The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance (6 page)

She
went back out to the landing and looked down the stairs. The house was so quiet. The quietest place she'd ever been. A moth fluttering by could be heard in this house.

To the left was a long hallway. She followed it around a corner and came upon three doors: two facing across, and a third at the end.

Though the nuns had birched her for it, Veronica never succeeded in fighting her urge to open a closed door. Her need to
know
was just too strong. Now here she was, faced with not just one, but
three
tantalizing doors. What was she supposed to do? She walked down to the door at the end of the hallway and turned the knob.

It opened.

There was no turning back now. Her heart thumping with guilty pleasure, she trespassed into the most elegant sitting room she’d ever seen.

Nine

A
marble fireplace with two portraits above the mantel dominated the far wall like a shrine. Paintings, sculpted figurines, deep, cushioned divans and gilded mahogany chairs upholstered in shades of ivory, dark green, and gold, held court on Oriental carpets the color of charcoal, silver and scarlet. The room spoke of wealth, status and education far beyond anything Veronica could imagine, of things foreign and poetic. The far left corner of the room opened out to another conservatory with walls of clear leaded glass. A vista of morning sky above the plants, suggested the space was larger than the one downstairs where they had tea. Strange, exotic flowering trees and vines had been left to grow wild as if the owner strove relieve the smooth, refined atmosphere of his rooms with the untamed and wild.

Veronica turned slowly around, taking in the flamboyant crystal chandelier hanging from a decorative plaster ceiling, the ornate mirrors on walls of dark silver grosgrain silk. An arrangement of fresh lilies bloomed on a table behind the hearthside divan as if the rooms were kept in readiness for Mr. de Grimston’s imminent return.

"Amazing!" she whispered.

On either side of the door she’d entered, were French doors. Two bedrooms, corresponding to the two doors that faced each other across the hallway outside, were visible through the windows.

This was clearly the Master Suite.

Through the windows of the doors on her right, Veronica caught a glimpse of Lady Sovay’s bedchamber. She tiptoed hurriedly over, and peered in. The bed was set into the wall under a gilded wooden canopy hung with rose-colored silk curtains. Medieval tapestries of ladies and hounds hung on either side of the marble fireplace. A wooden statue of Mary Magdalene, with her perfume jar, stood on the dressing table, the fine detailed carving of her hair flowing to her feet reflected in the mirror behind her. The silver combs and brushes and bottles of scent, the alluring colors and soft fabrics gave evidence of Sovay de Grimston’s sensuous personality.

Unable to stop herself, Veronica stepped into the room. The cut glass perfume bottles on the dressing table were so stylish that they could only have come from Paris. She picked one up and lifted the stopper, unleashing the intoxicating scent of ambergris. Drinking the fragrance in, she closed her eyes and wondered what kind of church Lady Sovay had been raised in, what kind of schooling she’d had. Certainly nothing like what Veronica had received at Saint Mary’s where the Magdalene was viewed as proprietress of the wrong kind of nunnery.

Under an archway to the right was a sitting room where tall windows, curtained with yards of gauzy silk, looked out on a walled rose garden. The further horizon was smudged with the umber mist of the orchard.

Veronica hurried back out to the sitting room and approached and the doors to Rafe de Grimston's bedroom. She had second thoughts about going in there. Lady Sovay could no longer feel the presence of a stranger among her things, but though not at home, Mr. de Grimston was very much alive. The vases of fresh lilies attested to his eventual return. If she met him after she’d been in his bedchamber, he would sense it right away. It was an uncanny fact that once you knew things about a person, especially personal, private things, you couldn’t get away with pretending you didn’t. She'd learned from spying on the nuns at Saint Mary's that the mere glance of an eye could give one away.

But, t
he doors were open.

She moved closer and looked in.

Dark wood, leather easy chairs, bookcases flanking the fireplace, the walls ornamented with the peculiar acquisitions of the world traveler, created an impression of masculine power. Light came in from the left through an archway that hid the bed from view. What must that bed be like? She imagined it to be large, and curtained in barbaric purple hangings.

Veronica turned and walked quie
tly back to the hearth. She sat on the edge of the soft cushions of the divan, admiring the sumptuous surroundings. She knew enough about art to recognize the fine quality of the two portraits above the fireplace, a matched pair, painted in the stormy style of Sir Joshua Reynolds. The one on the left could only have been Rafe, and the one at the right was surely his wife, Lady Sovay.

Lovely, sylphlike, her ladyship's small, perfect features had the same eerie cast as the twins’, but the green eyes and lush, flaxen locks were a shade darker, as if seen through smoked glass. A creamy yellow dress and floating violet veil accentuated her fragility. But her eyes drew the most attention. They were large, alm
ond-shaped and haunted as if Lady Sovay suffered some dire agony of the soul. With eyes like that, it was not surprising that tragedy had befallen her.

Veronica shifted her gaze to the portrait of Rafe.  Dark good looks were the first things that struck her, his coat and cravat worn with flair. He was not the soft, decadent aristocrat one would expect, but appeared alert, interesting, intelligent. His black hair curled lavishly around his chiseled jaw, raven-wing eyebrows framed his clear blue eyes. A patrician nose and refined masculine lips above a strong chin completed the image of a man in control of his destiny. Yet, there was humanity in his expression. Surely he must have compassion to care for a wife as troubled as Lady Sovay appeared, in her portrait, to have been.

Veronica stood up and went closer to Rafe's portrait. What would it be like living around a man like that? Not just some old handyman or a priest, but the real thing? The thought of meeting him was both electrifying and unnerving. What would he think of her? Would she blush and stammer and look at her shoes? If she were to have any self-possession at all, she must learn more about him.

Veronica rose and slipped into Rafe's bedchamber.

The room felt foreign with its heavy silks and leather chairs. The dresser was mahogany. A large mirror hung on the wall above it. The glass was very clear and bright. Veronica looked at her slightly fervid reflection. Sighing, she pulled a stray lock of wavy, brown hair out of her eyes, tucked it behind her ear, and rubbed her frown away. She was always doing that, wrinkling her brow, worrying.

A length of red silk along the top of the dresser, and lying on it, as if they’d been casually cast aside, was a dueling pistol and a box of bullets. Underneath the box was an invoice for a large amount of sheet silver at a price that made her gasp.

It was none of her business of course. She glanced into the mirror again. Behind her, in a little arched antechamber, was the door that led out to the hallway. She had a brief horror of its opening, of someone coming in and finding her here, snooping around. Already there was the sense of a palpable, living presence in the room, as if its owner had left a part of himself behind. It wasn’t a bad feeling, just intense, like God watching.

She should leave; just go. It was getting to be time for class. Anticipating their first meeting, the twins might arrive early, and where was she?

Veronica drew away from the pistol and the bullets, and went back into the sitting room to take another look at Rafe de Grimston and his wife. She didn’t want to speculate about them, nor should she. It wasn’t her place. But still, they drew her. She’d never met people like this before, so stylish, cultured and attractive.

Sunlight shone through an open door to her right. She moved toward it like a cat seeking heat and came out to a large porch with a row of tall gothic windows. The checkerboard floor took her left, where three stone steps went up to an open landing. There, she came face-to-face with the tower.

Deep in the rough-hewn curve of the wall was a door hinged with broad flanges of cast iron, sealed shut with an enormous, primitive padlock. The tower appeared as ugly and unyielding as a prison. Not even romantic tendrils of English ivy could soften it.

Veronica went softly over and pressed her ear to the door. Not a sound came through. The ivy had been trimmed away from the portal, the lock was polished, the door clean. She looked up the side of the tower, to the crenellations above. There was an air about the tower, the energy of people coming and going. Perhaps food was stored
in there, or candles, or unseasonable clothes.

A flight of stairs along the outer wall curved up toward the sky. There must be an incredible view from the top. It would only take a moment to look. Pinching up her skirts, Veronica hurried up the steps.

This climb was not for the old or weak. She arrived at the rooftop quite out of breath. Reinvigorated by the prospect of a magnificent view, she hurried to the battlements to look out over the land.

The grounds of Belden House stretched wide. A green lawn sweeping up between the birch wood and a row of tapering juniper trees created the effect of a wild mountainside. At the top of the lawn, backed by a row of hemlocks, was the ruined stone chapel with its crumbling bell tower. Beyond the hemlocks was a sloping sheep-dewed meadow, and beyond that, the brown and violet haze of the moors. The walled gardens on the far sides of the yard, one partially hidden behind the junipers, were likewise green and dark. The sky was blue and so clear that the full moon was faintly visible.

Light fell down along the white spines of the birches to rest upon a tomb standing alone in a clearing. It was a mournful sight, making the whole world go quiet and still. Crows flew up from the treetops into the pure, bright sky, scattering like flecks of tarnish in an old mirror.

A kind of yearning welled up in Veronica’s heart. She missed something. She was always missing something. A memory of riding high on her father's shoulders, watching her mother moving through the throng in the bright glow of the theater came back to her. It seemed so long ago, now, lost in time.

She hadn't prayed for her parents once since leaving Saint Mary's. She used to light candles for their souls every day. Would independence make her selfish and forgetful? She hoped not.

Leaning over the battlements, she looked down through the tangled strands of ivy to the rose bushes, then out toward the wellspring where she’d first seen the twins. What on earth had they been doing hanging that doll above the well and lowering it down? And they went about it so gravely.

A white hare flew out of the woods and bounded over the grass. The bushes at the edge of the woods shattered, and out ran a streak of white fur. At first, it looked like Wolfgang. But, something about the gait of the creature was wrong.

Her hands flew to her mouth.

Wolf!

Memories of Tala rose up. She'd seen the wolf girl chase rabbits, running after them with a horrible, ungainly, fou
r-legged stride. Tala's hunting had terrified Veronica. It was freakish. Unnatural.

But the one
down below was far worse than Tala. Impossible as it seemed, this wolf was real.

Faintly, from somewhere in the house, a clock began gonging the hour.

It was a long way back to the classroom. If Veronica didn't hurry, she'd be late for her first class.

*
Ten

V
eronica burst into the classroom to find the twins already sitting at their desks, serene in their clean, white clothes. They turned around to look at her, smiling their identical smiles, emitting their same light green gaze.

Veronica was relieved. There they were, perfectly safe, as Mrs. Twig had said.

Filled with renewed excitement, Veronica quickened her step into the room.

The children stood up to greet her.

“Good morning, children,” she said, and stood behind her desk.

“Good morning, Miss Everly,” they said as one, giving her a little bow, and a curtsy.

“You may sit down.”

“You look very pretty today, Miss Everly,” Jacques said.

Veronica smiled her thanks, smoothing her hair back from her temple.

“Well, children, this is our first class together. I hope our lessons shall be stimulating. Ask me anything you like, and don’t worry about feeling foolish if you don’t understand something. In order to teach you as best I can, I have to learn about you as well, and how far along you’ve come in your studies. Now, tell me where you left off with your last governess,” she said.

“History,” said Jacques. “We were studying the kings and queens of England.”

“We left o
ff at Anne Boleyn,” said Jacqueline.

“Did you know that sh
e was a witch?” asked Jacques.

The word startled Veronica, renewed her worries about the horrible book in the library
.

"A witch, you say?"

“An enchantress,” said Jacqueline. “She had an extra little finger on her left hand that she used to cast spells.”

“And she went about in six-fingered gloves,” said Jacques.

They laughed as if it was a hugely funny joke.

“And where did you learn that?” Veronica asked.

“Mamma told us,” said Jacqueline. “Anne Boleyn lived in France as a girl.”

Sovay de Grimston sounded like an imaginative lady. Veronica summoned up her most authoritative tone.

“Well. I’m not sure that that means she was a witch. An extra finger could merely be an unfortunate birth defect. Not a sign of malevolent powers.”

“But she cast spells upon the King to get him to marry her and make her Queen,” Jacqueline said.

“And lost her head for it too,” said Jacques. “Men hurried to the block to collect her blood because it was said to have miraculous healing powers.”

What a horrifying thought! Veronica went to the bookshelves and pulled down a large biology textbook.

“Children, I think our first lesson shall be about the circulatory system and the properties of human blood,” she said. “From the point of view of
science
.”

She put the book on her desk and began flipping through the pages, looking for a diagram of the human body.

The twins had gone silent, looking out at the yew hedge with impish expressions. Was it
Test the Teacher
Day
, or something?

“How far did you get in your biology studies with Miss Blaylock?” Veronica asked
.

"Miss Blaylock," they both moaned as if their previous governess were the dreariest person on earth.

"Did you have problems with Miss Blaylock?" Veronica asked.

"She wasn't pretty or happy here," said Jacques.

"She hated Mamma," said Jacqueline.

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true," Veronica said. "And beauty is only skin deep. You shouldn't judge lest ye be judged."

The twins sat pensively for a moment.

Veronica changed the subject. "Now, what were you studying?"

“We were studying the circulatory system,” said Jacques, "to find out why some people have magical blood.”

“What did Miss Blaylock say?”

“That we were misled and full of fancies,” said Jacqueline.

It was relief to Veronica to know Miss Blaylock had had some common sense.

“But I believe our mother,” Jacques said. “Miss Blaylock was only an ordinary school teacher. She didn’t understand us.”

“Well,” Veronica said. “Ordinary school teacher that I am, I hope to be able to understand you. But there are fancies and there are truths, and you must know one from the other.”

“Why?” they both asked.

“Well…” The incredulous expressions on their faces threw her for a moment. “If you don’t know reality from imagination, others will not take you seriously. Life could become confusing. You could delude yourself into believing in things that weren’t true, and acting on them, suffer, and perhaps cause suffering to others.”

The twins exchanged solemn glances, then slowly opened their notebooks and took their pens in hand.

“All right,” Veronica said. “The circulatory system.”

The twins followed the lesson dutifully, looking as grim as if they were attending an execution. Perhaps, in a way, they were. It wasn’t easy to leave the illusions of childhood behind.

“Here is what we look like inside.” Veronica held up a diagram of the heart and blood vessels and networks of veins.

Jacqueline pointed to it.

“How do they know it looks like that?”

“They’ve seen into the body. I believe this was drawn from life,” Veronica said. "Or death, as it were."

“Was it a convict they looked into?” asked Jacques.

“What do you mean?” Veronica asked.

“They couldn’t look into a living man, could they, nor a good man who deserves a Christian burial. Only a convict cut down from the gallows could be looked into like that.”

Veronica wasn’t sure of where the conversation was going, but she had to admire the child’s ability to argue a point.

“Indeed. There are hospitals in cities, like London, where they l
ook inside these bodies before they bury them. It's how doctors learn their craft.”

“So, we’re studying the blood of a sick, poor person then, or a criminal, or some disreputable person,” said Jacques. “Not a queen.”

“Nor an enchantress,” said Jacqueline.

Veronica felt as if she were floating on a bleak and windless
sea. They were clever, these children.

“Well, blood is blood. We are
all
made in God’s image. We all share the same substance, the same blood. Otherwise, how could transfusions be performed? If one of you needed blood, I could give you some of mine and you would rally. Even though I am a commoner and you are aristocrats, it would make no difference.”

“It would,” said Jacqueline.

Veronica shut the biology book. “Let’s change the subject for now,” she said. “What else would you like to study today?”

It seemed history was their pet subject. Though they could not name any major battles, they were both able to rattle off the names of all of the kings and queens of Europe, with jovial asides about the mad ones. Arguing about who knew more about the parentage of Ivan the Terrible, their conversation grew so heated, that Veronica had to end the class early for fear of a row.

Alike as they were, they didn't agree on everything.