Free India Black and the Widow of Windsor by Carol K. Carr Page A

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,