“Surely if Christ meant to call me, he would not allow this haunting,” she mused. “I must indeed be lost.”
Once a deer entered the park. It froze and held Veronica’s gaze for a long time. She glanced away and scanned the grounds for a wolf child running on all fours, coming to chase it down. The deer perked up its ears and fled as if Veronica's thoughts had frightened it away. She looked for the wolf girl, but the rustling of dry leaves was only the wind.
An image of the twins came to mind, just as she had seen them the first time: innocent, charming and so enigmatic. She recalled the poem that Jacques had written for her about the deer in the garden, the poem that was really about her and Rafe.
Everything was so jumbled up.
She put her wimple back on, and looking over her shoulder, hurried through the nuns’ graveyard to the cathedral. Once inside the thick, incense-soaked, candlelit walls, she shut the heavy oaken doors, with their bastions of carved angels, on the world and all its terrors.
She entered the Lady Chapel where an ancient statue of the Madonna and Child was housed in a golden shrine with a starry canopy. Dressed in midnight blue taffeta and gold, this Madonna was serene and lovely. Not at all like that horror in Saint Lupine’s. On the tiled floor at the foot of the shrine, was a prie dieu. Veronica knelt there, and fell into a state of utter despondency.
To you, dear Lord, I give my troubles, for only You can sort them out… These were the only words her exhausted mind could come up with. The rest of her petition was agonized silence.
Through the haze of firelight, the Holy Virgin and Child in their splendid Christmas robes, glowed. Tiers of ivory candles surrounded them, flames rising to the high, stone ceiling. Gazing at the pale, beatific face of the Virgin, a notion knocked at door of Veronica's consciousness, a fairy tale solution to her problem. The wolf girl had responded to Veronica’s empathy, her compassion, her love. In the ambience of Veronica’s warmth, the little wolf girl, who'd been cast off just as Veronica had once been cast off, made an effort to overcome her ignorance and join the human race. Even if only for a little while, love had been the cure. Was it really that simple?
Then she thought of Sister Margaret and knew what could happen when the promise of love was broken. In looking out for her own interests, Veronica had failed not only the wolf girl, but everyone at Saint Mary’s.
Where, then, was the balance between care of others and care of the self? When it came to other people, how much was she responsible for?
“Holy Mother of God, what am I to do? Are my only choices to kill the man I love, or allow evil to flourish? Must I, in trying to save others, destroy myself?”
Sixty-Two
The convent was swathed in heavy mists. A few days before Christmas, snow began to fall. Veronica kept to her tiny bedchamber where, exhausted by her work, she often fell asleep by the coal fire, the missal in her lap unopened.
During Advent, she’d been allowed to join the choir, singing Matins at dawn in a cathedral heated by hundreds of candles and the sweet, melodic breaths of the nuns. Veronica’s voice was appraised beautiful enough to warrant special attention by the musical director, beautiful enough perhaps, to redeem her in the eyes of God.
It was a day of bleak skies and ice when Mother Superior summoned Veronica to her office.
“I have received a letter from your former employer, Mr. Rafe de Grimston. It seems he tracked you down through Crowe's Agency. They forwarded this on to us. He doesn’t know where you are. It is up to you whether or not to answer. It will soon be time for you to decide your future, Sister Veronica.”
Reverend Mother’s gaze was steady, calm, as she handed the letter over. Veronica was relieved to find that it had not been opened. The forwarding address was written in Mr. Crowe's dark, spiky script, reminding her of the first letter she'd received from him, the high hopes she'd once had. She felt her face flush. Afraid to cry in front of Reverend Mother, Veronica bowed her head.
“Go and read it and come back to me before Vespers,” Mother Superior said. “You are dismissed.”
Veronica teetered to her feet. “I’m horribly sorry, Reverend Mother. I’m very confused. I’m so sorry to appear uncertain of my calling.”
“Don’t be. God has His ways. Give your struggle over to Him and don’t try to force the outcome. That is the only way.”
With a racing heart, Veronica hurried out into the hall with its tall, wintry windows, and opened the envelope. Inside was Rafe's letter. The smell of the sealing wax as it broke; the whiff of good paper and ink reminded her painfully of Belden House. Had he written this in the little study under the stairs? Her hands shook so that she had to sit down in the rosewood-paneled hallway to steady herself.
Inside was a child’s drawing of Father Christmas with a holly branch and sack with a small boy’s head peeking out. It was signed Jack with a great flourish.
There was also a letter.
Dear Miss Everly,
I thought you might like news of us here at Belden House. Jacqueline quite misses you. I miss you. Together we are two fools reminiscing about the good old days. Mrs. Twig has recovered from her injuries and bustles about enough for both of you. Sadly we have lost one of the twins. He lies in the tomb, in a silver casket beside his older sister. Their mother is still at large. If only one could be freed of this evil! There is a remedy, but this I cannot disclose.
I wish you well in your new post. I am sure it is happier than here.
All the Best,
Rafe de Grimston
Scrawled below in the large, blocky penmanship of an eight-year-old were the words:
P.S.
We wish you a Happy Christmas!
(Please come back.)
Veronica glanced around helplessly. Jacqueline wanted her back. But how could she return? In the end, she might be called upon to destroy her father and her, or choose to become like them, and lose her soul entirely.
She went out into the garden. Snow was falling in heavy, wet flakes. The vista of white earth and bare trees seemed to go on forever. The crows hawking in the bare branches were like fragments of her personal darkness besmirching the purity of God’s creation. The bells were ringing the Third Hour, reminding her of mysterious voices chanting and the high, clear howling of the wolves.
Just before bed, she wrote a letter to Rafe. It was not an easy decision to respond, for though everything within her wanted to let Rafe know how to find her, she dreaded having to face him, to confront him about the way he'd burdened her unfairly, and defend her decision to abandon them like a thief in the night.
Dear Mr. de Grimston,
Thank you for thinking of me and sending your news from Belden House, both happy and sad. I miss you as well, and the twins. Both of them. It grieves me terribly that they are no longer a pair. I have news to share with you. I have decided to become a nun. To join the Order of Saint Mary’s where I can continue in my teaching profession.
I shall keep you always in my prayers.
Sincerely Yours,
Sister Veronica Marie
P.S.
My lovely Jacqueline, Thank you for the drawing. I did have a happy Christmas, though I would have had a nicer one with you.
There!
Veronica sealed the envelope and stamped it with Saint Mary’s seal. It was all decided. From that day forth she would be Sister Veronica Marie. She would clear her name with Reverend Mother and wear the novice's white habit and the heavy rosary beads. For excitement, she would sing in the choir. It wasn’t such a bad life. At least it was secure.
Tears spilled on the envelope where it lay on her table. She ripped the wimple from her head, tore at the neckline of her habit that strangled her, stood up, pulled her hair and stamped her feet.
If she hadn’t gotten so used to silence, she would have screamed.
Sixty-Three
She spent much of the winter in the Lady Chapel. Comforted by the stillness, warmed by the hundreds of
candles that glowed wetly in the underwater light of the stained glass windows, she prayed.
The kind face of the Holy Virgin with her little Christ Child looked down from the altar. Why had Veronica been denied the promise implied in that most primal of images? Why did God allow Satan to contaminate His creation? Why did God allow the germ of evil to destroy it from within?
In a sometimes frozen daze of disbelief at what she’d gone through at Belden House, Veronica contemplated these questions and many others. And what had she become? Was she truly a nun, or merely an escapist? Her innocence had been her badge of purity, but it had been the purity of a child, a child who’d been raised in a convent at that. Was it possible to grow to adulthood without knowing evil? It seemed that consciousness of evil allowed it some egress into the soul, to stain, to taint, to corrupt… like the vampyre who, once seen, sees, and considers that acknowledgment, no matter how brief or unintended, an invitation.
Enveloped in smoke and candle fire, Veronica trembled. She felt as if she were at the dark leaden center of the world.
“Holy Virgin, please have mercy on me. Set my feet aright. Guide me away from the path that winds before me into...”
Where?
She didn't have the courage to name it.
It was a bright sunny day when Veronica stepped out of the cathedral to find Janet sitting under a dripping yew tree in the nuns’ graveyard. Busy watching a large crow flapping its wings at the top of a headstone, the maid didn't see Veronica come out. Despite the snow and slush, Janet seemed quite at home on the bench, as if she’d been sitting there all day.
“My goodness, Janet? What are you doing here?” Veronica asked.
At the sight of Veronica, Janet stood up. "Oh, Miss. Good day to you."
“How did you know I was in the cathedral?”
“The head nun told me where to find you.” Janet was flustered and kept looking at her wet shoes. “I came on behalf of Mr. Rafe.”
“You must be freezing. Come on. Let’s go inside. There’s a small sitting room where we won’t be disturbed.”
The crow swooped up to perch on a low branch and cawed loudly at Veronica's back as she hurried Janet through the side door of the abbey. At the end of the hallway was a cozy little room with a coal fire in the hearth. They sat in opposite wing chairs. Veronica was amazingly happy to see Janet who kept smiling and finally laughing as if she were amazingly happy as well.
“It’s so good to see you, Miss Everly. You do make a lovely nun, I must say, though Mr. Rafe was ever so upset you’d done it.”
“It’s not quite done yet,” Veronica said. “I still have a month before I commit to anything, and even then…” What was she saying? “What’s the latest news from Belden House?”
Janet grew flustered again. “Miss, I… Could you...? Well... Mr. Rafe..."
"Go on."
"I know it was wrong of me, but I read your letter. Though I don’t let on, I can read well enough. I found it blowing over the lawn where Mr. Rafe had dropped it, you see, before he stalked off into the woods like the doom was upon him. I was afraid of what he might do with that pistol of his. He doesn’t know I’ve come looking for you, Miss.” Janet looked up with pleading eyes, then glanced out the window where the bare trees swayed in the gusty winds. “All he does is ride. He saddles his favorite horse, that big, black charger, and rides out over the moors, not coming home until dawn. Like poor, mad Tristan he is. Lost his wits, I’d say. With all due respect.”
Remembering that wild horseman on the moor, Veronica shifted in her seat, drew her veil close around her shoulders. “Go on,” she said.
“Mrs. Twig, well, she recovered quick enough, but… It were up to me, Miss, to lock them in the tower. Her and poor little Jack. I can't tell which one is left…. I can’t bear it when they start howling. And Mr. Rafe, well, he’ll roam free. They can’t help what they are. Lady Sovay, well… Did you know that before she came to us her ladyship lived in France and those same things were going on there? Children being attacked by wolves and such? Then she brought it here, to England. And those books... those Grand Alberts... very old they are, Miss. From long ago, that family of hers worshipped the Devil. That’s how it came to them. Now the curse falls on us.” Janet looked around at the paintings of the saints on the walls. “I can see why you came here. To get away from it. But… Miss… there is a cure and I thought, if you don’t mind my saying, in that letter of yours… well... when a woman tries to act so cold, you know there’s a burning heart beneath.”
Veronica inhaled sharply. Was she so obvious?
“If you could come back to us and speak your heart…” Janet pleaded.
Veronica stood up and walked to the window, squeezing the rosary beads between her fingers.
“If I were to do such a thing, leave Saint Mary’s now, I could never come back here again.” She turned back to Janet. “I will not shoot Mrs. Twig and never a child. No, I will not. And I will not shoot Rafe de Grimston, even if he tears the entire world apart,” Veronica said. “Do you understand?”
“But there’s no need to shoot.”
Veronica dismissed the remark as if she hadn’t heard it.
“What of Lady Sovay?” Veronica asked.
“She’s still out there….”
“Making others like herself. Stealing souls. How can I do anything about it?”
“Only you can, Miss. Only you. Don’t you see? Listen to your heart.” Putting her hand over her own heart, Janet held her gaze with a look of such urgency that Veronica felt selfish and mean.
“Oh, God in Heaven!” Veronica cried.
“Miss Everly!”
Veronica crossed herself, “Please forgive me, Lord. Oh, God!”
“Just come for a day, Miss. One day will do it. I’m frightened what Mr. Rafe will do to himself. I think the only thing keeping him from topping himself with that silver bullet is his hope that he might see you again. He’s afraid of losing the remaining twin to her as well. The twins let her out, and used those dolls to link up with her. Stuffed with the flowers of France, they were. Her native soil. That wicked part that’s in the children… that was why they wanted those dolls. To bond with their mother again. Mr. Rafe is always so kind. He didn’t know… But there’s no need for him to even think about suicide if only you’d come back with me. For one day. Just one little day. Please, Miss. As an act of charity. You must.”
Hearing about France reminded Veronica of an obstacle.
“What of the lady in France? Why doesn’t he invite her to stay at Belden House? What does Mr. de Grimston need me for when he can invite his mistress in, and even give her my rooms?”
Janet narrowed her eyes as if she had difficulty understanding what Veronica was saying. “What lady in France?”
“The one he goes to. The one who writes him those perfumed love letters that summon him to her side. She to whose side he went, leaving you and I alone to cope with disaster.”
Janet looked puzzled. “I don’t know of any lady in France. Unless you mean that old Countess who rents the chateau for fêtes and things.”
“Old Countess?”
“Yes. I can’t recall her name, some fancy French thing. I can’t say it anyway. She’s been renting it for years. Mr. Rafe keeps her sweet because the money she pays him helps keep the place up.”
Veronica inwardly recoiled with embarrassment. A renter? Not a mistress at all.
“How old is she?” Veronica asked.
“From what I can gather by those ringlets and plumes she wears, I’d say she’s in her eighties by now.”
How very old!
Veronica breathed a sigh of remorse, putting her hands on her head as if to squeeze sense into it. What a fool I’ve been. What a stupid fool.
“All right, Janet. If I can obtain permission from Reverend Mother, I’ll arrange for your stay here tonight, and go back with you tomorrow morning. But once we get there, I’m returning here before nightfall, and that�
��s final.”
*
Sixty-Four
Veronica watched the winter landscape slide past the window of the train. It was a struggle to keep a sense of foreboding at bay. With each lurch of the train, a new wave of anxiety assailed her. The train stopped at so many stations en route that it dragged out the journey from Gloucestershire to three days. Passengers boarded, crowding the car, then got off long before she and Janet reached their destination.
A discarded news tabloid lay on the seat opposite. Hoping to focus her thoughts on something other than her troubles, Veronica picked it up.
Moors Murders Still Unsolved
Veronica glanced at Janet sitting on the opposite seat, gazing out the window, her mouth set in a tight line. Of course the maid knew the werewolves had rampaged again and wasn’t about to discuss it.
Veronica skimmed down the page:
Gang of Jack the Rippers Ravages the Yorkshire Countryside.
After six months of sheep mutilations, deer poaching, and the tragic deaths of a farm wife, a herdsman, and three children, Scotland Yard has been summoned to find the Moors Murderers.
The random nature of these attacks has investigators baffled. Such carnage could only be the work of madmen.
Some locals continue to claim that it wasn’t men that done the deeds, but an increasingly large pack of white wolves that appears only when the moon is full. The wolves first appeared almost thirteen years ago, they say. Though it has been two and a half years since these wolves were last seen in the area, locals claim the manner of the killing is exactly that same as it was before, indicating that the wolves must have returned.
But since we all know that wolves are extinct, this report suggests peasant superstition and a cover up. Why anyone would protect a gang of homicidal louts is beyond the comprehension of any right-thinking Englishman…
The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance Page 31
