Goblin Moon

by Teresa Edgerton

  "She is just as I have always pictured her . . . so noble and so wise," said Sera, around a sudden constriction in her throat. "I never—I never was acquainted with any of my nearer female relations, but when I was very small and my grandfather took me to the Church of All Seasons, I used to believe that her image on the altar always looked at me with—with a special sort of tenderness."

  "As perhaps she did," said Skelbrooke kindly. "Why should she not? I should imagine that you were the most enchanting child."

  Sera shook her head, wishing, too late, that she had not revealed her childish fancy. "I was an ugly little black-haired imp, and never could sit still to listen to the sermons."

  Skelbrooke smiled his disconcertingly beautiful smile. "I am certain I should have thought differently, had I been privileged to know you in those days. But I direct your attention to the next grouping. The lion and the Iamb are especially fine, do you not think?"

  Sera nodded. Yes, there was Thaw, a blustery, robust old man of gigantic stature, and with him his two companion beasts, signifying his two natures: rough and boisterous, and gentle and mild. And beyond him: the androgynous shape-changer, Showers; the spry jokester, Leaves; and the maidenly Flowers, with her fresh complexion and a garland of orange-blossoms in her hair.

  Sera and Lord Skelbrooke viewed each of the other statues in turn: buxom Ripening, with her long auburn hair and her apple cheeks, her crown of golden bees; Gathering, whom the artist had depicted as a small, active, wrinkled little man, dressed in nut-brown; his frail sister, Fading, with her pale blonde hair, her fluttering gown in the colors of dying leaves, and her companion crows and blackbirds. The last figure was Frost: a bent old man with an iron-colored beard extending nearly to his knees, and a long robe of black and grey homespun. A silver wolf, amazingly lifelike, crouched at his feet. The artist, thought Sera, had portrayed exactly the stern eyes and firm jaw of the old man, but also his underlying honesty and integrity.

  "Lord Skelbrooke, I am obliged to you," she said, blinking back tears. "I beg your pardon. I am not usually so . . . so sentimental . "

  "Your emotion does you honor, for I am convinced that it springs from a natural piety, a lovely attribute in any woman," he replied. "And the statues are so beautifully done. I must confess that I, too, am moved—though I am not, in general, a deeply religious man."

  They turned away from the dais and went on to another grouping of wax figures, and then another. The rest of the collection came as something of a disappointment after the beauty and significance of the Nine Seasons. As they moved on, Skelbrooke placed his hand over Sera's again, a gesture not out of keeping with the moment and the emotions they had just shared.

  Rather than look him in the face, Sera stared at that hand. It was undoubtedly the hand of a gentleman, being fair-skinned and well tended, and yet it was so small, square, and capable-looking, it seemed out of keeping with what she knew—or thought that she knew—of his character.

  "My lord," said Sera, when she could trust herself to speak again, "I believe we were speaking of Elsie's magnetic treatments, and these trances which Jarl Skogsrå induces, calculated (he assures us) to free my cousin from all that ails her."

  "Ah, yes." Skelbrooke knit his brows together. Like his eyelashes, they were surprisingly dark against the fairness of his skin, and they were particularly well shaped. "About the so-called magnetic treatments, I must confess that I continue to be uneasy. I believe there is more of—how should I say it?—a kind of compulsion in the Jarl's treatments than of animal magnetism. Of that I may say more later. But for the present I will content myself with this: I am convinced that there is something decidedly unwholesome in the medicine he is giving her."

  Though there was no one but Sera and the silent statues gallery to hear him, Lord Skelbrooke lowered his voice "I perhaps ought to tell you . . . though I abandoned the serious of medicine, I have not lost interest in the art, and have made the acquaintance of many fine physicians. In particular, I know a lady—an apothecary by trade—who is a woman of great learning. Were you to obtain for me a small quantity of Elsie's medication, I would take that sample to my friend and ask her to tell me what the potion contains. By scent, by taste, by color—by a thousand other indications which you and I would not be aware of—this lady would be able to tell us exactly what herbs or other substances go into Elsie's medicine. And how we might counteract their effect."

  Sera hesitated before replying, uncertain whether or not to accept this surprising gentleman as an ally. She realized that she really knew very little about him, and that most of that had be founded on a false impression. And yet, he spoke with so much feeling and with such good sense!

  "I will do it," she decided. "Yes, I will, for it can do no harm and much good may come of it."

  But even as she spoke, she felt a sharp pang of guilt, a sense that she betrayed her newly minted friendship with the little Duchess. And for that reason she felt constrained to ask: "But do you not feel as though you were committing some . . . slight disloyalty to the Duchess? It is she who recommended Jarl Skogsrå's services, you know, and she has done everything in her power to throw the Jarl and Elsie together. Considering your intimacy with the Gracious Lady, I should think you would feel obliged to do everything in your power to—to promote her interests."

  Now it was Skelbrooke's turn to look flustered. The color it his cheeks darkened; and he had difficulty meeting Sera's eyes "Whatever my relationship with the Duchess, a man must follow the dictates of his own conscience. Moreover, you seem to be under some misapprehension. I have spent many enjoyable hours in Marella's company, but I am not in love with her—nor I should hasten to add, is she in love with me!

  "No doubt you will think me rather cynical," he continued, releasing her hand and making a great show of shaking out the deep silver lace at his wrists, "when I tell you that our friendship is of a practical rather than a sentimental nature. As an aspiring poet, I gain by association with a woman of her consequence, and she—Well, by sponsoring me, the Duchess also adds lustre to her own position as patroness of artists and philosophers."

  They had returned to the door by which they had entered the gallery, but Skelbrooke paused at the threshold. His eyes were dark with emotion, and it was evident that he was undergoing some internal struggle. "But all of this quite aside, it would be impossible for me to fall in love with Marella because—because my entire devotion has already been bestowed elsewhere."

  The gallery had suddenly become unbearably warm. Sera shook out her fan and plied it vigorously. "I suppose—I must suppose you are speaking of your poetic muse. The Goddess of Hermeticism, or whoever it is to whom you address your verses."

  "I do not speak of my muse," said Skelbrooke. Having arranged his laces, he was now staring down at his shoes. It seemed that he, too, found something to disturb him in the appearance of those pastel satin bows. "Far from being the product of any high-flown fancy, the lady of my affections is indisputably real."

  Sera fanned herself even more vigorously, "And does this lady, the object of your devotion, is she aware that you . . . love her? And if she does, can she possibly approve of your liaison with the Duchess?"

  "I have not dared to address her," said Skelbrooke, the troubled frown deepening between those expressive eyes of his. "As long as the exigencies of my present situation require me to continue my association with the Duchess, I am not worthy to approach her."

  "I should think—" Sera began, then thought better of what she would say, shook her head, and grew silent.

  Lord Skelbrooke looked up at her. "You were about to say?"

  "It is no concern of mine," Sera replied. "I have said too much already. I wonder that you have endured my impertinence so long as you have."

  "But I very much wish to hear what you would say, Miss Vorder. I beg you, do not think to spare my feelings."

  Sera took a deep breath. "Since you would have it so, I was about to say that I wondered about the strength of your affection. For
if you really loved . . . this lady . . . I believe you would be willing to put all considerations of poetry aside and put an end to whatever relationship you have with the Duchess."

  With a visible effort, his lordship mastered himself. "Ah, but you see, my situation is very much more complicated than you may suppose, and there is far more at stake than poetry. Were that not so, I would certainly do as you advise: end my association with the Duchess and lay my heart at my lady's feet.

  "In truth," he added, with a wry attempt at gaiety, "there is no reason to suppose that the lady in question would see fit to accept my offer of heart and hand. Nevertheless, I do assure that no uncertainty on my part would prevent me from making the offer."

  Sera tried to match his light, bantering tone. "You were not in love, then, with the lady you speak of when you entered into your present . . . complicated situation?" Yet she was afraid that she had betrayed too much, when Skelbrooke instantly grew sober.

  "No," he said quietly. "I was not. When I came into Marstadtt, I had no idea of falling in love. Indeed, it was the one thing of all things that I would have prevented had it been in my power.

  CHAPTER 20

  In which the Duchess lays her Plans.

  Count Xebo's ball was the talk of Thornburg for many days: how agreeable the music (said those who had attended)—how bountiful the food—how elegant the gowns of all the ladies, and witty the discourse of all the gentlemen! The Count's wax statues were pronounced perfectly exquisite, the Count and his Countess the perfect host and hostess. The ball was an unqualified success said practically everyone, and everyone else agreed.

  Yet there were those few—whatever they might have said—who failed to view the event in quite such an amiable light. Sera Vorder was among those few; and (rather more surprisingly) so was the Duchess of Zar-Wildungen.

  Two days after the ball, the Duchess sat at her dressing table in her gilded boudoir, reviewing the event in her mind's eye. It was evident, from her stormy aspect, that the lady did not find the exercise an entertaining one.

  She lifted a filigree hand mirror, frowned at her own charming reflection. She picked up a haresfoot, rubbed on a dab of rouge, and carefully applied it to her cheeks. Then she examined the effect in the mirror. "Bring me my patch box," she told her obsequious little maid.

  Just then, her butler stalked into the room and announced Jarl Skogsrå. "Deny me," said the Duchess, with an impatient gesture. "My head aches and I feel so dreadfully cross—" But then, as the dignified dwarf turned to carry out her instructions, she reconsidered. "After all," she said, with a sigh, "you had better admit him."

  The Jarl appeared a few minutes later, in a coat of scarlet broadcloth, with a riding whip tucked under his arm. "I had intended to ask you to join me for a ride through Solingen Park," he said, bowing low over her hand. "But it appears that the Gracious Lady has already made other plans."

  Though the Duchess still wore her dressing gown, her costume for the day lay spread out upon the bed: the heliotrope satin walking dress and the hat with the ostrich plumes.

  "Indeed I have made plans," she said, withdrawing her hand before he had quite finished kissing it. "I have so many demands on my time, so very many obligations, that I can ill afford to linger here of an afternoon, waiting for you to call, or for Lord Skelbrooke to offer to gallant me."

  From which the Jarl immediately gathered that the Duchess's cavalier had again left town without asking leave.

  Skogsrå twirled his riding crop, idly wondering whether Skelbrooke was visiting another rich patroness—in Mittleheim or Ingeldorf, perhaps—or had he a taste for buxom country girls, instead? "I cannot, of course, account for Lord Skelbrooke, but as for myself, I am entirely yours to command. Surely you are aware of this."

  The Duchess discarded her dressing gown, stood up in her corset and her ruffled petticoats. She lifted a lacy hem to examine her feet, which were very prettily shod in lavender kid with diamond buckles. The effect was a pleasing one, but it did not improve her temper. "Yes, yes, you are very good. You do everything that I tell you to," she said impatiently. "At least . . . you do so to the best of your somewhat limited ability."

  The maid gathered up the voluminous skirts of the heliotrope gown and slipped it over the Duchess's head. The lady reappeared looking flushed and irritated. She gave the satin skirt a tug, settled it into place, and the girl arranged the pleats and folds so that the gown draped to the best advantage.

  "You seem to imply some failure on my part," said the Jarl. "I wish you would tell me how I have failed to please you."

  The Duchess pulled up the tight-fitting bodice, slid her am into the sleeves. "Your wooing of Elsie has been somewhat desultory," she said, as the maid circled around to hook her into the dress. "At fine ardent lover you are, to be sure! Not even the sense to press the advantage you gained at Count Xebo's ball—or do I wrong you? Have you waited these two days to tell me that my godchild has accepted you, that Elsie has finally consented to be your wife?"

  "Alas, no," said the Jarl, with a stiff little bow. "That honor has yet to be mine."

  "Dear me," said the Duchess. The maid brought her a pair of long lavender gloves. "I hope you do not mean to tell me that you were such a fool as to allow the opportunity to slip?" She donned first one glove and then the other. "You did ask Elsie to marry you?"

  The Jarl tapped his riding crop against his high leather boots. "Ask her to marry me? I begged her to be mine, I entreated her. Believe me, I was the most ardent of lovers! She only smiled sadly and asked for more time to think the matter over. For my part, I believe she is much inclined to accept me, but that she is so very young and fears to make the wrong decision."

  The Duchess shook her head. "I had no idea the girl was like to prove so prudent. But I suppose it is just a case of our Miss Sera putting ideas into her head. Either that, my dear Jarl, or you have bungled things entirely." She picked up a diamond bracelet, handed it to Skogsrå, and gracefully extended her arm. "Oblige me by fastening the clasp."

  The Jarl had smiled at the mention of Sera's name, showing his gleaming white teeth. "Miss Sera Vorder is a young woman of such forceful character, such incomparable spirit, I sometimes wonder why we bother with the other one at all. If you would permit me to—"

  "You could not do it, " said the Duchess. "No, positively you could not—even if I were inclined to permit it—for you aroused her dislike and her suspicion from the very beginning. That pleasure you are thinking of, if it is to be enjoyed by anyone, must be reserved for another: It will never be yours." She tied on her plumed bonnet, picked up her fan and her reticule, then turned back to the Jarl. "I have a call to make, of particular interest. You may accompany me, if you like—providing you will not think the pace too slow, and that great horse of yours does not frighten my sheep."

  "It will be my pleasure," said Skogsrå. "But the Gracious Lady has yet to inform me where she is going."

  "I am going to the Hospital of the Celestial Names, to view a demonstration of natural laws," said the Duchess, moving toward the door. "Dear me, you seem rather flustered. Have you never visited a hospital before? Then by all means, you ought to accompany me. You are something of a physician yourself, are you not? So I hardly think that anything you see there will shock or dismay you.

  "Or do you," she asked, with a sly smile, "do you fear to find your surroundings a little too . . . attractive?"

  The Jarl offered her his arm. "You are pleased to jest with me," he said coldly. "But naturally my greatest concern is for you. A charity hospital hardly seems the proper setting for a great lady like the Duchess of Zar-Wildungen."

  "You are entirely mistaken," said the Duchess, equally cool. "A great lady like the Duchess of Zar-Wildungen can go where she pleases and do as she likes; it is the advantage of age and rank. "

  They left her rooms and descended the curving marble staircase to the floor below. "Perhaps you are not acquainted with my young friend, Mr. Theophilus von Eichstatt? But of course you
must know him—he is so often here," said the Duchess.

  "Von Eichstatt?" The Jarl took a moment to consider. "But yes, the ugly young man with the awkward manners. I have often wondered why he was such a favorite."

  The Duchess glared at him. "Yes, he is terribly plain, and his manners lack polish, but he has been studying medicine for two years and already promises to become a brilliant physician—as well as an experimental scientist of some note. He is not, however, a young man of independent means, and so he is obliged to seek my financial assistance. It is as his patron that I attend the demonstration today. I believe that you will find it fascinating, for it involves the circulation of the blood and the action of the heart." The Jarl raised a delicate eyebrow, but he did not otherwise reply.

  In the lower hall, they met one of the Duchess's footmen leading the miniature ape on a leash. Skogsrå could not conceal his disgust as the Duchess took the little creature into her arms and the ape clasped its hairy blue arms around her dainty neck. "I suppose it is necessary for the monkey to accompany us?"

  "It pleases me to bring him," said the Duchess. The footman had opened the door, so she sailed on through. She paused at the top of the steps and looked back at Skogsrå. "Why should I not bring him. He is very well behaved and undoubtedly a novelty. And he not a monkey, you know. He is an indigo ape, very rare—oh yes, I assure you, very rare indeed."

  "The creature has a lugubrious look and I have never seen it but when it was lethargic," insisted the Jarl, as he followed her down the front steps to her carriage, then watched her hand the ape up to her gnome coachman. "I am convinced this animal is diseased."

  The Duchess allowed the Jarl to assist her in mounting the scallop-shell carriage. "Nonsense," she said, settling herself comfortably on the plush cushions. "Sebastian cherishes a secret sorrow—and that, as you know, is inclined to depress the spirits—but otherwise, he enjoys the very best of health."