The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Seven

The sun was going down; the moon brightened.

Wringing her hands with agitation, Veronica paced her balcony.

Mrs. Twig and the twins were still not home. What was taking them so long? Had they traveled to the end of the world?

Imagine that horseman ordering her to leave! And threatening her with a whip! Who was he to tell her to go? And so violently!

She glanced around the yard looking for a sign of him. What if he'd sneaked onto the grounds? He could hide in the woods and wait until dark, then break into the house....

Heart banging, Veronica looked back into her room, at the interior door open to the landing, and listened.

Downstairs, the front door was locked, but what about the French doors at the back?

She skidded lightly across her room to the landing and hurried downstairs. She tested the front door to make sure it was secure. She went to the breakfast nook, where the glass walls of the conservatory let the outside in, and scanned the darkness beyond the terrace. The plants and flowers gathered in dark clusters in a wash of lowering sunlight. Aware that whoever was out in the yard could see her through the glass, she hastened out of the conservatory to the French doors, and jiggled the latch.

Whew! They were locked. Mrs. Twig must have seen to it before she left. Thank goodness for small mercies.

Something rustled in the shrubberies that grew along the terrace, setting butterflies free in Veronica's stomach. She froze.

Watching, listening...

Most likely, the dog had ambled past the bushes.

She flew back to the dining room to look out at the orchard. It was as glowing and peaceful as it had been before she'd ventured in. Perhaps the horseman had stayed out on the moor. What if he was a highwayman, or a convict on the loose? What if he came back during the night?

She ran back up to her room and locked the door.

Backing away from the door and running out to her balcony to look out over the yard again, it struck Veronica that she'd never been truly alone before. Even when drunk, Aunt Flora was still there. At Saint Mary's she'd slept in a dormitory. The nuns had been everywhere, the girls always going about in groups. Mr. Crowe and his notion she would love her privacy, had been dead wrong. She didn't like being alone at all.

If she had any idea where Mr. Croft was she would send him for the police.

Shaking with dread, Veronica began arranging her clothes in the wardrobe. The chore distracted her somewhat. Still, with half her mind, she listened for noises downstairs.

When the front door finally banged open, it was dark. The children clattered into the house. Mrs. Twig's voice rang out. "Go on up to your rooms now, Jack, and get ready for supper."

Veronica heard the twins stomping up the stairs with slow, tired steps, going quiet on the landing outside her closed door. She threw it open. They were gone. It didn't matter. She needed to talk to Mrs. Twig about the horseman.

She stepped out to the landing and looked down the stairs. The glare of the fire from the open door of the main drawing room flared into the vestibule. The house had come back to life. Hoping to find the housekeeper in the drawing room, Veronica hurried downstairs. The room was empty. She went to the dining room, the kitchen.

The cook was at the butcher's block, chopping onions. A ruddy woman with dishwater blonde hair, her figure well suited to physical labor, she looked up at Veronica and wiped her hands on her apron.