The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance Page 21

  "Yes, I too shall take advantage of the light. Tah."

  Nose in the air, Jacques brushed past them and went out to the hallway.

  Jacqueline squeezed Veronica's hand. "He's jealous, Miss Everly."

  "I'm sorry about that. It seems an army man should learn to sew. Don't you think?"

  Jacqueline gave Veronica a withering look. "But not dresses, Miss Everly."

  "Oh, of course. Let's just get it done. He'll keep himself busy."

  Hopefully not reading that Dragon Rouge...

  

  By late afternoon, Veronica and Jacqueline had the garnet dress hemmed and two more cut out and pinned together. It was enough. Veronica hated to do anything to come between the twins. They were so alike that she'd never thought of them having differences before. Perhaps this was a new development. Perhaps her request for help with typical woman's work had prompted this new differentiation. It many ways it was inevitable, and, she felt, a good thing. It just wouldn't be wise to push it. Children needed space to grow.

  Fresh new dresses were a wonderful tonic for the spirit. Clean and new. She commenced sewing in solitude, letting her mind wander. Always her thoughts revolved around Rafe: memories of his face, how he looked at her, how she felt when he touched her. She'd chosen the copper colored silk for him. The copper sheen was slightly dressy, flattering her creamy complexion and bringing the lights in her hair. It would be impossible to compete with his French paramour, but at least she could put in a showing.

  When would he be back? Veronica sighed. It wasn't right for a father to stay away for so long. Even if he had no interest in her, it seemed Rafe should want to be with his children. Especially with so much danger all around them. They needed his strength and protection. It wasn't enough to rely on Mr. Croft.

  The copper colored silk shimmered in her hands as she worked a fancy stitch into the sleeve. "Oh, Rafe, please come home. Come home now."

  Forty-two

  She was on the roof of the tower feeding the doves the day two black horses pulled into the snow-glazed forecourt, drawing a hearse.

  Veronica’s breath left her body. No. It couldn't be. She'd have known if something bad had happened to Rafe. She would have felt it in her heart.

  Tears started in her eyes. Had there been an accident?

  Mrs. Twig ran screaming out of the house. In her haste, she stumbled and slipped on the ice, landing on her hands and knees. “Mr. Rafe! Mr. Rafe!” she cried, reaching for the hearse.

  Eyes wide with alarm, Janet came running out after Mrs. Twig. She quickly pulled the distraught housekeeper to her feet, then dashed toward the rear doors of the carriage where two men waited for the driver who was jumping down with the keys. Veronica could just make out, through the long, etched window in the side of the hearse, the shape of a closed coffin.

  "Oh, please, God, don't let it be Rafe."

  She should go down and find out who it was, but after weeks of poor appetite, and now this shock, she could only lean weakly against the battlements and watch the scene around the hearse unfold. The doors at the back of the carriage swung open. Mr. Croft, in his stovepipe hat, strode over to help the two men grapple with the contents.

  Reflecting the sunlight from a coating of pure, bright silver, the coffin slid out into the sunshine. After what sounded like a heated conversation with Mr. Croft, the workmen lifted the bright casket onto their shoulders and marched down the lawn toward the tomb in the woods.

  A sob caught in Veronica's throat. She sank down on the bench. Her mind began to spin, her stomach turned. Breathing heavily, she lowered her head to her knees to stop herself fainting.

  There were noises below, in the garden. She lifted her head to look between the crenellations, but hadn’t the strength to lift it high enough to see.

  “Where is Miss Everly?”

  Rafe’s voice boomed up from below the stairs.

  What?

  “Miss Everly? Where are you?”

  It was as if life returned to her.

  “Here! Here I am,” she called too softly to be heard.

  Wiping her face with the back of her hands, Veronica felt joy bursting from every pore. She stared at the top of the tower stairs as if Rafe were about to appear, before she realized that he didn’t know where she was. She got slowly to her feet, braced her hand against the wall, and saw another silver coffin being carried into the trees. Had there been two deaths?

  Smoothing her hair, her skirts, hoping her eyes weren't puffed and her nose red, Veronica hurried downstairs as fast as she could go. Rafe was home. He’d called for her. That was unexpected, and remarkable. Had he missed her? Of course not. But…

  As if she’d heard her coming, Janet was at the bottom of the steps waiting to hand Veronica a warm, damp handkerchief to wipe her face. It was soothing, refreshing and so thoughtful.

  “Thank you Janet. But how did you know I needed it?”

  "I'm not blind," Janet said with a glint in her eye.

  With that, she ushered Veronica into the drawing room.

  He was there, waiting beside the fire, exquisitely dressed in a black frock coat and a white cravat, cufflinks flashing at his wrists. Handsome in his dark masculinity, Rafe looked her up and down, impatience dancing in his blue eyes.

  Veronica pushed a stray curl away from her face. She was glad to have worn her new copper colored silk dress and nothing yellow.

  “And where have you been?” he asked.

  “I was…. Class was over… I didn’t know you’d returned, sir,” she said.

  “So. You didn’t miss me at all, or you would have been watching out for me.”

  “Well, sir, I….”

  “Never mind. I brought you something. A book.” Rafe pulled a large, wrapped parcel out of his satchel and handed it to her.

  It was rather musty smelling and so heavy that Veronica had to hold it in both arms.

  "Why, thank you, sir."

  “That book… I had it appraised in London. It’s quite authentic. I brought it from our house in France especially for you.”

  “Why, thank you, but I can’t possibly accept it.”

  “Please do. I insist. Come on. It’s very heavy so you’d better sit down.”

  Veronica sat on a wing chair and tore the paper wrapping off. Inside was an ancient looking tome with a blue damask cover, gilded at the edges. The title was printed in gold leaf over crimson: Book of Unholy Beasts.

  “Come on. Open it.”

  “I can’t.” She hoped he couldn’t see the trembling that gave away the powerful effect he had on her.

  “You will, or I shall have to flog you for insubordination. Come on.”

  Rafe leaned on the mantel, smiling. His eyes were commanding, but kind.

  It was indeed a very old book.

  “It's a Bestiary. Inscribed and illuminated by monks in the twelfth century,” Rafe said. “It is filled with tales of strange creatures no longer thought to exist on earth.”

  Veronica flipped to a page with a picture of a mermaid sitting on a rock surrounded by a sea of lapis lazuli.

  “How beautiful!”

  Rafe smiled and flipped his hand, commanding her to turn the pages.

  She came to the image of a loathsome looking creature: a lion with the head of a man.

  “Manticore. Oh, that is alarming!”

  “Is it? I’m glad you like it. I want you to read the entire thing. The text is in Latin, but I’ve had it translated. Here.”

  Rafe set a bundle of papers, bound only by a leather strap, next to Veronica’s chair.

  "That's very kind of you, sir, but I do read Latin."

  “I wasn't aware of that. In any case, this will facilitate things. The folklore and ancient songs of our ancestors should be known to all of us,” said Rafe. “They are all we have left to help us to understand ourselves. Our origins.”

  Veronica didn’t know what that meant, and was afraid to ask. She was sure our origins were not in unholy beasts, but in God.
Perhaps it was just an amusing conceit of Rafe’s, a joke.

  “Well, thank you, sir,” she said, laughing softly.

  He scowled, paced up and down before the fire like a caged beast, then swung back at her. “Do not mock us, Miss Everly. You do so at your peril.”

  "Mock? Us? What do you mean?"

  She'd done it again, thrown Rafe into a mood. Breathless at the piercing coldness in his eyes, she sprang to her feet, knocking the book to the floor. She wanted to demand an explanation, but no words came. Mocking him? How absurd!

  “I’ll just go,” she said, moving away from Rafe and the troublesome book.

  His hand circled her arm. He pulled her back toward him.

  “Veronica.” He breathed her name into her ear, setting it ablaze. “I’m very sorry. I am quite unreasonable when it comes to my family. Though we go back a long way in these islands, the mother of my children comes from an exceedingly ancient bloodline, stretching back into the darkest reaches of time when the earth was not as it is now. It’s for Jack that I want you to read this book. So you will understand.” His eyes were soft, yet his grip was commanding.

  “I’m trying,” Veronica said. “But everyone here seems determined that I remain in the dark about the most bizarre events I have ever witnessed. At the same time, I’m expected to teach the twins, to care for them, and not to give it a second thought when they disappear…”

  “Stop. Stop.” Rafe put his fingertips on Veronica’s lips and shut his eyes as if in pain. “You shall understand, but Mrs. Twig can’t help you any more than the twins can.”

  Rafe's close proximity and the fire of his touch were so stimulating that Veronica had a hard time keeping her voice from shaking. “Shall I know the entire story, sir?”

  “Yes, you shall.” Yet there was such doubt in his eyes that Veronica could only wonder if he would actually disclose the unpleasant truth.

  “You shall make good on that promise,” she said. "Or I'll leave."

  Rafe slowly let go of her arm, but his eyes stayed on hers. He was clearly in pain, a pain no different than Veronica’s, a raw wound too long uncared for, and thus unable to heal.

  Rafe's eyes lingered on Veronica’s face, on her chin, her lips. Seeming to struggle, he walked to the window and gazed out, keeping his back to her.

  “I shall read your Bestiary, sir,” she said. “And I shall pass the lore on to the children…”

  “Oh, there’s no need of that. They could talk circles around anyone on these subjects. And please, Miss Everly.” He turned to face her. “Don’t go running off… I mean… if you can bear to stay with us… please… call me Rafe.”

  "What?"

  They were interrupted by the loud voices of the workmen in the foyer.

  “The tomb is locked,” said one.

  “We’ve left the coffins there, but we need the key,” said the other.

  Mrs. Twig’s voice cut in. “Oh, yes, I forgot. I had to lock it against the children again. If they had their way, they’d be in there all the time.” She seemed to catch herself and laughed. Veronica winced. The housekeeper had, no doubt, locked the tomb against her as well. Mrs. Twig went on, “They miss their mother terribly, you see. Please wait here while I fetch the key.”

  “Please hurry up, Ma’am. We don’t want to be meddling with the dead after sunset.”

  "Well, sir, what's that all about?" Veronica asked Rafe.

  He was looking at her strangely, his eyes shadows by his lashes.

  "Why do you look at me like that?" she asked.

  "You're very beautiful, Miss Everly."

  Stunned at this unexpected comment, Veronica was speechless. Her cheeks flashed hot with blushing.

  Rafe continued to stare.

  "That dress... the color... suits you very well."

  "Why, thank you, sir."

  "Rafe."

  "Rafe." Veronica looked away.

  Hearing the men in the foyer noisily bustling out the front door, Veronica looked up.

  "Who is being buried in the tomb?"

  "No one. Now if you will excuse me, Miss Everly. I must unpack."

  "Very well, sir... I mean, Rafe."

  Rafe blustered out of the room as if he couldn't wait to get away, and called for Mrs. Twig.

  Forty-Three

  “Book of Unholy Beasts…”

  Veronica traced the gold leaf letters with her finger.

  “Rafe.”

  His name was only a breath, barely there, nothing more than a vowel, really. But the man who owned it was complex. It was obvious that he'd suffered, but he was kind. And passionate. How could he have married Sovay, with her séance parties and castle soirees?

  You're very beautiful, Miss Everly...

  Veronica had replayed the words in head a hundred times in the past four hours. She recalled Rafe's look as he said it, a look that told her that he saw her, had seen into her, and found her lovely.

  He liked her dress.

  He wanted her to stay.

  What was she to think?

  It seemed he felt something for her, but she was fraught with doubt. What about the one in France? A horrible thought entered her mind: that Rafe might be a rake, a seducer with a woman in every port. A girl in her position must be vigilant. Careful. One misstep could lead to ruin.

  She looked over at the séance room and shivered. During the day, its terrors dissolved, and she saw only a mass of ugly furniture. But, as her torn dress proved, the strange events she'd lived through had been real. These apparitions had power. And what about next time? If only Rafe would stay here and confront the dangers that swirled around them when the moon was full, instead of running back to his mistress in France. She hissed the last three words in her mind.

  Veronica wondered what her name was. What did she look like? Was she anything like Sovay? What if Rafe were merely manipulating Veronica into taking complete charge of the twins so that he would have the freedom to remain in France?

  It was possible.

  Sighing with resignation, she opened the Book of Unholy Beasts.

  On the frontispiece was an engraving of a monster: part lizard and part cockerel with wings. Cockatrice, it said underneath. Veronica froze in its gaze, hesitating to turn another page. What on earth did Rafe expect her to get out of pictures such as these?

  She needed air.

  Wrapping up in a thick mohair shawl, she took the Bestiary out to the balcony and sat down on the wicker rocking chair Janet had put there during her cleaning. She pondered the cover of the book and its apt title. Marvels waited in its pages, images that had the power to blight her very soul. The sisters at Saint Mary’s had warned the girls about books inspired by the Devil. Dangerous books that no Christian should ever even lay eyes upon.

  A cold, thin rain began. Hugging the Book of Unholy Beasts, Veronica stood up and looked out over the lawn. The workmen were hurrying toward the woods. They entered into the birch grove and vanished into the mist as if they were never there.

  Two people had died, but who were they? Why did no one talk about it? Mrs. Twig supervised the pallbearers as if they were nothing more than furniture movers. Why was she so cold?

  Veronica knew from the receipt on Rafe’s dressing table, the one still lying there beside the gun, how costly a large sheet of silver was. Those laid to rest in these silver coffins must be very special, very important people, indeed, to warrant such expense. Yet, Rafe wasn't at all grief-stricken. No one was being buried----he'd said.

  Perhaps these were new coffins for those already dead. One for the child, one for Sovay, whose grave was broken, its cross shattered, and lying on the floor.

  Veronica back went inside and poked up the fire.

  That mysterious tune came into Veronica's mind, and, with it, a vision of Sovay's yellow gown glimmering in the darkness of her sarcophagus. Veronica stirred the ashes in the hearth, absent-mindedly humming along with the voices that seemed both far away and within her.

  The fire blazed up, crac
kling, catching the gold leaf on the cover of the Book of Unholy Beasts that waited on the ottoman. Perhaps it contained the answers she sought. Perhaps that was why Rafe gave it to her.

  She curled up in the easy chair, and once more opened the book. The pages fell open on a swath of red silk that seemed to have been torn from something larger, marking, she felt, her pre-ordained starting point. What she saw startled her so that she had to halt the urge to throw the book on the fire.

  Under the silk was the image of a wolf-like creature. Up on two legs it stood, like a man, its dripping jaws opened to display dagger-sharp fangs, its claws poised as if to savage its prey.

  She'd come so close to being the prey of such wolves.

  How could Rafe have known about her encounters with the wolves while he was nowhere in sight? Had she been right thinking she could commune with his inner self? Perhaps she'd find, in the book, an explanation for all of these things. One explanation was here now, directly under her nose.

  Beside the beast, two words were inscribed: Homini Lupus.

  And there, on the facing page, was the illuminated image of a lady clamped in the jaws of a wolf. Her long, golden hair swept the ground, and her medieval gown was yellow. It was Saint Lupine all over again. And, as old as the picture in that ancient book was, the lady's face was the perfect image of Sovay's.

  Hands shaking with the excitement of finally holding a piece to the puzzle, Veronica took the stack of English translations on her lap and rifled through the pages. At last she found a page marked with a red scrawl: Homini Lupus

  Homini Lupus means Loup Garou in French, Werewolf in Saxon, and, in English, Wolf Man.

  Veronica held her breath. The wolves she'd heard singing on those full moon nights were... this!

  Lycanthrope. A man that is a-cursed. When the moon is full, he transforms into a wolf. In such guise he goes forth to rape and kill for his Master.

  How the Curse is Passed On: If the victim of an attack by the wolf man does not die, he is cursed with lycanthropy. If the victim dies, he will rise from his grave at each full moon and stalk the earth as a wolf. In either case are souls provided to carry out the Works of Darkness.