The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Twenty-Five

The moment they got to the front door, Jack began shouting for Mrs. Twig. The housekeeper came out looking slightly irritated until she saw Veronica sagging with the weight of two bulging baskets. Then she laughed.

"Oh, my! What have you been doing?" she asked, relieving Veronica of her burdens.

Veronica let them go gladly. "I didn't think I could carry them much further without spilling things all over the road," she said.

"My goodness, what have we got here?" Mrs. Twig asked, prodding at the wrapped parcels for indications of their contents.

"Surprises," said Jacqueline. "For you!"

"For me?" Mrs. Twig laid her hand on her heart.

"Presents," said Jacques.

"We got a lovely book," Veronica said. "For Mr. de Grimston."

"I'll make sure he gets it. Come along, Jack." Mrs. Twig bustled off to the drawing room with the twins in tow.

Alone in the foyer, Veronica looked around for Rafe. She had a feeling he was outside, riding again. She went to the window that looked out toward the orchard, but saw only the peaks of a juniper hedge dim in the twilight. An apple tree, still heavy with unpicked fruit, leaned in the yard.

Out there, past the orchard, the moor would be shrouded in deep twilight. She still had no memory of how she'd gotten lost out there, or why. She wondered if she had a death wish. Dying certainly ended one's troubles.

Sitting below the window, on the side table where they always left the post, lay a single lilac-hued envelope. It was addressed to Monsieur Rafe de Grimston in the flowing script of a lady's hand. The postage stamps were colorful, French, stamped with black wavy lines evoking the wild waves of the Channel the letter had crossed to get to Belden House. A whiff of perfume rose from the envelope, the scent provocatively feminine. Veronica felt the urge to pick the letter up, to turn it over and see the lady's name, but drew her hand back. She didn't dare touch it. Rather, she gazed down at that fragrant missive like a sparrow studying a swan, her own drab existence magnified by the poetic mystery of this obviously superior bird.

Was there a lady in Rafe's life? Was she the reason he spent so much time in France? Was she the reason for his sudden coldness?

The challenge of rivalry making her bold, Veronica picked the letter up, sniffed it, turned it over to see no name, but a waxen seal stamped with a fleur de lis. Veronica envisioned an elegant Frenchwoman of culture and beauty dabbing attar of roses and ambergris along her swan-like neck, writing with a graceful hand on lilac colored paper, lines of passion and romance, a lady of breeding, very rich, and thus able to offer a man like Rafe de Grimston so much more than a meager schoolmistress ever could.

What a fool she'd been.

Loosening her cloak, Veronica picked up her bundles of fabric and crossed the vestibule just as Rafe was coming out of his study. He was wearing a blousy white shirt, his hair was messy, his eyes dark as if he hadn't slept for days. For a moment, they held each other's gaze. Caught off guard, Veronica felt the doors of her heart spring open, releasing all the feelings pent up inside. A pang of jealousy slammed the doors shut. Hot tears starting in her eyes, she looked down and away. How would she endure this?

In Rafe's hand was a book with green covers. He held it up as an explanation, and smiled in such a way that his entire being sparkled. "Thank you, Miss Everly," he said.

Startled at the sincerity in his voice, her head shot up; she met his eyes. "Oh... I was hoping you'd like it. The children said you would."

"It's the most thoughtful gift I've received in a long while. I owned a painting by Rossetti once, but I had to sell it."

"Oh, how tragic..."

"Yes. The model was a lady very much like you. She had ginger hair, but the spirituality of her countenance was much like yours, Miss Everly, though perhaps more fiery. Your magic is of nature, of the forest, the land, the flowers on the heath..."

"Me? Magical? I wonder how you can put those two concepts together." Veronica laughed partly from astonishment and partly from a flood of relief that she and Rafe were finally having an unguarded conversation.

He opened the book, scanned the page and began reading.

"I met a lady in the meads


Full beautiful, a faery's child;


Her hair was long, her foot was light,


And her eyes were wild.


I set her on my pacing steed,


And nothing else saw all day long;


For sideways would she lean, and sing


A faery's song."

"That's Keats," Veronica said. A blush rose to her face. It was as if Rafe were trying to remind her of the day he found her on the moor.

"La Belle Dame sans Merci. The beautiful lady without mercy," he said.

"A beautiful poem without mercy," she mumbled, looking at her scuffed toes of shoes. Surely the poem couldn't remind him of her, the drab sparrow. She glanced up, arrested by the beauty of Rafe's face. All she could think of was the lilac colored envelope, drenched in French perfume, awaiting him in the foyer. Indeed, it was Rafe who lacked mercy----he who had not the faintest clue that this love... yes, this terrible love... assailed her, followed by a blinding flash of absolute hopelessness now settling around her like a cloak of complete invisibility.

Rafe's voice cut through her misery with gentle humor. "And what have you got there? A bundle of washing?"

"No. Fabric for three new dresses. As you can see: copper, warm red, and blue flowers on white. No yellow."

Rafe's eyes narrowed. "That's excellent. Those colors would suit you extremely well."

Mrs. Twig came toward them at a quick pace, holding out the perfumed letter from the foyer.

"Oh! Mr. Rafe, I'm glad I caught you. This came for you in the post."

"When?"

"Just this afternoon. It's from France."

Rafe took the letter, gazed at it and smiled. Veronica could smell it from where she stood.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss Everly." He held the letter up and ducked back into his study.

Feeling bereft, Veronica glanced at Mrs. Twig, looking for a sign that she knew something about the letter. But the housekeeper wore her usual mask-like expression.

"Thank you for filling the larder, Miss Everly. And for the cakes and tarts. We shall all enjoy them at tea."

"I'm glad you like them, Mrs. Twig," Veronica said distantly. "If you'll excuse me."

Veronica dashed up the stairs to her room and shut the door. Reeling around, she fell into the easy chair, took off her shoes, and threw them across the room, into the other half, where they thudded on the Turkish rug. The vibration set the rocking horse creaking.