was nearly dawn. The cocks were crowing in the stables and the darkness was beginning to fade.

The marchioness gave me a gap-toothed grin as I closed the book. “There ye are. The perfect lesson in the power of women to deceive.”

“And of men to be deceived,” I added sourly.

She cackled. “Credulous idiots, most of ’em. On the other hand, many a maid has been taken in by the charms of men.” She gave me a stern look through the rheumy eyes. “Ye would do well to remember that.”

“That most men are credulous idiots?”

She laughed again and then yawned, her sparse teeth winking in the candlelight. “When it comes to lyin’, neither sex has the advantage over the other. Now off ye go. I always breakfast in bed, so I won’t need ye again until it’s time to dress for luncheon.”

I was grateful for the opportunity to catch a few winks, but the marchioness’s parting words had roused a nagging doubt in my mind. Usually, I’d agree quite readily with the assessment that women were skilled in the art of deception; I just hated having it pointed out to me while I masqueraded under false pretenses in the royal household. I cast my mind over the hours since I’d met the marchioness, but I’d be damned if I could remember any incident or word that might have revealed that I was not what I pretended to be. Oh well. Having not slept much over the last thirty-six hours, I was probably seeing dragons where none existed. A few hours sleep would see me right.

 

 

 

Which I was destined not to get, as shortly after I tumbled back onto my lumpy mattress (Flora still snorting like a grampus in the other bed), an eldritch screech poured through the window, shattering my slumber and jolting me upright, panting in panic. Good God. It sounded as though an entire platoon of felines was being run over by a mail coach. Slowly. And repeatedly.

Flora stirred, then stretched lazily. She glanced at the clock. “Och, time to rise.” She didn’t seem the least bit concerned with the unearthly wailing that filled the room.

“What on earth is that noise?”

She scratched her bum unconcernedly. “Why, it’s only William Ross, the Queen’s piper. He always pipes at dawn when Her Majesty’s in residence. And he’ll play again at sunset tonight.”

The sound was fading, as the piper worked his way around the building.

“You mean we have to listen to that thing twice a day?”

“Every day the Queen’s here,” said Flora cheerfully. “Beautiful music, isn’t it? The voice of the Highlands.”

The voice of the Highlands sounded a great deal like a wagon wheel in need of grease, but one doesn’t hope to have a rational discussion with a Scot about the Great Highland War Pipe. Sane people do not make musical instruments out of a sheep’s bladder and a bundle of reeds. What prompts a bloke to pick up an internal organ from
ovis aries
and squeeze it in the first place? The mind boggles. “Great Highland War Pipe” indeed; I’m sure the Scots only charge in battle to get away from that horrible caterwauling. With luck, they’ll be taken prisoner and never have to listen to the bloody thing again.

Flora was splashing water on her face. “That handsome toff I told you about? The one with the black hair? Turns out he’s quite the devil.”

Fleetingly, I wondered if French had paid a visit to Flora while I had been reading that vapid claptrap to the marchioness. Surely not. I shook my head vigorously. I was obviously befuddled from lack of sleep and being wakened by the dulcet tones of cats expiring.

“I had a cup of tea last night with Rosie. She’s one of the other housemaids, and she tidies his room. Last night before dinner, she brought him some hot water and he made lewd suggestions to her and pinched her bottom.” Flora laughed. “What a rogue! I may have to see if I can switch rooms with Rosie and clean up after that fellow. I’d give him a run for his money.”

“And Rosie won’t?”

“Not Rosie. She’s a mouse. Scared her to death, he did.” Flora drew her hair back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and pinned on her cap. “But he doesn’t scare me. After all, if you can work at Balmoral and stay a virgin while the Prince of Wales is visiting, your common, garden-variety swell is no challenge at all. Apparently, they’ve become fast friends.”

“French and the Prince of Wales?”

“Rosie says they spent most of the night getting sozzled, gabbing about horses and flirting with the young ladies in the party. Princess Alexandra was in a right old state by the end of the evening. She practically dragged the prince off to bed by his ear.”

I chewed on this for a bit, trying to summon up a mental image of French boozing and carousing with the lost souls, and found it hard going. Not the mannerly Mr. French, Public Schoolboy of the Year.

Flora put the finishing touches on her toilette
.
“I’m off. Breakfast on the table in fifteen minutes.”

 

 

 

An hour later I had breakfasted well, drunk a half-dozen cups of tea and learned quite a lot about the events of the previous evening from the gaggle of maids and footmen who had been in attendance. Most of the conversation centered around the Prince of Wales, who was stiff as a plank in the presence of his mother and wife, but turned into Falstaff as soon as the old biddy and the ball and chain were out of the room. The prince had been joined in the festivities by French and a few of the male guests. Several bottles of champagne had been consumed, a large amount of the ready had changed hands at the card table, and the merits of Thoroughbreds and actresses had been discussed in clinical detail. One of the footman at the table had blushed at the memory of the conversation. I didn’t hear the gory details as Miss Boss bustled in at that moment, and everyone at the table turned a guilty face to their plate and started gulping bacon and eggs as the housekeeper ran over the day’s assignments.

I had hoped to spend some time cozying up to some of the other servants and pumping them for information, but Miss Boss had interfered with my plans, barking instructions to her staff and sending them off in a flutter to attend to their various duties. I was left to my own devices, and so I wandered off to the wing where the guest rooms were located. If I found a lad or lass shirking their duties, I could always enjoy an idle gossip, and if anyone questioned my own activities, I could retreat to the safety of the marchioness’s room.

I sauntered along casually until I encountered a guest, and then I assumed an air of purposeful intent and quickened my pace until I was around a corner (there’s always a corner to turn in Balmoral) and out of sight. Then I reverted to my slow perambulation. Once I found a wide-eyed girl mooning about the corridor, eyeing herself in a hideous gilded mirror and arranging a curl on her cheek while the stack of linen on the table went undelivered. I struck up the usual conversation between working stiffs, moaning about wages and hours and only having off Sunday evenings, and we commiserated awhile, but as she had all the intelligence of an aspidistra, I wrote her off as a possible assassin and ended our discussion as soon as decently possible. Yes, I know, every army needs its foot soldiers, but the girl wasn’t even mentally equipped to be cannon fodder. You can’t feign stupidity of that caliber. Would have made a good whore, though.