For a moment, as I went up the steps into Rannoch House, I came to the conclusion that I shouldn’t go after all, then I realized that this was being ridiculous. To turn down a chance to be on the Riviera just because I didn’t have smart clothes—what was I thinking? Even if Queenie was as hopeless at laundry and ironing as she was at everything else, the family we’d be staying with would have sensible and efficient French maids who would at least make me look respectable, if not fashionable.

This reminded me of the matter of Queenie. The queen hadn’t said anything about paying my maid’s fare, and I was pretty sure that Fig wouldn’t want her at the villa, since she’d already told me to dismiss her. Poor old Queenie. The amount I was paying her wouldn’t keep body and soul together if she wasn’t being fed and clothed. Perhaps I should find her a temporary situation while I was away. I paused, considering this, then shook my head. I couldn’t in all honesty give her a letter of recommendation. It wouldn’t be fair to saddle an innocent party with her. She was, I had to confess, completely and absolutely useless.

I went into my bedroom and closed the door firmly behind me. I needed time to think this through carefully.

“Oh, botheration,” I muttered.

“Whatcher, miss,” Queenie interrupted me. “I had a good idea about that skirt of yours what I messed up. We could get one of them silk flowers, or a bunch of them pretend grapes, and sew them over the bald spot.”

In spite of everything I had to laugh. “Queenie, one cannot go to dinner with a bunch of grapes hanging from one’s stomach. Besides, I won’t be needing velvet for a while, so maybe I can send it back to Scotland with the servants. Our gamekeeper’s wife is a good seamstress. I’m sure she’ll be able to rescue it.”

“So where exactly are we going when they shut up the house here?” (Of course, there were no aitches in her version of the sentence.)

I took a deep breath. “Actually, Queenie, I’m going to France with them.”

Her face lit up. “We’re going abroad again? To foreign parts? Wait till I tell my old mum, who told me I’d never amount to nothing. And look at me now, hobnobbing all over the Continent. I got quite a taste for that foreign food after I got used to it.”

Oh, golly. How was I going to put this tactfully? I had to tell her.

“You see, the thing is, Queenie—”

“Yes, my lady? See, I remembered this time—I’m improving, aren’t I?” She was staring at me expectantly.