The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance (10 page)

The sound of a bell echoed up from the trees behind her, tolling slowly, and faintly off key.

*

Seventeen

T
hey’d barely stepped in the door when Mrs. Twig hurried to meet Veronica, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Miss Everly, Mr. Rafe insists you attend his dinner celebration in the Grand Hall. So put on your finest gown. I’ll have Janet lace you in.”

Her finest gown?

The idea of her having a gown at all struck Veronica as terribly amusing, but she didn’t let on. It was too wonderful to be invited to a special occasion held in the grand style. Being included in a family celebration was a rare honor for the average governess. Veronica was thrilled to be included.

“Why, thank you, Mrs. Twig. And thank Mr. Rafe for inviting me. It’s so unexpected.”

Slightly breathless from her long walk in the fresh air, Veronica took off her bonnet, unloosing streams of long chestnut tendrils.

“The fresh air does you good. Miss Everly. You’re absolutely glowing. There’s nothing like nature to bring one back to life. Though this house is lovely, it can become oppressive. So many large, unused rooms, the creaking of the foundations, children tiptoeing about at night, their voices echoing and laughing, can make the old house seem the habitation of ghosts. You should take a long walk every day to revive your spirits.”

“I think I shall.
It’s good for the children as well.”

“I’m sure you’ve discovered how close the village is.”

“We didn’t get that far. The twins led me to a strange little church in the forest.”

Veronica hoped the housekeeper would elaborate on the subject, but something behind Mrs. Twig’s eyes seemed to shut like a window blind.

“If it’s a church you’re looking for, there’s one in the village. Church of England, I believe. Perhaps it's close enough.”

Veronica laughed uneasily. Since visiting Saint Lupine's, the nuns' old
warning against entering an unconsecrated church took on a new coloration. Surely the housekeeper knew the truth behind the twins’ strange story of their mother bringing lightning down upon the steeple, and of murals magically appearing on the walls. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but Mrs. Twig's expression silenced her.

Smiling her acquiescence, Veronica changed the subject.

“How long do I have to get ready? I mean, what time is it now?”

“The clock has just chimed three times, Miss Everly. Didn’t you hear it? You have plenty of time.” Mrs. Twig turned to the twins. “Why Jack, you look like a pair of chimney sweepers. Come along for a wash. Now
, they
may need every minute between now and dinner to be made presentable. You on the other hand, Miss Everly, have time for a nap."

Veronica looked the twins over. They were quite grubby, their white clothes smudged with dirt and grass stains. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Twig. They were playing in the woods. Having such a wonderful time. Climbing the trees and such. I should have made them be more careful.”

“We’re starving!” they whined to Mrs. Twig.

“Well, luncheon is all ready, Jack. Into the kitchen with you. Then the bath.” Mrs. Twig patted the twins toward the kitchen, then turned to Veronica. “I’ll have Janet send a tray up to your room, Miss Everly. I’m sure you’re ready for your tea.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you. When is dinner?”

"At seven."

Vexation about her strange outing to Saint Lupine's gave way to excitement about the banquet. Veronica hurried through the vestibule toward the stairs. Halfway across the room, she slowed her walk. The warm light of an oil lamp was glowing through the partly open door of what looked like a small study tucked under the rise of the staircase. The rear wall was covered with books, and the lamp, sitting on a large, ornately carved desk, shed its aura upon the figure of a man sitting very still with his elbows on the blotter, his head in his hands. His shoulders heaved and he sighed as if there were no light left in the world. Then, looking up, he gazed into space as if he'd seen a horror. He seemed to pray, then covering his face with his hands, to weep.

Unsure of whether to speak to him, and perhaps offer comfort, or pretend she hadn’t seen him in his misery and move on, Veronica went still as stone. To spare the man's dignity, she mentally chose the latter course, but found it difficult to move away. He seemed so helpless and alone. She had no business witnessing him in this state, but she knew the agony of grief, and everything in her wanted to reach out to help. But how would Rafe de Grimston
feel, knowing that she, a mere governess, had seen him so low?

The fear that
he would look up and see her watching finally unglued Veronica from the spot. With a last worried glance, she tore away and fled up the stairs to her room.

Eighteen

F
licking through the dresses in her wardrobe, Veronica fretted. All of her clothes were so work-a-day, so plain and practical and worn out. The only dress she had that was even close to being presentable was her lightly worn black velvet mourning dress with lace collar and cuffs. Saying she already had too much black in her wardrobe, Sister Victorine had given the dress to Veronica for the funeral of one of the girls. How could one appear at a formal dinner in that? Just looking at the dress brought up memories of the girl who'd been found floating in a woodland pool, drowned. Only sixteen, she'd been the most beautiful girl at Saint Mary’s. No one knew how she ended up like that, though Veronica had her suspicions.

Uncertainty
weakened Veronica. She sagged against the soft bank of her clothes and let her mind wander.

She was learnin
g things about the de Grimstons, eccentricities she could never have imagined. Their ways were both welcoming and strange: the book in the library, the wolves, and that church.... The sight of her employer in the throes of grief was dispiriting. Shouldn't he be happy to be home with his children, and looking forward to his home coming banquet? Why wasn't he?

Veronica sighed. Rafe must have
adored
Sovay to suffer so much grief. It was sad that she was gone, but even so... Sovay had done things at that church, Saint Lupine's, that were seriously wrong. And she'd involved the children. How could he have allowed it?

Rafe's handsome image r
ose before her mind's eye. He'd been so different on roof of the tower last night, charming, playful, and (dare she say) flirtatious. His demeanor when he escorted her off the roof both intrigued and frightened her. She wished she had more understanding. Perhaps it would come with time. If she could last long enough.

She had to last.

To do so, she must appear strong and unshakeable. A governess must be reliable. That meant looking her absolute best for her employer's banquet. Only one dress would do, but she’d sworn never to wear it: the beautiful gown that her mother had worn as Olivia in
Twelfth
Night
. Made of patterned silk velvet in deep emerald green, with insets of metallic lace and medieval motifs, it was the only memento her aunt would let her keep. It was the dress her mother shone in, the one that brought out her dusky, poetic beauty, her lustrous hazel eyes, and the lovely lines of her figure. Though Veronica’s eyes were deep brown, she’d inherited her mother’s abundance of dark hair, and her slim, hourglass figure. She had no doubt that the dress would work the same magic for her that it had for Mae Tyler. Yet it felt like a betrayal to wear it. Somewhat like desecrating a shrine.

Veronica pulled the dress out of the wardrobe, took it to the mirror, and held it up. It was lovely, but not particularly modest with its close-fitting lines, deep square neckline, both front and back, the low-slung medieval belt. It was not at all something a poor orphan or a governess would wear.

“I should stop feeling so guilty,” she murmured, stroking the silken folds of the skirt. It's softness brought back her mother's vivid and charming presence. This gown was all she had left of her mother, the only evidence of her unstable but happy childhood being carried through the theater world with her parents.

She thoug
ht of the twins' china dolls, their cloth bodies stuffed with the wild flowers of France to remind them of their mother. In the same spirit, Veronica should feel honored to wear her mother's gown. But perhaps that’s what she'd been afraid of doing all along: bringing her mother's memory alive to the point where she would feel the awful vacancy there had once been such love.

At the mirror, Veronica adjusted the lines of the dress against her body. It was astonishing how much she looked like her mother, a mother who had been a mere five years older than Veronica was now when she died.

Janet arrived to lace her in. The gown hugged her waist, then fell softly to the floor with a train at the back. The sensation of lush fabric against her skin, the dangerously low neckline, the smooth, natural line of her waist and hips, left Veronica feeling terribly exposed. Creamy silk ruffles around the edges of the neckline, and the long, tight-fitting sleeves, were too slight for coverage. Turning in the mirror, she was further dismayed by the deep square neckline at the back.

"Janet, I'm naked," she mumbled.

"No, no, no, Miss Everly. You're just not used to it. Its a beautiful dress," Janet said, her eyes shining.

The pattern of metallic embroidery ran to her waist. A
flat, metallic gold belt fell in a long point down the front of her skirt. It was a gorgeous gown. It was wonderful to have a chance to show it off.

It just showed too much of
her
off for Veronica's comfort.

“
Spin around, Miss." Janet said twirling her hand in a circle.

Veronica spun.

"That dress does look lovely on you.” Veronica was surprised to hear a trace of envy in Janet’s voice. No one had ever envied her before. No one had ever found her enviable. It was ridiculous.

"The skirt is too close in." Veronica pulled the sides of the skirt out to see how wide it would go.

"I can starch up a petticoat for you. That should give it a
fuller shape," Janet said.

"Yes, thank you, that would help. The one I have isn't very nice
, but no one will see it."

"I'll make it look nice, Miss."

Veronica pulled a worn taffeta petticoat out of the wardrobe and gave it to Janet. Starch would do wonders for it. "Thank you, Janet."

Still, it wasn't enough. She'd never shown
an inch of bosom in her life.

“I need something at my neck.” Veronica stroked her throat as if she could make it go aw
ay. “But I don’t have any jewelry.”

“With your skin
and hair, you don’t need jewelry. A dress like that is jewel enough.”

“You’re very kind, Janet. But a strand of pearls would work wonders.”

“The only pearls I know of belong to Lady Sovay. She had ropes and ropes of them. If you don’t breathe a word, I might fetch one for you. Just a loan, you see, for the evening.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Janet. But I couldn’t. Someone might recognize them. I shouldn’t
, really.”

“It
's only borrowing. We’ll put them back straight away. No one need know they’re not your own. All pearls look alike. Just little round balls.”

Veronica assessed her practically bare bosom. She pulled a few tendrils down from her
chignon and drew them close. A strand of pearls at her neck would do just the trick.

“Go on, then. Ask Mrs. Twig,” she said. “With her permission, I’ll do it.”

“I’ll find her now.” Janet smiled, and left Veronica alone.

Still at the mirror, Veronica turned her head this way and that. She was lucky to have a bright, clear complexion that didn’t need cosmetics. Janet had kindly put her hair up with a rhinestone clip, the best piece from Veronica’s meager supply of hair ornaments.

She arranged the curls more to her liking, then turned to appreciate the full sweep of the gown. She hardly recognized herself. She appeared feminine but confident, even bold, able to hold her own with anyone, including Rafe de Grimston.

The silver crucifix didn't look right hanging over her heart, just under the neckline of the gown. It wouldn't hurt to take it off for just one night. Besides, it would compete with the pearls.
Feeling a bit reckless, she unclasped the chain and dropped the crucifix into her jewelry box. She felt free, as if she'd just shed the last vestige of her old life.

Now for the new.

It was already dark. The half moon was an enormous amber crescent glowing through wisps of cloud.

Veronica frowned at herself. What she’d said to the twins about their mother never returning had been insensitive. She’d allowed the oddities of the little chu
rch to upset her too much. She'd spoken sharply, perhaps casting a shadow of distrust between her and her moody charges. Well, she would just make it up to them.

Mr. Crow
e had been wrong to assume that Tala had been anything like the twins. The only thing here that reminded her of Tala was that wolf she saw in the yard. The twins were something else entirely. Jack was merely enigmatic. Tala had been a beast.

Even with the strongest nuns in charge, it had been days before anyone had been able enter Tala's cell. She'd scratched and bitten and torn as if she were possessed by a legion of devils. After seeing one of the old nuns severely injured, Veronica had attempted to withdraw from the situation. But it was too late. She’d been seen at the wolf girl’s cell giving her food, talking to her, making friends. No one else seemed to care about the girl. It was no surprise, then, when Sister Margaret gave Veronica the dubious honor of delivering Tala her meals.

Veronica remembered sliding a tray with a bowl of mutton stew under the bars of the cell, and how quickly Tala had snatched it away. Hunkering protectively over the food, she'd begun shoving meat into her mouth with both hands, all the while staring at Veronica with piercing, stay-away eyes.

“I’m not going to take it from you,” Veronica had said.
             

She'd stared back at the girl, seeking somewhere under the hair and the rags and the stew dripping from the long, greedy fingers, for the glimmer of a soul.

A child's rhyme came into her head:
Nosey people die so quick...

Tala had taught her to leave people to their own devices, but it was difficult.



Veronica pulled the long sleeves over the scars on her hands. The moon was like a great, heavy-lidded eye watching her trying to cover up the pain of her past. Glowing golden, yet shedding no light, the moon offered no solace.

“Miss?”

It was Janet. S
he came across the room holding out a strand of pearls.

“Here you are. I’m sure they’ll look lovely.”
             

Veronica took the pearls and held them under the candlelight. Perfectly matched, they had a white sheen that reminded Veronica of the phosphorescence on the sea. A little tag of blue silk embroidered with a fleur-de-lis was tied to the clasp, along with a golden bauble in the shape of a heart with an uncut ruby, liquid as a drop of blood, in the center.

“They’re lovely,” Veronica said. “Are you sure Mrs. Twig gave her permission for me to wear them?”

Janet nodded. “Put it on. I’ve always loved that strand.”

The pearls fit around Veronica’s neck as if they'd been made for her. Their nacreous gleam lit up her eyes and skin, and gave her gown the touch of elegance the occasion called for.

“Let’s just hide the little gold pendant under your hair,” Janet said. “It doesn’t look quite right.”

Janet carefully tucked the little tag and heart under the low chignon of Veronica's hair. “That should do. Mrs. Twig is waiting downstairs to accompany you.”

Thrilled by the success of her new look, Veronica gushed, “Oh, Janet, thank you so much.”

She embraced the suddenly shy maid, and then hurried downstairs to the main drawing room.