Goblin Moon (4 page)

“Such a pity Count Xebo could not attend his own
funeral.” The speaker, a stout matron in an enormous powdered wig,
seated herself on a low cenotaph and lifted her gauzy black veil.
“He left town on some business, you know (his estates in Spagne are
sadly encumbered), and what was the poor Countess to do with the
invitations already sent, and all the arrangements made?”

“A great pity,” agreed her companion, a middle-aged
dandy in high leather boots like a cavalry officer. Except for the
boots there was nothing military about him. He wore his hair
unpowdered and neatly clubbed at the back, but the front hung loose
in dark golden lovelocks; his garments were laced, fringed, and
be-ribboned to a remarkable degree; and he carried a tiny black
fan. To many a susceptible maiden, he was a perfect figure of
romance.

He spoke, moreover, with a foreign accent and a
slight hesitation, which lent weight to his words, creating an
impression that everything he said, no matter how trivial or
commonplace, was the product of deep thought. “But we may comfort
ourselves with this thought: that at some future event, the Count
will be beyond concern for his estates, and shall certainly be
present.”

“Very true,” replied the lady, accepting a crystal
goblet filled with red wine from one of the servants. “’Tis
unlikely that a man of such venerable years will disappoint us a
second time.

“But do tell me, my dear Jarl: what do you think of
my daughter, Elsie?” she asked, nodding in the direction of a stand
of dark yews, where two young women—one of them slight, pale, and
golden-haired, the other a statuesque maiden with glossy dark brown
curls—were strolling arm in arm.

“Your daughter is exquisite,” Jarl Skogsrå replied
warmly. “And yet there is something—I do not know how to say it—a
quality of fragility, perhaps, that while it enhances . . .”

“My Elsie has never been in the best of health. She
suffers dreadfully from a number of mysterious complaints.” The
lady spoke complacently, as though she believed she gained
consequence by the possession of a sickly daughter. “However, we
may see an improvement very soon. The dear Duchess has recommended
a new man and a new course of treatment, and I am certain it will
do poor Elsie good.”

The Jarl murmured a few words expressive of sympathy,
and the fond mother, apparently satisfied, sipped her wine and
turned her attention to the delicacies offered her by a footman in
black and silver: quails’ eggs, boiled snails, cheese tarts,
pickled samphire, and other dainties, all tastefully arranged on a
bed of dandelion leaves.

“But I am curious about this other young woman I see
always in Miss Vorder’s company,” said the Jarl. “Her cousin, I
believe?”

The lady selected a pigeon pasty. “A distant relation
only. The orphaned daughter of a profligate kinsman; my husband
insisted on bringing her into our household as a companion for
Elsie. An obstinate, headstrong girl, but my daughter is so
passionately attached to her that it would be cruel to separate
them.” Mistress Vorder selected another pasty and swallowed it at a
gulp. “To do her justice, she takes great care of Elsie, and after
all, she is more convenient than some wretched gin-swilling nurse,
and entirely presentable besides.”

The Jarl heaved a soulful sigh; he took her hand (it
was a little greasy after the meat pies) and kissed it. “And this
toleration of an interloper in your home is but one of many
sacrifices, I believe, which you have made for the sake of the
precious ailing child.”

The lady turned pink, flattered by his air of
sympathetic respect. “I could not begin to list them all. You
little know what I have suffered on Elsie’s behalf. I believe we
have seen every doctor, apothecary, herbalist, and chirurgeon in
Thornburg, and the torments they have inflicted on my poor child
are truly heart-breaking—the bleedings—the vile medicines—the
horrid diets. I vow, I am a woman who has endured much.”

On the other side of the cemetery, in the shade of
the trees, the object of Mistress Vorder’s motherly concern
relinquished her companion’s arm and seated herself, with a weary
little sigh, in the long grass.

The dark-haired girl sank down beside her. “Shall I
send a servant for your powder?”

Elsie shook her head. “Please, Sera, no. I don’t feel
ill, only a little tired and breathless. Let us sit here in the
shade for a time, until I feel stronger.” She allowed Sera to
remove her hat for her, an elaborate affair decorated with black
velvet roses and a vast quantity of spotted black tulle, and set it
down on the grass.

“I was thinking . . .” Elsie added dreamily, as she
stripped off her black net mittens and dropped them into her lap,
“that when I die, I would like to be buried in an old graveyard
like this. So very peaceful, don’t you think? And the statues in
the new cemetery are so—so immense and ugly, they frighten me a
little.”

When her cousin spoke so, Sera found it difficult to
answer, difficult to speak around the painful constriction in her
throat. Yet she forced herself to reply briskly. “I don’t approve
of these morbid fancies; I wish you would not make these ‘death-bed
declarations.’ You are two years younger than I and shall most
likely live to bury
me
.”

Elsie smiled her sweet, fragile smile. “Your death is
something even I daren’t contemplate. You are so strong and so
stubborn, dear Sera, I almost believe you will live forever.”

The other girl’s dark-browed face softened. “Then
learn to be as strong and obstinate as I am, my darling, and spend
eternity with me. How could I bear the prospect in any company but
yours?”

Sera untied the black ribbons under her chin and
removed her own plain, flat-crowned straw, which she immediately
proceeded to use as a fan to cool both herself and Elsie. As
Elsie’s natural delicate coloring returned, Sera felt a cold wash
of relief.
I am the one growing morbid,
she scolded herself.
Elsie has only to sigh, or
turn pale, or say she is faint, and I am instantly convinced that
the awful moment has come, that her doctors have finally succeeded
in killing her. But I must not allow myself to think such
things—must not allow myself to dwell on them—or else I shall grow
so foolish and wicked there is no telling what I might do.

“I certainly don’t care for the company here,” she
said aloud. “Or for the occasion—so precisely calculated to
encourage sick fancies. I can’t imagine why Cousin Clothilde
insisted you attend.” She fingered the skirts of her black
bombazine gown. “And these ridiculous weeds, so warm and
uncomfortable on a day like this. Why should either of us wear deep
mourning for Count Xebo, who is no kin of ours, and rather more to
the point, is not even dead?”

“Mama insisted that I come because she knew Jarl
Skogsrå would be here,” said Elsie. “I believe she is match-making
again. I see you frown, and I don’t blame you. He was perfectly
charming to me, and I confess I liked him, but not when I saw how
rude he was to you—not even asking Mama for an introduction, when
we all rode in the same carriage together!”

Sera made an airy little gesture, dismissing the
Jarl’s discourtesy. “His rudeness to me is nothing; I am accustomed
to these slights. I don’t regard it, and neither should you. In
general,” she added thoughtfully, “I believe I prefer a man who is
at least honest in his in his imagined superiority, to the sly
insinuating sort who hints at all kinds of horrid familiarities and
supposes I must be flattered by his attentions simply because I am
poor.”

As she spoke, Sera chanced to encounter the glance of
a pasty-face youth in a preposterous wig, a certain Mr. Hakluyt,
who, on the occasion of a previous meeting, had whispered a vulgar
piece of impertinence in Sera’s ear and then slithered off before
she was able to reply. He was watching her now with what could only
be termed a speculative gaze. Sera returned his stare with a
scorching glance of her own and hoped that would be sufficient to
wither his pretensions.

Elsie remained innocently unaware of this little
exchange. It was plain that she was strongly attracted to Skogsrå,
but her loyalty to Sera was even stronger. “In general, you say . .
. yet it is easy to see you have conceived a violent dislike of the
Jarl. Well, I won’t like him, either—though he is so very handsome
and speaks with such a delightful accent—for you see people more
clearly than I do, and your judgement of character is better than
my own.”

Sera experienced a sharp pang of remorse, for she
knew she had a deplorable habit of conceiving strong prejudices,
sometimes on the strength of a word or a gesture. “No, no, you
mustn’t say so,” she protested. “Indeed, I know nothing against the
man. Any animosity I may feel toward Jarl Skogsrå is purely
personal and . . . rather puzzling, for I haven’t seen or heard
anything to make me doubt his intentions or his character.

“Perhaps I am only jealous because you were so
instantly and so strongly attracted,” Sera added softly, smoothing
her cousin’s disheveled golden curls with a gentle hand and a fond
smile. “I am so selfish that I am bound to resent any man who
appears to be a serious rival for your affection—but you must not
reject the Jarl on that account, indeed you must not.”

Elsie took her hand and squeezed it affectionately.
“Perhaps I will allow myself to like him a little bit, but that is
all. I could not love any man who didn’t value my Sera as much as I
do.”

The afternoon grew warmer. Sitting in the long,
sweet-smelling grass, the two girls began to feel drowsy. Sera
continued to wave her hat in a desultory manner. Elsie stifled a
yawn and looked around her for another topic of conversation.

Mistress Vorder still sat perched on a marble slab,
deep in conversation with the Jarl. The other picnickers were
scattered about the cemetery in pairs or small groups, seated on
the ground, or strutting among the gravestones, like a flock of
crows come to feed among the crumbling mausoleums and mournful
statues: Countess Xebo, Lord Vizbeck and his aging mother, two
barons and their baronesses, the pale Mr. Hakluyt with his
eternally roving eye, the Duchess of Zar-Wildungen, representatives
of a number of wealthy but untitled families—

“How odd,” said Elsie, with a mischievous sideways
glance at her companion. “I made certain he would be here. It’s
just precisely the sort of occasion to appeal to a gentleman of—of
a poetical sort, don’t you think?”

“I really couldn’t say,” replied Sera.

She felt her face suddenly grow warm and an
uncomfortable fluttering begin in the region of her heart. “That is
. . . I suppose you must be thinking of Lord Skelbrooke. But he is
such a will-o’-the-wisp, always appearing and disappearing when one
least expects him, it is virtually impossible to determine in
advance where and when one is likely to meet him.”

As evening approached, the servants began to pack up
the baskets and the hampers, and a long procession of sable-draped
carriages and sedan chairs lined up outside the cemetery gates.

“And so it is arranged,” said Jarl Skogsrå, as he
escorted Mistress Vorder to the carriage which had conveyed them
from Count Xebo’s town house earlier. “I shall call on you and your
so charming daughter tomorrow morning.”

“Indeed, I depend on you.” Mistress Vorder leaned
heavily on his arm, for she had eaten and drunk more than was good
for her, and the combination of too much sun and too much wine made
her head buzz unpleasantly. “I am delighted you have taken a fancy
to my Elsie, sir, for I believe you are just the sort of man who
can make her happy.

“But it is not my opinion alone—or her father’s—that
Elsie will consult in choosing to accept or reject you,” she added,
as the Jarl handed her up into the carriage. “You must exert
yourself to please elsewhere. I hope you are not too proud to do
so?”

The Jarl smiled a curiously feline smile. “I
understand you. It is for me to win the favor of Miss Sera as well,
to court her friendship as ardently as I woo the beautiful Elsie.
It is not beyond my power to win her, madam, I do assure you. I
have had some acquaintance with young women of her sort in the
past—poor but proud, yet not immune to the persuasions I know how
to exert.”

Mistress Vorder tittered obscenely. “Use what
blandishments you will to win over young Sera. But as for those
other young women . . . you will have to give them up, you know, if
you are going to marry my Elsie. I won’t permit you to break her
heart.”

“I am a passionate man, a man of single-minded
purpose,” said the Jarl, putting one hand on his heart, clicking
the heels of his high, military-style boots, and bowing deeply so
that the loose golden curls obscured his face. “And I take leave to
assure you that the woman I marry shall have no cause to complain
of any neglect!”

Chapter
4

In which Jedidiah falls in with Respectable
Company.

Early one morning, when the shadows were long and the
street lamps on every corner burning low, Jedidiah left his
ramshackle lodgings by the river wall and set out at a brisk pace.
It was that weird, plastic hour when night mutated into day, and
the town of Thornburg took on a whole new character: when the
prostitutes, footpads, and assassins who freely roamed by night
returned to their back-alley hunting grounds or their ill-lit dens;
when shop-keepers unshuttered the windows of their shops, and
bakers, butchers, and greengrocers drove their rattling delivery
wagons through the narrow streets of the town. It was that hour
when the river scavengers tied up their little boats and headed for
the nearest tavern to dine on peas-porridge, herring, and ale.

But Jed’s habits had drastically altered during these
last eight weeks. Without explanation, Uncle Caleb abandoned the
river and went to work for Gottfried Jenk. “Find another partner,
or find other work—ain’t that what you always wanted, anyways?” the
old man insisted. “You never did care for the river, and that’s a
fact. Think you’d be grateful I finally cut you loose to do exactly
as you please.”