Goblin Moon (24 page)

“I imagine nothing of the sort,” said Skelbrooke. “If
that were so, you would have told me as much at the very beginning,
and not made any pretense about it.”

As he spoke, they finally reached their destination;
they passed through an open set of doors, into the high-ceilinged
gallery where the Count displayed his collection of wax
statues.

The figures nearest the door were those which first
established the Count’s reputation as a collector of wax. Their
fame extended far beyond the borders of Marstadtt, and indeed, they
drew scores of art lovers and critics from throughout the
principality of Waldermark to view them each year. Sera, however,
had never been privileged to observe the collection before.

“But these are exquisite, incredible,” she exclaimed,
pausing before a group of statues in antique costume arranged in a
tableau of dramatic power, depicting the last Emperor of Panterra
and his court. “How realistic they are—how charmingly lifelike the
color!”

“I had thought you might appreciate them,” replied
Skelbrooke, with evident satisfaction. After a few minutes, he led
her on to the next group.

The next were even better; Sera looked, exclaimed,
and expressed her obligation to Lord Skelbrooke.

“Miss Vorder,” he said, leaning so close that now she
could feel his breath warm on her cheek, “I have a confession to
make. I did not bring you here merely to view the statues—nor to
pass on a message from Jedidiah Braun.”

Sera was suddenly acutely aware that the two of them
were alone in the gallery. This late in the evening it was unlikely
that the collection would draw more viewers. Had she allowed his
soft manners and his gentle speech to mislead her?

She forced herself to look him directly in the face.
His grey eyes were fringed with dark lashes; undoubtedly it was to
accent those fine eyes that he always wore the little black satin
star high on his cheek; just as a second patch which he wore this
evening, a tiny crimson heart, emphasized the beautiful shape of
his mouth. Yet for all his fashionable affectations, he did not
strike her as a dissolute young man.

“You did not, Lord Skelbrooke?” she asked frostily.
“Then why
did
you bring me here?”

“I asked to speak to you alone, primarily on your
cousin’s behalf,” he said, and smiled at Sera’s audible sigh of
relief.

“You may remember that I was one of the party when
you called on Dr. Mirabolo. Moreover, I have been back to his
establishment since—and I was also a witness, a week or two past
when Jarl Skogsrå magnetized Miss Elsie. What I saw then, and what
I have seen this evening, convinces me that Dr. Mirabolo is a
quack, and Skogsrå a rascal and an adventurer!”

For a moment, Sera was speechless, flabbergasted by
such plain speaking. Indeed, she hardly knew what to think, much
less how to reply.

“Lord Skelbrooke . . .” she said at last. “The Jarl
is an intimate friend of the Duchess. I suppose that you are trying
to tell me that Skogsrå is imposing on her?”

“It is possible,” said Skelbrooke. “A woman of the
Duchess’s wealth and rank is apt to be imposed on from time to
time.”

They continued to stroll through the gallery, pausing
to view each group of statues before they passed on. When
Skelbrooke leaned close to speak to her, Sera’s heart gave another
treacherous bound. She wondered, as she had often wondered before,
what there was about this dapper little man that invariably rattled
her composure.

“You might not think it to look at me, Miss Vorder,”
his lordship was saying, “but when I attended the University of
Lundy, I had some ambition to become a doctor.”

Sera opened her eyes wide in surprise. She tried to
imagine Skelbrooke, his poetic affectations put aside, in the role
of a physician. The exercise was not so difficult as she had
supposed. “But what caused you, Lord Skelbrooke, to set that
ambition aside? No, there is no need for you to say, for the answer
to that question is obvious. You considered the occupation of poet
more worthy of a man of your rank and position.”

As she lowered her eyes, her gaze chanced to fall
again on those ridiculous satin bows. The sight of them served to
steady her, allowing her to collect herself and return his gaze
with a tolerable imitation of well-bred disinterest.

“On the contrary,” said Skelbrooke. “At that time, my
uncle was still alive and I had little expectation of becoming
Baron Skelbrooke or succeeding to the family estate. It was a sense
of my own inadequacy that caused me to abandon my hopes. I had a
burning interest in the science of medicine, but not the aptitude
necessary to become a good physician.”

He smiled, a small disparaging smile at his own
expense. “You may not approve of my poetry, Miss Vorder—any more
than (as I perceive) you approve of my footwear—but even you must
concede that I had better by far have inflicted myself upon Society
as a bad poet than as an incompetent physician.”

“But I think you would have made a very good
physician,” Sera protested. Then she blushed at her own vehemence.
“That is to say, you have a gentle manner which I should imagine
that sick people would find soothing, and I believe you would be
sensitive to the needs of your patients.”

He placed his hand on his heart and bowed his head,
as one overcome by a deep emotion. She had the impression that
perhaps he was laughing at her—or at himself. “You overwhelm me,
Miss Vorder. I had no idea you thought so well of me as that. As I
have the greatest respect for your sagacity, I rise in my own
estimation. I am vastly obliged to you!”

Sera sniffed loudly at this piece of
play-acting—which did a great deal to restore her equanimity—and
Lord Skelbrooke immediately grew sober. “But as I was about to say
. . . having observed Miss Elsie’s recent discomfiture. I feel I
ought to tell you that this kind of attack could have been brought
about by no disease of the blood that I know of—nor would any
medication used by a
reputable
physician
affect her in that way.”

“The Duchess believes that Elsie’s fits are brought
on by a weakening of the nerves,” said Sera. “Though to be sure,
she also said that we might prevent these attacks by making certain
that Elsie is never alone.” For just a moment, she wondered if the
Duchess had made that suggestion only to gain her confidence—then
she dismissed the suspicion as unworthy.

“Miss Vorder,” said Skelbrooke, “considering all that
Elsie has endured at the hands of her physicians, the morbid
fancies which her mother encourages, and the fact that your cousin
has not yet been reduced to a permanent state of raving insanity .
. . I am convinced that Miss Elsie’s nerves must be nearly as
strong as your own!”

“Yes,” said Sera. She was amazed to hear her own
opinions echoed so precisely. “I have often felt that Elsie must be
far stronger in all ways than anyone supposes, or how could she
endure even a small part of all she has suffered?”

They arrived before the statues of the Nine Seasons
or Powers, which were arranged in a semicircle on a low dais.
Neither Skelbrooke nor Sera could speak for a moment, standing side
by side in rapt contemplation of the beauty of the figures.

On the far left stood Mother Snow, a regal but
somehow gentle-looking old dame in a gown of white feathers and a
light blue cloak fastened with a crystal brooch. A snowy owl
perched on her shoulder and she carried an iron staff in one hand.
Her other hand she extended in a benevolent gesture. It was easy
for Sera to imagine her gathering the whole world into one great
grandmotherly embrace.

“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.”