The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance (4 page)

Six

V
eronica slept deeply, the exhaustion of the long journey, the excitement of change, and the utter quietness of Belden House having combined to lull her into the deeps. Her dreams, if any, dissipated with the dawn.

She woke, stretching like a cat, opening her eyes on her beautiful room.
Everything had turned out just right. And the prospect of having a free day to do as she pleased was an unexpected bonus. There were no church bells to herald the dawn, no hymns being sung to wake her, only wan, watery sunlight brightening the window, and the voices of a thousand songbirds.

She rose and went out to the balcony,
her
balcony now, and looked out over the back yard. Rays of sunlight angled through the slim, white trunks of the birch grove, brightened the fringe of lilies where she’d first seen the twins at their strange little game.

Far up, at the top of the lawn was the ruin. In the morning light it proved to be a chapel with an empty clerestory window and a crumbling bell tower. A dark hedge with two tapering cypress trees loomed up behind it.

Shivering with a sudden chill, she went back inside.

When she opened the doors of the wardrobe for her dressing gown, the scent of cedar wafted out. This was another luxury. At Saint Mary’s, the closet
s reeked of mothballs. The nuns reeked of that obnoxious smell after they changed into their winter robes. It took days to for it to dissipate. No matter how much incense they burned.

Nothing h
ere at Belden House reminded Veronica of that life. Nothing at all. That book she'd seen in the library,
Le Dragon Rouge
, brought up a shudder. Hopefully it was just being stored there. Still, if it was valuable, why didn't Mr. de Grimston sell it? Antique books like that fetched extremely high prices at auction. Maybe she would suggest it. Maybe not.  As much as she hated being near such a book, it wasn't her place to comment.

She remembered hearing a bell last night. Was there a Catholic church nearby? No one had said a word about how she was to worship here. She rummaged through her satchel for her daily missal, and clutched it like a shield against the influence of that other book, the one in the library.

Thinking about the book made her feel anxious. How annoying! The nuns had done a good job teaching her to be afraid of things they didn't approve of. It was only a book. Belden House was so beautiful. The twins were lovely. Mrs. Twig was kind. Things here were new and different. That was all. Fear was really just excitement over the new life unfolding before her. There was so much to learn!

Whatever made her waver could be chalked up to insecurity in the face of the unknown. A lot was expected of her. What if she failed to measure up?

Admit it, Veronica; you always assume the worst,
she thought.

Relationships would sour, happiness would crumble, and everything would fall into ruin. Life had always been that way and always would be. On and on and on...  But, this was to be a
new
life.
One of her choosing
. There was no reason to anticipate disaster.

A long day stretched before her, with the freedom to do as she
liked. A cup of tea was first in order. Then a walk. After that, she had two trunks to unpack, and clothes to organize. Perhaps she would have a hot soak in the hipbath. She'd not had one of those in months.

eee

Breakfast was set out on a sideboard large enough to supply a groaning feast. There were more than enough eggs and toast and beans and sausage for one person. The teapot was boiling hot. Picking what she wanted from the covered silver platters, Veronica took a tray to the dining room where she could look out at the orchard.

An old wall, layers of dark grey slates almost buried under ivy, went around the square, lumpy ground. Pear trees flanked the gateposts. Other trees grew up around them. Golden sunlight sparkled in the dewy grass and leaves. All appeared so fertile, so lush.

Crows flew in to gather in a large apple tree, reminding her of Mr. Crowe. Veronica rested her chin on her folded hands and thanked God and the spindly little agent for sending her here.

How lovely to have a day in which to do as the spirit moves me
, she thought.

With that she realized what day it was: 17, September, her birthday. Well, she couldn’t have asked for a better gift than this day.

It was also a Tuesday.

Tuesday’s child is full of grace…

Crossing the threshold from eighteen to nineteen closed the door to the past forever. There was no going back. Not to Saint Mary's. No matter what happened, she had to make her life work at Belden House. Any prospect beyond here was a blank.

What about Sundays? It was a sin to skip Mass. She’d never been without it. Life at Saint Mary’s
revolved
around church services. Sometimes there were three Masses in one day.

Well, it was only Tuesday. There was time.

Veronica cleaned her plate. The tea was so good that she wanted another cup. She took the tray back to the sideboard to find that the pot had been refilled with boiling water by an invisible hand. Where was Janet, anyway?

She took her tea into the conservatory and looked out. A large, white dog was sitting on the terrace watching the birds. It looked like an Alsatian, but was slimmer and its fur grew in long, soft tufts. He was a friendly, noble looking dog. Mrs. Twig hadn’t mentioned about them having pets. Perhaps he would accompany her on her walk.

            
 
ee
e
             

Veronica had a small but serviceable wardrobe. She alternated between two everyday dresses in
good condition, one of forest green merino wool and another of brick red worsted. She'd made a new dress from a bolt of yellow muslin that had been donated to Saint Mary's by a wealthy parishioner. It was her favorite dress, but being light and summery, was out of season now. She needed to put it in the canvas storage bag with her black velvet mourning dress and a Pre-Raphaelite gown, a costume, really, that had belonged to her mother. Veronica never wore that. For today, she chose the brick red dress, topped by a brown traveling cloak that covered her from head to toe.

She stepped out through the French doors and crossed the terrace to the back yard. The dog was sniffing around the wellspring.

“Come on, boy! Come on!” she shouted.

Ears perked up, the dog leaped over the grass to meet her. He snuffled her skirts, and looked up at her with melting brown eyes. She rubbed his furry head.

“Come on, let’s go to the orchard.”

The morning air was delightful. Veronica’s mood lifted. The orchard had so worked on her imagination, that when she reached the little gate in the ancient stone wall, she felt as if she were entering a scene in a novel. A large wicker basket, perfect for a harvest of apples, sat on the top of the wall. Pulling it down, she found it full of curling, dried leaves. These, she emptied into the grass, and then opened the gate.

The orchard smelled sweet. The trees were heavy-laden. Why had no one picked any of the fruit? It seemed a kind of sin to leave food to rot on the branch as if there weren’t starving people in the world. Some of the reddest apples lay on the ground like crushed hearts, food for worms and squirrels and birds. At least the wildlife weren’t wasteful.

The dog seemed well acquainted with the place, nosing around the walls, wagging his tail. It was nice having a dog around. Companionable.

Veronica reached into the branches, grasping apples, twisting stems, dropping them into her basket, lingering to breathe in the fragrances of soil and ripe fruit. She tugged a small, compact apple off its limb and bit into it. Delicious! She had another. It was like the Garden of Eden all over again.

At the farthest end of the orchard was another gate set between stone plinths. Beyond it, the moor stretched to the horizon. She gradually made her way toward the view. The rolling gold and violet hills seemed to go on forever. Odd-shaped clusters of rocks poked up from the otherwise smooth carpet of grass like the ruins of ancient towers worn down by the wind.

Setting her heavy basket on the wall, Veronica let her mind wander freely over the vastness of earth and sky, wondering what lay beyond. She was far away in her imagination when the dog began barking. An animal shot past, almost tearing her skirts.

S
he screamed, pulling her skirts in close.

Hot on the creature's heels, the dog dashed past her to the moor. A flurry of red undulated through the grass. It was only a fox.

Barking in frenzy, the dog ran at the rippling grass, leaped up and spun like a top as the fox took off in the opposite direction. 

“Stop! Stop!” Veronica laughed, put two fingers in her mouth and whistled.

The dog paid no attention but continued diving through the heather. The fox took him in wider and wider circles. Round and round the dog raced, yelping and whining piteously in defeat.

Veronica ran out to get him. By the time she reached him, he was sitting up, ears perked forward as the fox vanished without a trace.

“Thwarted you, did he?” she said, rubbing the dog’s head. “That’s the way of foxes, you silly. They know how to exhaust you and leave you in the lurch.”

As the dog panted, Veronica straightened up and looked around. She was far out on the moor, in a vast, open space lit with the shadows of moving clouds, and slashes of sunlight. She sat down on a large stone and enjoyed the wild vista. The dog laid on her feet, growling softly, its head resting on its paws. Bees hummed. The sun's warmth invited her to unhook the clasp of her cloak and let it fall loosely over her shoulders. She leaned her head back and soaked in the sun's rays. Never had she felt so serene.

Crickets began to sing.

Though the sky was still blue, the moon was out, pale and full and proud as an actress waiting for the lights to go down. Veronica didn't like the moon being out in the daytime. It seemed unnatural. Perhaps it was time to go in.

She clapped her hands to the dog.

“Come on, boy. Let’s go in. I’m hungry.”

The dog wagged his tail, tilting his head as if wondering how she could be hungry after eating all those apples. Veronica could not help laughing.

The dog was ignoring her, gazing at something out on the moor. She was about to call him to come along again, when she saw a dark speck moving in the distance, and very quickly coming their way. At closer range, it proved to be a man on horseback, riding at a hard, relentless speed as if trying to escape his very death.

Seeing Veronica, the rider abruptly stopped and seemed to study her for a moment. Then, drawing the wing of his cloak across his face as if to hide it, he kicked the horse and trotted toward her.

Veronica instinctively reached for the dog, but he wasn’t there. Rather he was running toward the horseman, wagging his tail as if he knew him. Veronica was wary. The horseman struck her as unsavory, perhaps even criminal.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his rough voice muted by the fabric of his cloak.

Hoping to get a better look at him, Veronica held her ground.

“No one you need know about,” she said.

The man turned his horse around, looked at the moon, and kept turning until he’d completed a circle.

“Get out of here,” he shouted. “Do you hear me? Get out of here!”

Startled, Veronica jumped back. Who was this person to command her like this?

“Get the bloody blazes out of here, or I shall thrash you within an inch of your life!” He raised his riding crop high overhead. The horse leaped in place, nickering as if the bridle hurt its mouth. The dog yelped and scampered out from under its hooves.

Shaking with fear, Veronica whistled for the dog. “Come on!”

The horseman sliced the air with his riding crop, turned the horse again, and seemed about to charge at her.

Struck by the blue ice of his eyes, Veronica fled back into the orchard. She did not stop running until she was inside the house. Shaking, she locked the door behind her.

“Mrs. Twig! Mrs. Twig!” she cried, her voice echoing around the large, empty house.

The housekeeper wasn’t home yet. No one was home.

She hurried to the dining room window and looked out for the horseman. The orchard was still and silent.
Preternaturally silent...

Did he know she was
in here alone?

Seven

T
he sun was going down; the moon brightened.

W
ringing her hands with agitation, Veronica paced her balcony.

Mrs. Twig and the twins were still not home. What was taking them so long? Had they traveled to the end of the world?

Imagine that horseman ordering her to leave! And threatening her with a whip! Who was he to tell her to go? And so violently!

She glanced around the yard looking for a sign of him. What if he'd sneaked onto the grounds? He could hide in the woods and wait until dark, then break into the house....

Heart banging, Veronica looked back into her room, at the interior door open to the landing, and listened.

Downstairs, the front door was locked, but what about the French doors at the back?

She skidded lightly across her room to the landing and hurried downstairs. She tested the front door to make sure it was secure. She went to the breakfast nook, where the glass walls of the conservatory let the outside in, and scanned the darkness beyond the terrace. The plants and flowers gathered in dark clusters in a wash of lowering sunlight. Aware that whoever was out in the yard could see her through the glass, she hastened out of the conservatory to the French doors, and jiggled the latch.

Whew! They were locked. Mrs. Twig must have seen to it before she left. Thank goodness for small mercies.

Something rustled in the shrubberies that grew along the terrace, setting butterflies free in Veronica's stomach. She froze.

Watching, listening... 

Most likely, the dog had ambled past the bushes. 

She
flew back to the dining room to look out at the orchard. It was as glowing and peaceful as it had been before she'd ventured in. Perhaps the horseman had stayed out on the moor. What if he was a highwayman, or a convict on the loose? And came back during the night?

She
ran back up to her room and locked the door.

Backing away from the door and
running out to her balcony to look out over the yard again, it struck Veronica that she'd never been truly alone before. Even when drunk, Aunt Flora was still there. At Saint Mary's she'd slept in a dormitory. The nuns had been everywhere, the girls always going about in groups. Mr. Crowe and his notion she would love her
privacy,
had been dead wrong. She didn't like being alone at all.

If she had any idea where Mr. Croft was she would send him for the police.

Shaking with dread, Veronica began arranging her clothes in the wardrobe. The chore distracted her somewhat. Still, with half her mind, she listened for noises downstairs.

When the front door finally banged open, it was dark. The children clattered into the house. Mrs. Twig’s voice rang out. “Go on up to your
rooms now, Jack, and get ready for dinner."

Veronica heard the twins stomping up the sta
irs with slow, tired steps, going quiet on the landing outside her closed door. She threw it open. They were gone. It didn't matter. She needed to talk to Mrs. Twig about the horseman.

She stepped out to the landing and looked down the stairs. Firelight flared from the drawing room into the vestibule. The house had come back to life.
Hoping to find the housekeeper in the drawing room, Veronica hurried downstairs. The room was empty. She went to the dining room, the kitchen.

The cook was at the butcher's block
, chopping onions. A ruddy woman with dishwater blonde hair, her figure well suited to physical labor, she looked up at Veronica and wiped her hands on her apron.

Veronica stepped toward her, offering her hand.

“Oh, hello. I’m Miss Everly. The new governess.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Everly. I’m Peggy, the cook. I think I was cooking the day you arrived. I'm always cooking. I cook here and then I go home and cook for my family. I suppose God meant me for a cook, so it's all I do."

Peggy's hand was warm and moist, her handshake quick.

“Pleased to meet you, Peggy. Your cooking is wonderful. I agree you must have been born for it. Have you seen Mrs. Twig?”

“I think she’s in her room for a lie down. She often lies down before dinner.” Peggy wiped onion tears from her eyes.

“I suppose I shall see her then. Thank you, Peggy.”

Peggy nodded and resumed chopping. Smiling politely to hide her disappointment at Mrs. Twig's lack of availability, Veronica went back upstairs to her rooms.

She sat down by the fire and stared at the flames. The day had been so promising,
but now she was frustrated.
What a birthday this is!
And how long would Mrs. Twig be lying down?

Veronica hunched over and rubbed her forehead the way her mother used to do for her when she was a child
, smoothing out the worry lines. Feeling somewhat calmer she looked up. The fire threw flashes of light into the room under the archway where the de Grimston family treasures were stored. Looking at the mirror on the far wall filled her with nostalgia for something long vanished: the theater, the dressing room mirrors, perhaps, the intimate brightness of her childhood with her parents.

Maybe a na
p would sort her out, help her forget the shock of a strange man shouting at her and threatening her with his whip.



Veronica didn’t know how long she slept in the comfortable easy chair, but when she woke, the fire was low. The windows were flooded with moonlight. It caught in the filmy curtains around the French doors, washed over her bed. She wavered out to the balcony and saw the moon, full as a bowl of cream, high above the birch grove.

Downstairs, the long case clock gonged seven times. She'd been asleep for two hours. Had she missed dinner? Why hadn’t they knocked for her? Was she expected to know when to go down without being told?

As if on cue, a bell jingled downstairs. The dinner bell. At last!

Veronica hugged herself and shivered. She was freezing. It was time to go downstairs and talk to Mrs. Twig.

She was about to lock the French doors firmly behind her, to go in where it was safe and warm, when a bell began to toll. The sound seemed to come over a far distance, its rhythm slow, smoky, and strangely off key.

Veronica turned to look back at the ruined chapel and the bell tower. The little arched window where the bell hung was dark, impossible to see the rim of a swinging bell, or discern who might be pulling the rope. Yet a bell was ringing. Its slow somber note seemed to fill the land, echoing from the trees, the hills, the rocks, far away, yet close, as close as the inside of her body, and as far away as the center of the earth.

Music. A chorus humming. The tune was like nothing she'd ever heard before. As she listened, trying to locate the source of the sound, it resolved into an ancient, minor tune that fell, and rose, fell and rose again, slowly entering her mind until all worries ceased and she grew quiet. Her body seemed to shift to another plane, slightly higher than the earth. She gazed at the ruined chapel, lunar white against the dark hedge at its back, expecting someone to appear in the empty doorway. Perhaps the bellman... or...

Just below, the white dog was gliding over the lawn. It caught her eye and stopped in mid-stride to stare at her.
Startled by the intensity of its gaze, Veronica fell back to reality, and the dog vanished as if had been swallowed by the night.

Veronica held her breath.
A cry that was as old as time rose up through the trees. Wild and eerie, another cry, a high, thin howl, followed, to be echoed by another, fainter and further away.

Hair and skirts flattened as if all the air had been sucked out of them, Veronica gripped the balustrade.

What is it? What is out there?

The dinner bell jingled
, impatiently this time.

"I'm coming
! I'm coming!" she shouted.

The humming stopped. Her head cleared. She gazed down at the l
ilies around the wishing well hoping to see the twins. But they'd been in bed, napping, safe and sound. And Mrs. Twig, as well, had been napping.

There was a lot to discuss over dinner.