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

bring it back each night. The Queen doesn’t like to see anyone without the proper amount of starch in her skirt.”
    She flopped on the bed. “Ooh, that feels nice. I’ve been running my legs off since we heard the Queen was coming. Sent everyone into a flutter when we heard she was on her way. Poor Miss Boss almost had a fit.”
    Flora turned over on her stomach, elbows on the bed and her chin in her hands. “I don’t mind a bit of excitement. Usually, it’s dead up here this time of year. But now the Queen’s come and the ghillies will get their ball, just you wait and see.”
    “Their ball?”
    “Och, you don’t know about the ghillies’ ball? We always have one in the fall, when the Queen comes. It’s ever so much fun. All the servants and the ghillies are invited, and the Queen leads it off with a grand march around the ballroom. Then we dance and drink and drink and dance until dawn.”
    “Sounds marvelous,” I said. “What are the choices for men around here?”
    Flora hooted with laughter. “Rough and hairy, and that’s how we Scottish lasses like them. But I’ve got my eye on someone new this year.”
    “Robbie Munro?”
    “How did you know?” Her eyes narrowed. “You haven’t got plans for him yourself, have you? I must warn you, I’ve already picked that flower out of the bouquet.”
    “Not to worry, Flora. I’ve got a beau back in . . .” Bloody hell, where had I supposedly worked before the marchioness had employed me?
    I needn’t have worried about supplying a name. Flora heaved a great sigh of relief at the news and bounced off the bed.
    “Have you anything to wear?” She rummaged hastily through my things, which unsurprisingly yielded nothing in the way of a party dress. She fingered the dull woolens with dismay. “Well, now. We’ll have to find something for you. None of these will do. But we’re about the same size, and I’m sure I’ve got something that will fit you.”
    She sprawled on the bed again. “Did you meet Effie, Lady Dalfad’s maid?”
    “The countess’s maid? Oh, yes, we’ve met.”
    “Bit of a twit,” said Flora. “Gives herself airs.”
    “So does the countess,” I said, remembering her condescension toward the marchioness.
    “You’d expect that, wouldn’t you? They all do. The nobs, I mean. I say”—she bounced upright—“did you see that good-looking fellow with the black hair waving in the wind? The one with the grey gelding? I’ve never seen him here before. Do you know him?”
    I disclaimed all knowledge of French.
    Flora examined her manicure, which, truth to tell (she being a housemaid), was not in the best of condition. “He’s a handsome devil. Looks a regular scoundrel.” She giggled. “I love scoundrels.”
    Miss Boss opened the door. I suppose the idea of knocking first had yet to make it to the Highlands. Then I remembered that I was a servant and expected to perform such niceties, not personally experience them.
    “Flora! I’ve been looking all over for you. The Princess of Wales’s sitting room needs a dust. What have you been doing with yourself? Wasting time gossiping, of course. Now get on your feet and get downstairs. And you”—she glared at me—“the marchioness is ready to dress for dinner. You’ve thirty minutes.”
    I bolted out of the room, hastily arranging my cap. Truth to tell, I was the teeniest bit glad to get away from Flora’s prattle. My head was still spinning from the journey, not to mention meeting the marchioness and the legion of servants whose names I would never remember.
    “Not that way,” roared Miss Boss.
    I reversed direction and scurried past her. I needed a cartographer in the worst way. I hustled out of sight of the housekeeper and down the stairs, where I lassoed a housemaid carrying a dustpan and broom and extracted directions from her to the marchioness’s room. I was haring along like a hunted rabbit down one of the hallways when I turned the corner and ran smack into the