The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

One

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat:

"We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, or you wouldn't have come here."

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland----Lewis Carroll

One

The agent, Mr. Crowe, sat behind his shining Chippendale desk, reading Veronica's reference letter through a pair of pince-nez. The stack of papers neatly squared on his blotter was much higher than the mere covering letter and two references she had sent him. Much higher. What could the agency have possibly found out about her to produce so much paperwork?

Sitting on the edge of her chair, Veronica straightened her back and squared her shoulders. She was glad for the support of her stays, glad she'd been able to borrow a presentable dress for the interview in a rich dove grey that complimented her creamy skin, chestnut hair and large, dark eyes. She tightened her grip around the handle of her closed umbrella, hoping the sharp-eyed agent hadn't noticed the worn fingers of her gloves.

As the agent read on, Veronica's gaze flitted over the classical busts, the enormous paintings, the imposing floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the filing cabinets, the stag's head on the wall with its crown of horns, the monotonous tick-tock of a long case clock orchestrating the movement of her eyes. Mr. Crowe certainly must have some very wealthy clients to afford an office like this. What could he possibly do for the likes of her?

He'd summoned Veronica to the office by letter, hinting that he may have found the perfect position for her as governess to a pair of motherless twins living in a remote stately home in the wilds of Yorkshire. Their father was often away on business. She would have full reign as to their schooling, and a great deal of privacy.

Privacy.... He'd scrawled the word over the page, as if isolation were a wonderful thing out there on the moors, with the ruins and the storms and the wild phantom hounds... But she was meant to be used to solitude, wasn't she, having been raised in a convent?

"Ahem."

Heart lurching, Veronica glanced up. Mr. Crowe did not look at her. He was only clearing his throat.

Was the man going to read everything in that pile of paper before he spoke to her? Veronica tucked the toes of her shoes under her voluminous hem, smiling in case Mr. Crowe's beady little eyes fell upon the scuffmarks, and glanced around the office at the grapevine motifs on the wallpaper, the oak leaves carved on the wainscoting. A large raven was displayed, wings outstretched, on the wall behind Mr. Crowe's head, appearing to hover there like his guardian angel, or his own dark soul. Veronica began to dread that some dire oath would come croaking out of the agent's mouth, and she would be out in the streets of London again with nothing to move on to, no prospects, no future. Nothing.

Mr. Crowe lifted a letter from the mysterious stack of papers so that the light from the window shone through it. Lowering his pince-nez, he glanced over it, and somewhere in the middle of the page, breathed out a small "Oh!"

What did that mean?

Veronica knew it was unlikely a poor, ignorant girl such as she would be offered an important position at a stately home anyway, but she sent up a silent prayer to Saint Jude, patron saint of desperate causes, for a small miracle. If the opportunity fell through, she would have to return to the orphanage at Saint Mary's, deeply secluded in the green, rolling hills of Gloucestershire, and, in order to be allowed to stay there after the close of her eighteenth year, she would have to take the veil.