The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Nine

A marble fireplace with two portraits above the mantel dominated the far wall like a shrine. Paintings, sculpted figurines, a deep, cushioned divan, and gilded mahogany chairs upholstered in shades of ivory, dark green, and gold, held court on an Oriental carpet. The room spoke of wealth, status and education far beyond anything Veronica could imagine, of things foreign and poetic. A conservatory, mirror of the one downstairs where they had tea, took up the far left corner of the room. Exotic flowering trees and vines had been left to grow wild in the hothouse atmosphere, as if the owner strove relieve the smooth, refined atmosphere of his rooms with a jungle.

Veronica turned slowly around, taking in the flamboyant crystal chandelier hanging from a decorative plaster ceiling, the ornate mirrors on walls of dark silver grosgrain silk. An arrangement of fresh lilies bloomed on a table behind the hearthside divan as if the rooms were kept in readiness for Mr. de Grimston's imminent return.

"How beautiful!" she whispered. This was clearly the master suite.

On either side of the door she'd entered, were French doors. Two bedrooms, corresponding to the two doors that faced each other across the hallway outside, were visible through the windows.

On her right, Veronica caught a glimpse of Lady Sovay's bedchamber. She tiptoed over, and peered in. The bed was set into the wall under a gilded wooden canopy hung with yellow silk curtains. Medieval tapestries of ladies and hounds hung on either side of the marble fireplace. A wooden statue of Mary Magdalene, with her perfume jar, stood on the dressing table, the fine detailed carving of her hair flowing to her feet reflected in the mirror behind her. The silver combs and brushes and bottles of scent, the alluring colors and soft fabrics gave evidence of Sovay de Grimston's sensuous personality.

Unable to stop herself, Veronica stepped into the room. The cut glass perfume bottles on the dressing table were so stylish that they could only have come from Paris. She picked one up and lifted the stopper, unleashing the intoxicating scent of ambergris. Drinking the fragrance in, she closed her eyes and wondered what kind of church Lady Sovay had been raised in, what kind of schooling she'd had. Certainly nothing like what Veronica had received at Saint Mary's where the Magdalene was viewed as proprietress of the wrong kind of nunnery.

Under an archway to the right was a dressing room where tall windows, curtained with yards of gauzy silk, looked out on a walled rose garden, and the smudged umber mist of the orchard.

Veronica hurried back out to the sitting room and approached the doors to Rafe de Grimston's bedchamber. She had second thoughts about going in. Lady Sovay could no longer feel the presence of a stranger among her things, but though not at home, Mr. de Grimston was very much alive. The vases of fresh lilies attested to his eventual return. If she met him after she'd been in his bedroom, he would sense it right away. It was an uncanny fact that, once you knew things about a person, especially personal, private things, you couldn't get away with pretending you didn't. She'd learned from spying on the nuns at Saint Mary's, that the mere glance of an eye could give one away.

Dark wood, leather easy chairs, bookcases flanking the fireplace, the walls ornamented with the peculiar acquisitions of the world traveler, created an impression of masculine power. Light came in from the left through an archway that hid the bed from view. What must that bed be like? She imagined it to be large, and curtained in barbaric purple hangings.

Veronica turned and walked quietly back to the hearth. She sat on the edge of the soft cushions of the divan, admiring the sumptuous surroundings. She knew enough about art to recognize the fine quality of the two portraits above the fireplace, a matched pair, painted in the stormy style of Sir Joshua Reynolds. The one on the left could only have been Rafe, and the one at the right was surely his wife, Lady Sovay.