The Virgin and the Unicorn

by Joan Smith

  It was a great mystery, but as Miranda gazed with unfocused eyes at the unicorn, it was not of the secret that she thought. It was of Rotham, offering her the rose silk and suggesting she flirt with him. A lady would have to be a fool to flirt with a rake. He was no unicorn, to be captured by a virgin. Louise was more his style, and she was welcome to him. They would probably meet in Vienna, away from the family, and have a madly passionate affair. That would leave poor Laurent heartbroken.

  Chapter Four

  Miranda awoke to the raucous call of a bluejay beyond her window, accompanied by the less strident but pitiful chirping of the bird whose nest the jaw was attacking. She rose and threw open the mullioned window. Seeing the situation, she threw one of a pair of brass candlesticks into the tree. The jay flew off, only to perch brazenly on the next tree, preparing to attack again.

  Miranda took aim with the other candlestick and nearly hit the jay. It flew off with an angry caw, at least temporarily routed. She must remember to retrieve the candlesticks after breakfast. They were already old and dented, so she did not fear she had destroyed them.

  The French clock on the dresser told her it was only eight o’clock, but in June it looked like midmorning—a beautiful morning. The sun shone in an azure sky, with little puffs of white cotton clouds floating high above. Glancing at the tapestry, she smiled at the unicorn. Even a unicorn seemed possible on such a day as this.

  Too impatient to wait for warm water, she poured the cold water in the pitcher into the basin and made a hasty ablution before dressing. As the day was so fine, she wore her pink sprigged muslin gown and drew her hair carelessly back with a pink ribbon. A few wayward curls tumbled forward over her cheeks.

  Her mind was not on her toilette. All she could think of was that there was a delightful mystery waiting to be solved at Ashmead Hall, and a rout party this evening. She was in the dining room by eight-fifteen, where she found an impatient Pavel waiting for her. No one else was at table. Hersham would be up and about already.

  “Sleepyhead! What kept you?” he grumbled. “We have to work out a plan.” He had already breakfasted and was sipping coffee.

  While Miranda helped herself to gammon and eggs from the tempting array at the sideboard, she said, “We also have to deliver the cards for the rout party.”

  Pavel ignored this detail. “I have been examining Rotham’s window. It is open right enough, but how are we to get Slack out of the room long enough to get inside? We require a distraction.”

  “Does he like a tipple?” Miranda asked. “We might put some laudanum in a bottle of wine.”

  “Slack is sober as a Methodist.”

  “Oh. Perhaps I could create a diversion to draw him out into the hallway while you get in by the window.” She took her plate to the table and began eating breakfast.

  “An excellent idea, but do not think you can flirt him into abandoning his post. Rotham would turn him off if he found him flirting with a guest.”

  “I might pretend to have fainted. He would have to come to my assistance. I could ask him to accompany me to my room. He could hardly refuse.”

  “You will have to make a racket to catch his attention. Fall, or—I have it! You could pretend you saw the ghost and give a good loud shriek. The upstairs maid sees the Blue Lady often at the top of the stairs, just steps from Rotham’s room.”

  “Excellent! We must choose a time when Rotham is not about,” Miranda said, “Tonight, while he is busy at the rout would be best.”

  “I have got the ladder close to the house, hidden behind the yews. Oh, I picked up the candlesticks while I was about it. Why did you pitch them out the window? Did you catch someone snooping?” he asked hopefully.

  “No, just a marauding bluejay.”

  “You was too late. There were two broken robin eggs beneath the tree. Dashed bluejays. I shall get out my gun when I have a moment free.”

  Miranda made a hasty breakfast, and they were off—in a lowly whisky, alas, drawn by a pony.

  “Papa is using his carriage this morning,” Pavel said, “and there is no point asking Rotham for the use of his curricle. He will allow no one but himself to hold the ribbons of his famous grays. Besides, he mentioned going to Hythe. It would be an excellent time to get into his room, except that Slack will be there.”

  “I wonder why he is going to Hythe,” Miranda said, frowning.

  “Nothing to do with the trunk. I asked him. He promised Castlereagh to take him a barrel of brandy. He will be speaking to Andy Macpherson. He runs the smuggling at Hythe.”

  Supplying the foreign secretary of England with contraband cargo was an unexceptionable explanation for Rotham’s trip. Miranda gathered up the invitations, put on her bonnet, and they began their drive. By setting out early they found all their invitees at home, though not all of them were up and about at such a farouche hour. They saved the invitations for Rye for the last.

  This hilly town, clinging to a bulge of red sandstone that protruded from Romney Marsh, offered hard walking. They kept the whisky until they had delivered the invitations. It was understood without saying that they would go on the strut on the High Street after. They stabled the gig at the Mermaid Hotel, then went poking about the everything shop. Pavel bought two inferior tin soldiers, and Miranda fell victim to a string of glass beads. They enjoyed a refreshing ice as they climbed to the hilltop, looking over the polder and the sea beyond.

  It was when they were returning to the Mermaid that Miranda espied Laurent. As he had shown interest in the black trunk, they decided to follow him. He was walking, which was strange as Rye was some five miles from Ashmead. How had he gotten here? They followed him along the High Street at a discreet distance. At Conduit Hill he left the High Street. Their question was soon answered. Louise’s carriage was standing outside Mademoiselle Chêne’s modiste shop. Laurent was obviously going to meet her.

  “Mademoiselle is making her green gown for Brighton,” Miranda said, with a wistful thought of the rose silk.

  “And Laurent is trailing at her apron strings as usual, the gudgeon,” Pavel added.

  Louise and Laurent, engrossed in conversation, did not notice the youngsters lurking across the street when they came out of the modiste’s shop. They proceeded down the block to Madame Lafleur’s in Louise’s carriage. This, too, was an innocent visit. Madame Lafleur was to chaperon the Valdors at Brighton.

  Finding no further clues, Pavel suggested they return to the Mermaid. They passed the milliner’s shop, Madame Arouet’s, on the way. It struck Miranda that half the shops in Rye had French names. When had the French performed this peaceful invasion?

  Intrigued by this suspicious surfeit of French names, she did not observe the tall gentleman advancing toward them. It was Pavel’s exclamation that caused her to look up and spot him. There was no denying Rotham was a highly polished article. He took the shine out of all the local bucks, with his exquisitely tailored jackets and his shining Hessians. His very stride, long and bold, bespoke a gentleman who knew he was cock of the walk. When he drew to a stop to speak to them, she felt a little thrill.

  “What brings you two to Rye?” he asked, but his dark eyes looked only at Miranda. Little Sissie looked enchanting in her chipped straw bonnet and flowered muslin. Her youthful innocence was a refreshing change after the debauch going forth in Vienna. It had surprised even Rotham, and he was no provincial.

  “We are delivering invitations to your rout,” she replied.

  “To our rout,” he said. “You have forgotten so soon that it is being held in your honor? Were you thinking of giving an invitation to Mr. Belanger?” he asked, jokingly. It was in front of Belanger’s Book and Stationery Shop that they met.

  “No, I was just noticing how many French people there are in this town,” she said. “Mademoiselle Chêne, Arouet’s, Belanger’s—and the Dumonts and Lefebvres, who are coming to your rout, Rotham.”

  “Nothing to do with Boney, if that is what you are getting at,” Pavel told her. “It i
s ancient history. These folks are Huguenots, or some such thing.”

  “What are Huguenots?” she asked shamelessly.

  “Something to do with religious persecution, was it not, Rotham?” he asked.

  “I must have a word with your tutor,” Rotham murmured, with a pained frown. “The Huguenots were French Protestants, who found sanctuary here in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. I believe we can acquit them of harboring anti-English sentiments as they have been here some hundreds of years. You ought to know what a Huguenot is, Pavel.”

  “Why should I lumber my head with that ancient stuff?”

  “Mademoiselle Chêne has not been here that long,” Miranda said. “And she is only a modiste, so she would not have been escaping from the Revolution.”

  “Lafleur is a newcomer as well,” Pavel added.

  “If you can call fifteen years a newcomer,” Rotham pointed out. “Louise was telling me this morning that she was in London for ten years before coming here. Are you all finished delivering the invitations?”

  “Yes, we are just about to get the gig,” Pavel replied. “Unless you would like to take us home in your curricle?” he added hopefully.

  “Where did you plan to sit, on the horse’s back? You know the sporting rig only seats two. You can drive the gig home, Pavel. I shall drive Sissie.” He made this announcement with very much the air of conferring a favor on the lady.

  Miranda felt the temptation strongly enough, but she disliked his arrogance at assuming she would jump at the chance.

  “I shall go home in the gig, as I came,” she said grandly.

  “So there!” Rotham added, biting back a smile at her little show of independence. He liked a filly with spirit.

  “That is dashed sporting of you, Sissie,” Pavel said. “I shall go with Rotham. Can I take the ribbons?”

  “And they say chivalry is dead,” Rotham said. “But of course you may take the ribbons—of the gig. We cannot have Sissie driving home alone.”

  “I can handle Dobbin perfectly well!” she assured him.

  “I have no doubt of it, but can you handle the derision of your friends, who will think you no better than a hoyden?”

  It occurred to her that Rotham must consider her a young lady now, as he was worried about her reputation. “Yes, better than I could handle their derision at seeing me driving with you, I expect,” she replied thoughtlessly.

  Rotham chose to take it as a joke. It was either that or demand an explanation, or an apology, or some damned thing. But he felt the sting of her insult.

  “Perhaps you had best come with me, Pavel,” she said.

  “You could beg a drive back with Louise. She is at Lafleur’s,” Pavel suggested.

  “And let Dobbin find his own way home?” she asked.

  The three went together back to the Mermaid.

  “Surely you did not bring Castlereagh’s brandy in your curricle?” Pavel mentioned.

  “Brandy?” Rotham asked. “Oh, the brandy—no, Macpherson will deliver it to Ashmead,” he said, but he looked slightly disconcerted.

  Miranda took the idea his trip to Hythe had nothing to do with brandy. He had gone there on some other business, possibly something to do with the black trunk—or possibly to find a worthy recipient for the rose silk.

  At the Mermaid, Rotham saw them off. “Tell Mama I shall be home for lunch. I am just stopping at the taproom for an ale before I leave.”

  They were not taken in by this trickery. They drove around the corner and waited. They had not long to wait. Within a minute—not nearly long enough to order and consume an ale—he was darting off in his curricle. He drove, and was followed by them, to Madame Lafleur’s little cottage, which had roses clambering over the front.

  “Another waste of time,” Pavel said. “He is going to give Louise a drive home in the curricle. Laurent’s nose will be out of joint.”

  It was not Louise that had taken Rotham haring off, however. He had spotted Monsieur Berthier’s rig passing the inn and was curious enough to follow him. Berthier had expressed some reservations about returning a certain purloined item to France. He was not averse to doing it, but was concerned how it should be accomplished. He would “have a word with friends,” he said, and let Rotham know that night at the rout. Rotham had not thought Madame Lafleur had any contact with France, after having been away from her homeland for so long. He had assumed Berthier’s “friends” were the Gentlemen of the smuggling community.

  He waited for fifteen minutes, driving around town and making frequent passes at the corner that gave a view of Madame Lafleur’s residence. Should he join them? No, best not. He saw Louise’s carriage outside and assumed she was asking Madame Lafleur to chaperon her in Brighton. He had told Berthier the matter was top secret, so he would say nothing in front of the Valdors. He drove home, followed at a discreet distance by the whisky.

  “Why did he not go into Madame Lafleur’s?” Pavel kept asking. “His presence would have insured her chaperonage. He kept driving around, looking at the house.”

  “Who was the other man? Perhaps that was who he was following.”

  “That was Berthier, who he mentioned last night might accompany Louise to Vienna,” Pavel replied.

  “What does he do?”

  “Nothing; he is a gentleman. He has an estate over Hythe way.”

  “Hythe! That is where Rotham was going. I wonder if he called on Berthier.”

  “And Berthier went darting straight off to Lafleur’s, another Frenchie. By Jove, I think we are on to something here, Sissie.”

  “Yes, but what?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he admitted, but still it was interesting, and surely significant.

  Chapter Five

  With a rout party to prepare for, Miranda could not spend her whole day spying. She had to send home for the blue peau de soie evening gown Trudie had given her. Miranda had planned the gown’s debut at the local assembly in two weeks’ time, thus had not yet hemmed it.

  As the hemming would mean an hour in the privacy of her room, she decided to apply a strawberry mask to bleach the sprinkling of freckles that were summer’s special gift to her. She worked by the window, where she could keep an eye on the bluejay. It was now harassing a sparrow.

  Pavel returned to Rye to stroll cunningly up and down the street in front of Madame Lafleur’s doorway. He did not see Berthier for the very good reason that Monsieur Berthier was at Ashmead.

  This important discovery was not made until the family and their guests assembled for dinner. Louise took the shine out of even the fashionable gown Trudie had passed on to Miranda. Louise wore blue as well, a deep peacock blue gown of lustrine that shimmered and rustled enticingly when she moved. The Valdor diamonds went exceedingly well with it, and with the satin white bosom on which they rested.

  Mr. Berthier could hardly take his eyes off her. This was of no concern to Miranda. She took little interest in a gentleman old enough to be her papa. Berthier was considered quite a catch by the older ladies and widows, who had no objection to a distinguished touch of silver at the temples. He was of medium height and well formed, with a dashing pair of brown eyes.

  Laurent fidgeted when Berthier claimed a seat by Louise and flirted outrageously with her. Rotham, sitting beside Miranda while awaiting the dinner announcement, watched the show with tolerant amusement.

  “I see you have invited Mr. Berthier to the rout, Rotham,” she said, hoping to do a little discreet quizzing about him.

  “I observe you avoid the word our by calling it the rout. What have you against joint ownership with me? After all, it is only a rout, not a house, or a child.”

  “How silly you are,” she said with a matronly tsk. “Berthier was not on our list. There—does that satisfy you?”

  “Not entirely. The list was yours and Pavel’s. It is the rout of which we have joint custody.”

  “Is he a particular friend of yours—Berthier I mean?”

  “No, he is an admirer of Lou
ise’s,” he replied. Then he inclined his head close to hers and added in a flirtatious tone, “As he is too old for you, I felt he would provide me no serious competition this evening.” He waited—in vain—for the expected blush of pleasure, the shy smile.

  “You invited him this morning while you were at Hythe arranging for Castlereagh’s brandy?” she asked.

  “Yes, I happened to bump into him on the High Street. A spare bachelor is always welcome at a do such as this.”

  “Is he one of those Huguenots you spoke of this morning?”

  “No, he came to England much later.”

  “Like Madame Lafleur,” she said pensively.

  Madame Lafleur had also been invited to dinner. Miranda turned to study her. She was not as young as Louise, but by no means too old for Berthier. She would never see thirty again, but Miranda doubted she had yet seen forty. The French ladies aged well. Her coppery hair was stylishly arranged, and her figure was not too full to be admired.

  Rotham said, “Just so,” and spoke of other things. “The Breckenbridge brothers and their sister have agreed to supply music this evening. Miss Breckenbridge is quite an adept at the pianoforte.”

  “Yes, she plays at all the small parties.”

  “I hope you will save me a dance. The second dance, that is. Duty before pleasure,” he said, gazing into her eyes.

  Miranda failed to perceive, or at least respond to, the compliment lurking there. “Will you be leaving for London tomorrow morning?”

  “Why is my departure of such interest to you, Sissie?”

  “You are not likely to have a second party, and you do have urgent business in London, do you not?”

  “Indeed I have, after I have finished my urgent business here.”

  He saw the leap of interest in her eyes. “What business is that, Rotham?” she asked, with a very poor simulation of nonchalance.

  “Why, entertaining you, to be sure, ma petite,” he said, patting her fingers in an avuncular way. A smile twitched his lips when she jerked her hand away. He watched as a scowl seized her face. “What have I said? Why do you mistake my poor efforts at friendship for an insult? You refuse to drive in my curricle—”