India Black and the Widow of Windsor (24 page)

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 assumed 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 apron 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 glass 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 wineglass 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 coarse, 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 title. There appeared to be a blade of withered grass 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 pussies 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 embarrassing 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 lass 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 glass 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 glass. “You mean England?”

“Of course I don’t mean bloody England,” roared Red Hector. Silence descended upon the dining table. The Queen looked up sharply.

Red Hector grinned at her and waved his glass. “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 cluster of German dolts who wear the plaid and pretend they’re entitled 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 bloody 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 assume 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 passed 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 wineglass 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. Mitchell’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, assisted 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.