India Black and the Widow of Windsor (9 page)

A
nd 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 (damned 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 superstitious, 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 succumbed to sleep. If reading aloud from the Bible was the marchioness’s chief entertainment, then by the time I’d finished my assignment, I’d be able to take up a second line of a work as a missionary to the godless 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. Bloody hell. 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 pussies 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 Dickens’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 hoarse 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, God 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 passed 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 pinpricks 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 passengers.

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 bump 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 massive 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 assisted 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 hoary figure with bristling eyebrows jumped forward as spryly as a youth and rescued Vincent, snagging the horse’s halter and taking him in hand.