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

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,