The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance (20 page)

The
sun coming up, and the birds trilling like mad, told her it was over.

Thirty-Eight

V
eronica set off in a limping run back to Belden House, not stopping until she was in the forecourt. Doubled over with a stitch in her side, and hurting from her fall, she tried to sense if it were safe to go back inside. Everything was so quiet. The night was over. The nightmare should be over.

She f
elt for her keys in her side pocket muttering a prayer that they'd not been torn from her now ragged remnant of a dress. Afraid of meeting Mrs. Twig at the front door in such a state, she hobbled down the side yard to the servants’ entrance and went quietly into the house.

There was a ruckus in the corridor, Mrs. Twig shouting and Janet crying. Veronica moved stealthily around a corner and she saw the housekeeper at Janet’s bedroom door holding a silver platter with something bloody on it.

Veronica’s eyes followed a row of spattered red drops on the floor. It was Tala all over again. Jacqueline in her hare-bloodied dress. The wolves!

Grimacing, her heart thrashing like a stormy sea, Veronica rounded the corner and hurried back toward the main part of the house. Hopefully, Mrs. Twig hadn’t seen her.

Back in her room she locked the door and put a chair against it. Then she opened one of her trunks and began filling it with clothes. The shock of what she'd just escaped overwhelmed her. She collapsed into the easy chair and stared at the ceiling.

The clock chimed six.

It was full morning. She was safe. Giving her time to plan, to figure out where to go.

She lay down on her bed to rest for a moment, then couldn't keep her eyes open. Feeling safe behind her closed bed curtains, she put her pillow and coverlet over her head, and tried to pretend she wasn't there.



It was late afternoon when Veronica woke, her mind filled with worries. If she stayed, how was she to teach the twins, acting as if nothing had happened, as if ghosts and werewolves and devil worshipping priests were commonplace?  She'd almost been kil
led!

Terrified her anger would bubble over, she gasped for breath. Once she was calm, she would demand answers from the twins. And Mrs. Twig would get the riot act.

And Rafe! How could he leave his children in the midst of this insanity?

If there was anything to prevent Veronica resigning immediately, it was her fear for the twins. They needed her. She couldn't desert them. If she were forced to remove Jack for safety to Saint Mary's, she would.

             
*

Thirty-Nine

O
n entering the classroom, Veronica could only glare at the twins. It was a struggle not to shout at them.

“Where were you Sunday night? I looked all over for you.” She kept her speech as measured as she could. “Where have you been?”

Jacqueline and Jacques gazed at Veronica with disbelief.

“I’m afraid if you don’t tell me… if someone in this house doesn't tell me the truth about what goes on around here… I shall have to leave.”

“Please don’t leave us, Miss Everly,” Jacqueline pleaded. “We can’t tell you. We don’t remember. We never remember. Do we Jacques?”

“No, we never do. I wish
you
would tell us what happened, Miss Everly. What happened to you?”

Veronica turned away from her desk, and wiping tears from her face, looked out at the yews. When she felt calm enough to speak further, she turned back to the children.

“There was a bell tolling, and wolves howling, hundreds of them. I saw one of you go off with a lady in a yellow gown. Who is she, Jacques?"

The twins looked at each other as if they did not know what to say.

“
Is
she your Mamma?” Veronica looked from one to the other.

The smooth, pale faces of the twins grew so dark that Veronica started back.

“I went to look for you. I was so worried. I went to Saint Lupine’s.”

The twins looked startled, but said nothing.

“I saw Father Roche in the churchyard… I saw Saint Lupine. I saw ghosts rise from their graves and turn into wolves.”

“Did they frighten you?” asked Jacques.

“Frighten me? I barely escaped with my life.”

“Good thing you escaped, Miss Everly. Good thi
ng you made it all the way home,” said Jacqueline.

“Ye
s, Miss Everly,” said Jacques. "Did they bite you?"

“Thankfully, not. But... How can you be so casual about it? I'm at a loss at what to think of you two any more.”

Their green-eyed stares and set jaws told her that, once again, they would give no explanations.

"The murals in the church depict something real, don't they? Your mother made up that story of the lightning and the mural, didn't she? Saint Lupine is a role she used to play, and has returned to play again."

"She wouldn't lie to us," said Jacques.

Jacqueline whispered, "
We
summoned Mamma.
We
wished her back. At the well. We wished her back with drops of our own blood."

"You what?" Veronica felt sick. This went against everything she'd been taught was moral and good. This was necromancy!

Jacques looked at his sister with surprise, then shot a glance at Veronica.

"We did not call up Saint Lupine," he said.

"Your mother clearly modeled for that mural. Don't you see?" Veronica paced to the windows and back. "What I don't understand are the wolves. I saw
Saint Lupine
turn into one, right before my eyes."

The twins pressed their lips tightly together and watched Veronica as she paced across the room. On fire with insights, she still wanted answers.

"I saw one of you wander off with her last night." Veronica said with some heat. "Where did you go?"

The twins looked stunned and shook their heads
no
.

"Who was with her?" asked Jacqueline.

"It looked like Jacques. It's difficult to be sure. As you know," Veronica said.

Jacqueline looked at Jacques, and shook her head,
no!

"I wasn't with her," Jacques said. "We were together last night. We were together the entire time."

"Yes, Miss Everly. I think you saw Jacques's
spirit.
Because he had a dream..."

"Shhh!" Jacques looked daggers at Jacqueline.

"You did! You had a dream that you went with her. You told me," Jacqueline cried.

"You're not supposed to tell!"

"I have to. Miss Everly, Mrs. Twig said we did a bad thing letting Mamma out."

"Out of where?"

Jacqueline's voice was barely audible. "Her tomb."

"Jacqueline!" Jacques shouted. He rose as if he wanted to strike her. Veronica grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back into his chair.

"Never do that," she said.

Jacques glared at Veronica, then cast his sister a nasty look.

"Traitor!" he hissed.

Veronica kept her body between them.

"How long ago did you let her out?" she asked Jacqueline. "How long has your mother been... here?"

"Since just before you came, Miss Everly," Jacqueline said. "You saw us trying to fix it. At the well."

Looking at the red-faced, fuming Jacques, Jacqueline crumpled into herself.

"We hid the children in the wishing well."

"What children?"

"The ones she bit."

"Bit? What? Those dolls?"

"Yes, Miss Everly. The dolls are
poppets
for children bitten by Mamma. We got them out of
Le Petit Albert
."

Veronica's head spun. She'd dreamt true! Her dream of the ch
ildren in the well had been true. And more than that.

"We thought we could keep them from turning into wolves," Jacqueline said, and hung her head.

"It didn't work, did it?" Jacques sneered at his sister.

"This house is damned," Veronica said under her breath. "I must do something about it. You've got to help me, Jack."



Veronica needed to go to Confession,
but there was not one Catholic church within walking distance. Perhaps she should visit Saint Mary’s. Stay for a few days among women who could guide her out of the maze she’d gotten lost in, get some relief from the walls of Belden House that seemed to be closing in.

Long walks helped her think, so she volunteered to walk Wolfgang, taking him down along the road to the village.

Despite what had happened there on that dreadful night, Saint Lupine’s haunted Veronica. She resisted going back several times, stopping at the white standing stones that marked the path, remembering the scene in the graveyard of Father Roche dancing with the lady in yellow, the wolves roiling around them, her desperate flight up the tree when they attacked. But one bright afternoon she arrived at the stones, and without a second thought, beckoned the dog onto the path and followed it up to the edge of the clearing. 

The sculptured masonry of the
ancient church, the square steeple, the encircling trees of the woods, the gloomy atmosphere, brought up the trauma of that night, the disturbing vision of Saint Lupine, who was really Sovay, come to "life", dancing with Father Roche among the graves. Feelings and sensations she could not articulate possessed her. If only she could put those promptings into words, she might better understand what she was experiencing.

Veronica looked up at the branch of the oak tree that had saved her life and wondered how she
'd managed to climb so high. And so fast. Fear could do that, she supposed, compel one to engage powers beyond the norm.

Who were those souls that had turned into wolves? Why did Sovay, in the guise of Saint Lupine,
attack her and then, so suddenly, dissolve?

Veronica did not intend to venture beyond the boundary of the clearing, but Wolfgang was sniffing the ground around the graves with great interest, prompting her to whistle him back. She didn't want to alert the priest, so watching for Father Roche, she stepped into the churchyard to get the dog.

It seemed the place had been neglected for a century, yet some of the graves were new, set in tidy rows over an area of smooth, clipped grass. Had she not seen it, it would have been impossible to imagine this compact earth heaving up, breaking open, releasing the dead.

The memory of that terrible night faded as
Veronica wandered deeper among the graves. Here were older headstones, the names and dates buried under moss, or worn smooth by rain and wind. Would she find under the ivy, the name
de Grimston?

The air grew heavy. The ground seemed to be pulling her down, making every step a struggle. The call of an owl from the darkly glowing woods increased her uneasiness. Father Roche was nowhere in sight
. He might be in the church. Veronica hoped not. She wanted to see the mural again, to see how strongly the painted image of Saint Lupine resembled the portrait of Sovay in Rafe's sitting room.

After a long moment watching the doors, she decided to trust daylight and risk it. She hurried down the walkway, and went into the church.

The nave smelled of incense and beeswax as if Mass had just ended. Other than that, it was exactly the same as she remembered it, cavernous, cold and unsettling with its evil altar, now covered in red cloths and black. Without the twins to buffer her, she was appalled at how ill she felt. A bestial spirit began to stir the air around her, emitting a sense of raw desire, of animalistic power, a primitive spirit intent on overshadowing her. Fighting it off, she turned toward the far side of the pews, and found the painting of Saint Lupine.

Even in the half dark of uneven candlelight, she could see the figure's resemblance to Sovay: the pale golden hair curling to her knees, the wide green eyes, the delicate bones, the elaborate yellow dress. But whereas Sovay gave the impression of cultured sophistication, the so-called
saint
in the mural was anything but. With her cinched in waist, bosom revealing bodice, and long yellow skirts clinging to her legs, she looked at the wolves with the smirking, sultry-eyed expression of a whore.

And the wolves were white. White as mist. White as ectoplasm.

Swirling around, Veronica slammed through the doors and ran out into the yard. The sun was setting. It was very cold. She drew her tattered cloak close around her shoulders.

“Come, Wolfgang. Come on. This is a hellish place. We should burn it down."

Forty

I
t was the last week of really fine weather before the frosts would begin to herd everyone inside.

In an attempt to find a moment of normalcy
,
Veronica took the twins out to the orchard to collect a few baskets of apples. She'd hoped it would be fun. It wasn't. The twins spoke to her in short, playful bursts, then lapsed into a low, secretive conversation. As they tugged their heavy baskets over the ground, Veronica tried to glean what information she could from their words, hoping they might discuss where they'd been that night, and why she'd seen Jacques with the lady in yellow. 

She kept looking over her shoulder for a wolf, or a face in the leaves. Sovay was after her. If the twins only knew how risky it was for her to stay with them! Would they let her take them away from here? Would they fit in at Saint Mary's? The impending isolation of winter urged her to act quickly.

If only Rafe would come back. In the end, Jack's safety was his responsibility, not hers.

When they got back to the house and deposited the apples in the pantry, Veronica went up to Rafe’s rooms and sat by the fire. There was often a fire blazing in the hearth, lit to keep the air dry, holding the damp at bay lest it set in and rot the precious silks and satins. She wandered into his bedroom to look at her sad, miserable face in the mirror. The gun and the bullets were untouched on the red silk r
unner. How could the man leave dangerous weapons lying around?

"He's irresponsible. That's what he is. Rich and spoiled and irresponsible." Picking up the gun, its heaviness surprised her; the acrid smell of steel stung her nostrils. She aimed at her reflection in the mirror. It was disconcerting to see herself thus, looking like an outlaw in one of her parents' plays.

Without Rafe’s presence, the room was cold, like a beautiful but lifeless shrine.

She put the gun down, stroking its shiny silver muzzle with her finger.

As angry as she was with him, she wanted to understand Rafe. He was ashamed of something. She knew it. Some dark and horrible secret kept him away.

Did he have any idea that the twins had called their mother up from the dead?

It was unbelievable! How could Sovay have lived that she could be summoned up like that? Surely she was meant to be in Hell. But such beings, fearing eternal fire, would cultivate powers, even if it destroyed innocent children, to avoid death

Veronica's mood dropped another notch. She turned her back on the mirror, leaned against the dresser, and looked around at the room. These were
Rafe's personal things. If she concentrated, she swore she could sense his inner self, through them, feel his confusion and, though she must be fooling herself, see his face, his eyes soft with thoughts of her.

That
couldn't be real. She was confusing fantasy and reality all of the time now, it seemed.

Of course, Rafe stayed
in France because of a woman. It was as simple as that. And what was also plain was that she, Veronica, was jealous.

She turned back to the mirror and tried to blink away the haggard face reflected there. She picked up the pistol, weighed it in her hand, then aimed it at the door. If only life were so simple: if you don't like something----shoot it.

She went out to the sitting room and stared up at the portrait of Rafe.

"We need you to come back now, sir. I need to know what to do."

As the day wore on, it grew chill, damp. There was a scent of ice in the air. November was drawing them in toward bitter cold and darkness.