Read Online India Black and the Widow of Windsor by Carol K. Carr - Free Book Online Page B

you’ve worked.”
    “Presuming none of them are friends or acquaintances of the marchioness.”
    “Not to worry. None of the ladies listed there have any connection whatsoever with any of the guests invited to Balmoral by the Queen. And should anyone enquire, they are each prepared to swear that you were in their employment on the dates specified and that you were an exemplary servant.”
    “Should I bring the Webley?”
    “I wouldn’t. You’ll have no privacy in the servants’ quarters, and it would look deuced odd for a lady’s maid to be carrying a revolver. I will, however, provide you with the necessary uniforms. Jot down your measurements for me, please.”
    I scribbled down some notes for him, hoping that the British government had a good supply of costumes in my size, and passed it to him. He rose from the table. “I shall see you at the station tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Wear something dowdy and servant-like. You do have something frumpy in your closet, don’t you? It wouldn’t do to arrive at the station in that sapphire silk gown you were wearing the other evening.”
    I assured him I would be sporting suitably cheap and practical clothing. I’d have to raid the bints’ wardrobes, but no doubt there would be a few threadbare dresses and shawls tucked away from their days as fishmongers’ daughters, milkmaids and flower peddlers. I escorted French to the door, with Vincent dogging his steps and begging to be allowed to tag along to Scotland. Knowing French’s resolve, I resigned myself to seeing Vincent somewhere in the vicinity of Balmoral. I trundled upstairs to conduct my scavenger hunt and to acquaint myself with my virtues as domestic help.
     
     
     
    A few minutes before nine o’clock the following morning I passed through the entrance to King’s Cross for my rendezvous with French. At his instructions, I’d sent my luggage on ahead to be placed on the appropriate train. French was waiting for me on the platform beneath the arched roof, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He nodded approvingly at my drab appearance, noting the shabby brown wool dress and tweed coat I’d liberated from the brothel’s occupants. He took my elbow and steered me into a nook in the wall, between the ticket office and a tearoom, where he handed me a parcel wrapped in coarse paper and tied with string.
    “Your uniforms,” he said.
    “I hope they fit, French.”
    He shrugged impatiently. “You needn’t worry. We know how to do these things.”
    “For your sake, I hope you do.”
    “Now, look over there,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder. “That’s the Queen’s train. Her coach is in the rear. The coaches in front will be occupied by some of her guests and the servants she is taking along from Windsor.”
    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