Goblin Moon

by Teresa Edgerton

  It was with a mixture of regret and relief that he realized he could not, after all, accept her invitation,

  CHAPTER 14

  Containing sundry Curious matters.

  Motherwell prison was a grim and lowering pile built on an island in the middle of the river Lunn, about two miles above Thornburg. It was a cold, hard, barren island, with only a narrow stretch of pebbly shore. At high tide, the beach disappeared altogether, and the water came almost up to the rusty prison gate.

  So it was on Midyear's Day, when the tide was at its highest, that an elegant black barge landed just below the gate and let off two passengers: a very young gentleman in a wine-colored coat, and a lady, perhaps ten years his senior, exceedingly smart in oyster satin and a wide-leghorn hat. With great diffidence, they approached the warder at the gate.

  "We wish to speak with the governor," said the youth, and a small coin passed between the iron bars.

  The warder grinned at them, revealing crooked black teeth. "What names?"

  The lady made an agitated motion with her hands. "Is it absolutely necessary for us to tell you our names?"

  "'Tis, if you wants to speak with the governor," replied the warder, pocketing the coin. "He's a busy man, the governor, and he don't see just everybody."

  The two visitors held a whispered conference. "Why not, after all?" said the young man. "You've made no secret of your intentions; everyone in town is already talking. You said so yourself: the only way to proceed is to conduct the entire affair openly and treat the necessity as if it were naught but a grim jest."

  "Yes, yes," replied the lady impatiently. "But it is one thing to hear one's name bandied about by one's own acquaintances, quite another to hear it spoken in a place like this. Oh, very well. Do as you think best. The whole situation is so degrading, how could it possibly be any worse?"

  They returned to the gate and peered through the iron grillwork. "Lord Vizbeck and his cousin, Lady Ursula Bowker," said the young man.

  "Honored, I'm sure," said the warder, and sketched a mocking little bow as he unlocked the gate and ushered them in.

  "Are you honestly determined to do this thing?" Lord Vizbeck whispered to his cousin, as the guard led them down a dank and shadowy corridor.

  "I am," replied Lady Ursula. "What other choice do I have?" The youth gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. "You might, for instance, think of marrying me."

  "Impossible," said Lady Ursula. "Nor would you offer, if you had any idea of the extent of my debts. They would swallow up your entire fortune whole. In any case, your mama has a very good idea of my wretched circumstances, and though she has been kind to me through all my troubles, she would never consent to our marriage."

  "I come of age," said Lord Vizbeck, "at the turn of the year, and then there would be no need for my mama's consent."

  "Thank you," said Lady Ursula, "but I do not wish to spend the interim languishing in a debtor's prison."

  The governor received them in a high, cold room, overlooking the prison yard. He was a meagre little man with parchment-colored skin, a crooked wig, and an enormous hooked nose. He offered Lady Ursula a chair and sent the warder for another to accommodate Lord Vizbeck.

  "And how may I be of service to your ladyship?" he asked, resuming his own seat behind a large, cluttered desk.

  Lord Vizbeck answered for her. "The lady finds herself in financial difficulties. I will not bore you with the details; it is enough to tell you that her creditors are growing impatient, and a writ may be issued against her at any time. Therefore, she requires a husband to assume her debts."

  The governor tipped back his chair, made a steeple of his hands. "I see," he said. "Something in the felonious line, I take it—a murderer or a highwayman, on his way to an appointment with the hangman? Yes, indeed, I think I can provide just what you want. A most gentlemanly youth—the sort to behave himself and not put your ladyship to any embarrassment at the wedding ceremony. He'll be executed . . . let me see . . . on Friday afternoon at one o'clock."

  He tilted his chair forward, rested his elbows on the desk. "Yes, I believe that something can be arranged, but I feel obliged to warn you that even in Motherwell husbands do not come cheap. This man I am thinking of, for instance, he's a hardened rogue for all his engaging ways, and he won't consent to marry you and cheat your creditors merely for the love of your pretty blue eyes—oh, no!"

  Lord Vizbeck stiffened. "Here now, my good man, there is no need to be impertinent. If you haven't the decency—"

  Lady Ursula silenced him with a motion of her hand. "Let us not waste the governor's time—or our own. Perhaps, sir, you will be good enough to tell me what is the . . . the usual recompense."

  The governor knit his fingers together. "A keg of wine the night before and a whore to warm his bed. And the next day, a coin for the hangman, to make sure the execution is swift and painless. He will also, in all likelihood, require your word in writing that he'll be buried decently, and not turned over to the College of Chirurgeons for their experiments." Lady Ursula shuddered visibly. "My own compensation—for allowing the thing to go forth at all, for the arrangements that have to be made—is not inconsiderable." And he named a price so high that the lady gasped in dismay.

  "I think you must be aware," Lady Ursula said, in a stifled voice, "that unless you are willing to be more moderate in your demands, we won't be able to do business at all. Indeed, were my circumstances mot so fearfully reduced, I would not be forced to take this step in order to circumvent my creditors."

  "That goes without saying, my lady. Yet I find it hard to believe that you are entirely friendless," said the governor. "Borrow the money, if you must, for I do assure you: the thing cannot possibly be done for less."

  Lady Ursula laughed bitterly. "Borrow the money, when it is by living beyond my means that I came to this pass! There isn't a goldsmith or a moneylender in Thornburg who would—"

  Lord Vizbeck leaned down and spoke softly in her ear. "By the Nine Powers, Ursula, if you will not allow me to marry you myself, at least permit me to defray your . . . wedding expenses."

  "I will not," hissed the lady. "Do consider my feelings. Having refused your own too generous offer, how, in all conscience, can I possibly allow you to—to buy a husband for me?"

  The governor continued to rock his chair back and forth. "I should perhaps add that there has been considerable outcry against these prison weddings, against the well-born and the titled using this expedient to cheat honest tradesmen of their due. Any day now, the Prince may issue a proclamation forbidding these marriages. Then where will you be, my lady?"

  "The same place that I shall be if I do not satisfy my creditors by the end of next week," said the lady. "Imprisoned for debt. Oh, it would be unendurable! Very well, your price is extortionate, but I suppose there must be something, some old silver or china that I can sell. Make the arrangements, and expect to see me on next Friday . . . my wedding day."

  The lady left the prison on her cousin's arm. His lordship's mama, the dowager Lady Vizbeck, awaited them on the barge.

  "And are you engaged to be married, my dear?" the dowager asked.

  "I believe that I shall be, before the day is out." Lady Ursula collapsed on a velvet-cushioned bench and took out her fan. "The governor will make all the arrangement; he will attend to all the details. All that remains for me is to decide where the reception will be held."

  "You have had a great many offers, I believe?" said Lady Vizbeck, patting her hand affectionately. "Such a novelty it will be, your wedding feast. Half the ladies in Thornburg would be honored to host the reception and claim credit for the sensation it will cause. Whom will you choose, do you think?"

  Lady Ursula gave a weary small sigh. "I believe that I will choose the Duchess. Who else, indeed, could do the thing as it ought to be done?"

  Though Lady Ursula's upcoming wedding was the talk of the town, the Thornburg magistracy would not be hurried; they issued no writ against the lady, and the weddin
g went off precisely as planned. On Friday morning, the bride arrived at the prison, pale but composed, was introduced to her bridegroom, and was married. At one, the groom mounted the scaffold, kissed his hand to the Fates, and was hung—carrying her debts into the next world with him. By sunset, carriages and sedan chairs began to arrive at the crumbling Zar-Wildungen mansion, where the bride awaited them, in a gown of figured white satin, a gauzy floor-length veil, and the Duchess's diamonds.

  The Vorders were among the earliest guests to arrive. "So poignant," said Clothilde Vorder, as she, Elsie, and Sera climbed the marble steps to the door. "So heart-rending, really, to think of the poor dear receiving her guests—and she so recently widowed!"

  "She was scarcely even acquainted with the man," said Sera, under her breath. "Any emotion that the bride may display on this particular occasion can be nothing but—but the most blatant form of play-acting!"

  "But of course," replied Mistress Vorder with a haughty glance. "That hardly detracts from the sentiment one feels on viewing the young widow. I, myself, am prodigiously fond of a tragical play. And I would not be as insensitive as you," she added severely, "not for all the world."

  They passed through the receiving line, and down a wide, torch-lit corridor lined with faded tapestries. In the cavernous dining hall, the table was set with elegant gilt-edged china and crystal goblets, but the very finest setting (all gleaming with gold and jewels) had been placed at the head of the table in honor of the groom, who was expected to attend the reception in spirit, though his body was still in the custody of the public hangman. To this end, someone had placed a wax effigy in the bridegroom's chair and tastefully arranged a hempen noose around its neck.

  Francis Skelbrooke strolled into the room, very prettily attired in white and gold, all but the black satin bow which held back his powdered curls. He carried a short malacca cane with a quizzing glass mounted on the knob at one end, and he seemed especially struck by the arrangement of the table, for he spent several minutes minutely examining the groom's setting through his glass.

  "And what—if one is permitted to inquire—is your impression of all this, Miss Vorder?" he asked.

  "It seems," said Sera, in no mood to mince words this evening, "that people will do anything for a sensation these days. I think that Society has gone quite mad."

  If she hoped to ruffle his composure, she did not succeed. "I have always admired your keen perceptions," said Skelbrooke, and ambled off, presumably in search of the Duchess.

  When the feast was over, and the last toasts had been made—to the beauty of the bride and her improved prospects for the future—it came time for the wedding guests to see the bride and her groom upstairs to their bedchamber. Two brawny serving men lifted the chair and carried the wax effigy out of the room, the bride and her guests snatching up candlesticks and falling into place in a procession behind the chair.

  Sera walked alone, without a gentleman's arm to lean on—which she accounted a blessing, for it allowed her to lag behind the others and spared her much of the conversation and unseemly jesting. Up the long curving marble staircase to the top floor of the mansion, the procession climbed, the flames of their candles like tiny sparks of light in the vast, gloomy halls. They walked through a series of rooms connected by archways, and along an echoing corridor, where the dust lay thick on the floor and cobwebs hung like tattered lace curtains from the groined ceiling. Then there was a sudden blaze of light and warmth, as someone threw open the door to the bridal chamber.

  I will not go inside, Sera thought. The whole situation is so patently obscene! With which resolve, she turned around and headed back down the corridor. But in the rooms beyond, a draught of cold air put out her candle, and she lost her way in the dark. When she finally came out into a torch-lit corridor, she was in a totally unfamiliar wing of the mansion.

  Certain that one of the doors on either side of the corridor must open on a set of stairs, Sera tried several, only to discover that each of them was locked. Then she decided to relight her candle on one of the torches and try to find her way back in the direction she had come. But through which door had she entered the corridor? All of them looked exactly alike.

  Growing frustrated, she began turning the knobs again, searching for the unlocked door. Perhaps I have lost my sense of direction . . . perhaps I should try the doors on the other side of the corridor. A knob turned in her hand, and Sera eagerly pushed the door open.

  She paused on the threshold, certain this was a room she had never seen before. It was a lofty chamber, about the size of the dining hall down below, awash in moonlight which entered the room through a kind of domed skylight in the ceiling. The vast chamber resembled nothing so much as a museum, for the variety of curious objects that were displayed in glass cabinets or mounted on marble pedestals.

  I ought not to be here, Sera told herself. But the thought which immediately followed was: the door was unlocked. Curiosity over-came propriety, and she stepped over the threshold, closing the door softly behind her.

  This room showed signs of frequent use, or at least of a recent dusting. Yet there was something heavy and stifling about the atmosphere, as though it were laden with some subtle incense which added weight to the air rather than fragrance.

  Lifting her candle high, Sera wandered through the room, gazing at one thing and then another: a bowl of crystal fruits—a jeweled dagger with a blade like a crescent moon—a wreath of silk flowers which (or so Sera fancied) might be the source of the strange, odorless perfume.

  On one wall, she discovered a gallery of oil paintings, portraits of men and women of some bygone age, all of them depicted with such mournful or tragic expressions that it seemed as though the artist must have caught each one in the midst of some terrible catastrophe or the grip of some lingering grief. On a row of pegs along another wall hung a display of antique costumes: gauzy gowns in soft bright colors, fanciful hats loaded with jewels and plumes, and elaborately curled wigs that seemed too heavy for the heads that once carried them. There was a grey cape covered with silver spangles and lined with swansdown, and a stiff lace ruff edged with pearls, which somehow put Sera in mind of Mistress Sancreedi. But the size of these tiny, delicately made garments astonished Sera. These are children's costumes. But who would dress their children so elaborately?

  There were also a number of masks, arranged on the wall around a long mirror in a gilt frame. Some of these masks were beautiful, but many of them had an ugly or an evil aspect. On an impulse, Sera took down one of the more hideous masks and held it before her face.

  When she turned to examine her reflection in the mirror, she experienced a painful jolt of surprise. The mask had transformed not only her face but everything about her. She was gazing at the image of a tiny hunchback with a twisted lip, in a tattered black gown. A soft noise behind her startled Sera so badly that she dropped the mask and whirled around, just in time to see Francis Skelbrooke enter the room by a door near the back.

  Apparently as startled as she was, he stopped with his hand still on the knob, and such a scowl on his face as Sera had never seen there before.

  Then the frown disappeared, and Lord Skelbrooke regained his easy composure. He closed the door behind him and made a deep bow. "There you are, Miss Vorder. I did not mean to startle you, but your cousin sent me to find you."

  Sera put a hand to her heart. "Elsie . . . Elsie has sent for me?" she asked, in a strangled voice. "Has she taken ill, Lord Skelbrooke?"

  "I beg your pardon," said Skelbrooke, crossing the room. "I did not mean to alarm you. I should have been more specific. It was not Miss Elsie who sent me to look for you, but her mother."

  Sera flushed a hot shade of crimson. It was bad enough that she should encounter Lord Skelbrooke in this place where she had no business to be, but how much more vexing that Cousin Clothilde had actually sent him in search of her, as though she were a naughty child.

  Skelbrooke bent down and picked up the mask, spent a long moment examining it th
rough his quizzing glass. Then, with a tiny, enigmatic smile, he lifted the mask to his face and examined his image in the mirror.

  Sera could not stifle another gasp of surprise. Before her eyes, the young Imbrian nobleman became shorter, he grew taller, he went through a whole series of amazing transformations: man, woman, dwarf, gnome, child, adult, monster, brute . . . all in a matter of seconds. And then, just as suddenly, he was himself again, a neat little man elegantly clad in white and gold, staring back at her through the eye-holes of the ugly mask.

  "It is all in knowing how to work these things," he said calmly, as he hung the mask back on the wall. But Sera felt a surge of outrage, as though he had somehow made her the victim of a vulgar jest.

  When he offered her his arm, she shook her head and walked out through the door by which she had first entered the room. But she did pause and wait for him, while he took a tiny silver key out of his waistcoat pocket and slipped it into the lock.

  "I should tell you, Miss Vorder, that the things in that room and the one beyond it are very old and valuable. Neither the Duke nor the Duchess wishes to expose them to public view. I cannot think how the door came to be unlocked."

  "But you did not enter by this door," Sera pointed out, a trifle pettishly. "Was—was the other chamber you spoke of unlocked as well? That seems very careless."

  "The door by which I entered was locked—but to that one also I have the key," said Skelbrooke. "And no," he said, as he pocketed the key, "I need not go back and lock it again, for I have already done so."

  The purer air in the corridor did much to restore Sera's mental equilibrium. She realized that she could not easily find her way back to the dining hall unless she accepted his lordship's offer to escort her. Yet she still felt angry and obscurely insulted and would not take his arm, insisting on making the journey unsupported.