The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance (17 page)

Twenty-Nine

V
eronica had every intention of taking the long way round to get into the tower, but once out on the landing, the three doors at the end of the hallway seemed so convenient. Did she dare go into Rafe's rooms again? Now that she knew him, she felt more keenly the wrong in trespassing into his private chambers. But why shouldn’t she go in? She was just going to run across the sitting room and out to the landing. No harm done. Why did she worry so much?

She closed the door to the classroom, turned down the hallway to the three doors, pushed the end door open, and stepped into the Rafe’s private parlor.

In the conservatory, the foliage bloomed like a monstrous jungle. Flowers opened like mouths, tapering leaves rose up like claws. It must have been Lady Sovay's idea to create such a wild effect. Veronica turned away from the conservatory, moved into the warmth of the fireplace and sat down on the divan.

The portraits above the mantel gazed down.

There was nothing in the portrait of Lady Sovay that suggested evil. She appeared rather dewy and fresh in her yellow dress. It was the expression in her eyes that revealed a hidden anguish; her ethereal, vivid beauty
masking a dark disturbance in her soul.

Veronica thought back to the images on the photographic plates, of the vapors taking shape around Lady Sovay’s head, the cloud, the hand, the wolf's head. How could a lady of her q
uality indulge in rank spiritualism? It was too bizarre to contemplate.

And what of th
e third child? The older girl? No one ever spoke about her. Perhaps it was too painful to be reminded of such a loss, easier to pretend a dead child had never existed than to revisit the pain. But no one forgot the their own children. It wasn't natural.

Veronica ran her hands up and down her arms as a chill passed through her.

Perhaps all that Ouija board business had backfired and dark powers had taken the child. That's why they'd rather sweep it under the rug. The Devil would have his dues. That's what the nuns always said.

The de Grimstons in the paintings appeared so respectable, so attractive, so cultured. It was difficult to believe what they'd been up to in their
treasure
room. Yet, the painted image of Lady Sovay was not dissimilar to the figure in the mural at Saint Lupine's, the lady in yellow leading her pack of wolves, and that was not dissimilar to the photograph of the mural in Sovay's chateau in France.

Wolves... always wolves... wolves and
ladies in yellow gowns...

A shrill, ascending note dri
fted in from outside. It sounded like Jacques playing the penny whistle. No wonder the old antiques dealer wanted to get rid of the blasted thing. That sound could raise the hair right off the back of one’s head.

It was funny about the twins, how after so many weeks, Veronica could detect no differences between them. Usually, even the most identical of twins had
some
differentiating traits. But not Jack. Though they'd claimed to switch roles, it seemed that Jacques was always the stolid, forthright boy, while Jacqueline was gentle, sweet and soft spoken. The one in trousers seemed to have taken charge of the penny whistle, the other of the dolls. Was Jacques was always Jacques, and Jacqueline always Jacqueline? What if they didn’t switch roles at all, but just pretended that they did. In any case, baffling the governess was a game they thoroughly enjoyed.

Hooooo….

The sound muffled through again. It seemed to emanate from above. From the roof of the tower. Veronica rubbed her arms again. Goosebumps.

Thinking to go and find the whistler, Veronica went out to the passage that led to the landing before the tower door. In the light of the gothic windows, she paused.

Hooooooo.....

As the plaintive sound rose up again, sadness sank like a smooth, black stone into the still pool of Veronica’s heart. Where was Rafe? His absence made the whole world seem empty.
And that whistle, with its wistful Irish lilt, didn't help.

The, f
aintly, as if echoing up from the bottom of a well, came a howl.

Veronica's heartbeat quickened. 

Was the wolf out there? In the woods?

Unable to stop herself, Veronica hurried up the three steps to the landing and came face to face with the door of the tower. A line of light glimmered along the bottom edge along the floor.

She drew back behind a niche in the wall and watched the light fluctuate. Someone was moving behind the door. She waited for a moment to see who came might come out, but when no one did, she hurried up the next flight of steps to the roof.

The
tin whistle shrilled out.

Jacques was there, leaning out over the battlements. He seemed to be directing his music to someone in the garden below. Something must have happened, for Jacques abruptly broke off playing nonsense
,
leaned farther out, and began to play an
Air
of funereal slowness
.

Afraid he might topple over the wall, Veronica rushed toward him. Then she stopped. Jacques was so absorbed in his playing that it seemed
more dangerous to startle him. It might be better to wait until he was finished,
then
she could read him the riot act.

Heading back the way she'd come, Veronica noticed a side stairway going down to the roof of the house. Looking down, she saw, running between a row of decorative crenellations and the upward slope of the slate-tiled roof with its forest of gables and chimney pots, a
parapet. From there, she might be able to see what was going on in the yard.

As
Jacques piped away, Veronica hurried down the stairs to the parapet. Sharing space with the rain gutter, the rampart was treacherously narrow and full of debris, but moving along its length, she gained a clear view of the birch woods and the dark hollow where the wishing well shone dimly in the waning sunlight.

Behind the thinning screen of lilies was Jacqueline. Wearing a long dress of heavy white lace that brought out her unearthly beauty, she was tying a doll to the birch branch that reached out over the water. The yellow glow of its gown gave it away as the doll she’d bought in the antiques shop; the one she’d said reminded her of her mother. Because of the distance and the foliage, it was difficult to see everything Jacqueline was doing, but it was clear that this doll was not being lowered into the well with the others, but left to hover like an angel above the Pit.

The tune of
Green Grow the Lilies, Oh
trilled out on the breath of Jacques’ penny whistle. Snatches of song rose up from Jacqueline as she disappeared behind the fringe of lilies.

Veronica was about to slip back up the stairs when a white hare leaped out of the juniper hedge and crouched, nibbling, on the grass. Jacques screeched through the tin whistle like an excited banshee, pointing and shouting in the direction of the hare with all the urgency his small body could muster.

Jacqueline raced into the trees. For an instant, Veronica thought she saw a white wolf burst out of the woods, run up the lawn after the hare, and pounce on it. Unable to trust her eyes, she blinked and saw, not a wolf, but Jacqueline lifting the hare by its ears and carrying it toward the house. The front of the white lace dress was covered with blood.

Her mind blank with shock, Veronica stumbled up the steps to the roof of the tower, then almost tripped down the next flight of stairs to the landing below. Halfway to the bottom, she saw Mrs. Twig come out of the tower carrying a half-lit candle branch. The housekeeper turned down another stairwell, and with a jingle of her keys, was gone.

She’d left tower door unlocked.

Veronica froze. What was in there? Something so horrible, that if she saw it, she would be plagued with nightmares for the rest of her life? 

Any difficulty she had deciding whether to look into the tower or not, was resolved by the sound of Jacques thudding down the stairs behind her. She rapidly skimmed down the steps and across the landing toward Rafe’s rooms without looking back.

Once inside
Rafe’s chambers, she shut the door and turned the lock to prevent Jacques following her in. Then she sped across the room and out into the hallway.

Janet must be finished cleaning by now, she thought. Catching her breath, she smoothed her hair, and went down to her rooms.

All her other worries fled before this one: she didn't know how, or why she believed what she'd seen, but Jacqueline had turned into a wolf.

Thirty

T
hank God, Janet was gone! After what she'd just seen, Veronica couldn't bear to face anyone.

The maid had kindly laid a good fire in the hearth and lit up a tall, many branched candelabrum that she must have found in the treasure room. Everything smelled clean and fresh, as if she'd sprayed the air with lavender water. Grateful but still agitated, Veronica strode across her bedroom to the French doors, tore them open, and stepped out onto her balcony.

It was almost dark. The moon was just rising, a full, white disk ghosting through the trees. She paced up and down, squinting to see as much as possible of the wishing well, but all that was visible in the gloaming was mist curdled in the bowl of the spring.

Something was going to happen tonight. Something… awful. She could feel it.

Leaving the French doors open, she went back inside, then, went slowly into the other,
séance side,
of the room.

Janet had worked hard. Even in the dark, wood gleamed and mirrors sparkled. That dreadful Ouija board had been put away, the broken glass removed, but the horrible furniture was still there. The box of photographic negatives remained on the shelf of the cabinet.

What was she going to do? Mrs. Twig would never stand to be confronted about what Veronica had just seen. Oh, no. This had been going on for a long time. This was the source of all their secrecy. It was worse than anything Veronica could ever have imagined: shape shifting, witchcraft of the blackest kind.

Perhaps the books in the séance room would enlighten her further. Were there more like the one she'd found in the library, that
Dragon Rouge
? If so, she would know for certain what she was dealing with.

Of course, having figured out that Veronica did not like occult things, Janet had locked the cabinet doors. But curiosity was one of Veronica’s most potent drivers.
Let it not be my undoing,
she prayed. She'd seen Auntie pick the lock on the back door of the neighboring pub enough times to know how easy it was. Pulling a long pin from her hair, she fiddled with the keyhole until the doors swung open.

The books were old and fine, but their spines were difficult to read in the dark. On one of the lower shelves she found a flat folder wrapped around a sheaf of rag-edged parchments. That looked interesting. She took it into her bedchamber, and under the light of the candelabrum, rifled through the parchments.

Some of the pages were yellow with age, others looked quite new. They were notes, written in a neat, precise, masculine hand that gave them an air of great importance.

Perusing one of the
sheets, a strange word jumped out at her
: Ectoplasm.

Tonight Our Lady successfully drew forth an astonishing quantity of Ectoplasm within which a spirit began to take form. We queried it via the Ouija Board but the message was garbled, or perhaps communicated in a language unknown to us.

“That must be the mist oozing out of their throats,” Veronica said aloud.
Ectoplasm
…

A dark mood fell over Veronica. She wasn't sure she wanted to know these things. Why was she, a girl raised in a convent, sent into this godforsaken house? Was this Mr. Crowe's idea of a joke?

Setting the parchments on the divan, she sat in the easy chair and put her head in her hands. She should leave. Just go. Life was never easy for her, but this was more than she'd bargained for.

The specter of Saint Mary’s rose up before her mind’s eye like a prison sentence. Nuns. Spinsters. She could never live that life, not after what Rafe had awakened in her. His voice, his scent, his touch, the expression on his face when he looked at her,
told her what she wanted out of life. She would never be content without a man. It would be wrong to go back to Saint Mary's and pretend she'd been called to devote her life to God. It would be the height of hypocrisy.

But then, she laughed to herself, Rafe didn’t want her, so what did it matter?

Out of sheer frustration, she wept.

*

Thirty-One

T
he
curtain of night came down and Veronica was still sitting
at the hearth, staring into space. Her tears had dried, but her heart was heavy.
Why had she gone into that room? Mrs. Twig had told her, on the first day, to leave it alone. Why did she never listen? She should have listened to the horseman on the moor as well, but where would she have gone? Perhaps it was her lot in life to be miserable and confused. Perhaps she was doomed.

Insinuating its way into her consciousness came the distant echo of a bell.

Veronica's ears perked up. Oh no!
Not again!

The sound of the bell reverberated in the air for a time, then gave way to a sound like a
low wind blowing over the moor. Rising out of the wind came a howl, then another and another, until it seemed the land was filled with the lamentable keening of wolves.

It sounded like nothing on earth.
             

She put her hands over her ears. It was no use, for the sounds were not just outside, but in her mind as well.

Down below, in the garden, the dog added his deeper tones to the airy, distant choir. Gradually, the sound rose higher and thinner until it dissipated into the sky.

In the emptiness, the bell tolled, bringing Veronica to tears again.

She wiped her face with her hands. Her body felt hollow, weak. Though it was dark, the twins hadn’t come upstairs yet. She went out to the balcony to see if they still were out there. Of course they weren't. Jacqueline would have carried the dead hare into the house by now. And what did she do with it? Racing through the birch wood, Jacqueline had changed into a wolf so quickly, killed the hare so suddenly, that if Veronica hadn't seen her in her bloody gown, carrying the dead hare home, she would never have believed it possible.

This was why the twins disappeared every month, for three nights. To hide what they were.

The full moon shone through the birches, casting long shadows over the lawn like the bars of a cell door, or a cage, where wild things were supposed to be held. The presence of the moon seemed to fill the garden. How could Veronica trust her perceptions under its influence? How know for sure what was real and what was not? Even the trees seemed to speak.

Wondering about the doll in the yellow gown hanging over the water, Veronica peered into the shadows around the wishing well. And the doll she'd found hanging at the door of the tomb. It was dressed in yellow as well.

As she strove to puzzle it out, a dream-like vision emerged: dolls submerged under water, white and frozen, each one symbolizing a child. And above them, a courtly old doll in a yellow gown danced. Mist swirled around, like ectoplasm, and it seemed… Veronica’s hair rose at the thought… the lady in yellow stepped into the moonlight... and children rose out of the well.

It wasn't the first time she'd imagined this. Gasping for breath, her mind flashed back to the
séance room
and its dreadful experiments.

Ectoplasm.

Was it possible such a substance could be detached, made into forms independent of their producer? Could the sorcerer create spirits?

As Veronica stood on the balcony, children seemed to appear in the yard, all wearing luminous hats of white bark. One boy carried a rowan branch spotted with red berries; a girl carried a bunch of lilies. Another girl, with long, white blonde hair, who looked like a sister to the twins, held the doll in the yellow gown to her heart.

The bell tolled like the voice of doom.

And that strange, hypnotic tune whispered into her mind.

“It’s All Souls Night,” Veronica gasped “When the dead return to haunt the living.”

  Moving back into her room, she was about to fall down across the bed, when the knocker crashed on the door below.

She went out to the landing and stared down through the shadows toward entryway. Mrs. Twig had just run over to answer the door and stopped short, wary as a dog with its hackles raised.

I must see my children...

The voice that sifted through the door was airy, soft, a woman's voice with a refined French accent. It didn't sound human, but as unearthly as the chorus of wolves howling at the fall of night.

Veronica stepped far enough down the stairs to see Mrs. Twig leaning against the front door, trembling as if whoever was behind that glorified plank of wood frightened her half to death.

A mist began to flow in, under the door.

Mrs. Twig fell to her knees and pushed the carpet against the bottom of the door. She fumbled in her pockets and drew out what looked like a packet of dust and began pouring it along the threshold. The mist curled away, shrieking.

Silence. Mrs. Twig wiped her trembling hands on her skirt and watched the door.

The voice silted in again.
How cruel you are to keep a mother from her children, a woman who was foully murdered and buried alive....

Wind buffeted the door. Mrs. Twig jumped back. "Go away!" she shouted. "In the name of the Lord Jesus, go away!"

There was a flicker of silence, then a faint, agonized cry thrilled up the walls of the house. Mrs. Twig closed her eyes and put her arms around her head. The cry rose higher and higher, trailing off into silence.

Vero
nica hurried back to her room. But this was no sanctuary. A brilliant light filled the windows, blazing up from below.

Dread pouring from her scalp to the floor, Veronica stared at the French doors, then slowly tiptoed over and parted the curtains to look out.

The light appeared to be moving over the grass.             

A lady, wearing an ancient yellow gown that sparkled with golden embroideries, stood on the lawn. A crown of birch twigs rose from her head, entangling her long golden hai
r so that it fell around her like a veil. Her face in the midst, glowed like the moon.

"It's Sovay," Veronica whispered.

As if she'd heard her name, the lady in yellow lifted her head. She seemed to see Veronica through the window and the vivid green irises of her eyes turned red.

Veronica breathed out a jagged breath. Was it true what Sovay had whispered at the door? Had she been buried alive? About
to faint, Veronica grabbed for the bedpost.

Pitiful, childlike moans poured down from somewhere high up in the house, from one of the hundred rooms
, or the tower. Bolting back to the parted curtains, Veronica watched the lady in yellow reach up toward those cries, then, groaning, bow low and cover her face with her hands. A dark breeze swirled the train of her gown up around her in a vortex of light and she was gone.

The strange, humming chant that had taken hold
of Veronica's mind, stopped.

“What is this Belden House?” she whispered.

Soft shrieks wafted down from on high, like dust falling from the ceiling, or walls crumbling, or something dying.

The long case clock in the gallery gonged four times. Where was the dawn?
Please, Lord, let it come. Now!