The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance (32 page)

Sixty-One

M
other 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 thi
nk 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. Unfo
rtunately, 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 no
t 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 dul
l 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.

“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 pr
oblem. 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

T
he 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 wit
h 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 m
iss 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 su
ch 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.