The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance (18 page)

*

Thirty-Two

T
hough she tried to go to sleep, Veronica couldn’t stop thinking about the lady in yellow, the lady at the door claiming
she'd been buried alive. If this were true, she must have escaped her tomb and come, living, to the house. Or, had it been her spirit at the door, coming to take her revenge?

Veronica inhaled sharply. Not just revenge, she wanted the children.

Veronica rolled onto her side and buried her head in the pillows to stop the images cycling through her mind. The way the lady looked at her----her eyes changing, bleeding at the sight of Veronica, her yellow gown unwinding like a shroud, as she vanished into the dark. Jacqueline, in her bloody dress, carrying the dead hare to the house...

  Wolves...
Jacqueline had been a wolf.

And Sovay (for she knew now, without a doubt, that the lady in yellow was Sovay) had she done this to her own child?

Veronica sat up and fastened her eyes on the shadowy séance room under the archway. Perhaps Sovay had gone mad. All those experiments with Ouija boards and ectoplasm had driven her insane. Perhaps she'd been demonically possessed.

Veronica’s mind raced back to the light under the tower door and Mrs. Twig leaving with her candles and her keys. Maybe they kept Sovay in the tower... and she'd escaped. Being imprisoned was like being buried alive. Was this the madness Mr. Crowe had alluded to? Not the twins, but their mother?

Her heart banging with trepidation, Veronica got out of bed and went out to the balcony. The cold, damp light of dawn polished the bare limbs of the birch trees and the white marble surface of the tomb, clearly visible now, in their midst. If, indeed, Sovay was kept in the tower, who, then, was buried in the tomb?

There was a way to find out: Veronica must break into the crypt and see who lay there. And if it was not Sovay's grave but some else's, she must write to Rafe and tell him that his wife had escaped confinement in the tower
, and was now out wandering the grounds of Belden House.



Veronica wasn't ready to confront Mrs. Twig with what she'd seen during the night. Only the possession of concrete information would give weight to Veronica's deductions, and make the evasive housekeeper talk.

It was still very early. The sun had yet to rise, and the house was still held in the quiet atmosphere of sleep. Veronica pulled her brown cloak over her dressing gown and, in case the door of the tomb was locked, pocketed her nail file. She would be back well before Mrs. Twig got up to supervise the kitchen.

The floor of the birch grove was thick with fallen leaves, cushioning her footsteps like a plush carpet. The tomb waited, cold in its clearing, the four angels mourning on its rooftop, drenched with dew.

The door was ajar.

Veronica stepped close enough to see, through the narrow opening of door, lights glimmering deep inside.

Was
she
in there? Waiting?

Veronica
slowly approached the door, pushed it open a bit more, and peered into the gloom. A stairway led down to a tiled vestibule, and just beyond, an iron grille rose up before a chamber filled with flashing candlelight.

Swallowing a sense of dread, Veronica held her breath and went slowly down the stairs. Dead leaves, dried animal bones, bits of fur and scabby feath
ers lay in heaps over the floor. Like the den of some animal. White lilies bloomed in vases flanking the grille, their spicy scent overpowering the nose-tingling odor of decay.

S
eeing no movement in the crypt, Veronica tiptoed over the debris, and staying behind the wall, looked through the grille into the chamber.

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

C
harging 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 h
er 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
un
dead."

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 lean
ed 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 c
ourtesan.

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."