The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance (11 page)

Nineteen

M
rs. Twig was waiting by the fire, her red hair set off by the glow of the flames, and a gown of black, jet-beaded silk. A fine cameo at the neck gave her a distinguished air. The housekeeper’s eyes seemed to register surprise at Veronica’s attire, yet she said nothing, not even a word about the pearls.

The housekeeper's lack of comment on her appearance
was worrying. Veronica hoped her gown was inappropriate, not too theatrical in the conservative housekeeper’s eyes. She couldn't help wondering what Lady Sovay would have worn on such an occasion. As an acknowledged beauty, it seemed she would have worn something far more lavish and revealing than this. Besides, Mrs. Twig was always secretive and taciturn. Veronica should be used to that by now. She lifted her chin and smiled.

With the flick of an eyebrow, Mrs. Twig summoned Veronica to follow her. They headed toward the center of the house, passing through two small, unused rooms hung with tapestries and a once fashionable ladies' boudoir, before arriving through a side door into the Grand Hall.

Hours of hard work cleaning and decorating brought out the room’s innate magnificence. The beamed ceilings, the frescoed walls, the white mantel of the fireplace gleamed. Uncovered and washed, the tall windows framed a garden park where a little brook meandered between lush grassy banks, and trees flashed their autumn leaves against the deep green of the yews. The long table shimmered with points of light flickering from silver candle branches set between vases of lilies and overblown
gallic
roses.

Mrs. Twig indicated Veronica’s chair as second down from the head of the table, then turned to leave. Ver
onica felt a brief stab of confusion. She couldn’t be expected to dine with Rafe and the twins alone.

“You’re not going, are you, Mrs. Twig?” she asked.

“Excuse me, Miss Everly?”

“Aren’t you going to dine with us?”

“Of course, Miss Everly. I’m just going to see how things are moving along in the kitchen. Mr. Rafe should be here with the twins at any moment. Just relax. It’s a lovely room, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s so refreshing to see that view out the windows. Lovely.” With that, Mrs. Twig crossed the hall and vanished out the door.

Veronica glanced around. It felt odd being left alone in the great, quiet hall. Mrs. Twig’s silence was hard to take.
Was
the dress wrong? She dreaded seeming uncouth. She wanted to create an impression of competence and strength, to assure Rafe de Grimston that he could rely on her good judgment.

Thinking that they were all meant to sit down together, she stood waiting by her chair. Unlike the hard wooden benches at Saint Mary’s dining hall, this chair was upholstered with cut maroon velvet, the trim carved and gilded. A large silver dish filled with marzipan in the shapes of fruits and flowers, and of all things, snakes, had been laid before her place like a confectionary Garden of Temptation. Gleaming in the soft light of the candles were settings of fine china and ornately handled silverware and drinking glasses of crystal stamped with gold. The great brilliant fire was crackling, over-warming the room and throwi
ng amber shadows over the walls. Veronica's heart swelled at the comfort of beauty and perfection that wealth could provide.

An eruption of laughter heralded the arrival of the twins. They burst into the hall followed by their father and the smiling Mrs. Twig.

“As you can see, Mr. Rafe, Miss Everly is already here,” said Mrs. Twig.

“Good evening, Mr. de Grimston.” Veronica dropped a curtsey. “I’m so happy to be part of your welcoming party.”

Rafe stopped short and gave her a slow bow, a look of astonishment in his eyes. His face was serene, as if he'd suddenly been purged of his troubles. “How lovely you look, Miss Everly. You remind me of Ellen Tierney in her role of Ophelia at the Lyceum Theatre.”

“I don’t look mad, I hope,” Veronica said, smoothing her hair away from her face.

“No. More like a child of nature, a lady of forests and glens.”

“Like a pretty doe,” said Jacques.

“Or a lovely soft rabbit,” said Jacqueline, giggling.

“Yes,” Jacques proclaimed. “A very lovely hare.”

Veronica laughed. She wasn't sure she liked being compared to a hare, even as a joke.

Stifling a grin, Mrs. Twig directed the twins to their chairs.

“Mistress Jacqueline, your place is beside Miss Everly, before the marzipan, and Master Jacques, you are to sit by me.”

Mrs. Twig seemed much jollier now. Perhaps she was normally a bit stiff under pressure, too preoccupied with organizing and running things to be friendly. Veronica ran her fingertips over the pearls strung so smoothly around her neck, tugging them slightly. The de Grimstons clearly liked her. She wished she could resolve the reservations she had about them. Perhaps she should just stop taking their strange books and stories and moods so literally, and quit feeling so inadequate.

This thought relaxed her. She was luckier than most.  Glancing down the table, she smiled. The twins, clad in several shades of white with blue satin trims, smiled back. They sat across from each other, one chair down from the head of the table where their father, gorgeous in a black dinner jacket and white shirt, held court. Even Mrs. Twig warmed up. Everyone seemed so well bred, so civilized, so kind.

Veronica questioned her perception that things here seemed mysterious or sinister at Belden House. Being a stranger, she’d been anxious to fit in, imagining the worst because she didn’t understand the peculiarities of other peoples' families. Mr. Crowe had put ideas into her head; set her up to expect problems where there were none. She resolved to stop reading novels and stick to her textbooks and her missal, books that could give her guidance rather than filling her head with fancies.

As if he'd been attempting to read Veronica's thoughts, Rafe's eyes caught hers and held them for a moment. Feeling the blood rush to her face, she looked away. Her hand slipped over the strand of pearls as if it had been coated in hot oil.

Rafe brusquely gestured to the hired girl to fill the wine glasses. His gaze returned to Veronica’s face. She lowered her eyes. Why must he stare so?

Veronica watched with consternation as red wine was poured into her goblet. She'd never drunk wine before, and after seeing what gin had done to her aunt, she placed alcohol in the same category as snake venom. Would she be expected to drink it? Was it rude to refuse? What if the wine made her act like her aunt, loosening her tongue and making her ridiculous? Would it blot things out, like unruly displays of emotion and crumbling bravado that everyone, but she, would remember?

Veronica was scandalized watching Janet pour wine for the twins, and felt better when she diluted it with a prodigious amount of water. Rafe stood up and raised his glass. Mrs. Twig rose from her chair, followed by the twins. Quelling her worries, Veronica took
up her glass, and followed suit.

“A toast to our new governess, Miss Everly,” Rafe said. “May she find contentment here at Belden House. May Jack behave
, may Mrs. Twig assist, and may I not interfere in the mysterious goings-on of women and children. Welcome to our family, Miss Everly.”

Flustered by the attention, Veronica’s words tumbled out.

“I wasn’t expecting to be toasted before you, sir. Why
you
are the guest of honor, not I. Welcome home, my lord.” Veronica lifted her glass, smiled, and drank. The wine was sour, and at the same time, sweet.

Mrs. Twig raised her glass.

“A warm
welcome home
to you Mr. Rafe. May you interfere with us for a long time to come. We’ve truly missed you. What do you say, children?”

“Welcome home, Papa!” they both shouted.

They all held their glasses aloft and drank to each other. Seated again, Rafe looked at Veronica.

“I certainly hope you will be happy here, Miss Everly,” he said. “The twins have told me wonderful things about you. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Twig?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Rafe.” Mrs. Twig said. “The twins haven’t taken to any of their governesses the way they’ve taken to Miss Everly.”

“Well, I’m thoroughly enchanted with them,” Veronica smiled warmly and raised her glass to the twins. “Cheers, Jack!”

"Cheers!" they said as one.

Dishes of food arrived slowly, methodically, soaking the air with delicious scents. The atmosphere was cozy and growing hazy. The hired girl poured more wine into Veronica’s glass. Janet began serving food: mutton stew, roast pheasant in a spicy current sauce, asparagus, leeks. Little pots of fiery creamed vegetables and crispy flat breads that Veronica had never seen before made the rounds. 

Janet picked up on Veronica’s wonderment.

“Those are curries and
what-nots
from India. Those breads are
chapattis
, and those jars are filled with spicy sauces.”

“Papa goes to
India all the time,” Jacques said. “This is what they eat. They’re vegetarians.”

“Unlike us,” Jacqueline
said.

Her
eyes lit up as a huge covered platter was brought around that spewed the most savory steam. 

“Have you ever had Indian cuisine, Miss Everly?” Rafe asked. “Excellent stuff! Just take care you don’t burn your tongue. It can be terribly hot.”

“Spicy,” said Mrs. Twig whose plate was quite full of curry.

Indeed, the next bite she took was so hot that Veronica broke out into a sweat. Laughing, she fanned herself with her handkerchief, and drank more wine to cool down. The wine was nice, but after drinking it, she felt dizzy.

“This is nothing like Saint Mary’s,” she said. “Over there it’s all
Porridge, pie and mushy peas, Yorkshire puddings, if you please
.”

“Did they feed you gruel in the orphanage?” Jacques asked.

“Gruel!” said Jacqueline. “What is gruel anyway?”

“Mind your manners, Jack,” said Mrs. Twig. “I’m sure Miss Everly was never forced to eat gruel at Saint Mary’s.”

“Actually, we did have gruel, especially in winter when food stocks were low,” Veronica said. “We had to learn to stretch things sometimes. We even ate haggis.’

“Haggis!” the twins exclaimed. “Ewwww!”

Rafe paused over the large platter. “I’m sure the nuns were not like Mr. Bumble, Jack. Saint Mary’s is not a workhouse or a poorhouse. It’s a convent school for girls. Am I right, Miss Everly?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “No Mr. Bumbles there.”

With the heat of the wine going to her head, Veronica smiled at Rafe. She was thankful they didn't see her as a lost waif like the children in
Oliver Twist,
imprisoned in
a derelict, grey sort of place where orphans were seen as less than human and sold off to the highest bidder. At Saint Mary’s, despite her cage, even Tala was treated humanely.

Rafe lifted the lid off the large platter, and instantly vanished behind a cloud of steam.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“Same place we got the hare in the stew,” said Jacques.

Veronica put her fingers over her lips. She hated to admit to her superstitious belief that it was wrong to consume hare’s meat. She'd read an old legend that said hares were witches in disguise. Hares and witches, witches and queens, like Anne Boleyn. The image of a wolf flashed into her mind. Oh, yes, that was the problem. That wolf prowling around in the night. Jumping on the hare.

“I thought it
was mutton stew,” she ventured.

“We don’t eat domesticated animals,” said Jacques. “They haven’t got enough spirit.”

“Spirit?”

Mrs. Twig cast a
pointed look at the twins, pinning each one with her eyes as if to snuff their speech. Rafe brooded for a moment before slicing into the hare’s meat, glancing at Veronica as if he wondered how much she knew.

Veronica decided to stick with the Indian food. She never realized vegetables could be so delicious. She even liked the spiciness. It was so exotic. And she didn’t have to worry about eating hares or spirits, or any other uncanny thing. The wine made everything seem muzzy yet elevated. Sounds were louder, yet unclear. Her awareness seemed to expand and she felt, for the second time, free.

Janet and the hired girl kept picking up empty plates and replacing them with full ones. They kept giving her more wine.

“I’ve never seen so much food in one place,” Veronica said. “It’s a wonder how you all stay so slim.”

“We don’t do this often,” said Jacques. “Do we Jacqueline?”

“No. Only at special occasions. Only when we have a hare for the pot.” The twins giggled, making sly glances at Veronica.

“Well, you know we’re not meant to eat the hare,” Veronica said. The words passed through her head in slow motion, as if some outside force had taken control of her tongue. “It could be the Queen. Or someone’s mother.”

“How?” asked Jacqueline. “How can it be?”

“It’s only a story,” Veronica said, setting her wineglass down.

The twins looked gravely at each other.