The crypt seemed deserted.
Two marble coffins rested on high, sculpted biers with tall crosses standing upright on the lids. The cross on the larger coffin was broken, its upper half lying shattered on the floor.
Crossing herself, holding her breath, Veronica went in.
She approached a large marble sarcophagus, for surely it must be Sovay's.
Carved on the lid, at the base of the broken cross, was a heraldic shield. Words were carved into the shield, in neo-Gothic script.
Sovay de Grimston
Beloved wife of Rafe de Grimston
1840-1872
I hardly knew her…
She was dead, then.
But had she been buried alive? Rafe would never do such a thing. He couldn't.
On the side of the coffin was an enormous marble seal bearing what was left of the carving of a fleur de lis. The rest of the seal seemed to have been broken away by a hammer. Along the edges of the lid, Veronica found more, smaller, seals carved with indecipherable symbols in flakes of red and silver paint. All were smashed and broken.
How horrible to break into a coffin, to desecrate a grave. Had there been a robbery?
Or... had Sovay broken out herself?
Veronica pushed on the lid. It was extremely heavy. No one could have opened it from within. No, someone must have opened it from outside.
The candles were burning low. Some were sputtering out, and as they died, erratic splashes of light flew over the smaller coffin, over the cross that still remained upright, casting its shadow on the wall.
Veronica went over to see who was buried there. Carved in the marble lid in stately script, she found:
Sylvie Celeste de Grimston
5, April 18 1859 - 1 May, 1870
Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord
"Vengeance," Veronica gasped. "For an eleven year old child!"
So, the twins did have an older sister. She must have also been pale and blonde... like the girl she'd seen in the photographic plates. Her sarcophagus also bore seals. A large shield bearing a dove was intact at the foot, and lilies, each carved on a red-painted marble round, covered the seam between coffin and lid along the sides.
The candle flames lengthened, blasting the walls with fiery illumination.
They'd been sealed in with holy symbols, under large crosses. Why?
What she was about to do made Veronica sick, but she had to know the truth. Mustering all her strength, she grasped the edge of the lid to Sovay's sarcophagus and pushed. Though the solid stone was back-breakingly heavy, she was able to jar it a bit. Another hard shove----and it scraped open a crack.
Veronica looked inside.
Tiny points of light glittered up from the darkness... like sequins on a yellow dress.
Feeling the color drain from her face, Veronica glanced over her shoulder at the other, smaller, coffin, then back at the glimmering darkness under the lid of Sovay's sarcophagus. One more shove revealed the skirt of an ornate yellow gown.
*
Thirty-Three
Charging through the front door of Belden House, Veronica ran straight into Mrs. Twig.
"Good morning, Mrs. Twig," she said curtly.
"Good morning. You've been out early." Mrs. Twig said.
"I had trouble sleeping."
Mrs. Twig gave Veronica a level gaze, and seemed to grope for words. “We had a very unsettling time last night.”
"That's an understatement." Veronica tried to brush past her, but Mrs. Twig grabbed her arm. "Well?" Veronica said, trying to shove the housekeeper off.
"What did you hear last night?"
"Let me go first."
The housekeeper dropped her hand from Veronica's arm.
"Might we sit down and have some tea?" Mrs. Twig looked away as if to hide her emotions. "Come on. Please. Janet's not up yet."
"I didn't think you would be either."
"I, too, was unable to sleep, Miss Everly. I think you know why."
Veronica sat on the edge of her chair in the breakfast nook, smoothing the frown from her forehead. She felt drained. Good thing Mrs. Twig was making the tea.
Mrs. Twig set the teapot on the table among the cups and saucers and cream and sugar, then sat down as if her bones ached.
"I just don't understand," Veronica said, staring into her tea. "Meaning no disrespect, I feel like I'm living in a kind of madhouse. The second night I was here, though you deny it, I saw a mysterious figure come out of the well. There have been strange bells and wolves howling at night..."
"Dogs..."
"No. I thought that at first, but I am utterly convinced they are not domesticated dogs. They're wolves. I've seen them. Wild wolves."
Mrs. Twig held Veronica's gaze, then looked away.
"Then, when I was ill, I dreamed of a lady in a yellow gown with a crown of birch twigs on her head. And----other things." Things she wasn't sure of seeing, so did not want to mention.
Mrs. Twig clenched her hands together as if she were praying. She looked about to speak, but seemed at a loss for words.
"It was not the first time I'd seen her."
"What else?"
"I saw Jacqueline... I mean a wolf... kill a hare."
Mrs. Twig bit her lip.
"Is it possible? But of course not. My eyes were playing tricks." Veronica failed to keep sarcasm at bay.
"Go on."
"One minute, I was looking at Jacqueline; the next, I saw a wolf chase down a hare..."
Mrs. Twig heaved a large sigh. She looked the picture of despair.
"Then I saw Jacqueline again. Carrying the dead animal to the house." Memory rising up before her mind's eye, Veronica rushed on. "Later on, after dark, I heard the door knocker slam. A voice came through the door... a woman saying she'd been buried alive. Oh, Mrs. Twig! What is going on?"
Mrs. Twig nodded, working her mouth as if it were full of mud. She sipped her tea, then gulped it down.
"Tell me the truth, Mrs. Twig. If I'm to stay here, I must know what this is all about."
“She is not a living woman, Miss Everly.”
"Go on."
“She’s dead. She’s been dead for well over two years.” Mrs. Twig sagged against the back of her chair as if this situation had exhausted her.
“So it is Sovay. Come back to haunt us." Veronica said.
"Yes."
"But how?"
"I fear Jack had something to do with it. They missed her so."
Fear crept up Veronica 's spine. “She was buried alive and they helped her escape."
“No.”
“No?”
"She was not buried alive."
Fixing Mrs. Twig with an incredulous stare, Veronica cast her mind back to the tomb in the woods, to the palpable presence glittering up from the darkness of the sepulcher, the yellow gown of the corpse clearly entombed there. Veronica wanted to ask, to make sure it was Sovay's body, but she could never let anyone know she'd opened the grave. It was a crime.
"Not entirely anyway." Mrs. Twig sipped her tea as if she were trying to hide behind her cup.
“Are you saying she's a ghost?" Veronica asked.
“More a kind of revenant.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
"She can't die. She is undead."
Gasping softly, Veronica collapsed against the back of her chair.
"Can't die?"
Mrs. Twig seemed to go away somewhere in her mind. “You can only see her in certain kinds of light. At twilight, or in moonlight. Yet she has solidity.” Her tearful eyes twinkled with a fearful light, as if that alone could convey her meaning. "Her passing was... strange... as strange as her life had been. She can't die, Miss Everly. Even if she wants to."
Veronica’s head ached. It was too awful. It sounded like nonsense. Yet she couldn't deny that the lady in yellow was Sovay, or that she was something other than alive.
"Perhaps we should open the tomb and see if she's there."
Mrs. Twig laughed. "But why? Haven't you already opened it? Haven't you seen her lying there?"
"You saw me?"
"Of course."
"You must think me a monster."
"No." Mrs. Twig leaned in and gripped Veronica's wrist. “She must never be allowed into this house. Must never be.” Mrs. Twig's gaze was hard. “She is a danger to the children. And to you.”
“Me?”
“Let us leave it there, Miss Everly. Lady Sovay is dead. And we are haunted by her spirit.”
Veronica’s confidence sank like lead.
“Does she want revenge? For something?"
"Perhaps that's it, Miss Everly."
"She wants the twins."
Mrs. Twig clutched her hands together and stood up. "Now if you will excuse me, I must get on with my work."
The housekeeper walked briskly toward the kitchen, leaving Veronica alone with the weight of her discoveries. It was easy to understand how the spectral lady in yellow could be a danger to the twins, but why would she hate Veronica? There was more to the story, and she was more determined than ever to find it out.
eee
She went out to the orchard intending to pick apples, but ended up going to the bottom gate to stare out at the moor. The horseman knew what went on here. If only he would ride by, she would flag him down and make him tell her. Insist that he explain. But he was in France, wasn't he? Leaving her alone to grapple with horrors while he enjoyed his mistress, his perfumed courtesan.
Perhaps he hoped Veronica wouldn't be here when he returned.
The ears of a white hare poking up from the grass in the endless vista of the moor tugged at her heart. Driving away the memory of her nightmare on the moor, she fancied Rafe coming toward her, striding through the long grass impatient to embrace her, his black hair falling over his brow, his blue eyes with their violet slash, intent on her.
"Where are you, Rafe de Grimston?" she said to the great emptiness. "When are you coming home? We need you."
Thirty-Four
Veronica felt caged. The house wasn’t comfortable anymore, nor was her room. Though it was getting cold outside, she preferred to stay on her balcony looking out at nature, rather than linger inside with all of those family treasures close by. As the moon dwindled, she prayed it would reabsorb the uncanny elements it had brought in at high tide, taking them back into the darkness where they came from. But then, the next growing cycle of the moon would bring the evil back again as it had always done.
What's the use?
She picked up her sewing and allowed her mind to wander. She did not want to see a repeat performance of last night. There had to be some way to break the cycle, the spell, and end it. But what could it be? Could she find it out? Could she break the spell?
Setting the garnet wool aside, she got up and went to her dressing table. Her silver crucifix lay her jewelry box where she had put it just before Rafe's banquet so it wouldn't interfere with the look of her gown, and that fateful strand of pearls. Sovay's pearls.
It served Veronica right, didn't it? Placing vanity above God. And look what had happened. Well, she would never be so foolhardy as to remove her crucifix again.
As she hung the cross around her neck, a sense of relief flooded her. Though she felt protected again, she was still repulsed by the horrid things in the treasure room. Picking up her sewing, she escaped downstairs to the comfort of the drawing room with its warm, fragrant fire.
Collapsing into a wing chair, she spied the morning newspaper lying on the ottoman.
The stark, black headline read:
Farmer Shoots Man Mistaken for Wolf
She reached out gingerly for the paper. The wolves she'd heard singing in the night were real. They'd attacked someone. Holding the newspaper with unsteady hands, she read the story.
A pack of white wolves had been menacing the sheepfolds. A farmer reported that he'd run out to frighten them away with his gun. When he got a shot off, the beasts vanished like mist. Scouting the fields for the lost sheep, the farmer came across a dead body, a young man's body that bore no signs of a wolf attack, but rather appeared to have been killed by a bullet to the head.
The farmer claimed he'd known the young man years ago....
Veronica stopped reading.
White wolves. Mist... Ectoplasm.
She laid the newspaper back down on the ottoman and looked into the fire as if it could burn the terrible story from her mind.
Where was Rafe?
Glancing up, she saw Mrs. Twig in the doorway, watching her.
“A very great tragedy, don’t you agree, Miss Everly?” she said.
“Oh, yes, very great. And also very strange. Wolves have been extinct in Britain for four hundred years. We all know that."
Mrs. Twig arched an eyebrow.
Veronica scowled. "In any case, these farmers should be more careful. What was that chap doing out there at night?"
Mrs. Twig shrugged. "Country people often wander the fields. Guarding their flocks. Hunting rabbits."
"Or hares." Veronica watched for the housekeeper's reaction. Would she admit what she knew about Jacqueline's transformations?
Mrs. Twig gave her a blank stare.
"And where are the twins?" Veronica asked.
"They always come back."
"That's not an answer!"
Mrs. Twig's face went masklike. She narrowed her eyes at Veronica.
“I merely wanted to see if you were still here, Miss Everly.”
“And where is Mr. de Grimston?”
“He's in France.”
Veronica rose from her seat like a fire from a wick. "You never tell me anything important. You expect me to just accept everything without question. But I can't. What if that young man out there is Mr. de Grimston?"
"It's not...."
"How do you know?"
"I know."
"And where are the children? Why won't you tell me? Why must I always be kept in the dark?" Veronica rubbed her hands up and down her arms, holding herself as if to keep from blowing apart. "I should leave here," she said to he fireplace. "This is not the place for me."
"Please, Miss Everly, don't. Jack needs you so. You're the only person they've ever really loved. Other than their parents, I mean."
The idea of love hurt Veronica's heart. She turned toward Mrs. Twig and sighed. "Isn't that emotional blackmail or something?"
Mrs. Twig stiffened. "Miss Everly!"
Veronica rested her hand on the mantel and looked into the fire. "We'll see, Mrs. Twig." Remembering Rafe, she couldn't bear the thought of leaving. "I'll wait until Mr. de Grimston comes home... to decide."
*
Thirty-Five
It was with a heavy tread that Veronica trod up the stairs to her room. Once there, she didn't want to go in with the Ouija boards and the ectoplasm and the treasures. She went round to the twins' rooms, looking in at the pallid emptiness of Jacqueline's room, then turning to see the disconcerting effect of its mirror image on the other side of the hallway. She broke the illusion by going into Jacque's room. It was cold. There had been no fire lit in here for two days.
The little tower room at the end of the hallway was open. She wondered if it housed a stairway. Or a secret room where Jack went to hide on the nights of the full moon.
The space was quite small. The three narrow windows looked out on a walled garden, woods, and heath fading in the autumn dusk. A small table and chairs, the remains of a child’s tea party, held pride of place in the middle of the floor. In three cast iron chairs sat three china dolls wearing red hoods. They stared up at Veronica as if they were waiting to be served.
Veronica picked one up. The doll’s legs felt odd. Flipping it over she found, not legs, but the furred upper body and head of a wolf. She set the doll back down to tea, wolf-end-up.
They were everywhere, these wolves. And again, not two dolls at tea, but three.
The rounded walls were sealed; there were no stairs lead
ing up or down. The tower room was a dead end.
It was so frustrating to be kept in ignorance all the time. Had there been any news from Rafe? Surely he must have written by now. Naturally Mrs. Twig would not think it important to share his letters with the hired help. But it seemed only fair to at least let her know how he was faring. To share a word.
Veronica wandered upstairs and stood before the door of the master's chambers. She laid her hand on the wood of the door and sighed. She shouldn't be missing Rafe like this. It would lead to nothing. But, she wanted to be among his things. For just a little while, to look at the portraits again.
She went into a room fragrant with the scent of lilies and resinous pines. The portraits above the mantel loomed large: Rafe and Sovay de Grimston in all of their finery.
Veronica's gaze lingered over Rafe's handsome face, so clear-eyed, so young and fit, so sure. Whatever had happened to him had robbed him of this confidence, replacing it with torment. Looking deeper than the surface of the painted image, Veronica sensed something of Rafe's spirit. He was a wanderer on earth, a seeker, like she was. One for who change was a constant, and constancy a dream.
Her eyes tracked over to the painting of Lady Sovay. For some reason, the eyes looked unusually bright and green and alive. The small oval face with its perfect features, the long neck and delicate shoulders, the long flaxen hair, the yellow dress with its floating violet veil, seemed to fade under the brilliance of her ladyship's eyes.
Here, indeed, was the lady in yellow. The only bits missing were the birch twigs, and skin that glowed brighter than the moon.
The eyes in the portrait seemed to darken. Lights flared up in their depths. Veronica spun around to see if they were caused by the reflection of someone opening the door. There was no one. Breathless, she turned back to look at the painting.
The eyes were as red as burning coals.
"Ah! She sees me."
Her heart in her throat, Veronica ran out to the passage, past the tall gothic windows, and flew up the stairs to the roof of the tower. There, she clung to the battlements, panting with fear. She should just throw herself off and end it all. Belden House was mad. And all of the de Grimstons were stark, raving mad.
The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance Page 18
