India Black and the Widow of Windsor (8 page)

The Queen’s train looked like any other except for the rear coach, which was painted a glossy black and bore the Queen’s coat of arms in gilt upon the doors, and the great-coated army of grave-faced coves patrolling the platform around it.

“Robshaw’s men?” I asked.

“Yes. In addition to the men you see here, he’ll have operatives on the train itself and at each station along the way. Agents from the Yard will inspect every inch of track between here and Balmoral. No one gets on this train without a special pass.”

He rummaged in his pocket and produced a document. “Here’s yours. You’ll be in No. 14, in a private compartment. Normally, you’d be expected to travel with the other servants, but since the marchioness will join the train at Perth, I thought you should enjoy the comforts of a first-class carriage alone while you can, without being subjected to speculation and inquisitiveness from the other servants.”

“Thank heaven for that. I’m not sure I’m up to the task of making conversation with the Queen’s equerry just yet.”

French pointed down the platform. “There’s Robshaw. Just as well that you see him now. Once he’s at Balmoral, he’ll be occupied with securing the perimeter of the castle. We won’t catch a glimpse of him then.”

Robshaw was a tall, thin chap with a supercilious nose and a set of luxuriant side whiskers the colour and texture of a seal’s pelt. His trousers were sharply creased, his hat was freshly brushed, and the shine on his boots was blinding at twenty paces. He tipped his hat to a passing gentlewoman, displaying a pair of spotless dove grey gloves, glared at a flying smut that had dared to land on his forearm and brushed it disdainfully away. If he cared half as much about Vicky’s security as he did about his appearance, the Queen was safe indeed.

“Looks a bit of a fusspot,” I said.

“He’s got an eye for detail, which is just what one needs in his job. Never leaves anything to chance and always has a trick up his sleeve.” French checked the time. “We’ll be leaving soon. When the train arrives in Perth, the marchioness will be escorted to the carriage and introduced to you by Sir Horace Wickersham. He’s provided a letter of reference for you to the marchioness.”

“I confess to having some doubts about this. It’s not really my nature to toady to the upper class.”

“I have my doubts, as well,” said French, fixing me with that cool grey stare of his. “Remember our fencing lessons; control the point. Don’t let your emotions get the better of you. And for God’s sake, don’t tell the marchioness to bugger off no matter what she does.”

“Bugger off, French.”

He smiled. “One other thing.” He removed the newspaper from under his arm and handed it to me. “You’ll want to read this. The Marischal has published a letter on behalf of the Sons of Arbroath. They have announced that they intend to kill the Queen and pursue a campaign of public executions until the government of England capitulates and emancipates Scotland.”

“That ups the stakes a bit.”

“Considerably.”

“And I’ll bet Vicky’s pantaloons are in a bit of twist.”

French’s lips twitched. “I’ll see you in Scotland.”

“Wait. How will we communicate?”

“Not to worry,” French called over his shoulder. “I shall be in contact with you.”

“You bloody well better be,” I muttered, and headed for my carriage, studiously avoiding looking directly at any of Robshaw’s men. You never know but what one of these steely-eyed fellows from Division A of Scotland Yard had once been an ambitious youngster walking a beat around Lotus House. Being a woman it was difficult to forget, I thought it best to keep my head down and my gaze averted. Sometimes my profession can be a liability, but as it affords me a great deal of money and the liberty to do what I like with it, I can endure the occasional inconvenience.

I handed my pass to the joker guarding the door to my carriage and waited while he scrutinized it with the avidity of Shylock reviewing his accounts. There was a tremendous commotion around the Queen’s train, with crates of wine and parcels of provisions being trundled aboard and red-faced men shouting instructions, and even, I noticed, several Thoroughbreds being loaded into a horse carriage. The steeds were plunging and stamping at the noise and the steam, and a few grim-faced lads were hanging on to their halters. Some swell must be making the trip under the erroneous impression there were no horses in Scotland.

I watched idly for a moment, and then a striking figure caught my eye among the toffs and their stable boys. It was French, but he was no longer the sober gent with whom I’d just conversed. He wore a vermilion frock coat with a black velvet collar, a low-cut brocade waistcoat and slim-fitting trousers the colour of smoke. He strolled languidly around the edge of the crowd, watching the horses and twirling his malacca walking stick in his hand. Somehow he had contrived to alter his appearance: his thick black hair was tousled and his eyes heavy lidded, as though he had just arisen from his bed in the nick of time to catch the train (or, perhaps, never made the acquaintance of the bed at all last night). I watched with interest as he sidled over to a staid gentleman in an elegant black suit and leaned over for a confidential word. The somber fellow looked startled, then vexed and finally positively outraged. He said something blistering to French and stalked off, leaving French with a look of impish delight on his face. What the devil was he up to? French usually conducted himself with tedious rectitude (barring the odd case of blackmail, as I’ve previously noted). Now he looked like a louche member of the Upper Ten (Thousand, that is, being a reference to the crème de la crème of English society, which, of course, contains its share of rotters and scoundrels, only they’re the richest rotters and scoundrels in the land and, therefore, above the law). French yawned and consulted his watch, then shouted instructions to one of the lads, who was holding a fine grey gelding and waiting his turn to lead the horse onto the carriage. I can’t say I was surprised to see Vincent, decked out in a new suit of clothes. I wondered what the secondhand clothing market was like in the Balmoral area.

 

 

 

I won’t bore you with the details of the trip from London to Perth. I’m a Londoner, born and bred, and I get vertigo if I have to leave the Big Smoke. Green fields and clear blue skies are fine for some folk, but a steady diet of cows, clover and quaint little villages is not to my taste. What do people do out here? I wondered. Besides churn butter, make sausage and polish the brass at the church, of course. If I’d had the misfortune to be born somewhere rustic, I’d have died of ennui by the time I turned thirteen. Consequently, I didn’t glue myself to the window and admire the scenery like most travelers would. I browsed through the newspaper French had given me and noted the hysterical threats against the Queen by those infernal Scottish nationalists. I briefly contemplated a perusal of the Bible I’d brought along to impress the old battle-axe to whom I’d soon be apprenticed, but it’s never been one of my favorite books: too much fire, brimstone and punishment, and shockingly rude things to say about harlots. In the end, I closed the curtains in my compartment, put up my feet and stretched out for a long snooze. I figured sleep would be a rare commodity once the marchioness got hold of me.

Many hours later, we pulled into the station at Perth. Jolted awake, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and drew back the curtains. There wasn’t much to see, other than a bustling train station that looked much like any other. I noticed a few well-dressed ladies and men on the platform, waiting to board, and concluded that other members of the Queen’s party besides the marchioness were boarding here. French had instructed me to wait in the carriage until Sir Horace arrived to introduce me to my employer, so I cooled my heels and hummed a few songs, killing time, until I heard some timorous footsteps in the hallway and a gentle knock upon the door.

“Miss Black?”

I rose to my feet and smoothed my skirts. “Come in.”

Sir Horace Wickersham was a ruddy old squire with a cast in one eye, a halo of fluffy white hair and the confidence of a bullied mouse.

“Hello,” he mumbled. “Hello. Very nice to meet you. Very nice indeed.” He glanced briefly at me and blushed. His eyes skittered away from mine and toured the compartment. “Did you, um, have a nice journey?”

“Yes, it was fine.”

“Good, good.” He stared with some fascination at my Bible. “I asked, you see, because the rails are sometimes quite uneven, and the journey can be most uncomfortable.”

“It was tolerable,” I said.

“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 assistance 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. Damn that bastard 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? Damn 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.

“Bugger 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. God, 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 lass?”

“It’s India, Your Ladyship,” I corrected her gently.

“India.” She stared balefully at me. “Damned 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 assistance, 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.

“Damned silly name.”

Before she could cover the racial and dietary characteristics of the Hindoos again, I launched into a brief précis 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 Duchess 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 bloody cold in here.”