The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance Page 12

  Mrs. Twig looked alarmed. “What kind of changes?”

  “Painting out those infernal murals.”

  “No!” Jack shouted with one voice.

  “I think they’re holding up the sale of the place. No one wants to live with them.”

  “But, Mr. Rafe, the murals have been on those walls for centuries. They are part of the house’s history,” Mrs. Twig said, laying a hand over her heart.

  “NO!” said the twins. “Papa!”

  “It’s a history I would like to forget and that I believe everyone else would like to forget.”

  “What are the murals of?” Veronica asked.

  “Cursed things is what they are of,” Rafe said.

  “But the children seem to love them,” Veronica said, glancing from Jacques to Jacqueline. “The chateau is all they ever talk about. Maybe you’re not meant to sell it.”

  “You mean its God’s will, or something?” Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “I just want to get rid of the blasted place.”

  Mrs. Twig frowned into her drink. “She was there, then.”

  Rafe quaffed his wine.

  Veronica was about ask who was there? when Jacques interrupted.

  “But Papa! We love it there. We want to go back and live there forever.”

  “We do,” said Jacqueline. “Miss Everly is right. Try to save it for us. Please, Papa!"

  Rafe’s eyes traveled over Veronica’s face, down the side of her neck, her shoulder blades, his gaze seeking under her hair. Whatever he was thinking was so powerful it felt as if he were running his hands over her skin. Her breath caught, and his eyes roved over to her throat.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  Veronica brushed her hand over her neck and shoulder, and felt the little blue tag sticking out.

  “Those are Mamma’s pearls,” said Jacqueline, staring at the tag.

  “Oh,” Veronica breathed. She looked for Janet in her post beside the sideboard and saw her back away into the shadows.

  “What?” Mrs. Twig gave Veronica a hard look.

  Veronica’s head seemed to leave her body and lift into the air. “I, uh...” She fingered the pearls, glided her hand along them, seeking the offending tag. Unsteady with wine, she scraped her chair back and got to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she said, and ran out of the room.

  Storming through the ladies' boudoir, knocking through the two empty rooms, Veronica’s mind was awhirl. That jealous, envious, bitter Janet had never asked permission, but had just taken the pearls on her own and foisted them on Veronica under false pretenses. To cause trouble. How humiliating! She would be sacked now. She’d have to creep back to Saint Mary’s branded as a thief. As if they would take a thief back in! They certainly wouldn’t let her be a nun after this, would never recommend her for another position. Not with a mark like this on her record. She’d be forced onto the stage, like her mother, begging pennies in exchange for a dance. Until she died a slow horrible death.

  When she reached the main drawing room, Veronica tore the pearls off and dropped them on a table near the staircase. Let Janet find them! She would pack her bags and leave. Now!

  Veronica wavered quickly up the stairs to her room and locked the door. After stripping off the precious green gown, she fell into bed.

  Twenty

  Were those church bells ringing? They sounded so clear and loud. The church must be close… just over there....

  The air was damp, coating her bare skin. Her head felt heavy as a waterlogged sponge.

  Something was tickling her face. Grass. Veronica pushed herself up and leaned on one elbow. Her head ached something fierce. It took a moment to register that she was outside, on the ground, in her underwear. She felt sick.

  How had she gotten out here?

  She squinted at the sun raying out over the eastern horizon. The bell stopped. Her head throbbed. A thousand birds broke into song. What on earth was going on?

  She wobbled to her feet and looked around in bewilderment. The moor spread out on all sides in an endless undulation of low, rolling hills empty of everything except rocks, grass and purple heather. The sky, purple as the heather, glowered down. A sliver of lightning lit the clouds, followed by a loud crack of thunder.

  The moor spun around. Veronica collapsed into the shallow depression where she lay weak and panting from exertion. How did I get here? How did I get here? Her head swam. Where am I? She held her weighty head in her hands. Oh, it hurts…

  A white hare was leaping toward her over the shadowy heath. A flash of yellow lightning seared the horizon followed by a deep growl of thunder. The hare circled around her in the grass, then hopped into the depression near her head and began making a nest as if Veronica weren’t there. Frightened yet fascinated, she watched it for a moment. Why was the creature thought uncanny? It seemed harmless enough. She tried to stand up and look around again, and immediately tottered over and fell to her knees.

  She was too ill to stand. Her stomach was too hollow to support her even with her corset. Every muscle ached.

  “Oh, what have I done?” Out of sheer weakness, she crumpled down and wept. Where was she?

  A splinter of lightning forked to the ground, followed by a crack of thunder that split the heavens.

  Veronica staggered to her feet and looked around the never-ending horizon of the moor. The air was heavy; a low breeze blew up, chilling her bare skin. It was going to rain. Swaying slightly, she searched for a place to shelter in the coming downpour.

  Hadn’t she heard church bells close by? She anxiously scanned the landscape for a steeple. There were no landmarks anywhere. Nothing made by human hands. Except maybe that bell. But she couldn’t recall what direction it came from. If only it would ring again!

  The last thing she remembered was dropping her mother’s gown on the floor of her room. What had happened between then and now was completely blank. Had she come out here alone, or had she been, horrible thought, thrown out of Belden House for saying stupid things? Memories came back in a torrent; she’d managed to offend everyone at the table. Tears streamed down her face as fat raindrops began to hit her skin.

  “I suppose you’re happy now, Janet!” she cried. “You've got good and rid of me. I’ll bet you’re in love with… with… him!”

  She bowed her head and sobbed into her hands. The whole thing was hideous, shameful. She'd surely been let go. Branded forever a drunkard and a thief. No man would want her around his children. Nobody would want her. She might as well be dead.

  Shaking now, she scanned the horizon. Under a low bank of purple clouds, a gash of yellow light streaked, chasing shadows like black-winged moths over the hills.

  The more rational side of her mind finally gained the upper hand, and her sobs ended in ragged hiccups. One thing was sure----she couldn't stay out here in the rainstorm. Perhaps her voice would echo over the emptiness far enough to reach the ears of someone.

  “Help!” she called. “Somebody! Anybody! Please help!”

  Her voice trailed away. She didn’t even have the strength to call for help.

  The breeze was clammy and chill now, a slash of sun vanished behind a bruise of clouds. She shivered in her semi-nakedness.

  The hare had burrowed in nicely under a hummock, looking cozy in its pale winter coat. It watched her with its single eye.

  “I wish I had your coat right now,” she said to the hare. “If you are a witch of any sort, I wish you would tell me in what direction home is.”

  She watched the hare for a moment, its nose twitching, its ears flattened back, solid in its survival instinct. The poor, dumb beast had a survival instinct, so where was hers? How had she gotten into this mess? Perhaps she was meant to die out here on the moors. She fell, shaking, to the ground.

  Her stomach heaving, she got the words out. “Dear Lord, if you want to take me now, please come and do it quickly.”

  Summoning all her strength, she stood up and began walking in the direction she thought the bell had come from. Her p
etticoats dragged on the grass and the heather as if to hold her back. Rain fell, plastering her hair to her face. Wind rose up, buffeted against her, raising gooseflesh over her arms. Unable to fight against the wind and rain, she turned and then could not stop turning, stumbling, round and round and round…

  “There she is, boys!”

  Veronica’s eyes fluttered open. Horsemen were coming toward her. Her heart pounding with panic, she watched them approach. One rode a huge black charger with rolling eyes and wide, flaring nostrils. She knew that horse. Blinking, she pushed her wet hair out of her face. She knew the rider. It was Rafe de Grimston.

  “At last! We’ve been looking all night for you,” he cried, dismounting from his horse. “What in the world possessed you to run away like that?”

  Veronica couldn’t talk. Rafe scooped her up and swung her onto his saddle; Veronica grabbed the horse's mane with a death grip.

  “Come on, let’s get you home. Thanks, Southcott. Croft, take the day off.”

  The men tipped their hats to Rafe. They looked exhausted.

  “Thank you kindly, sir. We both could use some shut-eye, I’m sure,” said Mr. Croft.

  “Couldn’t we all,” said Rafe.

  Veronica was sick with guilt. “I’m sorry, sir.... Mr. Croft... Mr. Southcott... I’m sorry for you as well.... I don’t know how I got out here. I’ve no memory of it at all.”

  They both gave her an arch look. Her stomach hitched and she felt suddenly nauseous.

  “You look awful, like you’re about to fall off the horse," said Rafe. "Hold tight to the mane while I climb up."

  Veronica’s head was spinning again. She leaned forward against the horse’s neck and held on while Rafe swung up behind her. She dully watched the other two men ride off with a pony trap that bumped and seesawed over the uneven ground like it was about to fall apart.

  “You managed to walk a very long way in the dark. Where did you think you were going?” Rafe asked as he kicked the horse into a brisk canter.

  “I don’t know. I heard church bells this morning. Where are we?” God, the ride was swerving!

  “Didn’t they serve you wine in that monastery?”

  “It’s an orphanage, sir, and a nunnery. They don’t have wine.” She hiccupped. Like her aunt. “Except at Communion.”

  “Grape juice,” he scoffed. “You’ve never had a drink in your life, have you? It wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t had that dram of Scotch later on.”

  “Scotch?”

  “You don’t remember, do you?”

  “I don’t recall anything. We are riding quite a way, sir.”

  “Yes. You walked almost to the village and took the longest way to get there. There is a road, you know. Then you had the nerve to faint in the tall grass where it was impossible to see you. If we hadn’t found you, I wonder how long you would have lasted out here on the heath. It goes on for miles. Miles and miles of rolling bewitchment. Perhaps you saw a will-o-the-wisp and mistook it for a friend.”

  Veronica sighed. “I don’t remember.”

  She didn’t want to talk any more. She let herself collapse against Rafe, feeling safe in his arms for the moment at least.

  Then she remembered the pearls, and her momentary relief shattered. She didn’t want to mention them, but the entire household had, no doubt, already started spreading gossip. She could imagine Mrs. Twig’s attitude, frosty with contempt, gazing down from on high, pronouncing her a thief and an outcast. Janet laughing with the cooks and the hired girl about how she’d tricked the governess and gotten her sacked. Yes, yes, yes. Janet’s happy now.

  What good would it do to bring her back to Belden House when they would only throw her out on the moor again? Better to face death once than twice.

  An old wall of layered slate came into view, then the trees of the orchard. Soon, Rafe was bending down to release the wicket gate and they were riding among the gnarled apple trees, under branches of overripe fruit among leaves the color of rust. The full basket was still sitting on the wall, the apples, no doubt, drowning in rain. Sunlight filtered down, dappling the ground before them. The storm of the morning had given way to bright sunshine and sweet air, but Veronica drew no comfort from that sunshine. Thunder had moved into her heart.

  

  They were waiting at the door. Janet was running down the stairs to the forecourt, wringing her hands and crying.

  “Oh, Miss, oh Miss! Is she all right, Mr. Rafe?”

  “She’ll recover. Help her down will you, Janet?”

  Rafe released Veronica who slipped into the maid’s embrace like a helpless child. Mrs. Twig encircled her with a warm cloak. Veronica had to pretend they didn't hate her long enough to get some rest.

  Rafe dismounted, handed his horse off to one of the boys and came toward Veronica who was now wilting against her nemesis.

  "Thank you Janet. I'll carry her in," he said.

  Picking Veronica up, he carried her in his strong arms, cloak and all, into the house. Mrs. Twig followed, her face haggard, as if she had been kept awake all night. Janet scurried after, anxious as a squirrel, trying to keep up with Rafe's long stride as he carefully negotiated the stairs.

  “Oh, Miss Everly, oh Mr. Rafe, it was all my fault,” Janet cried.

  Rafe silenced the distraught maid with a look, and cocked his head toward Veronica's door. Janet hurried to open it, and Rafe wafted Veronica into her room.

  “Come on, Janet. She needs rest and warm blankets. She almost died of exposure out there. We can talk later, once she’s rallied. Come on Mrs. Twig. You know better than anyone what to do.”

  Rafe held Veronica aloft as Janet turned down the bedcovers. He smiled at Veronica reassuringly, gazing at her with his sky blue eyes. There was a shot of violet in them she hadn’t noticed before. A lock of black hair fell down, brushing his eyelashes. It looked fetching, but bothersome. She was about to smooth it back, when Janet ducked away from the bed, leaving Rafe free to lay Veronica down.

  He pulled the coverlet up to her chin. “I was afraid we’d lost you.”

  Rafe's tone of concern surprised Veronica. "I thought you'd thrown me out, sir."

  "For what?"

  It was humiliating to have to admit her infraction, discuss her drunkenness. Veronica pulled the coverlet closer.

  "I suppose it was your Christian duty to rescue me in the end. Once I'm on my feet again, I'll go. I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble.”

  Rafe didn't seem to catch on to what Veronica was alluding to. He scowled. “I should have known you wouldn’t be used to alcohol. I should have stayed Janet’s hand. Servants are fond of drinking, and can hold it their liquor. Not you, I’m afraid.”

  No mention of the pearls.

  “You’re terribly amusing when you’re drunk.” He smiled and laughed softly as if he remembered something quite hilarious.

  Veronica was horrified. She must have behaved like an utter fool. Tears started in her eyes, but she frowned them away.

  Rafe gently squeezed her ankle where it was under the covers. Mrs. Twig rushed through the door with towels and a dressing gown. Looking rather chagrined, Rafe stood up and hurried past her, shutting the door as he left.

  Twenty-One

  Veronica slept deeply, as if she'd been drugged. She fought her stupor a few times, swimming to the surface with a terrible need for breath, wheezing awake to eye-watering daylight staring through the gap between her partially closed bed curtains. When she could breathe, the air was thick with the medicinal smell of camphor. She drifted between sleep and waking, aware of distant sounds: shouting, quarreling, doors slamming. It seemed a lot of people were running around upstairs, feet pounding on her ceiling. She wished they'd be quiet and let her sleep.

  On a night that seemed a continuation of all other nights, the stars of Orion shone in through the windows, waking her to delirium. The bed was so hot that her pillows were soaked with sweat. She wanted to get up, to go out into the coolness of the balcony,
but she couldn't move. A bell was tolling, the sound muffled as if its bronze hollow were choked with mist. And that hum in her head... It just went on and on and on. Night winds blew low over the moors, lulling her into dreams of tombs and ruins, ghostly visitants and wolves.

  Though vivid, none of these noises were loud enough to free her from the leaden heaviness of sleep. The voices of the twins rose up from the well, singing, but she could not move, could not go to them. She dreamed of white china dolls rising out of the water with lilies in their hands.

  Wondering about them, Veronica seemed to have found her way out to the balcony. Down below, the lilies around the hollow of the well rustled. A lady dressed in an ancient yellow gown, a crown of birch twigs on her head, drifted out to the lawn. Like a spirit, she seemed to be lit from within, to waver like a flame…to shine…to shimmer…to grow white. Sorrow bruised the lady's eyes. But when those eyes found Veronica's they turned red. Her mouth twisted open, showing long, sharp fangs.

  Veronica's heart slammed against her ribs.

  Mingled with the low moaning of the wind, a voice murmured: Go away...go away...go away...

  "I'll not! I'll not!" Veronica felt herself say, but, dreaming, she could not be sure.

  The lady in yellow vanished. In her place was a white wolf, its long, hollow cry rising through the night like an oath.

  

  Veronica lay in the violet darkness of her curtained bed in the throes of fever, her mind swimming, unsure if the things she heard and saw were real or just fever-induced hallucinations.

  

  The crackle of flames woke her in panic. Through the gap in the curtains at the foot of her bed, Veronica beheld streams of reflected firelight flashing over the walls. The red curtains around her bed seemed to be blazing, bright as blood.

  Fire!

  Too weak to scream, she clawed madly at the bed curtains until she was free. Seized by dizziness, she collapsed onto the floor.

  The last thing Veronica saw before she fainted was Rafe and the twins sitting on her divan in the glow of a high, dancing fire, a large book splayed open across their laps.