The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Eighteen

Flicking through the dresses in her wardrobe, Veronica couldn't help but fret. All of her clothes were so work-a-day, so plain and practical and worn out. The only dress she had that was even close to being presentable was her lightly worn black velvet mourning dress with lace collar and cuffs. Saying she already had too much black in her wardrobe, Sister Victorine had given the dress to Veronica for the funeral of one of the girls. How could one appear at a formal dinner in that? Just looking at the dress brought up memories of the girl who'd been found floating in a woodland pool, drowned. Only sixteen, she'd been the most beautiful girl at Saint Mary's. No one knew how she ended up like that, though Veronica had her suspicions.

Uncertainty weakened Veronica. She sagged against the soft bank of her clothes and let her mind wander.

She was learning things about the de Grimstons she could never have imagined. Their ways were eccentric, their house both welcoming and strange: the book in the library, the lady in yellow at the wishing well, that church.... The sight of her employer in the throes of grief was dispiriting. Shouldn't he be happy to be home with his children, and looking forward to his home coming banquet? Why wasn't he?

Veronica sighed. Rafe must have adored Sovay to suffer so much grief. It was sad that she was gone, but even so... Sovay had done things at that church, Saint Lupine's, that were seriously wrong. And she'd involved the children. How could he have allowed it?

Rafe's handsome image rose before her mind's eye. He'd been so different on roof of the tower last night, charming, playful, and (dare she say) flirtatious. His demeanor when he escorted her off the roof both intrigued and frightened her. She wished she had more understanding. Perhaps it would come with time. If she could last long enough.

She had to last.

To do so, she must appear strong and unshakeable. A governess must be reliable. That meant looking her absolute best for her employer's banquet. Only one dress would do, but she'd sworn never to wear it: the beautiful gown that her mother had worn as Olivia in Twelfth Night. Made of patterned silk velvet in warm blue with insets of metallic lace and medieval motifs, it was the only memento her aunt would let her keep. It was the dress her mother shone in, the one that brought out her dusky, poetic beauty, her lustrous hazel eyes, and the lovely lines of her figure. Though Veronica's eyes were deep brown, she'd inherited her mother's abundance of dark hair, and her slim, hourglass figure. She had no doubt that the dress would work the same magic for her that it had for Mae Tyler. Yet, it felt like a betrayal to wear it. Somewhat like desecrating a shrine.

Veronica pulled the dress out of the wardrobe, took it to the mirror, and held it up. It was lovely, but not particularly modest with its close-fitting lines, the deep, square neckline, both front and back. It was not at all something a poor orphan or a governess would wear.

"I should stop feeling so guilty," she murmured, stroking the silken folds of the skirt. It's softness brought back her mother's vivid and charming presence. This gown was all she had left of her mother, the only evidence of her unstable but happy childhood being carried through the theater world with her parents.

She thought of the twins' china dolls, their cloth bodies stuffed with the wild flowers of France to remind them of their mother. In the same spirit, Veronica should feel honored to wear her mother's gown. But perhaps that's what she'd been afraid of doing all along: bringing her mother's memory alive to the point where she would feel the awful vacancy there had once been such love.

At the mirror, Veronica adjusted the lines of the dress against her body. It was astonishing how much she looked like her mother, a mother who had been a mere five years older than Veronica was now when she died.