The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance (28 page)

*

Fifty-Two

V
eronica dropped the coffin lid and ran out of the tomb. Daylight streaming through the trees dazzled her. She crashed through woods toward the house, coming out under the tower looming darkly against the silver sky.

In a fit to anger,
she stopped. "I hate you!" she muttered at the tower.

She hated the tower with its burst open window. Hated the image of the black wolf, its eyes two pinpricks of red lig
ht in sockets of endless shadow staring out at her from a realm of violence and evil. Hated it because it had taken Rafe, because it was an unwanted intruder into his soul.

He'd told her he'd buried Sovay in that tomb.

But it was empty.

Veronica shrank from the tower back into the woods as if, once out of its shadow,
she could escape its horrifying influence. An overgrown path ran along the edge of the trees. She didn't care where she went, as long as it was far away. Maybe a woodland glade would open along the path, where she could fall into the grass and look at the sky and forget about Rafe and Belden House. She hurried along until she saw the old bell tower and the ruined chapel on the other side of the trees.

There was desolate air about the place, with the cypress trees and the moon and the pale crumbling stones, the tower with its ominous black bell. The gloomy atmosphere seemed a small thing after the horrors of the night before. Everything at Belden House seemed gloomy now. But, there was supposed to be a garden inside, filled with flowers from France. She could already smell the lavender.

Stepping in, she found the chapel was no more than a shell. The walls of chiseled, sun-bleached stone were draped with ivy and wisteria. A flurry of white azaleas, peonies, blue brunnera, and lavender wafted around a circular fishpond that shone still as a mirror and full of clouds. And lying beside the pool, in the pose of a marble effigy, was Sovay.

Her yellow gown was ornate, its design medieval. He
r bosom was almost completely exposed in the style of a time and place long past, when kings and queens battled the peasants and sent armies against the infidels. The crown of birch twigs, black against the glowing white fire of her face, seemed utterly pagan. The long blonde hair glistened with the sheen of gold, the long-fingered hands, crossed over her heart, enfolded Jacqueline’s yellow-gowned, doll. Yet it was Sovay's face that fascinated Veronica. Finally able to see it up close, she found something repulsive in it. Beautiful, yes, perfectly so, but its aspect suggested carnality, the curve of her mouth, insatiable appetite.

It seemed impossible that this lascivious creature could be the elegant and sophisticated Lady Sovay, yet the face and figure were identical to those in the portrait. As Rafe had explained in his translation of the Bestiary, Sovay must have allowed the
Magical Personality
of Saint Lupine to overshadow her completely.

Veronica had no doubt that
the figure before her was dead, yet she was not dead. Not actually alive, yet she was animated. Even in sleep, she seemed vividly awake.

Sovay was here
, would always be here, prowling through the night until Veronica stopped her.

She
glanced about breathlessly. Nothing stirred. She looked again at Sovay lying asleep, yet not breathing. From what she'd read, Veronica knew her to be, in this state, helpless and vulnerable to destruction.

Thinking of the pistol with its silver bullets, Veronica's palms broke out in sweat. If she had it, what would she do? She didn't have the heart to use it. Yet, the Bestiary had taught her that the thing lying here was no longer h
uman, but a werewolf. A vampyre.

It was right to shoot such a
creature.

But,
Veronica didn't have the gun. Perhaps there was another way to weaken the monster's power.

An exposed stair went up inside the bell tower to the topmost spire. There, like a dark and heavy heart, hung the bell. Strange symbols were incised around its rim, but from where she stood, Veronica could not see them clearly. She sensed they gave the bell power. Perhaps taking the clapper out so that the bell could not toll
would keep Sovay from waking. 

Coming to the bottom of the corkscrew stairs, Veronica froze. It was a long, steep climb to the top. Some of the steps were broken. And there was something about the bell that put her off. A dark force seemed to emanate from it. Remembering what had happened to Mr. Croft, she backed away.

Veronica stepped quietly back to the sleeping figure, reached down, and grasped the doll’s head.

Sovay’s eyes flew open. Sparklin
g green, they fixed on Veronica.

Unable to look away, Veronica
groped for her silver crucifix and clung to it. A high-pitched wail rent the air. Sovay's form began dissolving into mist. Red eyes burned through the mist, staring at Veronica until only a thin white vapor remained.

The doll lay on the ground, apparently too real to vanish.

Veronica was halfway down the slope, gasping for breath, when she saw Rafe coming up the lawn carrying a pistol in each hand.

“There you are,” he shouted. “It’s time for your shooting lesson.” Using a pistol as a pointer, he went on. “We’ll be going into the Rock Garden. It’s just over there.”

“Oh. Is that what this meeting is for?” Veronica replied.

“Didn’t Mrs. Twig tell you we had a meeting today?”

“Yes, she did. She just didn’t say what it was for.”

“Come on then.”

Rafe waved a pistol in the direction of the juniper hedge. Pulling in her voluminous skirts so they wouldn't catch on the rough, sloe-scented needles, Veronica followed Rafe between the trees. They came to a walled garden she hadn't seen yet. Emotionally exhausted, she paused in the clearing while Rafe opened the door.

Inside was a primeval landscape. In the midst was a low, green mound, and crowning the top was a circle of tall, narrow rocks as mysterious and potent as an ancient megalith. Inside the circle, facing out, was a life-sized painting of a white wolf.

Rafe was relaxed, casual, as if this were just an ordinary outing. “Those standing stones are why we call this the Rock Garden. It’s most likely another folly of some kind, though some say the stones were here ages before the house was built.”

The bluish stones loomed high. They seemed to waver slightly, as if an electrical current from the bowels of the earth snaked up them. Carved over them at intervals, were wavy lines and swirls in the process of wearing away with the elements.

Rafe pointed at the picture of the wolf. “That’s our target. I hope it frightens you because if it doesn’t, you might not shoot fast enough when the real thing comes at you. A large beast like that can tear your throat out in seconds.”

Veronica exhaled sharply. There was a bench near the wall. “May I sit down for a moment, sir? I feel a bit faint.”

“Of course. What’s the matter? Did you skip luncheon or something?”

"I don't know. I don't know..." Veronica sank down on the bench. Rafe sat beside her. He set both guns on the ground, and then turned to face her.

“I hope you’re not ill.” He reached for her hand.

“I don’t think so."

Veronica wanted to tell him about Sovay being in the ruin, but she couldn’t find the words. Fear had finally overwhelmed her. It was all too horrible. She just wanted to forget.

The ring of rocks turned as bright as
if it were a storm cloud struck by the sun. The stones shimmered and seemed to turn, to dance. Exhaling a small gasp, Veronica fell against the wall at her back. 

“That song….” It was humming in her head. "It takes over my mind."

Rafe’s eyes burned. His mouth was set in a determined line, yet he sighed, slouched a little toward her, and grabbed her hand.

In her own ears, Veronica's voice sounded strangely hollow, as if it came from outside of herself. “I’m sorry. Can we do this on another day? Tomorrow? I just need to lie down. I feel a trifle light-headed. I was so worried about the twins that I forgot to eat. And the air is so fresh this time of year.”

“You’re so delicate, so slim and graceful, such large, doe eyes. You’re like a deer, you know. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Yes, actually. The twins.”

“They would notice something like that. You’re timid like a deer as well.”

Veronica straightened up.

“Only under certain circumstances. When I’m meeting people for the first time, maybe, or utterly mystified by something. Like here... Otherwise, I am quite competent. As a teacher….”

“Shhh. No need to defend yourself. Let me accompany you back to the house. Come on. We’ll do this tomorrow. Shooting takes strength, so you must promise me never to skip meals.”

“Oh, thank you. Of course, I promise.”

As they began walking, he put his arm around her shoulders. She longed to turn in to him, to lose herself in his strength, but this was only a gesture of support. Nothing more. She watched their shoes moving over the grass, too confused to acknowledge that
Rafe's touch sent waves of excitement through her body, brought her to the edge of tears.

She glanced up and met his eyes. He seemed to drink her in, as if he too felt more alive in her presence. As if his heart, too, had flown open.

*

Fifty-Three

V
eronica paced her balcony, looking out over the lawn. Her eyes lingered over the spot where Rafe had pulled her close and walked her back to the house, glancing at her through his lashes as if he feared that too direct a gaze would reveal more than he dared. Walking by his side, her arm linked with his, Veronica had never felt so perfectly at one with another person.

But,
Rafe was deceptive, and... she couldn't bear to think it.... the word seemed grotesque applied to Rafe. Yet she'd seen the wolf in him, from the very first day when he'd threatened her on the moor.

By rights she should leave. But when they reached the house, he'd taken her hand, raised it to his lips, and continued to hold it as if he could not bear to separate from her. The desolation in his eyes, his slow, sad smile told her
more than words how the curses wrought by Sovay had broken his heart.

Did he expect her to save him? But what could she do? Those white wolves, with their blood red eyes, hated
her. They did not seem real, for like spirits or demons or dreams, they finished their terrible deeds and vanished into the black air of night. Yet they had power. They could kill.

How could a bullet destroy a spirit? How was it possible to kill something that was already dead? And what if she failed? Would all the demons of Hell rise up against her? One could survive the bite of natural wolf, but a demon could devour the soul, and driven by revenge, would not give up even if it took an eternity to triumph.

Fraught with indecision, Veronica went back into her room, and locked the doors behind her. Her tired mind tried to make sense of what she must do. Rafe's behavior was most likely driven by a need to keep her on as governess in a situation anyone else would flee. Perhaps he was afraid that if he let her go, she would talk about him in the village, expose the goings on of the de Grimstons.

She put the tips of her fingers over her mouth. Surely the Ouija board and ectoplasm experiments had encourage
d this evil. The house needed to be purged. She must summon the strength to do it.

Expelling a breath she felt she’d been holding for hours, Veronica smoothed h
er hair back from her forehead. Even if he was manipulating  her, she couldn't deny her feelings for Rafe de Grimston. Somehow, he had broken through the shell she'd built around her loneliness, awakening her longing for love. Despite the futility of the situation, these feelings had the power to keep her at Belden House wanting the impossible.

Weary
, she wandered over to the twins' rooms and peered in. Both beds were made. Everything was tidy. But no one was there. In Jacqueline's room, a low growl vibrated up her back. She spun around to find Wolfgang staring up at her. The thick fur around his neck had been shaven and the area bandaged, a reminder of how he'd bravely fought the werewolf to protect his two little charges.

The dog rose from his bed in the corner and stuck his long nose into Veronica's skirts. Poor thing. She petted him warily, her eyes darting around the r
oom, searching the shadows for the children. Something strange was in the air, a portent.

Where were they? Where
was
Jack?

Veronica patted the dog, more to soothe herself than him. He panted, smiling the way dogs
do. When she was sure no one was in the room, she ordered the dog back to his corner. He barked at her, and lifted his bandaged paw.

She took it. “So you don't want to be left alone either, do you, old chap?” She let him follow her out, and shut the door.

Back in her room, Veronica sank into the easy chair and leaned back. Wolfgang flopped down on the hearth, and gazed up at her like an old flame. She needed to rest her mind, but the dog kept staring at her. It was distracting. She wasn't used to pets. Saint Mary's never allowed the girls to have animals, except for the cat, an old mouser who was more of an employee than a member of the family. It was always just called
Cat
, or
Here, kitty
. Tala, the wolf girl, crept into her mind. Veronica tried to shift thoughts of her away, but they kept coming back. Tala wasn’t a dog or a pet, but a human child lost in the animal kingdom.

Once a level of trust had taken root between Veronica and Tala, the girl no longer grabbed at her food. She even offered to share. When Veronica reported this
change to Sister Margaret, the nun ordered the cell to be opened. The wolf girl came out quietly, gently, bent and hobbling, hiding under her hair as if it were a veil of leaves.

At last, the nuns were able to tie the wolf girl to a chair without a fight. Even when they cut her hair short, doused her with kerosene to kill the lice, scrubbed her until dirt gave way to pure, white skin and hair shining with vermillion highlights, the girl had remained placid. Tidied up, she was uncannily pretty. Still, she could not speak, but communicated with wild gestures and odd, squeaking noises. Only the look in her eyes suggested a human need for understanding and acceptance.

For some reason, perhaps because she'd been the first to show kindness, the girl was drawn to Veronica. Everywhere Veronica went, the wolf girl followed. She never came close, but hung far behind, watching, listening, imitating Veronica’s every move and gesture. It got so that Veronica never felt alone. Even behind the locked door of her room, she felt the eyes of the wolf girl upon her. Out in the hall, the back of her head prickling, she’d spin around just in time to see the wolf girl slip behind a curtain, or vanish down a shadowy corridor, footsteps echoing away with the
tok-tok-tok
sound of water slowly dripping from a tap.

It was unnerving even to recall it.

Mother Superior had explained that the wolf girl meant no ill, but admired Veronica, and was perhaps afraid of rejection. Perhaps Veronica should warm up a bit, and draw the wolf girl out.

“Of course, Reverend Mother,” Veronica had said, dutifully. Yet she'd crinkled her brow with worry, afraid that by being kind, she would never be free of the wolf girl, but constantly crowded and chased and spied upon. The last thing she'd wanted was to be the creature’s only friend.

Mother Superior seemed to know what was troubling her. “Veronica, think of your patience with poor child as the good deed that will get you into Heaven.”

“I will try, Reverend Mother. But I fear being attacked.”

“God would never allow it, Veronica. Take heart.”

Veronica remembered going out to the garden and sitting on the stone bench under the hedge to contemplate her situation. At that point, the wolf girl didn’t even have name. Perhaps that had been part of the problem. How could anyone possibly become civilized without a name? One couldn’t even be baptized without a name. Without a name one was, in a sense, not there.

But what was the wolf girl’s name? Had she ever had one?

Veronica recalled listening to the robins sing as they bounced amongst the twiggy branches above her head. Names had come to mind: Anna, Bella, Ivy…Then, as if the wolf girl had whispered it into the coiled chamber of her ear, it had come to her:
Tala
. The name was sounded foreign, yet it suited the wolf girl. If Veronica added a saint’s name after it, Tala would do nicely.

“It should be Marie,” she'd said to herself. “Tala Marie. In honor of Saint Mary’s.”

Hearing her name, the wolf girl had drawn closer, prodding Veronica to repeat it over and over, like a chant:
Tala…Tala…Tala…

Listening to the syllables, wolf girl’s eyes had shifted from side to side as if she sought the truth of her name in her depths of her mind.

“Tala,” she would say, striking her chest. “Tala.”

“Tala Marie,” Veronica said.

“Tala,” said the girl.

Veronica had taught Tala how to speak, and gradually, how to read. Watching the girl change and grow under her tutelage, Veronica felt she’d found her true purpose in life. Every morning she'd looked forward to teaching Tala, adding to the girl’s skills, seeing her dull expression brighten as she learned, her eyes kindle with understanding. All the while, Tala had mirrored Veronica, imitating on her walk, the cadence of her speech, the expressions that passed over her face, even the most fleeting. Tala began to teach Veronica as well, bringing her edible plants from the forest, and showing her how to catch rabbits and birds with her
bare hands. This unpleasant exchange was tolerable, for a while. Veronica had had no intention of regressing to savagery.

She soothed the scars on her hand
s, wounds she'd receive for resisting Tala's demands.

Apparently there were three levels of sentient life on earth: Humans and real animals, humans raised by animals, who could be raised up again, and human-animal hybrids like werewolves
,
the creations of evil magic who were damned.

Wolfgang
laid his head on its forepaws. The beast was companionable at least. And somehow, more civilized than these wild children she’d been assigned to, Jacques and Jacqueline. She thought of how she'd seen them in the room on the corner of the upstairs landing: the long white hairs sprouting from their hands, their fingers growing long and pointed, their high-pitched howling on that full moon night.

Werewolves. All of them.
All of them werewolves.

And Mrs. Twig? A witch.

These realizations were breathtaking. But with them, everything fell into place: the twins' fascination with death, their belief in magic, Jacqueline's transformation while hunting the hare, their disappearing on the three nights of the full moon, locked, according to Miss Blaylock, in the tower. With no notion of the consequences, the twins had released their mother from whatever elaborate rites had been used to seal her in her grave. And she'd returned, with all her claims of motherhood intact, to take her offspring where she was, to make them
what
she was.

Had she bitten them, or
had the curse been passed down through her bloodline? 

Dinner steamed from a covered dish on the side table. Unable to face Rafe, she'd had it sent up. Her absence might hurt him, but she couldn't help it. He would have to understand. The roast beef
and potatoes looked delicious. She made herself eat, but her stomach was tight and turbulent. She tried to read her prayer book, but the words just swarmed around on the page. The Bestiary was there, under Jacqueline’s picture book, next to the diary of the former governess. What else had Miss Blaylock found out?

Veronica opened a page of the diary.
             

I found a strange book in the library the other day called
The Vampyre
. It was marked with a red ribbon and bit scuffed on the cover as if it had been read over and over and carried about in a satchel. It was a horrible, sensational story about a vampyre and the poor girls he preyed upon. I thought the atmosphere was strangely like this house.

Aspects of Lord Ruthven's character were based, not only on Lord Byron, but on the author's study of eastern superstition, such as the need of the vampyre to sleep in boxes of his native soil. Apparently he cannot get into a house unless he is in
vited. He may change form into a bat or a wolf.... He may dissolve into mist....



Veronica sat up watching the candle flames grow long and bend sideways in the drafts, wax spilling liquidly down the stems. The sky in the windows went from lucent blue to black. A cricket chirruped, fire crackled in the grate, the dog flinched in his dreams.

The
Book of Unholy Beasts
lay on her lap, opened on the illumination of the wolf and the lady in yellow.

The tune wafted into her head.

Something was knocking at the balcony windows. Veronica turned around in her chair to see a haze of brilliant white light spilling over the balustrade, and in that light, a female shape in brilliant yellow, a crown of birch twigs like spikes around her head.

Veronica jumped to her feet in terror. The Bestiar
y
slid off her lap. It hit the floor with a
thud
, and fell open. Blinded by cold needles of fright, she barely registered the picture on the page of a misty figure in a birch bark hat, and in florid shivery script, the word:
Vampyre.

Sovay was looking in through the French doors, her face a shining white oval in veils of golden hair. Her body glowed through her yellow dress; her hands on the windowpanes were white flames. Her eyes, points of light in black hollows, beamed straight into Veronica’s eyes and held them.

The soft voice, muffled by the barrier of the glass, spoke as if from Veronica's own mind:

Do not tell my husband you saw me. He thinks he can hold me in that silver tomb, but he has to get me into it first. If you tell him you saw me, I will take the other child.

The
other
child? Veronica gripped the arm of the chair and shouted. “You won’t, Sovay de Grimston! You won’t!”

Sovay seemed to hover in space for a moment. Then, with a hungry stare, she dissolved into mist and vanished.

A white wolf appeared on the balcony.