Goblin Moon (20 page)

“I ought to have been here,” Sera repeated, as she
followed the Duchess into Mistress Vorder’s sitting room.

There they found Elsie, still looking pale and
shaken, half reclining on a rose-colored sofa, with her hand
clasped tightly in the hand of Jarl Skogsrå, who sat on a little
gilded stool drawn up at her feet. Cousin Clothilde sat in a chair
by a window over-looking the street, fortifying herself with sherry
and sugar cakes. From the level of the wine in the decanter, it
appeared she had been strengthening herself in the same manner for
quite some time—or else the Vorders had entertained a great many
morning callers.

“You have nothing to fear,” Skogsrå was saying in
honeyed tones, just as Sera entered. “Never anything to fear, my
heart’s dearest, so long as I am with you.”

Sera scowled at the Jarl. “I thought you had been
called in to treat Elsie’s disorder—not to trouble her with
sentimental nonsense.” She bent to kiss Elsie on the forehead.

“But he
has
treated my
disorder,” said Elsie. “Oh, Sera, I was absolutely terrified, I
thought I should die of terror! But as soon as Haakon—that is the
Jarl—came to me and spoke a few words, I knew just how foolish I
had been and that I had nothing to fear. Now or ever,” she
finished, with a tender glance at Skogsrå.

“And we are very grateful, my dear sir,” put in
Elsie’s mother. “It was exceedingly kind in you to abandon your own
amusements—on the eve of the holiday, too!—and come here to tend my
poor ailing child.”

Sera sat down at the foot of the sofa, took Elsie’s
other hand, and stroked it comfortingly. “These attacks of panic,
they are a new symptom,” she told Skogsrå. “Elsie was not prone to
these unreasoning fits of terror before you began dosing and
magnetizing her. I suspect it is something in the medicine you give
her, or an unexpected effect of the magnetic treatments.”

“My dear Miss Vorder,” said the Duchess, “I fear that
the blame is entirely mine—though indeed, I meant all for the best.
Elsie’s visits to Dr. Mirabolo were so upsetting to her, I believe
that her nerves were seriously weakened, and these attacks are the
unfortunate result.”

“You do yourself an injustice,” said Skogsrå, with a
smile that was more a baring of his teeth. “ The explanation is
simple: our poor Elsie’s body is undergoing a—how should I say
it?—a kind of revolution, as the disease is conquered and expelled
through the pores of her skin. At the present time, her blood is
full of violent humours which bring on visions and palpitations—a
temporary effect and easily treated, as we have seen. And not too
high a price to pay (I think you must agree) for the total
restoration of this poor child’s health.”

“It is true,” said Elsie. “Except for these attacks,
I am so much improved I can scarcely believe it. Come, Sera, you
know it is so. I am never dizzy now, my appetite has improved, the
numbness and the tingling in my hands and my feet no longer plague
me . . .”

“None of which were symptoms of the original
disease—whatever that may have been—but effects of the medicine you
were taking before. I was and am convinced of that—and no, Cousin
Clothilde, I will not be silenced.” Sera continued on bravely
despite Mistress Vorder’s intimidating glare. “What we have now is
merely a case of a new medicine and a new set of symptoms, and
where is the benefit in that?”

“Always so skeptical,” said the Jarl, with another
toothy smile. “Always so much wiser than any of the rest of us, so
unwilling to entertain any opinions but her own!”

“My dear Jarl—my dear Miss Vorder—you must not
quarrel,” said the Duchess, with a warning glance at Skogsrå and a
melting smile for Sera. “As you are both motivated by nothing less
than a deep concern for Elsie’s welfare, surely you can cry peace
between you, and each continue to do for Elsie what he or she
thinks best.”

“That scarcely seems possible . . . so opposed as we
are in our viewpoints,” said the Jarl, continuing to smile that
same fixed smile.

Sera said nothing, only sat there clasping Elsie’s
damp little hand in both of hers, scowling at Skogsrå more fiercely
than before. The Duchess released an exasperated sigh.

“I wonder, Miss Vorder, if you would care for a
stroll through the gardens below. The weather is delightful. And I
have something particular I should like to discuss with you, though
I doubt I would ever find the courage to say a single word, while
you and the Jarl continue to gaze at one another so
ferociously.”

“Yes, do go with her, Sera,” Elsie urged. “I don’t
need you now. And you look so . . . overheated . . . I believe that
a walk in the garden would do you good.”

“My dear Miss Vorder,” began the Duchess, when the
two of them had donned their hats and descended to the garden. “I
know that you want only what is best for Elsie—as indeed, we all
do—but have you considered: these arguments over her course of
treatment can only do dear Elsie harm.”

But Sera was not ready to retract her hasty words. “I
have thought, and I do think—and indeed, I try very hard to avoid
any appearance of a quarrel when Elsie is present. If you only knew
how often I have longed to speak—how many, many times—and yet kept
silent for Elsie’s sake! But when I balance the harm I may do by
speaking out, against that I may countenance by remaining silent .
. . I take leave to tell you, Gracious Lady, that I do not know
where Elsie’s best interest truly lies.”

The Duchess stopped by a rose bush and bent to inhale
the perfume of a pale blossom with a golden heart. She looked very
small, very frail this afternoon, her gown of pale blue satin
enhancing her porcelain fairness, the fragility of her hands and
wrists. It amazed Sera that a woman so delicate in appearance as
the Duchess should always enjoy such excellent health.

“It is difficult for any of us to be certain what is
best,” said the Duchess, “so long as Elsie’s symptoms continue to
be so varied and mysterious. But we are quite alone now, Miss
Vorder, and I beg you to be frank. I have some influence over
Clothilde Vorder, as you must be aware, and if you will tell me all
that concerns you—who knows?—you may find in me an ally where you
least expect one.”

Sera experienced a sharp pang of guilt. While she
always thought of this woman as chief among Elsie’s tormenters, she
was also convinced that the Duchess (unlike Cousin Clothilde) was
motivated neither by vanity nor self-interest, but by a sincere—if
somewhat misguided—desire to do good in the world. Yet so
accustomed was she to the stubborn opposition of Mistress Vorder
and the obstinate greed of the physicians Clothilde generally
employed, that it had never occurred to her until this moment that
the Duchess might actually be someone with whom she could
reason.

Sera took a deep breath. “Very well, then, I will
tell you what I think. Three times has Elsie suffered these attacks
of panic, and on none of those occasions was I near. Had I been
there, I believe I could have soothed her as effectively as Jarl
Skogsrå. I have been looking after Elsie for many years now, and I
have more influence over her than anyone—yet in every instance
Cousin Clothilde sent immediately for the Jarl, and did not even
bother to inform me that Elsie was ailing.”

The Duchess nodded her head. “Yes, that was rude of
Clothilde and inconsiderate as well. Naturally, you would want to
be with Elsie at a time like that. But aside from the snub to
yourself, I do not understand why this should particularly disturb
you.”

Sera picked a yellow rose, began to tear it apart,
petal by petal. “We know that Jarl Skogsrå wishes to marry
Elsie—whether because of her fortune (which is considerable), or
because he has formed a sincere attachment, I do not pretend to
say—and we know that Elsie’s mother encourages his suit. I fear
that Cousin Clothilde and the Jarl between them are using these
fits of Elsie’s, and his ability to bring her out of them, in order
to make him indispensable to her.

The Duchess appeared to think this over, then she
nodded her head. “It might be so. Indeed, Miss Vorder, you have all
but convinced me. And yet . . . and yet would this be so
very
bad a thing? Elsie must marry someone, she must
marry sometime, and I believe the Jarl to be genuinely attached to
her. He would make her an excellent husband, for he is a man of
culture and refinement, and harbors a tender concern for Elsie’s
well-being. If he has allowed his ardor to get the better of him,
and is unconsciously making use of the present circumstances in
order to encourage Elsie’s already decided preference for his
company—can we find it in our hearts to deplore his behavior?”

Sera picked another rose, a red one this time. The
Duchess moved down the garden path, and Sera followed obediently
after her, leaving a trail of scarlet rose petals behind her. Never
before had she and the Duchess spoken at such great length, never
before had Sera been so long exposed to her celebrated charm. There
really was something oddly appealing about the Duchess (Sera
decided), something . . . something that made one eager to win her
approval if it could possibly be done. “Or is it—I beg you will
pardon me for also being frank, Miss Vorder—have you considered the
possibility that what you are feeling in regard to the Jarl might
be jealousy. It is not uncommon for girls of your age to grow
resentful when their closest friends first begin to think of love
and marriage.”

Sera wanted to convince the Duchess, she wanted that
very much—but how could she, when she doubted her own motives? “I
do love Elsie, most tenderly, and she loves me; our friendship has,
until now, been an exclusive one. Perhaps I am a little jealous
that she is beginning to care for the Jarl, but that is not—I am
certain that is not the only reason that I distrust him.”

“Well, well,” said the Duchess, “let us leave that
subject for the time-being and address another.” As they started
across a sunny stretch of velvety green lawn, the Duchess opened
her parasol. It was an exceedingly pretty affair, as ruffled and
be-ribboned as her gown. “You tell me,” the Duchess said, “that
Elsie only suffers these unfortunate attacks when you are not
present.”

“I do,” said Sera. “And so I cannot help but suspect
that the Jarl is doing . . . something . . . to induce Elsie’s
fits.

The Duchess stopped in her tracks, quite plainly
aghast. “But this is too fantastic,” she said. “Indeed, how could
he do such a thing?—for if
you
were not
present when the attacks began, than neither was
he
. I beg you to consider this: except when you
leave home on these visits to your grandfather, you and Elsie are
virtually inseparable. Only when you are out of the house, or when
she is lying drugged with sleeping potions in her bed at night, is
Elsie ever truly alone.

“But she was up in her bedchamber dressing to go out,
had just sent her maid off on some trifling errand, when this
recent attack overcame her. And I think that you would find, if you
cared to inquire, that she was also alone on each of the previous
occasions. It may be,” said the Duchess, as they continued to
stroll, “that Elsie is more vulnerable at these times, and that the
reassuring presence of a friend or kinswoman—even one of the
servants—might enable your cousin to fight off her panic, and
regain her mental balance before the fit gains a hold on her.

“If this is true, the solution is obvious,” concluded
the Duchess. “We have only to make certain that Elsie is never
alone, that she is attended at all times. A simple solution, I
think you will agree, and one that ought to appeal to your
practical nature.”

Sera felt a surge of gratitude. The solution did
appeal to her; it struck her as both neat and sensible. And why
(she wondered) had she never before noticed this striking
resemblance between the Duchess and the little owl-eyed apothecary,
Mistress Sancreedi? The same diminutive figure (though the Duchess
was perhaps the taller), the same elegant bone structure, the same
gentle, caressing manner. And what was it Mistress Sancreedi had
said about the Duchess? Why, merely that Marella Carleon was
universally regarded as a great philanthropist.

“You are very kind, and—I think—very wise,” said
Sera. “It is possible that I have seriously misjudged you in the
past.”

“You need not apologize,” said the Duchess, with one
of her delightful silvery laughs. “You would not be the first to
have done so, I assure you. But do tell me—and I beg you will
continue to speak plainly—is it not possible that your doubts about
the benefits of the Jarl’s treatment are due more to the
revolutionary nature of the cure, than to any distrust of him or
me?”

“Say it is due to the mystical nature of the cure,
and you would describe my feelings almost exactly,” replied
Sera.

“I see,” said the Duchess, twirling her parasol. “But
of course you are a skeptic; I knew this already. The result of
your early upbringing, no doubt. But no”—she smiled one of her
enchanting smiles—“your parents named you Seramarias, which argues
a mystical bent on
somebody’s
part.”

Sera felt herself blushing. “I know very little about
either of my parents. I was raised by my grandfather, Gottfried
Jenk, and it was he who named me.”

The Duchess gave a tiny exclamation of surprise.
“Gottfried Jenk! Jenk the Alchemist!” She clapped her tiny hands
together as though she had just been presented with a delightful
gift. “But I had no idea, no idea at all, that this was the
grandfather you go so often to visit.”

“You know my grandfather?” Sera was puzzled by the
Duchess’s sudden enthusiasm.

“Say rather that we were acquainted . . . oh, a long
time ago. It must have been fifty years,” said the Duchess.