The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance (29 page)

Stifling a scream, Veronica crept slowly
toward the dressing table where the gun lay in its box, loaded with silver bullets.

The wolf paced the balcony, staring at her through the glass.

Veronica grabbed her pistol, ran downstairs to the back of the house, and looked out through the French doors to the yard. The moon cast long, rustling shadows over the grass, no blaze of white fur amongst them. Tense and watchful, she stepped out to the back yard, and looked up at her balcony. No one was there. Only a slight whiff of lilies clung to the air.

The pistol giving her courage, Veronica
dashed up the lawn toward the bell tower. Stopping at the archway of the chapel, she looked in at the shadows of the leaves playing over a dim, moonlit wall, at the white disk of the moon reflected in the surface of the pool.

As she'd suspected, Sovay was not there
. It was night. She was awake and wandering the grounds, hunting.

A snatch of song, no louder than the night breeze, rose up.

Green grow the lilies, oh, Bright among the bushes, oh…

Veronica walked woodenly down towards the birch wood, then stopped. Jacques was standing in the lilies beside the wishing well, but when Veronica got there, she found only a white china doll hanging above the water.

*

*

Fifty-Four

V
eronica sat at her teacher's desk reading her
Book of Psalms.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;

He leadeth me beside the still waters…

The still waters… the wishing well. She shuddered.

Coming to her favorite line, Veronica read it out loud. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil…”

Jacques came into the classroom, formally dressed in deepest black.

“Good morning, Miss Everly,” he said. “I hope you liked the poem I wrote for you.”

Veronica put her psalm book down and scanned her desk. Lifting the paperweight, moving her papers around, she sighed.

“I’m sorry, Jacques, but I haven’t found your poem.”

He gave her a glance so filled with disappointment that she put the
Book of Psalms
into a drawer, then shuffled a few more papers around on her desk as if a sheet of good writing paper bearing several lines of verse written in a decorative hand with a drawing of a deer in the garden was not directly under her nose. She picked it up and showed it to the child.

“Here it is.  I’m so sorry, Jacques. I’ve been a bit preoccupied. I shall read it now.”

“That’s all right, Miss Everly. I shall tell it to you.”

Despite the exhaustion that circled his eyes and shadowed the corners of his mouth, Jacques held himself with great dignity as he recited:

“The Hart-

My lady, like a wild hart,

flees from me in the garden.

She hides among the lilies,

throwing me off her scent.

How can she love me, a savage beast,

or redeem my heart-sore burden?

How can she love me in the least,

or bear the dark descent,

into the arms of one a-cursed,

in whose jaws she might be rent?

How can she love me?”

The poem was awkward, but astonishing for one so young, remarkable for how accurately it seemed to describe her struggle, her attraction and repulsion toward his father.

“Very impressive, Jacques. It sounds like that fairy tale you like so much.
Beauty and the Beast
.”

Jacques winced a smile, as if she’d made light of his poem.

“It is rather like that. But more personal,” he said.

“Who is the beast, Jacques?”

He swallowed and looked at the floor.

“One would think you had known the pains of unrequited love yourself to have been able to write such a poem,” Veronica said.

“I have.”

“But for whom?”

Jacques looked away, his face flushed pink under its pallor.

“Why, Mamma, and Sylvie. And of course, Jacqueline. But she won’t speak to me any more.”

The child’s sadness moved Veronica deeply. He was too young to suffer so much loss, so much sorrow. She knew what it was like. Realizing that irritation had made her sound sharp, she softened her tone.

“Why won’t Jacqueline speak to you? She told me you two were fighting but she never said what it was about. Perhaps you can tell me. That way I can help you.”

“I can’t tell you. Now can we study our lesson for this hour? I say we open our Latin book to page 36.”

Veronica knew there was no point in pushing the conversation further. He would never admit what had happened. She opened her teaching manual to page 36.

“All right, Jacques. But this cannot continue. You must both come to class together by the end of the week. Perhaps I can help you to resolve whatever it is you're arguing about. There is a great lesson in that.”

“In what?”

“Forgiveness. As Our Lord instructs us in all relationships. We must learn to forgive, or we sink to the level of brute beasts indeed.” Veronica studied Jacques's face, its expression of sorrow unrelieved. “The fact that you are both in mourning attire shows how much grief you are giving yourselves. There is no need. None at all. Don't you see?”

Jacques nodded silently.

“Good. Now, on page 36, we have our first conjugation of the word
love
.”



By the end of the week, the twins were still apart. Though she hated using deception, Veronica could think of no other way to find out what was really going on.

*

  Fifty-Five

S
hooting with Rafe proved to be a challenge. Not the shooting part, for Veronica discovered that she had a talent for it. Her aim was so accurate, her excitement so great when she hit the wolf target right between the eyes, that she had to check the urge to prove herself in the field. She didn't want to kill anything, but some primitive instinct had awakened, thrilling her with the idea that, if she had to, she could protect herself.

No, the difficulty was with Rafe. Standing behind her, reaching around her shoulders to grasp her hands and show her how to raise the gun, how to aim, to pull the trigger, buffering the impact of the explosion as she
rocked back against his body… Though, in these moments, the connection she felt with Rafe was overwhelming, she must not lose her head. He was not what he seemed in these moments of closeness. He had a dark side, and she was finding out how deep that darkness went.

He did not try to press anything on her. She was glad of that,
she told herself, for it proved him honorable, at least.

But, by the end of a week, he was whispering instructions in her ear; his warm breath sending tingles and chills through her body. It seemed he d
eliberately pulled her into him; she swore he was breathing in her scent, the sensation melting her so that she had to struggle to hold up the gun, take aim, and hit anywhere close to the target. He had to know what he was doing, so why was he doing it?

Finally, she whirled around and gave him her most level gaze. "Mind your manners, sir. I'll not be toyed with."

Rafe gasped and began laughing in a sputtering, surprised sort of way.

"And what do you find so amusing?" she demanded.

"I'm, I'm sorry Veronica. I don't know what comes over me sometimes. You're just so...hmmmm..."

He pushed his dark hair back from his brow with both hands and turned away. The gun suddenly felt foolish in Veronica's hand, as if it merely provided an excuse for Rafe to embrace her.

"I'm a good girl, sir."

"I know. I know."

"Then don't forget it."

Veronica raised the gun, took aim, and shot the wolf target right between the eyes. It was her best
shot yet.



Veronica proved deaf to her own protestations, By the end of a fortnight, she was not only a crack shot, but even more in love with Rafe than before. This development did not fill her heart with joy.

“Never let that gun out of your sight, Ve
ronica,” Rafe told her with some urgency. “The minute the full moon rises, and the moon will be full very soon, I want you to load it with these four silver bullets. I want you to use it----without hesitation."

"But wasn't that how you accidently shot your wife?"

"That bullet was not silver. If it had been, we'd have been free." Veronica must have looked shocked, for Rafe felt the need to add. "She was a wolf, Veronica. A werewolf."

"I know..."

"She lost her soul ages ago."

"Even so. What of the twins?"

"They will be kept out of it. Mrs. Twig will see to it."

"Then why four bullets?"

Rafe turned away as if her could not face her.

"We have no more choice in the matter than if we were confronting the Devil himself. That's how you must think of this, Veronica. There are no more Sovays or Rafes or...
anybody
human. Only monsters that must be stopped."



Back in her room, Veronica stared at the pistol and the four silver bullets shining so prettily in their scarlet-lined box. She looked out at the moon hanging low in the sky. In one more day, it would be full, and she might be forced to do something so horrendous it didn't bear thinking.

She picked up the gun, turned it over in her hands, enjoying the smoothness, the weight, the way the handle fit in her palm. She reviewed the things that had gone on between Rafe and her from their first meeting until now, seeking evidence that he was, without a doubt, cursed. There could
be
no doubt
if she were to even consider doing what he'd asked of her, because he was asking her destroy him.

She cocked the pistol and squinted into the chamber at the butt end of a silver bullet. The whole saga was hateful to her. Clearly, she was not meant to destroy real wolves, but human beings who appeared as wolves.  Rafe said it was for the sake of their souls, but what of
her
soul? Was she to be forced to commit murder? Killing people she loved? How could she live after that?

The words of Jacques’ poem went through her mind. She saw again the wild hart, the beast cornering it in the garden, and underlying the passion of predator for prey.

Crows flew over, cawing, as they sailed among the bare birches that stood like ghosts in the mist rising from the warm, wet ground.

A bell began tolling. Veronica shivered.

It was beginning.

*

Fifty-Six

A
hare shot out of the woods and began swiftly zigzagging up the lawn toward the ruined chapel. The entire birch grove seemed to snarl as a white wolf shot out of the trees, chasing the hare.

Veronica clutched the balustrade of her balcony, hoping to spot the twins.
The hare leapt into the air, attempting to escape over the hedge, but the wolf clawed it back and pulled it to the ground.

Veronica held her breath and forced her eyes not to blink as Jacques stood up, and with the dead hare lying across both hands, stepped toward the house as if presenting a gift.

Veronica was surprised at how angry she was. She was tired of these endless assaults on reason, on reality. And all of it evil.

She threw on her winter cloak. Inside the fur lining was a pocket deep enough to hold the pistol. Slipping the weapon in, she allowed her hand to linger on the ivory handle as if she could absorb its power into herself by touch. Then she dashed down the stairs, and ran out into the yard.

It was windy. The moon was coming up between the horns of the cypress trees amid waves of rolling clouds. The stars began winking out, cold and sharp. Veronica pulled up her hood, but the wind blew it down again, swirling her cloak up around her as if to carry her off.

The bell was tolling, muffled and somber, turning the world askew.

There was a shimmer of misty light around the wishing well, two children standing among the lilies. Their faces, under the brims of their birch bark hats, glowed whitely. Veronica gasped, for standing next to the one she now knew to be Sylvie, was Jacques. In his arms was a sheaf of white lilies, and in his hand, a china doll.

The children sang in high, faraway voices that sounded like the wind whistling over the low hills in that strange, wordless tune
that signaled the presence of the lady in yellow.

The air shimmered with vision, and in her mind's eye Veronica saw the china dolls in the well looking up through the water, their tiny eyes bright with living sparks. They opened their tiny mouths, and in high, sharp, quavering voices, screamed.

Veronica covered her eyes as if she could block her inner sight. She wasn't just disturbed, but freezing, as if the hand of death had gripped her. When she uncovered her eyes, the children wearing the birch bark hats were fading into the night.

She hurried to the shelter of the woods. The wind died down among the trees and, through a screen of bare branches, Veronica watched a misty light move up the lawn toward the ruin
ed chapel. Two children had multiplied to many, their shadowy shapes sparked with the petals of white lilies. In the archway of the chapel stirred a misty, glowing light. The children entered that light and vanished.

Veronica slipped into the birch grove and ran up the pathway at the edge of the trees, slowing down when she saw
the walls of the chapel. The archway was filled with mist. From somewhere beyond the yews and the cypresses, came the high, keening howl of a wolf.

Listening intently, she heard a branch snap. Blood pounding in her ears, she sucked in her breath and listened. The sound of a heavy tread fell close by. I
t was in the woods.

Her scal
p tingled; her mouth went dry. Pistol cocked, she turned slowly around to see what was behind her. A flock of crows flew up into bare branches that crossed the moonlit clouds like a cage, and perched amongst them.

It's only birds... a fox running by...

Veronica looked deep into the birches with narrowed eyes. Anything could hide among these white trunks and shadows, these thickets and hollows in the night. She was about to slip out to the lawn when she heard leaves rustling further up the path.

Her heart fluttered so fast she thought it would rise out of her chest into the air with the crows. She stood very still, barely breathing, as the mist in the chapel archway dissolved, and a great bulk of blackness emerged. Its large head swung to and fro, its long nose twitched like a hunter on the scent. Veronica waited for what she knew would come: two red eyes staring straight at her, and the whisper of a growl.

Blind with terror, she turned and ran back into the woods. Whip-thin branches slashed at her, tangled her skirts, tripping her, trapping her. She tore out of their grasp, sliding into a muddy brook she hadn't seen. Standing up in her waterlogged skirts, shaking, unable to look away from those two points of red light so ruthlessly trained upon her, she backed into the shelter of the tomb.

The werewolf prowled
toward her. Its eyes glowed in the blackness of its face, red as flames through stained glass.

Pulses hammering with panic, yet unable to free herself from the beast's pe
netrating gaze, Veronica froze.

The
wolf lifted its nose and howled. Then, inexplicably, it shuddered and turned away, its blackness sinking into the shadows as if it had never been. From deep in the woods, came a deep, guttural roar. Then, through the bare trees, the red eyes focused on her again.

Veronica ran, dodging tree after tree, straight into a stand of juniper. Cornered, she backed into the narrow limbs of the vast, prickly shrub, shut her eyes, and struggled for breath. The juniper needles pierced the back of her neck, tangled her hair. Cold sweat poured down her sides; she shivered so hard she had to hold tight on the gun to keep from crumbling to her knees.

Footsteps crackled the leaves
.

Help me, God!
She raised the pistol.

The werewolf was before her, staring through its own blackness. The eyes were blue now. It was Rafe.

"No, no," she turned into the juniper tree, holding the gun across her chest.

A wave of hot breath poured down the back of her neck. She braced herself. A strong arm covered in rough black fur, its scimitar claws retracting, wrapped around her waist and squeezed her hard. Warm breath dampened her ear.

The voice was raw, but it was Rafe's. "Shoot me, by God! Turn around and use that gun on me!"

Veronica screamed and jerked around, tears blinding her to horror before her. She
shook her head. "I can't!"

The creature was enormous. His eyes smoldered.

"Then return to the house and don't look back."

Tearing her
cloak out of the juniper needles, Veronica plummeted through the darkness. Slippery leaves, dead branches, phantom trees and stones seemed to jump into her path as if to stop her reaching the yard. But, in no time, she saw, shining between the trees, the fire-lit windows of Belden House.

She
didn't stop running until she hit the long shadow of the tower. There were the ivy-clogged windows, the one with the broken bars gaping. Cries wafted out from high up in the house, high, thin, childlike wails. Calls for Mamma and for Jacques.

Veronica
raised her pistol and spun around to face the woods. Moving through the birches was the wolf. Huge, and blacker than the night, its powerful shoulder muscles rippling, its long snout quivering with scent, red eyes aimed right at her, the beast hunkered forward. 

A sharp sword-like thrust stabbed at her heart.

“Don’t make me shoot you. Don’t! If you do, I shall turn the gun on myself.”

A howl wheezed out from the top of the tower. A choir of howls went up from the fields and hedges and woods, filling the sky.

Veronica looked again for the black wolf. No longer stalking her, it crouched near the wishing well and stared.

A voice erupted in her head.
Get into the house, now!