Beloved Imposter by PATRICIA POTTER

to fight with the French three years ago. He was an adventurer, that one. He has no’ returned. No one knows what happened to him.”
    They were interrupted by a succession of men who filled the fireplace with wood and lit it. Others brought a tub and steaming pails of water. The old woman quickly shooed the men out and offered to help Felicia undress.
    She could not allow that to happen. “Nay,” she said. “I would prefer privacy.”
    The woman looked crestfallen, as if she had failed in some way, but she backed out the door. “I will bring ye a nightrobe and some food,” she said.
    Felicia remained standing until Moira left, then she went to the steel mirror on the wall and looked at herself. She did not know when she had looked worse. Her hair clung to her head in tight curls, and her eyes were tired and dull-looking. No beauty here. How long could her masquerade last?
    She turned away from the condemning object in front of her and hurriedly undressed, discarding one layer after the other. She laid her cloak with its jewels sewn inside in the empty wardrobe and removed her gown, then the one underneath it. She finally reached the lad’s clothes, took them off, and tucked them under the mattress. She had little doubt she would need them later.
    Wearing only the chemise, and many pounds lighter, she stood in front of the first flickers of flame in the fireplace and tried to control the shivers that ran down her body. She removed that last garment and slipped into the tub, relishing the hot water. She closed her eyes, wondering what she should do next.
    She was tired, so very tired, yet she knew she needed all her wits about her. Still, her thoughts kept returning to the tall lord who had carried her with so little effort and whose gaze had been so direct.
    A knock came at the door, and before she could say anything Moira entered with a tray of food. A young lass behind her carried a luxurious robe trimmed with fur, along with warmed thick towels.
    “This is Robina,” Moira said. “She will be attending ye. She is no’ a lady’s maid, but she is a fine worker and wishes to please.”
    The lass bobbed her head, then stood ready to towel off her new charge.
    With a sigh, Felicia stood. The water was cooling all too quickly, but she hated to leave it just the same. Robina quickly wrapped her in towels, rubbing her until she thought she would have no skin left.
    “Ye have bonny red hair,” the girl said shyly.
    Felicia had always hated it. It was the color of rust and crinkled in hundreds of curls rather than running smoothly down her back as did Janet’s dark hair.
    “Thank you,” Felicia said and reached for her chemise, slipping it over her shoulders.
    Robina bobbed again and fetched the robe, helping Felicia into it and nearly knocked her back into the tub with her eager ministrations. “Milady … I… I mean …” the girl stuttered.
    Moira scowled at her.
    Felicia’s heart melted. The maid was no more than a child, probably no more then ten and three years. Felicia knew being a lady’s maid was a much valued position, and the young lass was a combination of inexperience and hope.
    Felicia knew much about both. “It was my fault,” she said, and the child beamed with gratitude.
    “Ye must be hungry,” Moira said. “I am not the best of cooks, but there is fruit and cheese, bread and mutton.”
    She waited, apparently expecting Felicia to crawl into the bed, and she did so. Gratefully. Despite the faded tapestries and layers of dust, the bed was warm and comfortable.
    The tray was placed in front of her, and she suddenly realized how hungry she was. She took a bite of cheese and struggled not to wince. It was undoubtedly the worst cheese she had ever tasted. She tried a piece of fruit, only to find it spoiled. She could not cut through the mutton. The ale in the tankard was sour.
    “I am very tired,” she said, pushing the tray away. Moira’s face fell.
    “It is not your food, Moira,” Felicia