The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance Page 5

  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 stairs 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 nap 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 lilies 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.

  Eight

  Veronica's china teacup rattled slightly on the saucer. She tried to be calm, but it was difficult. Once pleasantries were over, Mrs. Twig just sat there, sipping her soup. Every time Veronica ventured to speak, the housekeeper looked down or away.

  "Where is Jack?" Veronica asked, noting their empty plates. "I've been worried..."

  "No need, Miss Everly. After a long, exciting day, they're too tired to join us. Janet will bring something up to them later."

  Veronica considered, for a moment, how to broach the subject of the horseman on the moor. "I'm glad they're not outside. How far do they range? I mean, when they're out playing?"

  "Oh, I don't know... the woods, the fields. They've always been here and know the area like the back of their hands. They always come back."

  Janet arrived with a plate of vegetable and meat pie. Mrs. Twig took a slice. Veronica followed suit, and watched Janet bustle back to the kitchen.

  The darkness was heavy outside the window, transforming the orchard into a mass of shadows under a sky that was thinly veiled with moonlight. It would be easy for a darkly cloaked stranger to slip through those shadows unseen. He could be at the window now, watching them through the candlelight. Waiting for his chance to come in.

  Veronica set down her fork, unable to eat.

  "Mrs. Twig? I saw a man out on the moors today, riding on a black horse at great speed. Who might
he be?"

  Mrs. Twig crumpled her napkin, pushed her plate away.

  "A neighbor, perhaps."

  "He threatened me with his whip. And ordered me to leave."

  "I can't imagine why."

  "Well, he did."

  The housekeeper began massaging her temples. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Everly.... I'm very sorry, but I have a terrible headache."

  "Oh, of course... I'm sorry."

  Mrs. Twig got up and strode off.

  What was left of Veronica's appetite departed with the housekeeper. Having been so rudely dismissed, all she could swallow was her tea. Why was Mrs. Twig so unsympathetic? Didn't she care that her new governess had been terrified out of her wits on her first day here? And where were the twins, anyway? It seemed the height of bad manners to exclude people so.

  She suddenly felt foolish for questioning her place in the pecking order. What business was it of hers to be informed? Still, Mrs. Twig had seemed so friendly at first. Perhaps she'd taken liberties...

  Veronica left the table and went to the windows to look out at the now invisible orchard. No one was there. She'd been over-reacting. Now that she was nineteen, it seemed she should stop being so excitable. In time, maybe.

  With a sigh, she blew the candles out. Let the horseman try to spy on them. She wasn't that easy to fool.

  Veronica dragged up the stairs to her room. Before she went in, she rounded the corner to the twins' rooms. Though she hated to admit it, she had to be sure they really were there.

  Both doors were locked. She knocked on each door and was met, each time, with cold silence.

  They must be sleeping.

  Baffled and unable to do anything about it, Veronica went back to her room and collapsed in the easy chair. She kept seeing the horseman in her mind, warning her away. Why did he hide his face? Bright blue eyes under black brows would give anyone away.

  The fairy tale book was on the table at her side. She opened it, perused the familiar tales with their colorful illustrations. She hadn't noticed before how frightening they were with their forests and witches and fairies. She'd never realized before how horrible Hansel and Gretel was.

  She closed the book and stared into the darkness of the treasure room. Childhood and its terrors were not that far behind. Being set adrift in the world without a family, or a home, was almost as bad as being cast out into the forest to starve. Like Tala. Like Hansel and Gretel. But unlike Hansel and Gretel, Veronica couldn't accuse her parents of abandoning her. You couldn't blame people for dying young.

  Sorrow fell on her chest like lead. Grief was a strange visitor, coming and going when she least expected it. Exhausted, she climbed into bed, then lay awake all night fearing the horseman might come inside, or climb her balcony to gaze at her through the French doors… tapping on the glass to taunt her before he broke the latch and the doors blew open... Even closing the bed curtains failed to calm her. Her mind would not rest.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t read fairy tales before bed. She laughed at herself. That was what you said to children when they had nightmares.

  The children... They were pulling their disappearing act tonight. She hadn't expected it so soon.

  She rolled over on her side, and put the pillow over her head to block out the night.

  

  Veronica grabbed a scone and put it on her plate. Opened the pot of blackberry jam and put a dollop beside it. Silent as the night before, Mrs. Twig sat there writing up her to-do list. There was a novel beside her plate. It had a buff cover, the title easily readable in red: The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins.

  "What is that book about, Mrs. Twig?" she asked.

  "A sort of mystery," the housekeeper said without looking up.

  "Oh. Is it good?"

  "Hm."

  Couldn’t Mrs. Twig tell Veronica needed to talk? Couldn’t she feel the static in the air? Was the housekeeper utterly insensitive?

  Veronica needed to know what was going on before the twins came downstairs for breakfast, to be reassured that everything was normal and safe, that the horseman on the moor was just a nasty neighbor who would be told by Mr. de Grimston, wherever he returned, that his interference was not acceptable.

  Veronica fiddled with her teaspoon. She should write to Mr. de Grimston about it herself. Mrs. Twig must have his forwarding address.

  "Mrs. Twig?"

  "Yes, Miss Everly?"

  "How is your headache? I was quite worried about you last evening."

  "It's much better now, thank you. It's age you know. A young girl like yourself can have no idea how it creeps up on one."

  Mrs. Twig sipped her tea like an invalid. Veronica wondered if she was acting. In any event, something wasn't right.

  Veronica's tea was flat and cold. The scone tasted like dust. It wasn’t Peggy’s fault. It was frustration that brought Veronica low. It was infuriating the way Mrs. Twig refused to communicate. If the governess position was so low down, why not consign Veronica to the servants' quarters? It would have to be friendlier than this.

  Veronica cleared her throat. Tapped her foot under the small table hard enough to shake the house. Still the housekeeper ignored her. Unable to contain herself any longer, Veronica blurted out:

  “Mrs. Twig, why would a neighbor command me to leave?”

  Mrs. Twig looked up, startled.

  Veronica went on. “I was walking on the moor yesterday when he accosted me. He was riding a powerful back horse. He actually raised his whip to me."

  Mrs. Twig’s eyes flashed. She hooded them, and gave Veronica a reassuring little smile.

  “Oh, that. As I said before, it's most likely a neighbor. Perhaps someone who knows Mr. Rafe.”

  "He had startling blue eyes."

  Mrs. Twig seemed to freeze.

  "Oh, that's not uncommon around here."

  Veronica played with her butter knife, looked around to see if the twins were in earshot. They weren’t.

  "It seems Mr. Rafe has some rather aggressive friends. I spent the whole rest of the day in a fright lest he crouch in the bushes, or look in. I thought he must be a highwayman or a convict or something horrible like that."

  Mrs. Twig seemed to be groping for words.

  “Who is he?” Veronica insisted.

  Mrs. Twig pressed her lips together.

  "I can't say, Miss Everly. A neighbor. Yorkshiremen can be quite... territorial."

  "Territorial? Does he have a stake in this property, then?"

  "Perhaps at one time, he did."

  "Who is he?"

  "Please, Miss Everly, just let it lie. Whoever he is, he is of no consequence."

  "No cons...?"

  Veronica got up and walked to the windows. The twins were on the terrace petting the white Alsatian. When they looked up at her with their identical faces and mysterious green eyes, her agitation fell away. She smiled and waved to them; they waved back. Then, thumping the dog’s rump to send him running, they chased him across the lawn.

  Veronica returned to the table where Mrs. Twig was reading her list.

  “That white dog is very beautiful,” Veronica said.

  “I’m glad you think so. It’s a Swiss shepherd called Wolfgang. He’s their guardian.”

  “Oh, really.” Veronica went back to the window and watched the twins throwing sticks to the dog from two different directions. What did they need a guardian for? She was suddenly afraid to ask; afraid Mrs. Twig would deflect the subject as she had the one about the horseman. She obviously thought Veronica ridiculous for being frightened by his behavior. Though Veronica failed see why she should not be, being a woman out here in the middle of nowhere, alone in this big, empty house.

  Mrs. Twig put her to-do list down, placed her spectacles on top of it, and passed her hands over her eyes. She did not look at Veronica, but seemed to want to pretend she wasn’t there. Veronica sat back down, and pressed her lips together to stop herself saying something she might regret.

  They sat quietly fi
nishing their tea. The conversation was over. It was obvious Veronica would get nothing more out of Mrs. Twig.

  Janet came in with a fresh breakfast platter and set it on the sideboard. The fragrance of eggs and warm scones filled the room. Veronica went to the window and waved to the twins to summon them in for breakfast. They smiled and began prodding the dog to follow them.

  Mrs. Twig’s chair scraped back.

  “Thank you, Janet,” she said to the maid. “Come, Miss Everly. Let me show you the classroom. Lessons begin at nine. I’m sure you’re anxious to get started.”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Twig. I’m very much ready to begin.”

  Assured the twins had come inside, Veronica followed Mrs. Twig upstairs.

  On the third floor, they stopped at a door that seemed to have been closed forever. Mrs. Twig unlocked it and ushered Veronica into a cold, stale-smelling classroom. There was a chalkboard, a teacher’s desk, and three students’ desks. A pair of bookshelves flanked a small cast-iron fireplace. The windows looked out on a dark hedge of lofty Irish yews.

  “It can be cozy with a fire,” Mrs. Twig said. “For some reason, the former governess had the carpet pulled up. Then she left with no explanation. If you want, we can lay another.”

  “That would be lovely,” said Veronica. She quickly perused the textbooks. “These look quite good. I’ve brought some of my own as well.”

  “Why don’t I order the carpet while you get acquainted with the room. The children should be finished with breakfast in an hour. Shall I have your books brought up as well?”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you.” Veronica said. “Oh, Mrs. Twig? Why are there three desks? Is there another child?”

  Mrs. Twig stopped short but did not turn around. “It’s just an extra desk.” She hurried out of the room.

  Veronica hoped this wasn't going to be the pattern, this evasiveness of Mrs. Twig's. Then again, it was right that Mrs. Twig should hold the personal lives of the de Grimstons in strictest confidence. Accepting that, with time and trust, the housekeeper would be more open with her, Veronica turned her attention to the classroom.

  There wasn’t much to see. Her desk was quite barren of teaching supplies. In a side drawer she found a book with a red leather cover and no title. She had a hunch it had been left behind by her predecessor. It didn’t feel right to open it.