The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Two

It was a very long journey to Belden House. As the train chugged slowly northward, Veronica felt as if she were traveling to some far off country, a wild, shadowy nether region at the far end of the world. The industrial clutter of the city gradually gave way to flowering meadows, sheep-dotted hills, then wild, open moorland stretching from horizon to horizon under a darkening sky. Who would have thought the land could be so empty, that she could feel so alone?

She began to wonder if she'd made a mistake choosing to accept the position at Belden House. A tall, brooding mansion came to mind, poised on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. A lonely, sinister place, like the one in the novel she clutched in her hand, Jane Eyre, now unreadable in the gloom of her compartment. Veronica fancied her own life might be mirrored in the heroine's passionate story. Both orphans, both plunged into new lives as governesses to motherless children... She couldn't help wondering if her employer, Rafe de Grimston, would be as attractive and compelling as Mr. Rochester.

Touching the silver crucifix that always hung around her neck, she looked through her reflection in the dark window at the dimming heath. The moon was rising, traveling along with the train. Waxing toward fullness, it seemed to preside over the windy hills like a witch casting a spell of barrenness over the land.

She stared into her reflection, so pinched and pale looking in the glass. Jane Eyre... she sighed. She should be so lucky! Tragedy and sorrow had worked like an undertow in Veronica's life, taking everything she loved, her trust, her faith, constantly threatening to drag her under into unutterable darkness. All she had to hold onto were her silver crucifix and her dreams, things of the mind and heart, and nothing of hard substance. But, as long as she lived on earth, hard substance she was made of, and hard substance was what she needed. Her parents had taught her that much. Both struggling actors on the London stage, they'd fallen in love tearing up the scenery in The Castle Spectre, a turgid melodrama in the style sorely frowned upon by the critics. They'd given up everything to stories and dreams, sacrificing their very survival to Art.

Veronica loved Art, but it led a devil's dance. As a child, she'd been enthralled by her parents' way of life: the costumes, the makeup, the flower-filled dressing rooms and mirrors, the theaters with their gilded, candle-lit prosceniums, velvet curtains, and boxes like royal balconies. The smells of powder and face paint and velvet still enthralled her. Her child's eyes could not see the rot beneath the tinsel, the hungry eyes and cadaverous cheekbones of the artistes, many of whom were exploited as low-paid entertainers by corrupt managers and theater operators. She could not comprehend the ill health glossed over by doses of laudanum that brought so many of these glamorous creatures low.

At three years old, carried high on Papa's shoulder, she'd entered every theater and music hall like a queen surveying the crowd below. In their costumes and wigs, the actors and actresses were beautiful, brave, and soulful. Mama was always so exquisitely made up that it was impossible, even in the role of mad Ophelia, to notice the dark circles under her eyes and the feverish flush of her cheeks. It was at home, in their flat above the reeking Thames, sitting by the coal fire, wrapped in her shawl, that Mama gave in to exhaustion, allowing the ravages of consumption to show.

Thinking Mama was merely tired, Veronica would curl up beside her and hold her ice-cold hand; it never seemed to warm.

Veronica would never forget the winter when she'd walked behind the hearse to Brompton cemetery. Holding Papa's hand, she was all of five years old, placing one thin-soled boot before the other, wounding the pure white snow with the darkness of her grief. Mama lay in the hearse covered in flowers, making her last exit. So Papa described it. Veronica was too numb to grasp his irony. She was frozen inside and out, brittle as china.