How did my goose girl equivalent come to be looking after sheep in the grounds of the castle of his betrothed? Amnesia seemed unlikely. And the goose girl trope of the thieving maid stealing her identity didn’t make sense to me, in a Regency context. (Though I’ve found a use for it.) So I have influenza, a snowstorm or avalanche, and a young man who doesn’t like fuss. This is how The Sincerest Flattery begins. (Don’t you love the cover?)
“Ride on ahead, Tris,” Percy begged. “Let them know I have been delayed.” At least, that is what he intended to say, though his stuffed up nose and raw throat garbled the words.
His brother apparently understood, for he shook his head. “I shouldn’t leave you, Percy. I won’t leave you, at least until after I’ve spoken with the physician.”
“Can’t keep a lady waiting,” Percy insisted, but he might have saved himself the trouble. Tris might be ten months his junior, and mostly content to go along with his old brother’s plans and schemes, but when he dug his toes in, there was no moving him.
A knock on the door. Perhaps it was the physician? It was the innkeeper’s wife, with a tray. “Some chicken soup for the young lord,” she offered.
Percy didn’t want food, but Tris insisted that he would recover more quickly if he kept up his strength. So he succumbed to having his pillows plumped so that he could sit up, at least enough to have the tray put on the bed.
But his head hurt to much to lift it, and the spoon felt as if it was made of steel and ten times the size. In the end, Tris fed him, a spoonful at a time, until he covered his mouth after the sixth spoonful. “Enough. Let me lie down, Tris. There’s a good chap.”
The innkeeper’s wife, who was hovering, asked, “Did you understand him, my lord?”
“He has had enough, and wants to lie back down,” Tris explained. “I daresay your head hurts, old chap.” He had picked up the tray and handed it the woman, and was supporting Percy with one arm, while rearranging the pillows with the other. “You should let me stay and nurse you, Percy.”
Percy shook his head, a slow and tiny movement from side to side, so as not to burst his pounding head right open.
“Are you twins, my lord?” the innkeeper’s wife asked, as people often did. They were not identical, but they looked very alike. It was an impertinent question, but Tris lacked the arrogance to give her rebuke any of the other Verseys would have offered. It was one of the things they all loved about Tris.
“We are not,” he said.
Another knock on the door, and this time it was the physician. Tris hustled the innkeeper’s wife away and fetched Martin while the doctor did his examination. That was a relief. If he had brought Martin to listen to instructions for Percy’s care, then Tris intended to follow his brother’s instructions.
This was a journey to meet the girl to whom Percy was betrothed. It would be rude to keep Lady Aurelia waiting, and Percy could already tell—was unsurprised to hear the physician telling his brother—that he would be a week or more in bed with this wretched cold.
This ague, rather, which is what the doctor called it. It didn’t seem to matter. Nothing did except for the wretched head, the throat, the blocked nose, the cough that seemed to twist his ribs inside his chest and tear his muscles.
The doctor droned on, and Percy heard bits and pieces in between bouts of coughing and musings about Lady Aurelia. Her miniature was pretty. His father had met her and said she was a comely chit. She had never had a Season, but then she was only seventeen, just a few months younger than Tris.
Their parents had signed the marriage agreements. The wedding was to be in six months. No one seemed to think it necessary for the two principals to the marriage to actually meet before they gathered in the church to be made man and wife.
Still, when Percy came up with the scheme to ride north and introduce himself to the lady and her family, the duke his father did not object. All he said was, “Comport yourself like a Versey, xxxtitlexxx. And take young Tris with you.”
Of course, that didn’t prevent his father from organising their travel, complete with a train of carriages branded with the crests of the Duke of Dellborough and full of servants. Percy and Tris abandoned them on the first day out from home. So here they were, travelling on horseback with just Martin to attend them, a couple of days behind the letter announcing their visit and at least four days ahead of the carriages with the rest of their servants and luggage.
The doctor had apparently finished, and was turning back to Percy. “Rest, Lord xxx. That’s the best—the only possibly medicine. I have left instructions for various ways to soothe your symptoms, but sleep is what you need more than anything.”
He left, taking the innkeeper’s wife with him. Tris took Percy’s hand and looked into his eyes, worried. “I do not want to leave you,” he said.
Percy squeezed Tris’s hand. “Lady Aurelia,” he said, though it sounded more like “Laay Aweia.”
Tris sighed. “Yes, I know.”
“I will look after Lord xxxtitlexxx,” Martin assured Tris.
Still Tris stayed, supervising the administration of the potion the doctor had ordered, which contained something in it that soothed the throat and sent Percy into the prescribed sleep. Next time he surfaced, Tris wasn’t there, which was a good thing, but Percy could not remember why. It was a woman who spooned stuff down his throat—chicken soup and some more of the potion. He thought she washed his face, too, but he was sinking back into sleep, his last thought as he succumbed, “The innkeeper’s wife!” Yes. That was who she was.
***
Aurrie was the first to see the man as he came up the drive, hunched over his horse’s neck. It was a beautiful piece of bloodstock. That was her first impression, her eyes drawn to the horse ahead of the gentleman.
He was a gentleman, as witnessed by the greatcoat he wore against the cold bearing five capes and the top hat that he retained on his head despite his collapsed position. Was he hurt? She cut across the lawn while the horse followed the curve of the drive, and reached the arch to the stableyard just before the rider.
He had managed to draw himself up. His face was hectic with fever and his eyes looked through her without seeing her.
“Sir,” she called out, and for a moment his eyes focused on hers. “Lady Aurelia,” he said, clearly. “Profound apologies…” And then his eyes rolled back and he slumped again, this time so fully that the top hat finally fell.
