Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song."
“That’s Keats,” Veronica said. A blush rose to her face. It was as if Rafe were trying to remind her of the day he found her on the moor.
“La Belle Dame sans Merci. The beautiful lady without mercy,” he said.
“A beautiful poem without mercy,” she mumbled, looking at her scuffed toes of shoes. Surely the poem couldn't remind him of her, the drab sparrow. She glanced up, arrested by the beauty of Rafe's face. All she could think of was the lilac colored envelope, drenched in French perfume, awaiting him in the foyer. Indeed, it was Rafe who lacked mercy----he who had not the faintest clue that this love... yes, this terrible love... assailed her, followed by a blinding flash of absolute hopelessness now settling around her like a cloak of complete invisibility.
Rafe's voice cut through her misery with gentle humor. “And what have you got there? A bundle of washing?”
“No. Fabric for three new dresses. As you can see: violet, garnet and blue. No yellow.”
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “That’s excellent. Those colors would suit you extremely well.”
Mrs. Twig came toward them at a quick pace, holding out the perfumed letter from the foyer.
“Oh! Mr. Rafe, I’m glad I caught you. This came for you in the post.”
“When?”
“Just this afternoon. It's from France.”
Rafe took the letter, gazed at it and smiled. Veronica could smell it from where she stood.
“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Everly.” He held the letter up and ducked back into his study.
Feeling bereft, Veronica glanced at Mrs. Twig, looking for a sign that she knew something about the letter. But the housekeeper wore her usual mask-like expression.
“Thank you for filling the larder, Miss Everly. And for the cakes and tarts. We shall all enjoy them at tea.”
“I’m glad you like them, Mrs. Twig," Veronica said distantly. "If you’ll excuse me.”
Veronica dashed up the stairs to her room and shut the door. Reeling around, she fell into the easy chair, took off her shoes, and threw them across the room, into the other half, where they thudded on the Turkish rug. The vibration set the rocking horse creaking.
*
Twenty-Six
Swallowing a sob, Veronica's curiosity disrupted her descent into self-pity. What was over there, anyway? Maybe she could distract herself by digging around in the family secrets.
Rather than get up, she just stared into the room.
All that clutter! Someone should just go in there and throw all of it out. Family treasures, indeed. More like a load of junk for the rag picker and the bone gatherer. The only family treasure she'd ever had was a gown that got her into so much trouble. What good was it, saving things? The past was over. It meant nothing.
She imagined Rafe in his little den under the stairs, reading that letter from his French paramour, pouring over every word as he succumbed to spell of her perfume. His blue eyes closing as his mind roamed across the English Channel toward her.
Why should she care? She was just a governess in a plain, drab, now sweaty, green dress. A frowser, a limpet, a gullible flat.
Her heart was breaking and it was ridiculous and she was so angry with herself she wanted to throw herself off the balcony.
She picked up a candle branch and went under the archway. The only window was closed under heavy red curtains. She pulled them apart, releasing a cloud of dust, and found a drawn shade underneath. No wonder it was so dark. She pulled the shade; it snapped up, revealing that it was dark outside as well. She found a candelabrum, lit it up, and soon had enough light to see by.
Flickering firelight turned the room from intriguingly haunted to downright ghastly. The wallpaper was covered with white camellias with black leaves. The furniture, all dark wood upholstered in red velvet, was full of uncomfortable twists and turns like medieval torture devices. There was a cushioned settee and a few French chairs, including an elaborate hooded porter’s chair, set around a table holding a square board and a downturned glass. On the board, the large white letters of the alphabet curved in a bold arch above the words oui and non, while on the left side, a horned devil with a long, snaky tail cavorted, tipping his hat like a cartoon master of ceremonies.
Veronica’s skin crisped at the sight of it. In her years at Saint Mary’s, she’d heard about the dreaded Ouija board, but had never seen one. Three china dolls, sitting on two of the chairs, suggested the presence of children at these diabolical séances. She prayed they were not the twins. The tears dried on her lashes, and all thoughts of Rafe and his French hussy were replaced by a creeping anxiety.
How could they call these devilish contraptions their treasures? What else was in here?
Her eyes fell on a large cabinet at the back wall. Through the etched glass panes of the double doors, she saw rows of books, and on the second shelf, a deep wooden box.
Unable to resist, Veronica approached the cabinet and opened the glass doors. For one afflicted with curiosity, a box like the one before her now was as compelling as a closed door. Her heart beating a tattoo against her chest, she pulled out the box, and took it to the table. It was so heavy she dropped it on top of the Ouija board with a thud, knocking the downturned glass to the floor where it broke with a loud chink. With a burst of bravado, she kicked the shards away with her foot.
In the box was a file of glass plates. She pulled one out. They were photographic negatives. Etched on the glass in golden sepia tones, was an image of Sovay de Grimston. Her eyes were hypnotic, her hair loose in long waves of shadowed light. At the level of her throat was a cloud, a mystic vapor that seemed to spread out beyond the edges of the frame. The negative vapor looked so dark that the real one must have been like a blast of snow. What on earth could this signify?
Another plate held an image of three children, two of them so black and, even in the negatives, shining, that they could only be the twins. The third child, clearly a girl, was as dark and bright as Jack. Veronica's mind raced back to the third desk in the classroom. Had there been an older sister? Was this she?
Judging by the sizes and shapes of the dark twins in the negatives, they looked around four years old. The third girl looked older, about seven or eight years of age. She stared through the sepia cloud of the negatives with the intensity of a huntress. There were single, more recent, images of the children in the mix. In each one they exuded the same mist as in Sovay’s picture, from the area just below the throat.
On another plate, the sister looked about ten years old. An enormous cloud of mist oozed from her throat, and superimposed over her face, was the mask of a wolf.
As Veronica put the plate back into the box, she shivered. It was very cold all of a sudden. She looked back to make sure the door to her room was closed, that no one could come in and find her prying into their secrets.
The door was closed. She hurried over to lock it.
It was chilling to see the aspect of a beast superimposed over the face of a child. Veronica's imagination rushed to connect the image on the plate with the wolf she'd heard and seen in the yard. Had the de Grimstons brought these animals back into England?
With mixed emotions, Veronica went back to the box.
Next she found a negative of three china dolls in a pool of mist surrounded with white lilies. Mixed in were pictures of various girls and boys enveloped in mist. There were several negatives of Sovay sitting in the porter’s chair with her eyes closed. In one, the cloud at her throat took the shape of a hand, and in another, a ghostly face appeared. In a final plate, way at the back, the mist was so dense that her entire head seemed to have been replaced by the head of a wolf.
Veronica flipped rapidly through the plates. The face of one man appeared to be completely
covered with fur: his beard met his hairline, his eyebrows met above two small eyes winking out like buttons above a long, canine snout.
This had to be a hoax! Some kind of trick photography. In London, spiritualists were constantly being arrested for cons such as this, preying on the bereaved and the credulous. Apparently, there was a lot of money in it.
Veronica glanced around the room, looking for she knew not what, imagining all these aristocrats sitting around a Ouija board, like the necromancers of old, conjuring spirits of wild beasts. Or, more likely, posing, like actors on a stage, for silly, doctored photographs. But to what end? Obviously, people with lots of money had nothing more productive to do. If they had to work for their bread and board, they wouldn't have time to dabble in such things. Or endanger innocent children. Or have mistresses all over the place...
She flipped through the plates, looking for a picture of Rafe. It was incredible how detailed the mist figures were----almost alive. For the sake of the children, Veronica hoped the pictures had been nothing more than a game. But it was dangerous to play at such things. Sovay must have been mad to allow it. No wonder she came to a bad end.
At the very back of the box was a large folio. Inside were daguerreotypes of a castle in the midst of a forest. Other pictures seemed to show the interior of the place. There were lots of staircases, many luxuriously furnished rooms, and some murals. One of the murals gave Veronica a start. In grisly detail, a young woman in medieval dress was clamped in the jaws of a wolf. Rather than appearing to scream in terror, she smiled, her heavy-lidded eyes suggesting pleasure as she stroked the wolf's exceptionally long snout.
Veronica’s stomach went sour. She dropped her hands from the box and wiped them on her skirt. It was Saint Lupine. In her room. Imagine! She’d been living in Belden House for almost two months with no idea that these occult objects were so close by: Ouija boards, and other instruments for calling demons and devils, crazy pictures of who knew what? How could Mrs. Twig let anyone stay here? No wonder Veronica was seeing things.
She lowered the lid of the box. Some of the glass plates were askew. Lifting them out to straighten them, she had another shock. It was a wonder how she'd missed it. In the dark reversal of the glass appeared a younger version of Mrs. Twig exuding a vast inky cloud from her open mouth in the shape of a scroll. The letters were so white they were clearly readable, in Latin.
Veronica's jaw clenched. She quickly made a Sign of the Cross, and murmured an Our Father. The staid, responsible Mrs. Twig was the last person on earth she would have suspected being involved in such things. How could she be? And with the children!
Veronica got the box closed and lugged it back to the shelf. She made double sure the cabinet doors were securely shut upon it.
At least there were no pictures of Rafe amongst the lot. She hoped it was because he hadn't participated, wouldn’t waste his time with such follies. Perhaps this was why he'd warned her so violently away from Belden House that first day on the moor. His beautiful wife had proved herself an unsavory character, seething with evil influences, tainting the house, corrupting her own children.
No wonder the twins were so morbidly inclined.
Veronica wondered if she could have a different room. But then, she loved it here, especially the balcony and the view over the birch grove and the lawn. And how could she explain why she wanted to change? She'd have to admit to snooping. But these things were in her room, weren't they? Sort of? No one had said she couldn't take a look.
“I’ll have Janet clean in here,” she murmured. “Have her store all those things far away from me. Upstairs. In one of those rooms without windows.”
Veronica took one more look around at the rocking horse, a music box with dancers on the lid, the dolls sitting at the séance table, and closed the curtains over the window again.
Let these things stay in the dark, where they belong.
Still, she wondered how she'd sleep after this, fearing that the wolf she'd thought was locked outside, had been inside with her all along.
Twenty-Seven
The morning was so foggy that it seemed a continuation of the night. Veronica woke staring into the other chamber, wondering if she’d dreamt the whole thing about the photographic plates and the Ouija board. But in the misty morning, it didn’t matter. After a good night's sleep, she felt better. Even if there was another lady in the picture, at least Rafe was communicating with her again.
Veronica smiled to herself. Despite her perfumed letters, the other lady was far away in France while Veronica was here, in the house, with Rafe. The French lady was the one who should be worried.
Out of bed, the room was drafty, chilly. Veronica quickly washed, dressed and hurried downstairs for breakfast. The house was quiet and dusky, lighted candles and fires blazing in the gloom. Janet was there. She arranged a single set of dishes on the dining room table, and then walked away as if she were finished.
“Janet, you forgot a few,” Veronica said, wafting over to the window to look out for the twins. She caught a whiff of the cologne she’d brought Janet from the village. She was happy the maid was pleased with her gift, her peace offering, happy that the dust appeared to have settled and they could be allies. Veronica realized, with a pang, that she had the need of an ally after what she'd found in her rooms.
"Where is everybody?" Veronica asked.
“Oh, didn’t you know, Miss? Mr. Rafe set out for France before sunup.”
Veronica sank down on a chair. “France? What is he doing there?”
“He got a letter. Somebody sent for him. Back at the chateau. He’s got quite a circle of friends back there, he has. They can’t seem to go on without him for long, the way they write and beg for him to come back all the time.”
“What kind of people are they?”
“Oh, artists and society types. Not anyone the likes of us would associate with.”
"Yes... of course."
Veronica stood up and paced back to the window. Where were the twins? And Mrs. Twig?
“Did the others see Mr. de Grimston off, or something?”
“Yes.”
“What about class? It’s a school day.”
“They should be back before lessons start.”
Veronica didn’t want to sit alone in the dining room looking out at the foggy orchard and the moor, out there, where Rafe was going back to her.
“Janet, I'd like to have breakfast up in my room. I have to prepare for class.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. And Janet… I hate to ask you… but could you clean out the sitting room attached to mine? It’s gotten dusty. Maybe take away some of that old furniture... and other things? I’d like to make it more look more orderly.”
Janet gave her a stunned look. “I’ll have to ask Mrs. Twig about moving furniture. I can give it an extra good clean up, at least.”
“That would help. If you would just fix my breakfast, please, I’ll take the tray up.”
“All right, Miss.”
Supplied with a steaming breakfast tray, Veronica hurried back upstairs to her room. Her stomach was in such turmoil that she knew she wouldn’t be able to eat a thing. She could already taste the cardboard.
She set the tray on a side table and poked up the fire. If only she hadn’t gotten drunk and stumbled out to the moors like a blind fool, she would still be in command of herself. Free. There was no doubt that Rafe had encouraged her affection. He was so attractive in every way and she so alone, how could she not fall under his spell? He knew it as well. He had to. She was certain women fell at his feet over there in France, all the time. And it wasn't remotely as isolated as here. And French women always made themselves so bloody available...
It wasn’t fair that Rafe should have so much power over her. Not fair!
Veronica shoved the poker so hard into a burning log that sparks flew and embers spilled out onto the hearth. She stomped them to ashes, then swiftly brushed them back into the flames.
&nbs
p; Rafe was gone. Gone to France. Summoned there by a perfumed letter. Leaving without even saying good-bye.
Veronica stared at the flames as if they could burn up all her problems. Who was she to even think a man like Rafe would want her? She was just a stupid, romantic girl, wanting what she couldn't have.
She looked around her room, at the chamber of wickedness close by, and wondered if there was somewhere else, anywhere else, she could go.
Her only immediate option was Saint Mary’s, and that was unthinkable.
Veronica was wallowing so deep in unhappiness that she was startled by the sounds of the twins banging up the stairs to their rooms. Shortly after, the long case clock gonged nine. It was time for class.
"Oh dear," she sighed. Teaching was the last thing she wanted to do today.
She looked at the ledger in her lap and realized she hadn’t planned a thing. Well, they would have to wing it today. The twins loved to babble on about their favorite topics, so she’d let them.
They were already at their desks when Veronica arrived. The high trill of a penny whistle welcomed her. She paused in the doorway with a strange chill in her heart, waiting for the noise to pass before she entered.
“Good morning, children,” she said, walking to her desk. She placed the class ledger on the blotter, glaring at Jacques until he stopped playing the dreaded tin whistle, and stood up properly with his sister.
“Good morning Miss Everly," they both said.
“Jacques, please put that thing away for now."
There was an edge of impatience in her voice. She forced it softer, but then found it difficult to speak for fear of crying. "I wonder where you all were this morning. Janet said you’d left before dawn.”
“We saw Papa to the train,” said Jacqueline.
“I wish we were going,” said Jacques.
“So do I,” said Jacqueline.
“Going where?”
“Home to France. To Mamma’s house.”
The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance Page 15
