over balustrades, trying to figure out where I was going. If not for the directions proffered by a succession of po-faced servants, I might still be wandering the halls of the Queen’s Highland retreat. I finally staggered back into the kitchen, having taken the two-shilling tour of the castle.
Miss Boss pounced on me like a hawk on a field mouse. “You’ve arranged Her Ladyship’s belongings?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then let me introduce you to some of the servants you will need to know.”
We made a hasty circuit of the room, with Miss Boss introducing me to a dozen bewhiskered gentlemen in kilts (Royal Stewart, naturally) who acted as under butlers, footmen, equerries and such. I thought the odds were good that I’d remember their names, as they were all Archie or Jock. Surnames seemed in short supply in Scotland as well, as they shared just a few: Grant, MacBeath and Macdonald. As we were introduced, each muttered some greeting in an incomprehensible Scottish accent. I might as well be in Hungary, I thought. Thank goodness for Munro and Miss Boss. I could at least understand them when they spoke.
I met Edith Mackenzie, the cook, a tubby, moon-faced woman with freckles and untidy red hair under her white cap.
She smiled pleasantly. “Call me ‘Cook.’ You’ve far too many names to remember as it is. There will be bacon and eggs and spotted dick for your tea, when Miss Boss is finished with you.”
That couldn’t come soon enough, in my opinion, but Miss Boss had more introductions to make. She pointed across the room to a tall, balding chap with a guardsman’s mustache.
“That’s James Vicker, the deputy to the master of the household. Usually, the master of the household accompanies the Queen from Windsor to Balmoral, but he’s ill, and Mr. Vicker will be serving as the master in his place. Mr. Vicker is responsible for sleeping and dining arrangements, and entertainments. You must do whatever he tells you to do.”
I wasn’t sure the chap would be up to the task. Vicker was white with stress, the remaining tufts of his hair standing in soft peaks around his forehead, which was creased with worry. Bad enough to take on the diva’s role after years of being an understudy, but to be uprooted from the familiar confines of Windsor on the Queen’s whim was no doubt a considerable strain.
“And that ,” Miss Boss hissed, “is Mr. Brown.” The feisty housekeeper looked apprehensive. “You must also follow Mr. Brown’s instructions. He’s a sharp tongue on him, but pay no mind to it. Just do as he says.”
I’d been dying to see John Brown, farmer’s son and former ghillie, now the Queen’s close confidant, who called her “wumman” and slept down the hall from her. He was a rustic-looking gent, with a dense brown beard and craggily handsome face. Good-looking, if you like a bit of rough, which apparently Her Royal Majesty did. He’d started service at Balmoral as Prince Albert’s ghillie, guiding him on hunts for stag and accompanying him to the lochs for salmon fishing. After the prince’s death, Brown had managed to worm his way into the Queen’s good graces (no one was quite sure how, as he was reputed to be a drunken lout with the manners of a moor pony), and now he lorded it over Her Majesty’s household.
A group of dusky gentlemen trouped past, decked out in sapphire tunics and blousy pants, with white muslin turbans adorned with peacock feathers, and carrying pots, pans and a number of jute bags. One had a chicken tucked under his arm. The scent of cardamom and turmeric wafted after them.
Miss Boss frowned. “Her Majesty’s Indian servants. We don’t cook for them; they prepare their own meals in the courtyard. They don’t do much when they’re here, just loiter about all day and shiver. They only work at mealtimes. One of them stands behind the Queen, ready to assist her.”
I’d have given a sovereign to see the marchioness’s face when one of those little brown
Miss Boss pounced on me like a hawk on a field mouse. “You’ve arranged Her Ladyship’s belongings?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then let me introduce you to some of the servants you will need to know.”
We made a hasty circuit of the room, with Miss Boss introducing me to a dozen bewhiskered gentlemen in kilts (Royal Stewart, naturally) who acted as under butlers, footmen, equerries and such. I thought the odds were good that I’d remember their names, as they were all Archie or Jock. Surnames seemed in short supply in Scotland as well, as they shared just a few: Grant, MacBeath and Macdonald. As we were introduced, each muttered some greeting in an incomprehensible Scottish accent. I might as well be in Hungary, I thought. Thank goodness for Munro and Miss Boss. I could at least understand them when they spoke.
I met Edith Mackenzie, the cook, a tubby, moon-faced woman with freckles and untidy red hair under her white cap.
She smiled pleasantly. “Call me ‘Cook.’ You’ve far too many names to remember as it is. There will be bacon and eggs and spotted dick for your tea, when Miss Boss is finished with you.”
That couldn’t come soon enough, in my opinion, but Miss Boss had more introductions to make. She pointed across the room to a tall, balding chap with a guardsman’s mustache.
“That’s James Vicker, the deputy to the master of the household. Usually, the master of the household accompanies the Queen from Windsor to Balmoral, but he’s ill, and Mr. Vicker will be serving as the master in his place. Mr. Vicker is responsible for sleeping and dining arrangements, and entertainments. You must do whatever he tells you to do.”
I wasn’t sure the chap would be up to the task. Vicker was white with stress, the remaining tufts of his hair standing in soft peaks around his forehead, which was creased with worry. Bad enough to take on the diva’s role after years of being an understudy, but to be uprooted from the familiar confines of Windsor on the Queen’s whim was no doubt a considerable strain.
“And that ,” Miss Boss hissed, “is Mr. Brown.” The feisty housekeeper looked apprehensive. “You must also follow Mr. Brown’s instructions. He’s a sharp tongue on him, but pay no mind to it. Just do as he says.”
I’d been dying to see John Brown, farmer’s son and former ghillie, now the Queen’s close confidant, who called her “wumman” and slept down the hall from her. He was a rustic-looking gent, with a dense brown beard and craggily handsome face. Good-looking, if you like a bit of rough, which apparently Her Royal Majesty did. He’d started service at Balmoral as Prince Albert’s ghillie, guiding him on hunts for stag and accompanying him to the lochs for salmon fishing. After the prince’s death, Brown had managed to worm his way into the Queen’s good graces (no one was quite sure how, as he was reputed to be a drunken lout with the manners of a moor pony), and now he lorded it over Her Majesty’s household.
A group of dusky gentlemen trouped past, decked out in sapphire tunics and blousy pants, with white muslin turbans adorned with peacock feathers, and carrying pots, pans and a number of jute bags. One had a chicken tucked under his arm. The scent of cardamom and turmeric wafted after them.
Miss Boss frowned. “Her Majesty’s Indian servants. We don’t cook for them; they prepare their own meals in the courtyard. They don’t do much when they’re here, just loiter about all day and shiver. They only work at mealtimes. One of them stands behind the Queen, ready to assist her.”
I’d have given a sovereign to see the marchioness’s face when one of those little brown
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