The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance

by Alyne de Winter

  So, it was true. Veronica felt sick. Her shoulders slumped. It was an effort to straighten up and smile as if this weren’t the most grievous news in the world.

  “I would like to see the chateau,” she said under her breath. “Is it very beautiful?”

  “Very. And very strange,” said Jacqueline.

  “Like us.” Jacques played an odd tune that reminded Veronica of something she'd heard somewhere else. In a dream or something.

  She winced at Jacques to stop him playing.

  “But why did it take you so long to get home?”

  The twins were silent for a moment, looking at each other as if trying to decide what to say.

  “We went somewhere…”

  “It’s All Hallows ‘een…”

  Veronica gave them a quizzical look. “What about it?”

  “We had to go to church.”

  “Oh, to the cathedral in the village,” Veronica said. Their silence sank her. “Or Saint Lupine’s.”

  “Father Roche wants to meet you,” said Jacques.

  Veronica did not want to meet him. She opened her ledger.

  “Where shall we start this morning?” she asked.

  “Celtic Mythology,” said Jacques.

  “Druids,” said Jacqueline. "It's a night for Druids."

  “Let’s not." She needed a break from Jack's obsessions. "Take out your geography books. Let’s learn something about the wider world.”

  The children slapped their books open on exactly the same page at the same time.

  “Miss Everly, let us show you where our chateau is in France,” Jacques said, pointing at a picture of a white castle in a land of green hills.

  “Yes, Miss Everly! Come and see,” Jacqueline said. “It’s in the Auvergne.”

  France. Where Rafe was. Meeting his mistress. Veronica’s heart hurt. She hated to involve the twins in her dilemma, but it was impossible to resist probing them for more information. She had to know what went on at the chateau, what Rafe did there, whom he spent his time with.

  “Is that where you father is?”

  “Of course,” said Jacques. “We do love it there.”

  “Papa wants to sell our chateau, but we can’t bear to live without it,” said Jacqueline.

  “Does he have friends there?” Veronica blushed for shame at the near desperation she felt. But maybe Jack knew the lady in question.

  “We have lots of friends there. Mamma’s relatives and lots of rich people,” said Jacqueline. “Beautiful ladies in gowns and jewels.” Veronica could see in the child’s eyes how glamorous she found them, how she admired them. “We wear beautiful clothes as well. All of us.”

  “We’re usually more dressed up than the grown ups. Aren’t we Jacqueline?” Jacques asked with wide, earnest eyes.

  “Yes and there are beautiful lightings and chandeliers and dances.”

  “Yes, and string quartets and a grand piano playing. And Madam la Marquise leading her black panther in.”

  “On a diamond leash.”

  Astonishing images were conjured in Veronica’s mind of a way of life she could only associate with fairy tales. Her hands automatically went to her plain skirts; she pinched the fabric in a gesture of despair.

  “And great waxy candles and cakes. Though I usually fall asleep after cakes,” said Jacqueline. “Then I wake up on a huge bed, under a great canopy with other children who’ve fallen asleep too.” She began laughing loudly at something in her mind. Jacques began laughing too.

  “What’s so funny” Veronica asked.

  “We all look like dolls dressed up like that!” they both said.

  “Then we go back downstairs, and sometimes the lights will be almost out and the whole castle seems empty.”

  “It’s very spooky.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Where do the grown-ups go?” Veronica asked, failing in her effort to mask the urgency in her voice.

  The twins looked at each other with saucer eyes, and seemed to decide to stop talking.

  Of course they didn’t know. They were only eight years old. How could they possibly understand what adults got up to once the children were in bed?

  Veronica was about to ask them if their Papa had any special friends, but stopped herself. They had to be speaking of a time when their mother was alive. So there was no point.

  "What of your mother?" Veronica asked, trying for another angle. "What was she like there? At those parties?"

  "Like a queen," Jacqueline said, her eyes misting over. She looked helplessly at Jacques.

  "She was always the most beautiful lady there. Her hair was almost white, like ours, and she wore yellow gowns all the time, and smelled like a garden of roses," he said. "Everyone followed her wherever she went."

  "Yellow gowns? Always?"

  The twins nodded

  Was this why Rafe had reacted so badly to Veronica's yellow dress? Because he associated the color with Sovay?

  "Why yellow, of all colors? Why nor purple or green or something?"

  The twins shrugged.

  "It was her favorite color," said Jacqueline. "All shades of yellow."

  "It suited her," said Jacques.

  Veronica felt as if she were setting her bare feet on hot coals, but she had to ask. "Who is there now? In her place?"

  "No one could ever take her place," Jacqueline said.

  Jacques narrowed his eyes. He looked at his sister and said, "Madam la Marquise is the only one pushy enough to try."

  Jacqueline burst out laughing at something in her head. With a glance of understanding, Jacques joined her.

  They'd shut Veronica out again.

  Things would deteriorate quickly if Veronica didn't pull herself together.

  "Come on, children, let's move on with our lessons. Open your books to page eighty-four: The Great Wall of China."

  *Twenty-Eight

  Veronica ended class early. She needed to be alone, to not have to talk. Perhaps do some sewing. Since Janet was in her room cleaning the other side, as she’d requested, she had to find someplace else to go. Perhaps the main drawing room would serve; there was always a bright fire in there. But first, she needed her tea.

  She picked up the bundle of garnet worsted and her sewing basket and headed downstairs to the drawing room. Depositing the fabric and the basket on a chair, she wondered where Mrs. Twig cut her patterns out. The dining room table was certainly long enough. She'd have to find out.

  Veronica found Mrs. Twig, spectacles perched on the end of her nose, sitting in the small conservatory doing paperwork. The cakes Veronica had brought from the village waited on the sideboard with the tea things. There were two more hours before tea. Since it was early, just half one, Veronica thought she'd be alone, but it wasn't meant to be. She needed to ask Mrs. Twig about where to cut her fabric out, anyway.

  Recalling the photographic plate of the housekeeper with a scroll of mist pouring out of her mouth, Veronica paused. Who was Mrs. Twig, really?

  Mrs. Twig looked up and smiled.

  "Good afternoon, Miss Everly."

  “Good afternoon Mrs. Twig. I was wondering if I could have my tea now….”

  "Of course. No use hovering about. Sit down."

  "Yes, yes. Of course." Veronica pulled out her usual chair, perched on the edge of the seat, and put her elbows on the table.

  “You’ve ended class early,” said Mrs. Twig.

  “Yes. I’m a bit out of sorts today, and Jack has a project to do.”

  “You seem unsettled. Is something wrong?”

  “I know I shouldn't have, but I went into the room that adjoins my bedchamber. There was an Ouija board there, on a table, and some strange pictures.” Veronica's mouth went dry. "Glass plates. Negatives."

  Looking askance at the wilting Veronica, Mrs. Twig rang a bell. In a few moments, Janet came bustling into the room, wiping her hands on a cleaning towel.

  “Boil the kettle for tea,” said Mrs. Twig. “Miss Everly and I will have o
urs now.”

  Janet nodded and went toward the kitchen.

  Unable to look at the housekeeper, Veronica stared at the tablecloth.

  “I know you’ve had questions about many things,” Mrs. Twig said. “At first I deluded myself into thinking you would not be driven to seek answers, that I could keep you from finding out how different this household is. But you are an intelligent, inquisitive girl. I realize now that it was inevitable you would see things that would arouse your curiosity, and would be, at least on the surface, worrying for you.”

  Veronica waited to see what Mrs. Twig would volunteer to bring up.

  “The room adjoining yours was used for experiments in the psychical arts. Lady Sovay was raised in a family used to such goings on. She brought those interests with her. Sometimes her friends visited from France and that was how they spent their evenings. Mr. Rafe and I thought nothing of it. Neither should you, Miss Everly.”

  “Well… I’m sorry… but I was raised in a convent.”

  The teakettle arrived whistling hot. Janet put fresh tea into the china teapot and set it on the table, followed by a pair of teacups and silver tray of cream, sugar and two cakes.

  “Thank you, Janet,” said Mrs. Twig.

  Veronica smiled her thanks, then Janet ran back to work in Veronica’s room, leaving them to their conversation.

  “It seems they involved the children,” Veronica said.

  Mrs. Twig took off her spectacles. Veronica was astonished at how tired she looked. Mrs. Twig lifted the teapot, with its blue Delft flowers, and poured boiling tea into their cups.

  “What happened to Lady Sovay?” Veronica asked.

  Mrs. Twig’s eyes seemed to freeze over.

  “How long has she been gone?” Veronica ventured again.

  “Over two years,” said Mrs. Twig.

  “This is all fairly recent,” Veronica said.

  “Yes. I know you want to know what the story is, but I can’t tell you mainly because I don’t know much.”

  Veronica put cream and sugar in her tea. She stirred it for a moment, looking at Mrs. Twig.

  “Have you been to France? Jack was just telling me about the fêtes they had there. They sounded so glamorous and exciting.”

  “I have been there. A few times.” Mrs. Twig seemed to fall into a deep reverie as if she were re-experiencing the events she spoke of. “I met many of my lady’s family and friends there. They are, many of them, wealthy, titled, influential. Lady Sovay had a special interest in preserving wild places. Of keeping people, hunters especially, out of the forests. For the sake of the animals.”

  “Animals?”

  “My lady was a great lover of animals. Especially of the feral, the wild.”

  Veronica sipped her tea. Lady Sovay certainly was full of surprises. No doubt, she would have adored Tala… That thought roused something in Veronica’s mind. It was as if a puzzle piece had somehow been fitted into place. Lady Sovay must have brought that wolf here. To do so seemed like such a crime, Veronica didn't dare ask about it.

  Mrs. Twig had a closed look; the usual sign that she was finished talking. As silence fell over the table, Veronica gazed over the leaf-scattered lawn beyond the marble terrace. Some kind of revelation awaited her out there, answers lurking in the birch wood, among the lilies at the well, in the tomb, the tower.

  The twins barged into the room, breaking the tension.

  “Tea! Tea!” they both cried. They ran around the table chanting tea in high, bird-like voices.

  “Sit down Jack!” Mrs. Twig said, rubbing her temples as if she had a headache. She was about to ring for Janet again, but Veronica got up to pour their tea herself.

  “The moon shall be full tonight,” said Jacques.

  “Full moon for All Hallows 'een,” said Jacqueline.

  Mrs. Twig gave them a portending look. “Best we take care, then.”

  “What is it about the full moon?” Veronica asked. “Is it true that, under its influence, lunatics grow dangerous? That perfectly calm, ordinary people may go mad? That things can go haywire under the rays of the full moon?”

  “Quite haywire,” said Jacques.

  “Quite,” said Mrs. Twig with a look that would have stopped a train.

  Wolfgang came onto the terrace outside. When he saw Veronica looking out, he barked and pawed the ground, emitting a long whine.

  Suddenly annoyed with all their cryptic remarks, Veronica made the vague excuse she had forgotten something, went back to the drawing room for her sewing, then upstairs to her rooms. Finding Janet there, still cleaning, she went further up to the classroom to be alone. She could do her sewing in here.

  The yew hedge was a row of spires against the sky. Subtle movements among the branches gave them a sentient air. Veronica stood very still, watching, listening, as if that ancient hedgerow could tell her the truth about Belden House.

  She had the odd sense that Rafe had made it a point to be gone for this All Hallows Eve, this full moon. But why? Perhaps it was an especially fine time for balls and parties: the great, bright orb casting a romantic glow over the garden and the guests, setting jewels, silken hair and skin aglow with mysterious allure... all hemmed in by the spirit-haunted dark.

  How did Rafe entertain at the chateau without Sovay? If she had been the main light, was it even possible? Or had there been, not an imperious, panther-leading Madam la Marquise, but another light there all along, a lady who had come forward to take center stage, not only at Chateau Villeneuve, but in Rafe de Grimston's heart? One who, perhaps, had always been a rival for his affections? What magic might she work on this night, to snare him completely?

  Tired of the dismal prospect beyond the classroom window, Veronica turned away. She needed the wide view, needed to feel the air blowing fresh and brisk above all the heavy secrets of the house. The roof of the tower was the perfect place to hide out while Janet finished cleaning the spiritual pollution of Ouija from her rooms.

  Twenty-Nine

  Veronica had every intention of taking the long way round to get into the tower, but once out on the landing, the three doors at the end of the hallway seemed so convenient. Did she dare go into Rafe's rooms again? Now that she knew him, she felt more keenly the wrong in trespassing into his private chambers. But why shouldn’t she go in? She was just going to run across the sitting room and out to the landing. No harm done. Why did she worry so much?

  She closed the door to the classroom, turned down the hallway to the three doors, pushed the end door open, and stepped into the Rafe’s private parlor.

  In the conservatory, the foliage bloomed like a monstrous jungle. Flowers opened like mouths, tapering leaves rose up like claws. It must have been Lady Sovay's idea to create such a wild effect. Veronica turned away from the conservatory, moved into the warmth of the fireplace and sat down on the divan.

  The portraits above the mantel gazed down.

  There was nothing in the portrait of Lady Sovay that suggested evil. She appeared rather dewy and fresh in her yellow dress. It was the expression in her eyes that revealed a hidden anguish; her ethereal, vivid beauty masking a dark disturbance in her soul.

  Veronica thought back to the images on the photographic plates, of the vapors taking shape around Lady Sovay’s head, the cloud, the hand, the wolf's head. How could a lady of her quality indulge in rank spiritualism? It was too bizarre to contemplate.

  And what of the third child? The older girl? No one ever spoke about her. Perhaps it was too painful to be reminded of such a loss, easier to pretend a dead child had never existed than to revisit the pain. But no one forgot the their own children. It wasn't natural.

  Veronica ran her hands up and down her arms as a chill passed through her.

  Perhaps all that Ouija board business had backfired and dark powers had taken the child. That's why they'd rather sweep it under the rug. The Devil would have his dues. That's what the nuns always said.

  The de Grimstons in the paintings appeared so respectable, s
o attractive, so cultured. It was difficult to believe what they'd been up to in their treasure room. Yet, the painted image of Lady Sovay was not dissimilar to the figure in the mural at Saint Lupine's, the lady in yellow leading her pack of wolves, and that was not dissimilar to the photograph of the mural in Sovay's chateau in France.

  Wolves... always wolves... wolves and ladies in yellow gowns...

  A shrill, ascending note drifted in from outside. It sounded like Jacques playing the penny whistle. No wonder the old antiques dealer wanted to get rid of the blasted thing. That sound could raise the hair right off the back of one’s head.

  It was funny about the twins, how after so many weeks, Veronica could detect no differences between them. Usually, even the most identical of twins had some differentiating traits. But not Jack. Though they'd claimed to switch roles, it seemed that Jacques was always the stolid, forthright boy, while Jacqueline was gentle, sweet and soft spoken. The one in trousers seemed to have taken charge of the penny whistle, the other of the dolls. Was Jacques was always Jacques, and Jacqueline always Jacqueline? What if they didn’t switch roles at all, but just pretended that they did. In any case, baffling the governess was a game they thoroughly enjoyed.

  Hooooo….

  The sound muffled through again. It seemed to emanate from above. From the roof of the tower. Veronica rubbed her arms again. Goosebumps.

  Thinking to go and find the whistler, Veronica went out to the passage that led to the landing before the tower door. In the light of the gothic windows, she paused.

  Hooooooo.....

  As the plaintive sound rose up again, sadness sank like a smooth, black stone into the still pool of Veronica’s heart. Where was Rafe? His absence made the whole world seem empty. And that whistle, with its wistful Irish lilt, didn't help.

  The, faintly, as if echoing up from the bottom of a well, came a howl.

  Veronica's heartbeat quickened.

  Was the wolf out there? In the woods?

  Unable to stop herself, Veronica hurried up the three steps to the landing and came face to face with the door of the tower. A line of light glimmered along the bottom edge along the floor.