The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance

by Alyne de Winter

  “Miss Everly! Miss Everly!”

  The twins were instantly at her side, petting her, waiting for their father to squeeze in between them. Leaning over, Rafe looked into her face with such tenderness, she burst into tears.

  “Come on. You’ve been asleep for days. You're as weak as a kitten.”

  His strong hands slid under her shoulders and knees, easily lifting her from the floor. In a moment he placed her back into bed, smoothing the coverlet up over her shoulders.

  "I thought the bed was burning," she mumbled, her voice scratchy with dehydration.

  "As you can see, it hasn't burned at all," Rafe said, tucking her in. "The red curtains must have caught the glare from the fireplace causing you to imagine that they were in flames."

  "Of course."

  "You've been ill and delirious for days. Jack and I were dreadfully worried, so decided to hold a vigil."

  "Vigil?" Had she been so close to death, then?

  "I think you've turned a corner, though. Now you must rest."

  Veronica's chest still felt tight and painful, her breathing wheezy. Despite the heat of the fire, she was freezing. Her hair felt all snarled up like Tala's had been when she arrived at Saint Mary’s. Oh, what a fright she must look!

  Rafe turned to the twins who hovered a few feet away. “Jack, go downstairs and tell Mrs. Twig to bring some hot broth up here for Miss Everly.”

  “Yes, Papa,” they said, and raced out of the room.

  “I’m sorry to be such a bother." Veronica's head ached and swam. “What happened? I don’t know what happened.”

  “You drank too much wine, blacked out and went on a wander. You came nigh unto death with exposure on the moor."

  Janet was at the door, wringing her hands.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss.”

  Veronica turned her head away. It was too much to bear at the moment, having to listen to Janet’s excuses for tricking her.

  “Mr. Rafe? Didn’t you explain to her?” Janet asked.

  “Not yet, Janet. Why don’t you?”

  “Well, it’s all my fault, Miss Everly. I couldn’t find Mrs. Twig and I thought you looked so lovely, and saw what you meant about wanting a jewel at your neck, and Lady Sovay’s pearls were just sitting there in her jewelry box doing nothing. I thought it would do no harm to borrow them for just one night. I couldn’t find Mrs. Twig to ask her, so I took the liberty of borrowing them and lending them to you without asking, thinking nobody would know the difference, but the way you kept tugging on those beads at dinner, I was afraid the tag would pop out, and it did. Then I found out what a mistake I made. Then you went running off and I can only thank the Lord and Mr. Rafe that you made it back alive.”

  Veronica's heart softened. She turned toward Janet who was sobbing and wiping her face with her apron. What must the poor girl have been through? She was lucky to have been spared the sack.

  “Can you forgive me?” Janet asked through her tears.

  Veronica was too exhausted to speak. She nodded her assent, and gave a weak smile.

  “It’s all right, Janet,” Rafe said. “She forgives you. It’s all been a dreadful misunderstanding. Go now and help Mrs. Twig with dinner, and bring something up for Miss Everly.”

  “I will do, sir. We’ll make broth and a nice bread pudding. That will go down easily.”

  “Go on, now.”

  Veronica listened to Janet’s feet running down the stairs. She was relieved that things were all right.

  Heaving a sigh, Rafe got up from the bedside.

  “Shall I get up?” She struggled to sit up against the pillows at her back. “I’ve slept enough.”

  “You’re leaning all sideways.” Rafe laughed. “Let me help you.”

  Rafe held her against his chest, and with soft, gentle movements, adjusted the pillows against the carved, wooden headboard. Veronica leaned back against them, sinking into the softness.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I’m quite comfortable now.”

  Rafe stood up. “The twins will arrive in a moment. I hear them on the stairs…. Here they are.”

  The twins walked in with stately strides, each carrying a covered dish on a tray. Their manner was such that Veronica briefly dreaded that they were serving her roasted hare. Thankfully, there was no meat, only a bowl of clear broth and bread pudding soaked in hot milk.

  “Don’t eat too much in one go, Miss Everly,” Jacqueline said. “Your stomach is too delicate now.”

  The milky bread was soothing; the broth gave her strength. The twins climbed up onto the bed. Rafe left the room, glancing back at Veronica with a wild, troubled look that reminded her of the scene she’d witnessed in the study under the stairs that day. Her heart moved toward him, as if to embrace him, to empathize with his pain.

  Would he ever confide in her his torment?

  

  Janet had kindly saved the green velvet gown from wrinkles by hanging it up to air right after she found it on the floor. She must have understood how much the dress meant to Veronica to have taken the trouble in the midst of all that uproar. Veronica marveled at the power of a minor error in judgment to unleash disaster. The old adage was true: The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Janet’s innocent desire to help had been turned to Hell’s purposes, Veronica's own prideful misinterpretation of the maid’s motives leading her to near death on the moor.

  But now, a new problem was edging out the memory of the last. Veronica pulled her knees to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. The light was waning at the windows, falling gently over the balcony. Gold leaves clung to the tops of the birches, the woods decaying into the melancholy silence of autumn. The way Rafe looked at her, the way he held her, his care and tenderness toward her… It was as if he felt something for her.

  Was it possible?

  She looked at the door half open on the landing. Would he be back? She wished he would be. She'd never known a man's touch, his gaze, his presence to move her so. Common sense warned her to hold her emotions in check. Her survival as governess depended on her being circumspect. But she'd never felt so unexpectedly close to anyone, so in tune.

  She put her head between her fists. "Stop! Stop! Don't even think about it."

  But he was so attractive. He had no right to be so. No right at all.

  She owed Rafe a debt of gratitude. Nothing more. It was natural to feel an extra measure of affection for someone who'd saved one's life.

  Grabbing her dressing gown from its hook, Veronica wobbled over to feed the fire. Once she had it blazing, she sank into the easy chair and gazed at the flames.

  So why did her heart feel like a little bird coming out of its cage? Where could she fly?

  Twenty-Two

  Church bells were ringing. It must be Sunday again. In her convalescence, Veronica had lost track of the days.

  Was there a real church close by, or did those bells ring from Saint Lupine’s?

  Veronica’s mind went back to the clearing in the woods, the pale, mossy walls of the little church, its square, sculpture-encrusted steeple and flickering stained glass windows. She envisioned spirits rising from their graves, seeking God's protection, within its walls, from the forest and the wolves, unaware of the deeper wickedness awaiting them inside.

  She rose, went to her bedroom door, and peered out into the hallway. The house was dark and quiet.

  The long case clock gonged ten times. It was late.

  She was ready to get dressed and join the living again. To surprise them when they came in the door. They would know the worst was over, then, and no longer have reason to worry about her.

  In her wardrobe was her favorite dress, the one she'd made the summer before she left Saint Mary's out of clear, bright yellow muslin. The voluminous skirts were soft and the bodice perfectly cut to enhance her tiny waist and long neck.

  After a luxurious, hot soak in the hipbath, Veronica put on a fresh chemise and knickers and hooked herself into her most tightly la
ced corset. It was easy; she’d lost so much weight she hardly had to hold her breath. Then came a hoop skirt and her next best petticoat. The yellow dress slipped over her head like a giant flower. Hooks and eyes up the left side were a bit awkward to close on her own, but the effort was worth it. She moved into the mirror’s eye feeling like a swan. It was a simple frock, in no need of jewels to be flattering, though it did demand, and inspired, a quiet, graceful walk.

  She was putting her hair up when she heard them coming in. The twins wasted no time racing up the stairs to find her.

  “Miss Everly! You’re up and looking very splendidly pretty,” Jacques said.

  “Very much recovered as well,” said Jacqueline.

  "Well, thank you," she said.

  Still slightly under the weather, Veronica felt battered by the impact of their high spirits.

  “Where were you all this morning?” she asked, mustering a smile.

  Before they could answer her question, Rafe’s voice boomed up the stairs.

  “Are you up, Miss Everly? Come down. Let me see you.”

  Her heart jumping, Veronica glided down the stairs. A long walk in the fresh air had set Rafe’s skin, his hair, his eyes, his entire being, aglow. He fixed on her a look of such deep regard, that when she met his eyes with her own, she was startled that he turned away and seemed at a loss for words.

  “I’m much better,” she said, stepping from the bottom step to the floor. “Thank you for helping me when I was so ill.”

  “What else was I supposed to do?” Rafe scowled, looking her up and down. “Where did you get that dress?”

  Veronica’s heart fluttered like a bird caught in a snare. Confused, she looked down at her soft muslin skirts, checked for stains at the hem, a tear, a frayed edge.

  “Is something wrong with it?”

  “It’s yellow,” he said. “Are you sure that color suits you? Why not wear red or blue or something?”

  “Well, I…”

  “Never mind. Mrs. Twig, make luncheon please. I’ll take mine in the study.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rafe.” Mrs. Twig had been watching the whole thing. “Come, Miss Everly. Help me with the twins.”

  Veronica was grateful to have something to do. How could she ever have thought that Rafe regarded her as anyone special? She swore she would never wear the yellow dress again.

  *

  Twenty-Three

  October came in quietly. Veronica ended her days with long solitary walks over the grounds. The autumn colors burned more brightly at twilight. Stunned by their beauty, she often stopped to pick up downed chestnuts, overblown rose petals, or the reddest of fallen leaves. Her heart was on fire, and she could do nothing to control it except to avoid chance encounters with Rafe de Grimston. When she saw him watching her from a downstairs window, her face flushed hotter still. If he disliked her so, then why did he look at her like that? His gaze was intense, yet soft, his mouth slightly smiling as if he admired her. She sensed he wanted to draw close, but if she moved to approach him, he instantly walked away, crushing her one more time.

  It was hard to believe that his caring for her during her illness meant nothing to him, that her vulnerability, his presence in her room, the intimacy of their exchanges had meant nothing. She was nothing.

  It was so obvious now. She had to laugh at herself. The grieving widower, Rafe, missing his beautiful wife, had temporarily transferred his affections to Veronica. Once she was better, he'd pulled away, blaming her yellow dress. Now, because she was young and inexperienced and subordinate to him, he was enjoying a game of cat and mouse at her expense.

  Dashing her tears away, she picked up a fallen birch branch and, as she walked along, switched it over the ground so hard it whistled.

  "Never, never, never, never," she muttered.

  She would never make a fool of herself again, never give Rafe the chance to rebuff her again, and dash her feelings like cinders from the hearth.

  And he was so inconsistent! Riding into the forecourt on his black charger, trotting right up to her, drinking her in with his soulful blue eyes, then coldly passing by, reminding her, dreadfully, that she was nothing more than a paid nobody in his employ. A staffer!

  Of course, despite all evidence to the contrary, that horseman on the moor could not have been he. No. Rafe had been in France. So the story went.

  It was truly horrible that he was becoming the center around which her consciousness revolved. When she wasn't in the classroom with the twins, she looked for him. Standing on her balcony, she caught herself scanning the grounds for him. Planning her classes, she'd lapse into listening for his voice. What should she do? This emotional fixation was the last thing she wanted. Her duty was to the twins.

  She looked up at the moon and knew in her bones that Rafe was on the roof of the tower with his telescope aimed at the sky. It was the same feeling she had when she'd sensed he was in his study under the stairs with the door closed. Passing that way, she'd see the splinter of light along the threshold that told her it was true. What was he doing in there, locked away? Grieving for his wife? Lady Sovay, the beautiful and wealthy? Mad as she seemed, Sovay was special.

  Going by the dates on her tomb, Veronica realized it was two and a half years since Sovay's passing. Not that long ago, yet it was surely long enough for a strong man like Rafe de Grimston to be over the worst stages of grief. Sadly, it seemed as if Sovay utterly possessed his heart, and had taken it with her to the grave.

  Veronica threw the stick into the woods. Birds flew up from the bushes. Her eyes caught a flash of yellow in the trees above the wishing well, the brief impression of a face looking at her through the leaves.

  It could have been a trick of the light, but Veronica's scalp bristled. She walked firmly toward the house without looking back, and locked the French doors behind her.

  

  For the next few days, Veronica taught classes in a kind of grey depression, reading aloud from her main textbook, directing the twins to repeat their Latin declensions like automatons. The sadness in their eyes betrayed how her dilemma, her fraught self-absorption, was weighing on their spirits. What was she doing to them? She must snap out of it.

  “Jack, let’s go on an outing again. It was so much fun the last time. We should have an adventure before winter comes. I can only imagine how the winds must sweep across the open moors come late November.”

  “Oh, yes, terrible, horrible winds that howl like wolves and fill the eaves with glass daggers,” said Jacques.

  Veronica smiled. She was getting used to the twins' frightful analogies, their gallows humor. "Where shall we go?”

  “Saint Lupine’s?” Jacqueline asked.

  Veronica shook her head. "No. Where else?”

  “The village,” said Jacques. “You haven’t been to the shops, have you?”

  “Now that’s a splendid idea,” Veronica said. “Let’s go to the village and distract ourselves with buying presents.”

  “It’s almost All Hallows-een,” Jacqueline said. “We must make food for the dead.”

  “All Hallows Eve? Do you celebrate that?” Veronica wasn’t sure she wanted to encourage pagan holidays.

  “All Saints’ Day,” Jacques went on. “We light candles for the souls of our ancestors to guide them to Heaven, and give them food so they’ll think well of us and pray for us when they get there.” He cast a pointed look at Jacqueline who nodded in agreement.

  “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in that,” Veronica said. “Let’s go tomorrow morning. I would like some fabric for a new dress. Perhaps some cakes to bring home. And something for Mrs. Twig and Janet.”

  “And Papa!”

  “Of course, though I have no idea what he would want.” The very idea of buying Rafe a gift took Veronica's breath away. Better the children took charge of that.

  

  The sun came up burning through a thick white fog, infusing the atmosphere with golden luminescence.

  “How shall w
e see where we’re going, Miss Everly?” Jacques asked as Veronica helped him on with his coat. “You can’t even see the trees in this fog.”

  “It will burn off, and the day will be quite fine,” Veronica said, pulling on her gloves.

  “But it can be awfully misty out on the moors,” said Jacqueline, giving Veronica a meaningful look. “And darkness will fall very soon.”

  “It won’t take us that long to go to and from the village, will it?”

  “It depends,” said Jacqueline.

  “She won’t get lost again,” said Jacques. “She’s with us now.”

  Veronica laughed. “All the more reason to hurry.” She adjusted Jacqueline’s bonnet. “Now all we need are three large baskets to carry our bounty home, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Twenty-Four

  The fog was so heavy Veronica could hardly see the boundary wall. The tall, black wrought iron gate looked like it had been etched on a cloud. The railings were cold and wet to the touch. The hinges screeched as she pushed the gate open to a mist-filled lane. The children ran out mimicking the screeches of the gate then, giggling, vanished into the mist.

  “Jack! Come back here. I can’t see you,” Veronica shouted. The worry that gripped her was awful. Was this what parents went through all the time? “Come here!”

  Returning, the twins were so white they took shape in the fog like bright ghosts with strangely lit, green topaz eyes.

  “Don’t do that again,” Veronica said, gripping their hands. “I couldn’t see you at all.”

  “We’re very sorry, Miss Everly,” they said.

  "Well, you'd better be." Veronica squeezed their hands playfully, though she meant every word.

  The trees along the road to village looked like brown smudges, their bare branches floating overhead seemed to have been etched in sepia ink. As they went along, the mist cleared, but the air remained damp and chill. The last of the songbirds sang from the green shadows of the hedgerows. Passing the two standing stones that flanked the path to Saint Lupine’s, Veronica and the twins slowed, then stopped to look at them.