The Unicorn Talisman

By Gareth Ellzey

When Lucinda's father dies, all but destitute from the Waterloo Panic, she must shoulder the responsibility of maintaining the household and caring for her dying mother, while her beautiful sister mourns her exciting Season in London. Though Lucinda has spent her days working as hard as the family's two servants, she does not dream of a Cinderella-ending to her life.
But when two young men arrive, with interest in buying the plot of land that is her dowry, Lucinda discovers the ugly duckling is a swan after all, and her faithful cook would gleefully play "fairy godmother" to see her Lambie settled somewhere she deserves. The question is, which man is the "prince" and which merely charming?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gareth Ellzey
• Release date: Dec 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465749840

Gareth Ellzey

An avid reader of Regency romances for many years, Gareth Ellzey decided to try her hand at writing one. The Unicorn Talisman is her first book. Currently she lives in Austin, Texas, with 3 'only cats,' and an only husband. You can email her at [e-mail].

Book preview

The Unicorn Talisman

by Gareth Ellzey

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Gareth Ellzey

Cover art by Elizabeth McCoy

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please come to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author!

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

About the Author

Chapter I

Lucinda had always taken it for granted that Sarafina was prettier than she. The two year's difference in their ages was, in her mind, an insurmountable handicap. That is why, when their father had lost everything in the Waterloo Panic, and then died shortly thereafter, leaving his family all but destitute, Lucinda fell into the role of housekeeper, dresser, and secretary for Sarafina and their mother.

Mrs. Pfyffer-Smythe had been an accredited Beauty in her first Season, twenty-five years earlier. Married after a whirlwind courtship to the handsome Phillip Pfyffer-Smythe, who treated her always as though she were a fragile flower, too frail and precious for any confrontation with reality, Althea Pfyffer-Smythe was totally unprepared to cope with their changed circumstances and her widowhood. She took to her bed. Almost overnight, her fine-drawn, delicate features became gaunt and haggard. Great blue eyes, somewhat deep-sunk to begin with, became purple-smudged caverns in a paper-white face. A slim figure, the envy of many of her erstwhile associates, became painfully thin. Although previously healthy, albeit ethereal-looking, Althea became almost a total invalid, quacking herself with nostrums and patent medicines, many of which were high in alcoholic content.

Sarafina, so like her mother in looks, was a toast in her own Season. Her fair hair, and great blue eyes set into a heart-shaped face, enchanted many of the bachelors at Almack's. Of course, all that was over when the crash came. From balls, teas, pic-nics al fresco, Venetian breakfasts and her own personal dresser, Sarafina was reduced to an occasional Assembly and making do with the one little housemaid, who, along with a cook, were the only servants the family could afford, after they moved from the dazzling gaiety of London to the bucolic peace of Balcombe in Sussex, where they were lucky enough to have a cottage, inherited from a great-aunt who had considerately died just upon the heels of their ruin.

Sarafina was bewildered. More, she was outraged. This was not the life she had been promised. This was not how she had been reared. Her disappointment became bitterness, which showed in ill temper and sullenness. She had from childhood been inclined to pout when denied her desires. Now she was in a permanent state of sulks.

Lucinda had always admired and deferred to her lovely older sister. As a child she had compared Sarafina's golden silky locks with her own dark-brown, usually tangled, curls, to her own disadvantage. She felt her big hazel eyes, ringed with long dark lashes and deep-set like their mother's, were nondescript when she considered Sarafina's large, celestial-blue orbs. Her own high color and squarish face, with its generous, red, full-lipped mouth, and pert, tilted nose, looked rude and vulgar beside Sarafina's fine porcelain complexion, high cheekbones, straight small nose, and rosebud lips. Lucinda considered, but of course never said aloud, that Sarafina looked like a blonde, young Emma Hamilton. Because of that lady's scandalous association with the great Lord Nelson, such a comparison was certainly not to be noted.

On this Monday morning early in May, Lucinda sighed, thinking once again about the conversation at breakfast.

Why do I have to get up for breakfast? Sarafina had said in a voice suspiciously like a whine. You bring Mama a tray. Molly or you could easily bring me one too. It wouldn't be too much bother. You know getting up early frequently gives me a headache. I feel one coming on now. This room has altogether too much sun in the mornings. You know in London I almost never got up before eleven. Why can't you just bring me a tray, like you do for Mama?

Lucinda had listened in silence to this monologue and patiently replied, I'm sorry, Sarafina, but I must get the bedding laundered today. Mama's can wait, but I have to get an early start on ours. Molly can only do so much, you know.

"Oh, that Molly is such a slow, clumsy creature! Why can't we have someone quick and clever, like Lewis was? She never made such a piece of work over a little bit of washing. It's really too bad of Molly to be so irritating."

Lucinda forbore to remark that Lewis, Sarafina's London dresser of two years ago, had done very little laundry, only an occasional handkerchief or fine bit of lace, not to be entrusted to the under-servants. Lewis had been a very superior person, ranking only below Siddons and Mrs. Siddons, the butler and housekeeper, and on a par with Walton, Mrs. Pfyffer-Smythe's own dresser and Webb, Mr. Pfyffer-Smythe's valet, in the hierarchy at their old London home. Sarafina often brought her into the conversation, as though to keep that halcyon time fresh in her own mind.

It's different for you, Sarafina had gone on, in full tirade now. You weren't out of the schoolroom yet when Father– well, when it happened. She was always very delicate about the events that had led to their current circumstances. Lucinda rather suspected her sister did not even know what had happened, any more than she herself did. Anyway, Sarafina continued after a brief pause, You never were used to any better. It's all right for you to get up so early, and you don't seem to mind serving Mama, so why should you want me to do things that annoy me so? It's really not fair, Lucinda. I'm very high strung, you know. I'd go back to bed, if the sheets weren't removed. What am I supposed to do?

Lucinda had sighed a little and suggested, Well, you sew such a fine seam. It would help so much if you could mend the sheets that have torn. And we are going to have to cut some in half and turn them. I really can't stretch Mama's jointure to new sheets till next quarter, if then.

Sarafina was scandalized at the suggestion that she should turn her embroidery and needlework skills to a servant's task. Conveniently, she ignored that that was just what Lucinda was doing, and had been for almost two years now. She had flounced up from the table with an exclamation of, Oh, how could you! and left the room in a huff.

Lucinda had finished her own breakfast quickly and gone into the kitchen, where Molly and Mrs. Pipping were up to their elbows in soapsuds. Tying on a large pinafore apron, she had begun deftly pulling the long linen sheets out of the hot rinse in which they had been soaking. Molly came to help her, and they carried the sopping bedclothes into the small back garden.

It had rained during the night, but the sun was going to shine, she thought, looking at the clouds breaking up. Together Molly and she twisted and wrung out the linens and spread them on the blackberry vines to dry. The work helped Lucinda keep from going over and over the earlier conversation in her mind, but at odd moments she felt herself listening to it again. She was filled with an odd disquiet, a sense of discontentment, of restlessness, unlike her usual matter-of-fact acceptance of things. She had to suppress the spurt of annoyance she kept feeling whenever she thought of Sarafina's words: It's different for you – you were never used to any better.

I was, she found herself thinking. I didn't always do laundry, and dust and help clean and cook and sew and wait on Mama. I remember, I used to have time to read, and draw, and dream . . . Here she shook herself mentally. It's no use yearning after might-have-been. I've got to cope with now. It's just spring fever, I suppose. She turned to go into the kitchen.

Suddenly a loud knocking at the front of the cottage sent her flying up the passage. The impatient summons also brought Sarafina down the stairs, to stand full in the pale sunlight as Lucinda flung open the door.

Is your mistress in? Oh, there she is, said quite the handsomest man Lucinda could ever recall seeing. In that first moment, Daniel Scott's face and figure as it was that Monday, May 5, 1817, was imprinted upon her memory forever. He was not above middle height, though taller than her own 61 inches by half a foot or more, but his wide shoulders, enhanced by a beautifully tailored, buckram wadded coat and well-shaped legs, encased in primrose knit pantaloons, made him, to her startled eyes, a very imposing figure. His face captured most of her attention. It was very regular of feature, with a wide forehead capped by rich chestnut hair, brushed into a Mohawk. A thin, straight nose, well chiseled lips, and flashing dark eyes enchanted her upon the spot. A tiny cleft in his chin was framed by high shirt points.

She stood gaping, as he demanded, Announce me to your mistress, if you please. I am Daniel Scott.

Behind her, Sarafina gracefully descended the last two steps. Her pale blue muslin, though not quite in the current style, became her willowy figure and made her blue eyes lustrous. Her hair, which she had tied high on the back of her head with a deeper blue riband, was escaping in tiny wispy tendrils around her face; it caught the sun and framed her countenance like a halo. Mr. Scott looked at her and Lucinda's heart dropped to her boots, literally, for that was the footwear she had donned to do the washing. He was obviously captivated.

My-my sister Sarafina – Miss Pfyffer-Smythe, I mean, here she is, stammered poor Lucinda, feeling more gawky and awkward by the second. Sarafina, she appealed to her sibling, Mr. Scott, this gentleman, he wants to see– She turned back to the exquisitely dressed man on the doorstep. Whom did you wish to see? she inquired, rather more composedly.

I am Daniel Scott, he repeated. I have come to speak with Mrs. Pfyffer-Smythe on a matter of mutual interest. Is she in?"

Mama is in, but she is very unwell, and does not often receive visitors, Sarafina said in a musical voice, a marked contrast to her recent complaining tones. Maybe you could tell me what your errand is? Won't you come in?

She led the way into the tiny parlor to the left of the entry hall. Turning, she smiled. Lucinda, perhaps you could bring us some refreshments. Mr. Scott and– Suddenly she realized a second gentleman had accompanied them into the room. She looked quizzically at the commanding Mr. Scott. Your friend . . . ?

This is Mr. Harry St. James. We came down from London together, Mr. Scott hastily supplied.

Yes. Mr. St. James. Sarafina graciously inclined her head in acknowledgement and continued, . . . are probably thirsty. Ask Cook for some tea and those delicious little biscuits she does so well. Turning to the gentlemen, she dismissed Lucinda with her back.

Thus Lucinda found herself some quarter of an hour later carrying in a tea tray. She could not help but feel very resentful as she entered the room to the rippling sound of Sarafina's party laugh as she thought of it. The thought of the unfinished laundry and a dozen other chores – her mother's room to be aired, the fresh linens put on the beds, some ironing, weeding in the garden, marketing – all jumbled in her mind and crystallized into a red little glow of anger at Sarafina, Mr. Scott (however beautiful he was), and the nondescript Mr. St. James. Elevenses are all very well, she thought mutinously, but I have work to do.

Oh, Lucinda, trilled Sarafina, not moving as Lucinda came into the room, obviously struggling with the large tray, Thank you.

Mr. St. James, seeing her difficulties, jumped up and came to her. Taking the tray, he held it while she quickly removed a small china figure from its place on the gateleg table over to the fireplace mantle, and swung out the leaf.

The room was tiny and awkward. It held most of the good furniture left to the family after the greater part of their possessions had been sold to meet their creditors' demands. Two wing chairs and a settee, a few china figures (mostly chipped in not-very-obvious places), a straight ladder-backed cottage chair, and the table stood around the room. A framed watercolor, done by Lucinda in her fourteenth year and given to her Papa – who had admired it exceedingly – hung over the miniature fireplace, opposite the door to the small dining room. A small tapestry fire-screen stood before the fireplace, since their budget did not stretch to fires in unused rooms. A slight mustiness proclaimed that the parlor was usually shut off from the rest of the house. Standing in pride of place beside the straight-backed chair near the front window was a large gilded harp, which rendered the room very over-crowded.

As he set the tea-tray down, Mr. St. James smiled very sweetly at Lucinda, and she really saw him for the first time. Her eyes had been filled with the magnificence of Mr. Scott, and she had completely overlooked his companion.

Harry St. James was used to this phenomenon. He had become friends with Daniel when both were homesick fags at Eton. They had gone together through school, larks, being sent down, and finally graduation from Trinity College, Oxford, where Daniel had barely scraped through, though Harry had taken a First.

Daniel had been a beautiful boy, an exquisite youth, and, as Lucinda had observed, become a stunningly handsome man. Harry, with his brownish hair, hazel eyes, face-ish face – ordinary, easily forgotten – had always been outshone by Daniel's outstanding presence. Harry was mildly amused to see Lucinda's sudden awareness of him, so his smile deepened, revealing a charm unsuspected even by himself. Lucinda stared a moment, then, with an effort, pulled herself together.

Thank you, Mr. . . . she murmured.

St. James. Harry St. James, he said.

Yes. Well. Thank you.

Not at all.

What are you two whispering about? Sarafina caroled gaily, causing the pair to start almost guiltily.

Sarafina, I persuaded Mama to see Mr. Scott in a few minutes. We can take him along to see her after he has had a cup of tea. Lucinda had regained a measure of her usual serenity and spoke calmly and clearly, causing Daniel to realize for the first time that she was not a housemaid, but a daughter of the house.

Very pleased, Miss . . .

Lucinda, my sister, Sarafina performed the introduction.

Lucinda, he finished, with a grateful glance at the glowing Miss Pfyffer-Smythe. Lucinda watched the glance warm to admiration and appreciation as Sarafina rose with conscious languid grace and moved toward the tea table.

Do you take milk and sugar, Mr. Scott? she inquired with a backward glance, which revealed, as she well knew, a lovely line of neck and jaw.

Sugar only, please. One teaspoon.

Silently Lucinda handed Sarafina the cup of tea prepared to Mr. Scott's directions. Gravely she looked at Mr. St. James.

Milk and sugar for me, he responded. Thank you.

The girls took their own tea, milk but no sugar (sugar was very dear), and sat down, Sarafina beside Daniel on the settee, Lucinda in the hard chair near the harp, beside the fireplace. Mr. St. James settled himself in the wing chair in the opposite corner of the room, where he could both admire Sarafina's cameo-like profile and observe Lucinda, who intrigued him the more. Much of his interest in life was in watching people. He was very good at it, because he blended so well into any background. Only Daniel occasionally felt that perhaps there was more to his friend than met the eye.

A little silence fell. Tea cups clinked. Daniel cleared his throat. What a charming village Balcombe is, he began.

What brings you to Balcombe? Sarafina started. The two sentences ended in a perfect duet. Sarafina blushed and let out her pretty tinkle of laughter. You first, she chirped.

Smiling sheepishly, Mr. Scott repeated his comment.

"Oh, yes, quite charming, but very dull. There is no company nearby, and an Assembly in East Grinstead only during Assizes. But after London it is so very quiet. What are the latest on dits, pray tell me?" Sarafina leaned forward eagerly.

Obligingly Mr. Scott began to relate the latest bits of gossip: rumors that the Princess Charlotte was again in an interesting condition, Prinny's unpopularity with the London crowd, and the attempt on his life in January, Lord Amherst's dismissal from China for refusing to kowtow to the Emperor (this was old news to Lucinda, who read the newspapers whenever she could and had noted this event the previous year), and the installation of the Elgin marbles in their temporary quarters, where they were now available for viewing.

While this pleasant conversation was going forward, Harry watched Lucinda. He saw her wince slightly now and again as Sarafina made this or that somewhat simpering Oh, La or But not really comment. He saw her color ebb and flow as she gazed at his friend's animated face, then jerked her eyes away hastily and cast them down at her hands. He saw those hands, well-shaped, but short-nailed and work-roughened, clench and work till the knuckles shone white, and he felt intensely sorry for her.

Just as Daniel finished an anecdote about the haughty Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, a Patroness of Almack's, Lucinda took the last sip of her tea and rose determinedly. I think Mama will be ready to see you now. Come with me. She walked out of the room without waiting to see if the others followed her, and turned toward the rear of the house.

Chapter II

At one time the cottage in which the Pfyffer-Smythes now found themselves had been the home of a maiden aunt of Mr. Pfyffer-Smythe's. She had done extensive remodeling to suit her own tastes. Because she had been unable to climb stairs in her later years, Aunt Mathilde had converted half the house, off the right side of the passage, into a suite consisting of an office-library in the front, and a large comfortable bedroom behind it. She was untroubled by the proximity of the kitchen and scullery directly behind her and had had built a very convenient cupboard under the back stairs which went up over one side of her room.

Upon their arrival in Balcombe, Mrs. Pfyffer-Smythe had appropriated this room as her own, and now rarely moved outside it. It was dominated by a large bed facing the blazing fireplace. The room was, in fact, stiflingly hot, and as Lucinda opened the door, Mr. Scott found himself starting to perspire. May was often a cool month in Sussex, but this room was almost tropically warm.

Mama, said Lucinda, going to the bed where a figure half-reclined on a number of pillows, This is Mr. Daniel Scott. He says he has some business with you. Is that right? she turned to Daniel.

How d'ye do, Mrs. Pfyffer-Smythe? Yes, I have a proposal to make to you. Do you remember that ten-acre plot of land your husband had in Norfolk? I want to purchase it.

Fretfully, Mrs. Pfyffer-Smythe plucked at the sheet turned down over the satin comforter across her lap. She rolled her head with its widow's cap, complete with lace lappets hanging on either side of her face (For all the world like a blood hound, mused Harry St. James, who had followed the other three into the room). I don't know. Is that why you wanted to see me? Why didn't you tell me that, Lucinda? I'm too ill and weary to be bothered by these things. Mr. Pfyffer-Smythe took care of all this. Lucinda, hand me my hartshorn. My head hurts so . . . She sniffed at the smelling salts Lucinda held to her nose, then resumed, I'm really too ill to talk. You see how it is. Maybe Mr. Cooke can help you. I don't know anything about it. Lucinda, pour me some of my medicine – there, in the blue bottle. She seized the small tumbler Lucinda offered and thirstily tossed it down, then held it out for another draught. Lucinda, she insisted, Lucinda, I need it – my poor nerves. I need my medicine.

Wrinkling her nose at the smell of spirits in the bottle, Lucinda poured, first a small dose, then as her mother continued to hold out the tumbler, a larger, until finally she had filled the glass.

There, Mama. That's all for now. You know Dr. Simson would not approve of your dosing yourself too much. She turned to the silent trio watching them. Maybe I can help you, Mr. Scott. Come into the office.

She went to a door opposite the bed, beside the fireplace. The others followed, flinching away from the heat blasting out at them as they neared the hearth.

The room they entered was a sharp contrast to the stuffy room behind them. It faced north, and on the front and side walls long windows, curtained in shabby brocade, let in weak sunlight. Shelves built to Aunt Mathilde's specifications covered every wall, and even extended over the door which opened into the hall. Only the portal they had come through was bare of shelves, seeming like a panel beside the fireplace, except for a small knob at the level of the wainscoting. A large desk-table with a comfortable, thread-bare chair, was positioned at a catty-corner angle between the two windows. A second chair stood before the desk. Piles of papers, some held down with paperweights, others tied with string, still others loosely stacked together, covered most of the long shelves. There were a few books, mostly marble-backed romances, but also some school-books; a leather-bound set of volumes by Shakespeare, with broken and bent backs, stood alone, looking (to Harry's discerning eye) like the last loiterers at the end of a rowdy party.

Lucinda stepped straight to a box on a shelf near the door to the entry hall. She took it down, blew on it, made a grimace as dust flew up, and carried it to the table. She opened it, revealing a pile of folded documents, mostly tied with faded, crackling ribands.

Lucinda lifted them out, one by one, glancing at spidery writing on each, till she came to one near the bottom. This is it, I think, she muttered, more to herself than to her auditors. She opened the fragile old paper and ran her eyes down the page, then held it out to Mr. Scott. This is mine. My dowry, in fact, she stated. Do I understand you wish to purchase it?

Sarafina gasped a little, shocked by such an unladylike attitude. Lucinda, she burst out, Mr. Cooke can deal with that. What do we women know of such things? Mr. Scott can see our solicitor, I'm sure. He will know what to do.

Well, Sarafina, it is after all my land, the only dowry I have and I have a vital interest in it. Papa gave it to me, just a little before he . . . died . . . She said this last in a muffled tone, then gulped, and straightening her shoulders went on, And he told me it was in my name. My 'ace in the hole,' he called it. She smiled wistfully.

Sarafina made a pretty little moue, which she had practiced before the mirror. "Such cant expressions. I can not believe Papa said such a thing to you. And I'm very sure he never gave me any land."

No, returned her sister, he knew you would eventually get this house and the Funds which pay Mama's jointure. He knew you had some jewels, too – the sapphire and diamond set you got as a Coming-Out present.

Sarafina was truly scandalized at this blatant discussion of their financial situation in front of total strangers. At the same time she was a little pleased that the handsome Mr. Scott should be informed that she had a dowry of sorts, and some expectations. She stole a glance at that gentleman to see what his reaction to her sister's unmaidenly disclosures might be.

Mr. Scott himself was more than a little shocked and taken aback at Lucinda's remarks. He felt business was not women's province, and the less they knew about it the better. Besides, he had hoped to get the land for a bargain price, but this knowledgeable miss might hold out for more than he wanted to pay. In fact, he had a shrewd suspicion that she knew exactly what it was worth, to the last farthing.

Is this Mr. Cooke here, or in London? he inquired.

"Mr. Cooke is in London, but you will waste a trip to see him. I shall instruct him