Veronica, understanding all, filled in the blanks to spare Mrs. Twig the effort. “Mr. Rafe told me he saw wolves come into the yard. That he had to shoot one in self-defense. But it wasn’t a wolf at all. It was Lady Sovay.”
Mrs. Twig gasped for breath. “Yes… But he shot her with only an ordinary bullet. Not silver. So she comes back. She also bit him. I tended his wound. We had to cover up her death…. For the sake of the children. Held the funeral at home. Placed her in that tomb… with Sylvie….”
“Had Mr. Rafe known about Sylvie?”
“No. He was in India when that happened. I took care of her… Saw to her burial. Told Mr. Rafe… it was an accident.” Mrs. Twig stopped to lick her parched lips. “After Sovay was buried, I insisted Mr. Rafe go to France. Get away from here until the dust settled. Sovay was well known... in Society… would be missed. No one would believe she was what she was... so I let them think she'd returned to France... with him.”
Veronica took up the thread. “But he started having nightmares there, in France. He told me. A lady in yellow calling to him, leading him on. He dreamed he was one of them. A wolf man,” Veronica whispered. She continued, faltering. “After he told me, I thought he was delusional with guilt over killing his wife. Even if it was in self-defense.”
“Now you know.”
“Yes.”
“He is one of them. As I will be.”
The housekeeper labored to breathe. She raised a hand as if to clutch Veronica’s arm, but it fell back weakly.
"Why do they kill? Why? Mrs. Twig?"
"For Satan, my dear. They vow... to wreak destruction... and bring souls... to him."
Veronica crossed herself. "Jesu Christe."
She wanted to tell Mrs. Twig about finding Jacques where Jacqueline had hidden him a month ago. To ask why the housekeeper had covered up the fact that one of the twins had been missing all this time. But Mrs. Twig was losing consciousness.
And the farm woman killed last night... had Rafe been involved? Sick with despair, all Veronica had left to her was weeping.
The housekeeper’s voice rasped from the bed.
“Miss Everly. He never loved Sovay. Not like he loves you.”
Her heart fluttering like wind-tossed leaves, Veronica stood up and paced away.
“Me?” she said, breathlessly. She ran her hands over her arms as if she were cold. What good was it anyway? Love with Rafe was impossible.
Mrs. Twig continued talking, her voice weak with fever. “Sovay never forgave him for denying her that love. And leaving her in her doom.” Mrs. Twig’s eyes suddenly flew open and blazed at Veronica. “She won’t forgive you, either.”
Veronica looked wildly for Janet. The maid lunged out of the shadows toward the bed.
Mrs. Twig exhaled loudly, shouted for God, and died.
*
Sixty
The screams emanating from Jacque's bedroom were awful. Wolfgang barked, whining dismally when he failed to stop the cries. Knocks battered about the room like a contained whirlwind, a poltergeist unleashed. The door was locked. Veronica banged on it.
“Jacqueline! Jacqueline! Let me in!”
Another scream erupted.
Janet sorted quickly through her keys. Finally, heaving a sigh, she found the right one and opened the door for Veronica.
Jacqueline was lying on the floor below Jacques' bed, pounding her heels and fists into the floor. She was so blind with tears and rage that she didn’t seem to notice Veronica and Janet coming into the room.
Jacques was laid out on his bed. Stiff and gleaming, he looked (Veronica loathed the obvious comparison that crept into her mind) like an oversized china doll.
She knelt down beside Jacqueline, and opened her arms. “Jacqueline? Come.”
“Miss Everly.” The child rushed to her arms and buried her face in Veronica's neck.
“I'm so sorry, Jacqueline. It’s all so… unreal... but then it’s not. How I wish this was just a long, terrible nightmare.”
“Why did this have to happen?” Jacqueline sobbed like her heart was breaking. “We weren't bad. We only wanted to play at being wolves. You know that, don't you, Miss Everly?”
Veronica thought of the transformations she had seen. She stroked the child's hair, so pale, so white. “Where did you learn that? Where did you learn to play wolves?” she asked.
“Mamma taught us. We all played Hunt the Hare together. On the full moon. It was fun. At first.”
What about the horrific death of Mrs. Twig? Had Jacqueline been playing then? Veronica bit her tongue and stroked the little girl’s back to sooth the spasms of her sobbing.
“There, there. We must give it all up to God. Put it in His hands.”
Veronica felt the child tense. Her voice was barely audible.
“Jacque's not dead, you know. Not really. He's with Sylvie now. And the others. And Mrs. Twig. And Mamma. But I am alone.”
Veronica shuddered. No, Jacques was not dead, nor alive. He was indeed with Sylvie and Sovay, werewolves and soul stealers. Soul devourers. Vampyres.
She remembered something from the night, a mark on Jacqueline's brow.
"Let me see you," Veronica said, lifting Jacqueline's face to hers. The shape of the symbol was erased, but a reddish tinge remained on the skin, evidence of a badge of honor given for what she'd done to Mrs. Twig.
With a sinking heart, Veronica rocked Jacqueline asleep. Candles winked out around them, the fire burned low. Once she was sure the child was at peace, Veronica carried her across the hall and put her to bed. Then she returned alone to look at Jacques.
Lying there so white and still, Jacques looked like a house with the lights out. If he wasn’t really dead, what were they supposed to do with his body? Would a Christian burial save him? But even so, how could they bury him beneath the ground if he wasn’t really dead… but undead, damned… Damned to walk the earth forever doing the Devil's biddings. No! It couldn’t be. Surely God would save a child, would enfold that child and restore his divine connection.
Perhaps he would go to Limbo.
She went to her room and sank into her chair beside the fireplace. What next? She couldn't manage alone. Everything had gone far beyond her realm of experience, her knowledge----beyond madness, in fact. She wished Mrs. Twig wasn’t dead, or whatever she was. Veronica needed her badly.
“Oh God, help me!” She put her head in her hands, feeling as if she were sinking into the abyss.
And where was Rafe? Out there still? She was supposed to have shot him. She didn't. She couldn't. Did that make her in any way responsible for the death of the farm woman? Had Rafe done it?
Janet knocked on the doorsill.
“I've called the undertaker.”
Veronica looked at her askance. “Good.”
“We'll have to hold a wake for them here. I've sent Peggy for the priest.”
Veronica nodded. “I'm told they aren't really dead. Mrs. Twig told me. Herself.”
Janet slumped; her lips began to tremble.
“I don't know what to do, Miss. We can't have visitors, but everyone in the village will know about Jack. Word gets out fast about a thing like that. And poor Mr. Hodges. I shudder to think what he’ll go through.”
Veronica heard only half of Janet’s outburst. All she could think about was Jacques. She didn’t even try to keep the anger out of her voice.
“I say.... we hold the wake for Jacques in the drawing room. Clean Mrs. Twig up, and lay her on a nice, clean cot in the tower. Then let the master of the house take over. Whenever he gets back.”
Janet sighed and straightened up again.
“Right you are, Miss Everly. Leave it to Mr. Rafe. He’ll know what to do. He always knows what to do.”
Veronica wasn’t sure of that.
And where was Mr. Rafe? Everyone else was accounted for. How dare he abandon them at a time like this! Was he hiding? In that study of his under the stairs?
Veronica went down
to the door under the stairs, pausing only a moment before she knocked.
“Rafe? Are you in there?”
Silence.
Unable to suppress her impatience, Veronica turned the handle and pushed the door open. The study was nothing more than a book-lined cave with a few easy chairs and a desk. Rafe wasn’t there.
Didn’t he care about his own children? About Mrs. Twig who’d served the family her entire life?
Her eyes fell on the desk and a stack of letters in lavender envelopes tied with a ribbon. Her stomach went queasy. Had he run off to France? To her? Was he completely depraved? Seeking comfort in his mistress's arms, leaving Janet and her to handle these horrors, these death rites, alone? Abandoning his last living child without a word?
She was suddenly drained of energy. Her head spun. She leaned against the desk, knocking the rather tall stack of letters to the floor.
Let them lie!
Fighting tears, she ran back up to her rooms and locked the door.
Veronica put the pistol into its box with the three silver bullets she had left, threw it onto the bed, and began packing her bags. She couldn’t bear to stay one more minute at Belden House. Never had she been so disillusioned. Never had so much darkness invaded her mind and her heart. Never had she felt so betrayed, so destroyed. Why should she stay when the master of the house couldn't be bothered? It wasn't her family.
Was she expected to shoot Mrs. Twig now? Jacqueline? Had that been the plan all along? Of course! This way, any scandal, any forthcoming murder charges, would fall upon her, Veronica. Rafe would be let off the hook, not only for the deaths of Jacques and Mrs. Twig, but of Sovay. Oh, he’d been in France at the time. What an ingenious plan! Just like he’d been in France when he was riding his horse like a madman over the moor. Just like he was in France now, leaving Veronica in the lurch.
They were mad. All of them. Stark raving lunatics. Inbred. That’s what they were. Unnatural, unhealthy inbreds.
Veronica threw the loathsome Bestiary on the bed next to the gun, and carrying everything she owned in two leather bags, stepped silently down the stairs.
The mortician had already pulled up in a black coach with red doors. He stepped out in his costly mourning coat and tall beaver hat. A priest in a long black cassock followed him down from the carriage. Veronica hid behind the horses to watch them cross the forecourt. The priest was Father Roche. Of course. Who else would it be? Who else would know what to do with the undead but the pastor of Saint Lupine’s?
Her heart ached for poor little Jacques. And for Jacqueline. But what could she do? She was only an employee. Not part of the family. The only sane one in the bunch. Their affairs were none of her business. She was perfectly correct to leave them to it and move on. Her only duty was to pray for their souls.
Hefting her bags, Veronica hastened down the drive and slipped through the open gates to the lane. It was just over three miles to the coach station in the village. Then on to the train. Her only problem was where to go. Back to Saint Mary’s? The thought of going backwards made her miserable, but there was no other choice.
Sixty-One
Mother Superior leaned back in her chair with a sour smile. The Crucifix hanging on the wall behind her burned dark gold above a vase of Christmas roses. The image of Saint Veronica, displaying her veil marked with the face of Christ, gazed down from one of the mostly blue stained glass windows.
Veronica sat with her hands folded prayerfully before her lips. The divine atmosphere was comforting, humbling, yet she was fearful of what would come out of her mouth when Reverend Mother began asking questions.
“Girls don’t usually return to Saint Mary’s unless they have been called to join our order to be ordained as Brides of Christ. You understand this, don’t you, Veronica?”
“Yes. I should like to take the veil,” Veronica stammered.
She glanced at the round, placid face of Mother Superior, at her sharp, grey eyes that saw through everything. She was unsure of how to explain her situation. She could no longer deny that she was deeply in love with Rafe de Grimston. And he was a monster. Already, having turned nineteen with no celebration, having abandoned her first post as governess, she felt her future was defined. There was no other path for her to take but to become a nun.
“I’m not entirely convinced that you have a calling. Rather you want to run away from something.”
“To take refuge in Christ,” Veronica said. “For I have seen the Evil One.”
Mother Superior raised an eyebrow at that. “Where?”
“In the house of my employer, Mr. Rafe de Grimston. Witchcraft I saw. Sorcery of the blackest kind.”
Veronica hoped she would not be asked to explain, that she would not be required to reveal, in detail, what she saw Mrs. Twig doing in the kitchen that night. If she spoke of murder and werewolves and vampires Reverend Mother would think her mad, and the asylum was too close by.
Mother Superior stood up. She was surprisingly short for a woman who loomed so large. She came close to Veronica and looked into her eyes.
“You have had a fright, haven’t you? Something has struck at your very soul. You didn’t participate in that witchcraft did you? Answer me truthfully, my child. You know I can’t be deceived.”
“No. Of course I did not. But I was affected by it long before I discovered it.”
Mother Superior went to the stained glass image of Saint Veronica and gazed at it, leaving wretched, pathetic, sinful, all too human Veronica to ponder how she would explain her love for a man who was possessed by the Devil. Did it show? Would Mother Superior throw her out for loving such a man?
“You’re a deep one, Veronica. As you know there is a trial period for novices. I’ll give you three months to contemplate your decision. If you decide that your vocation is with us, then you will serve for a period of three years before you will be allowed to take your vows.” She turned to Veronica with one eyebrow raised. “Is that agreeable to you?”
“Yes. Oh thank you, Reverend Mother. Shall I teach in the school?”
“No. I want you scrubbing floors, washing dishes, cooking meals. We need help in the kitchen."
“Penance, then.” Veronica bowed her head.
“Yes. I don’t know how or why, but you have acquired a stain upon your soul.”
The words sank like a blade into Veronica's heart. She put her hands over that vulnerable center and looked down.
Mother Superior paced for a moment. “I'm sure you remember the feral child,” she said.
“Yes.” Veronica tensed. It was hard to believe she'd forgotten about Tala, even for a moment. “Did something happen to her?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, after you left, she reverted to her former state.”
“Oh. I'm very sorry to hear that. Did you send her to hospital?” Veronica thought of the mental asylum with its cages and straight-waistcoats and water hoses. In such a place, Tala would not be helped, but rather studied like an animal, perhaps aggravated and made worse. There was no help for her. Or for anyone. God’s ways were mysterious.
“The hospital wouldn’t take her after what she did to Sister Margaret.” Mother Superior blinked and seemed unsure of how much to say. “She... tore her face off. As you can imagine, Sister Margaret has closed herself up in her room.”
Veronica's mouth fell open with shock. Poor, kindly Sister Margaret! She looked at Mother Superior with wide, brimming eyes.
“And Tala?”
“She ran off. Escaped. We did not look for her.”
This was not what Veronica wanted to hear.
“She's out there, then.”
“Yes, Miss Everly. She's out there.”
Veronica wondered if Reverend Mother thought she was a fallen woman, for she was not dressed in the usual white habit of novices, but in robes of burnished brown. Her working clothes were made of grey ticking, her unruly chestnut hair held back in a dull grey headscarf. She worked hard,
imagining with every scrub of the sponge on the flagstones or tiles, that she was erasing her love for Rafe de Grimston, with every sluice of rinse water that she was washing away the horrors that chained her soul.
When she was not laboring in the kitchen, Veronica wandered the large park-like grounds carrying her missal and the journal of Miss Blaylock that she had taken from Belden House. She had every intention of sending it back, but she needed it for a while. The writing in the journal was the only proof she had that her experience had been real, that she had not just imagined those inconceivable, supernatural events, that she wasn’t alone.
She couldn't help looking around for the wolf girl, who was no longer worthy to be called Tala after what she'd done to Sister Margaret, worried she might see her lurking at the edge of the forest that bordered the convent grounds. It was impossible to imagine how she survived out there in the wilderness. Especially in winter. Especially after having lived indoors with civilized people. Would she recognize Veronica? Would she remember her as a caring benefactress, or would she attack?
There was a garden in the Italian style with low walls, urns of autumn-yellowed flowers, myrtles, rows of cypress trees and a long reflecting pool. Veronica often sat on one of the marble benches to meditate, to puzzle out the answers to the many questions that harassed her. She meant to focus solely on Christ and His Grace, but in her mind's eye, she kept seeing the face of Rafe de Grimston looking at her with eyes of such loneliness and sorrow that her heart was wrenched away from Salvation. The sinful desires she sought to conquer welled up and flooded her every atom. Having no will of her own any more, she could only pray for the visions to stop. When they did not, she would remove her wimple, and hair tumbling down her back, walk among the shimmering copper beech trees, inhaling the scents of fallen leaves, bark and soil, and let the cold breezes sweep her mind clean. Nothing startled or distracted her beyond the scamper of squirrels, the flutter of migrating birds, and the occasional black-robed nun from whom she fled.
The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance Page 30
