The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance Read online

  She waited for a response. Hearing none, she spun to see her employer standing very still, almost invisible in the dark. She couldn’t stop a chill crawling up her spine.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “How full is the moon, Miss Everly? Can you see it?”

  “It's waning. Two nights gone. Do you want to see?”

  She offered him the telescope.

  “I don’t need to, Miss Everly. I believe you. I know it is past full. I wanted to hear you say it.”

  “Why?”

  “To see how much you pay attention to such things. I’m glad to see that you do.”

  “I suppose it’s the teacher in me. I feel I must observe all the time, must constantly learn new things to pass on to the students.”

  Rafe took the telescope and pointed it at the sky. Then he swung it down toward Veronica.

  “Just as I thought.” He smiled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are Virgo fallen to earth. The divine mother, she of the sheaves and flour, rising at the high tide of summer before she draws the veil of autumn and we gather it all inside.”

  “How you talk, sir!”

  Rafe lowered the telescope.

  “An instrument like this draws things close, Miss Everly. Allows one to see in, beyond outward appearances, not only wider, but deeper.”

  “Is that so? I had no idea.”

  “Tell me of yourself, Miss Everly. Tell me of your parents and how you came to be here, of all places.”

  He sat on a marble bench, leaving just enough room for Veronica to sit beside him. Looking down at the roof of the house, she saw the glow of white doves huddled under the eaves and on the sills of the tall, dark windows. She wasn’t sure what to tell her employer, or how much. If she volunteered where she came from, he might think her a bad influence and send her away. Or worse yet, he could draw her out, get her to admit things that he could use as grounds for dismissal should anything go wrong.

  “What happened to your parents?” Rafe asked. “You can tell me. I assure you, I won't judge you.”

  Veronica took a deep breath. She had to trust someone. “Well, by the time I was six years old, they were both dead. They’d been actors.”

  “Actors! Perhaps I’ve seen them perform in the West End. What were their names?”

  “My mother was Mae Tyler.”

  Rafe’s face looked dour. He must already disapprove.

  “Your father?”

  “John Everly.”

  Rafe shrugged. He’d never heard of them.

  “My mother did have a success in London, in a play called Varney the Vampire."

  Rafe rolled his eyes and grinned.

  "You know that play?"

  "Very well, Miss Everly. It's an amusing diversion."

  She swallowed hard. Of course it was not serious theater. Not worth dying for.

  "They went on tour. She got sick after that. My father had to accept whatever work he could get to take care of us. When my mother died, he sent me to a widowed aunt who did not care for me. She suffered headaches and began drinking for relief. I don't think it worked. She... suffered and made me suffer..."

  "I see."

  Veronica was astonished that Rafe was listening so intently to her. Relieved to finally be able to tell her story, she barreled on. "Then father went on the road with one play or operetta after another. I kept thinking he would come back and get me. Then he died. Drowned in the Irish Sea on the way to a performance in Dublin.”

  “So, he never made it for opening night.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. My mother was quite a fragile thing, you see. I don’t think she could have had another child. She had consumption. Auntie said it was the laudanum that killed her. But I didn’t understand. All I knew was that she slowly faded away until she wasn’t there any more.”

  “And how did you end up at Saint Mary’s?”

  “My aunt, for all her faults, was extremely pious. A priest at our parish was very kind to me. I felt he saw me, or felt sorry for me, so at Confession, I told him how it was. Next thing I knew I was being loaded into a carriage for Saint Mary’s while my aunt stumbled around on the pavement, sobbing as if she were losing her most beloved child.”

  “Well, good for that priest. So you made a place for yourself there, as a teacher. Very sensible of you. You’re a survivor, Miss Everly.”

  “Yes, I am. Thank you, sir. Thank you for seeing it that way.”

  “What other way is there to see it? Here you stand on my tower roof, looking up at the stars like an astrologer of old. What do you divine there, oh sibyl? What shall become of us?”

  “I don’t know, sir. The twins have so many interests and talents. They could do anything." Veronica looked at his face, studied his eyes. "If you don't mind my saying so, you seem a restless spirit. Much like my father. That’s why I know it. Something drives you, sir, that won’t let you rest.”

  “Very astute, Miss Everly. May you never find out what it is."

  He stood up, took her hand, and guided her to walk in front of him back to the house. His hand on her waist sent a thrill up her spine. She looked back to see if he knew what he'd done, and caught his eyes.

  A terrible vulnerability spilled forth, sadness, and sparks of anger.

  When she turned away from him again to see her way down the stairs, she had to stifle the urge to run.

  Fifteen

  On Sunday evening, a celebratory dinner was to be held in the Grand Hall in honor of Rafe’s homecoming. Mrs. Twig planned such an extravagant menu that she had to hire an extra cook for the occasion along with an extra serving girl to help Janet.

  This was the first time since Lady Sovay's death that Grand Hall was to be opened. Excitement rippled through the house. Burning to see the room restored to its former glory, Veronica lingered in the hallway only to be shooed away by Janet and her helper. The pair fairly bristled with mops and brooms and dusters like a pair of demonic chars, running back and forth with buckets and mops and polishing cloths, swags to hang, long candles, and a load of firewood for the enormous hearth. The hired cook trundled in with a trolley of her own pots and pans along with wooden crates of food, spices and other strange ingredients tied up in linen sacks emblazoned with colorful foreign trade marks.

  Barred from helping, Veronica felt useless. She was too restless to stay in her room all day. Something about Rafe’s presence seemed to fill the house, upsetting her ability to maintain the gentle, reflective mood she'd mastered at Saint Mary’s. Even alone in her room, she found it impossible to shut the distractions out.

  Sunday had come so quickly, she hadn’t had time to find a Catholic church to attend. It seemed unlikely that Catholics would flourish out here in the wilds of Yorkshire where every form of Protestantism had taken root. Though she was glad to be away from the orphanage, she missed the exalted, divine atmosphere of Saint Mary’s Cathedral, the inspiration of the soaring vault, the stained glass windows, the incense-soaked air, the singing of the nuns, the bells, the sense of sanctuary where she could disentangle her thoughts and commune with God. There had to be someplace nearby for her to worship. Perhaps a small, private chapel would open its doors to her.

  She was pinning up her hair when the twins burst into her room with news of a church not far away where their Mamma used to go every Sunday for Mass.

  “You seem to have read my mind,” Veronica said to them.

  “It's not difficult, Miss Everly,” said Jacques. “You’re very obvious.”

  “What do you mean? Now I am worried.” Veronica smirked.

  “Do you want us to take you, Miss Everly?” Jacqueline asked. “We do miss it so.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Twig never takes us, and Papa is away so much,” Jacques said.

  “Mamma was Catholic like you are, Miss Everly,” said Jacqueline.

  “I think we should go a
nd find the priest. He’ll want to know we’ll be needing him again,” said Jacques.

  “What do you mean? Isn’t he there anyway?”

  “Let’s go!” said Jacques.

  “Put on your bonnet, Miss Everly. It’s not far. We can walk.”

  “Brilliant!”

  

  They struck out on foot, passing through the gates of Belden House to the light-dappled road. Rooted in banks of ivy-covered rock, hedges grew tall and unkempt on either side of the road, creating the effect of a green tunnel. Veronica walked slowly, soaking in the layered scents of falling leaves and windblown grass, the low angle of the light, birdsong. It was a relief to be out of the house and its murky, secret histories. Pure sunlight and fresh morning air purged her worries, swept clean her thoughts.

  The twins ran ahead, laughing, dodging each other, turning back to make faces at Veronica. She chased them a short distance before slowing down to admire the rows of ancient lime trees, their branches weaving a golden canopy overhead. The twins’ voices faded around a right turn where large boulders shored up the land and the woods, blocking them from sight. Veronica gave their flight no thought until she rounded the bend and they were gone.

  The road sloped down into the hollows of the trees. Veronica paused to contemplate the empty passage. Where were they?

  “Jack! Oh, Jack!” she called.

  Her voice echoed back as from a great void.

  “Jack! Jack! Where are you? Come out, come out wherever you are!”

  She was met with silence. She continued down the road, looking from side to side at the rocks and the bushes. Faint laughter briefly skittered behind the hedgerow. She stopped and looked toward the sound.

  “Jack? Come on now. We don't want to be late,” she shouted.

  There was still no answer. She didn’t know what to do, whether to go on down the road and possibly bypass the twins who were obviously hiding in the woods, go back and look for them, or stay where she was and keep calling. She looked up into the branches of the trees. Gold leaves mingled with patches of azure sky. She lowered her gaze to the densely woven hedges. A flock of birds flew up into the trees. Everything seemed to whoosh around, as if nature conspired with the twins to baffle her.

  “Jacques! Jacqueline! Where are you?” she called. “Come out this minute!”

  A crow sang out.

  “Jack!”

  The hoot of an owl answered.

  “Jack!”

  A flicker of light flashed in the darkness between two standing stones set at the side of the road like the entrance to a barrow grave. Standing between them, white as a spirit in his pale clothes, was Jacques. He cast a radiant smile at Veronica, and holding a finger to his lips, beckoned her to follow him.

  “Don't ever do that again,” she cried. "I haven't got the nerves for it."

  Peals of laughter echoed from the distance behind the boundary stones. Jacques held out his hand for Veronica to take.

  “Is Jacqueline in there?” she asked as she took the child’s hand.

  He held his finger to his lips again, and pulled Veronica through the gap onto a smooth, narrow path.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  As they walked along, Jacques kept turning around as if to make sure Veronica was following him. It was a somewhat steep walk, but at the top of the incline, the path opened out to a lush, green clearing. An ancient church shone pale as bone against the soft, dark boundary of the forest. A tall, square steeple, crowned with tapering, gilded pinnacles, rose above a chapel. Layer upon layer of intricate carvings, and a row of tall stained glass windows, gave the church such an air of delicacy that it seemed a mere breath could crumble it. Above the door, not the wheel of a rose window, but the arcane branches of the Tree of Life wove around panes of richly tinted glass. Headstones encircled the church, leaning toward it as if those buried beneath them yearned for the sanctuary inside.

  Veronica's hopes for the customary celebration of joy and the Life to Come were dashed. This church was a desolate, dreary, ghost of a place.

  Sixteen

  “Are you sure this is a Catholic church?” Veronica asked.

  “It’s a very old church,” said Jacques. “Built by the Normans. Then made more beautiful by our family.”

  “Is your father Catholic?” Veronica asked, somewhat surprised. She would have pegged him as Anglican.

  “Of course,” he said. “The very first day Mamma came inside, the steeple was struck by lightning.”

  Thinking he'd meant it as a joke, Veronica laughed.

  Jacques's voice was firm. “Mamma paid for the repairs.”

  "Well, I guess that puts it right then," Veronica said. Sometimes she felt in over her head with Jack's interpretation of things.

  Voices echoed over the lawn. Jacqueline appeared at the top of the rise, spectral in her white dress, a spray of wild lilies in her hand.

  “Jacqueline! There you are,” Veronica called. “Come on!”

  Jacqueline ran down the hill toward them, smiling so happily that Veronica couldn’t be upset with her.

  “You’re very naughty running off like that. Where have you been?”

  “Naughty girl,” Jacques teased.

  “There.” Jacqueline pointed back to the wall of trees from whence she came. She held the flowers out to Veronica, “I found these by the little stream that runs through the woods. I plucked them for you.”

  What could she say to that? Veronica took the lilies, held them to her nose. They smelled fresh and pure.

  “They’re lovely, Jacqueline. Thank you.”

  She put the bouquet under the placket of her bodice where they flounced like a white lace neckerchief.

  “Do you want to see the church?” Jacques asked. He tugged Veronica’s hand to lead the way.

  Veronica resisted. “It looks abandoned." she looked around. "Where is the priest?”

  “The priest is in the priest house,” said Jacques. “Where no one can find him.”

  “He stays in a priest’s hole,” said Jacqueline.

  “A priest hole? Surely not in this day and age,” said Veronica. “They don’t persecute Catholics around here, do they?”

  “Mamma made him stay there after the lightning,” Jacqueline said. “So he wouldn’t run away.”

  “Run away?”

  “She made him promise not to tell. She was afraid the villagers would think bad things about her, and try to drive her off.”

  "That's what he told us," said Jacques.

  Veronica had no trouble imagining the kinds of accusations that would fly around in a small village about a lady who brought lightning down on the church. But surely the lightning strike was a coincidence, and could be explained as such.

  “So, what happened?”

  “The priest gave Mamma a vow of silence. Then he promised to continue priesting as if nothing had happened. But nobody came here any more. Only Mamma,” Jacqueline said.

  “Then, after we were born, we came as well. There never was anyone else,” Jacques said.

  “Now nobody comes,” said Jacqueline.

  “Perhaps the priest can be invited back to serve Mass for us.” Veronica said.

  Jacqueline looked down as Jacques pushed the double doors open. Veronica followed him into the vestibule of the church.

  Dark but for the light from the altar candles, it was the strangest church she had ever seen. Though small, every surface was carved or painted with figures steeped in symbolic meaning. Tree-like pillars went down both sides of the nave toward the altar, branching over the pews as if to protect those who sat there from the strange frescos that ran around the walls.

  Who would allow such horrors in a church? Images of wolves prowled the walls, men with the heads of wolves, and low-bellied, slinking beasts. And who was the lady in the yellow gown who seemed to lead them, like the Pied Piper, around the congregation

  "What does this mean?" Veronica whispered, indicating t
he murals.

  “They show us the wicked spirits of the world stealing all around us, circling us and lying in wait like wolves. Only the church can protect us,” said Jacqueline with a lowering voice, "from the scavengers of souls."

  “Only Saint Lupine, who comes out of the forest, can draw the evil spirits away,” Jacques said.

  "Saint Lupine?" Veronica stammered.

  “After the lightning strike, the pictures appeared on the walls, just like that!” Jacques snapped his fingers.

  “What do you mean, they just appeared? They can’t just appear. Someone had to paint them.”

  “No. No. The lightning brought them,” Jacques said. "It was a miracle."

  "It can't be." Veronica studied the figure of Saint Lupine in more detail. Young and lovely, with rippling flaxen hair hanging loose to her knees, Saint Lupine's mouth was too sensual, her eyes too sly as she looked back at the wolves; the yellow dress was far too elaborate, the bodice cut too low, for a saint.

  "Miracles come from God," Veronica insisted. Not from the likes of this harlot.

  “Come see this!” Jacqueline pulled Veronica down the side aisle to the Lady Chapel.

  Candlelight fluttered around a carved wooden statue of a black Madonna. Seated on a high-backed throne composed of bare trees that continued partway around her like a grove, the figure seemed more primitive than divine. Washed in the light of several tall candles, the faces of Mary and the Christ Child flickered between darkness and light, their long noses and slightly up-tilted eyes giving them a feral aspect that reminded Veronica of Tala. The effect was disturbing, but the twins seemed to adore the sculpture.

  “May we light our prayer candles?” Jacques whispered, looking up at the shrine with dazzled eyes.

  “Yes, Miss Everly, please,” said Jacqueline. “Just two.”

  Veronica looked around for the candle box, but didn't see it. She wasn’t keen having the twins light votives in such a place, but what could she say?

  On the lower altar was a row of unlit candles, set for the congregation.

  “Go on,” she said. “Do you need any coins?”

  “No. They’re free to us.”

  The twins reached up with lighting tapers, took flames from the Virgin's throne, and added them to two of the lower wicks.