The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Fifteen

On Sunday evening, a celebratory banquet was to be held in the Grand Hall in honor of Rafe's homecoming. Mrs. Twig planned such an extravagant menu that she had to hire an extra cook for the occasion along with an extra serving girl to help Janet.

This was the first time since Lady Sovay's death that Grand Hall was to be opened. Excitement rippled through the house. Burning to see the room restored to its former glory, Veronica lingered in the hallway only to be shooed away by Janet and her helper. The pair fairly bristled with mops and brooms and dusters like a pair of demonic chars, running back and forth with buckets and mops and polishing cloths, swags to hang, long candles, and a load of firewood for the enormous hearth. The hired cook trundled in with a trolley of her own pots and pans along with wooden crates of food, spices and other strange ingredients tied up in linen sacks emblazoned with colorful foreign trade marks.

Barred from helping, Veronica felt useless. She was too restless to stay in her room all day. Something about Rafe's presence seemed to fill the house, upsetting her ability to maintain the gentle, reflective mood she'd mastered at Saint Mary's. Even alone in her room, she found it impossible to shut the distractions out.

Sunday had come so quickly, she hadn't had time to find a Catholic church to attend. It seemed unlikely that Catholics would flourish out here in the wilds of Yorkshire where every form of Protestantism had taken root. Though she was glad to be away from the orphanage, she missed the exalted, divine atmosphere of Saint Mary's Cathedral, the inspiration of the soaring vault, the stained glass windows, the incense-soaked air, the singing of the nuns, the bells, the sense of sanctuary where she could disentangle her thoughts and commune with God. There had to be someplace nearby for her to worship. Perhaps a small, private chapel would open its doors to her.

She was pinning her hair up when the twins burst into her room with news of a church not far away where their Mamma used to go every Sunday for Mass.

"You seem to have read my mind," Veronica said to them.

"It's not difficult, Miss Everly," said Jacques. "You're very obvious."

"What do you mean? Now I am worried." Veronica smirked.

"Do you want us to take you, Miss Everly?" Jacqueline asked. "We do miss it so."

"You do?"

"Yes. Mrs. Twig never takes us, and Papa is away so much," Jacques said.

"Mamma was Catholic like you are, Miss Everly," said Jacqueline.

"I think we should go and find the priest. He'll want to know we'll be needing him again," said Jacques.

"What do you mean? Isn't he there anyway?"

"Let's go!" said Jacques.

"Put on your bonnet, Miss Everly. It's not far. We can walk."

"Brilliant!"

***

They struck out on foot, passing through the gates of Belden House to the light-dappled road. Rooted in banks of ivy-covered rock, hedges grew tall and unkempt on either side of the road, creating the effect of a green tunnel. Veronica walked slowly, soaking in the layered scents of falling leaves and windblown grass, the low angle of the light, birdsong. It was a relief to be out of the house and its murky, secret histories. Pure sunlight and fresh morning air purged her worries, swept clean her thoughts.

The twins ran ahead, laughing, dodging each other, turning back to make faces at Veronica. She chased them a short distance before slowing down to admire the rows of ancient lime trees, their branches weaving a golden canopy overhead. The twins' voices faded around a right turn where large boulders shored up the land and the woods, blocking them from sight. Veronica gave their flight no thought until she rounded the bend and they were gone.

The road sloped down into the hollows of the trees. Veronica paused to contemplate the empty passage. Where were they?

"Jack! Oh, Jack!" she called.

Her voice echoed back as from a great void.

"Jack! Jack! Where are you? Come out, come out wherever you are!"

She was met with silence. She continued down the road, looking from side to side at the rocks and the bushes. Faint laughter briefly skittered behind the hedgerow. She stopped and looked toward the sound.

"Jack? Come on now. We don't want to be late," she shouted.

There was still no answer. She didn't know what to do, whether to go on down the road and possibly bypass the twins who were obviously hiding in the woods, go back and look for them, or stay where she was and keep calling. She looked up into the branches of the trees. Gold leaves mingled with patches of azure sky. She lowered her gaze to the densely woven hedges. A flock of birds flew up into the trees. Everything seemed to whoosh around, as if nature conspired with the twins to baffle her.

"Jacques! Jacqueline! Where are you?" she called. "Come out this minute!"

A crow sang out.

"Jack!"

The hoot of an owl answered.

"Jack!"

A flicker of light flashed in the darkness between two standing stones set at the side of the road like the entrance to a barrow grave. Standing between them, white as a spirit in his pale clothes, was Jacques. He cast a radiant smile at Veronica, and holding a finger to his lips, beckoned her to follow him.

"Don't ever do that again," she cried. "I haven't got the nerves for it."

Peals of laughter echoed from the distance behind the boundary stones. Jacques held out his hand for Veronica to take.

"Is Jacqueline in there?" she asked as she took the child's hand.

He held his finger to his lips again, and pulled Veronica through the gap onto a smooth, narrow path.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

As they walked along, Jacques kept turning around as if to make sure Veronica was following him. It was a somewhat steep walk, but at the top of the incline, the path opened out to a lush, green clearing. An ancient church shone pale as bone against the soft, dark boundary of the forest. A tall, square steeple, crowned with tapering, gilded pinnacles, layer upon layer of intricate carvings, and a row of tall stained glass windows, gave the church such an air of delicacy that it seemed a mere breath could crumble it. Above the door, not the wheel of a rose window, but the arcane branches of the Tree of Life wove around panes of richly tinted glass. Headstones encircled the church, leaning toward it as if those buried beneath them yearned for the sanctuary inside.

Veronica's hopes for the customary celebration of joy and the Life to Come were dashed. This church was a desolate, dreary, ghost of a place.