The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Twenty-Nine

Veronica had every intention of taking the long way round to get into the tower, but once out on the landing, the three doors at the end of the hallway seemed so convenient. Did she dare go into Rafe's rooms again? Now that she knew him, she felt more keenly the wrong in trespassing into his private chambers. But why shouldn't she go in? She was just going to run across the sitting room and out to the landing. No harm done. Why did she worry so much?

She closed the door to the classroom, turned down the hallway to the three doors, pushed the end door open, and stepped into the Rafe's private parlor.

In the conservatory, the foliage bloomed like a monstrous jungle. Flowers opened like mouths, tapering leaves rose up like claws. It must have been Lady Sovay's idea to create such a wild effect. Veronica turned away from the conservatory, moved into the warmth of the fireplace and sat down on the divan.

The portraits above the mantel gazed down.

There was nothing in the portrait of Lady Sovay that suggested evil. She appeared rather dewy and fresh in her yellow dress. It was the expression in her eyes that revealed a hidden anguish; her ethereal, vivid beauty masking a dark disturbance in her soul.

Veronica thought back to the images on the photographic plates, of the vapors taking shape around Lady Sovay's head, the cloud, the hand, the wolf's head. How could a lady of her quality indulge in rank spiritualism? It was too bizarre to contemplate.

And what of the third child? The older girl? No one ever spoke about her. Perhaps it was too painful to be reminded of such a loss, easier to pretend a dead child had never existed than to revisit the pain. But no one forgot the their own children. It wasn't natural.

Veronica ran her hands up and down her arms as a chill passed through her.

Perhaps all that Ouija board business had backfired and dark powers had taken the child. That's why they'd rather sweep it under the rug. The Devil would have his dues. That's what the nuns always said.

The de Grimstons in the paintings appeared so respectable, so attractive, so cultured. It was difficult to believe what they'd been up to in their treasure room. Yet, the painted image of Lady Sovay was not dissimilar to the figure in the mural at Saint Lupine's, the lady in yellow leading her pack of wolves, and that was not dissimilar to the photograph of the mural in Sovay's chateau in France.

Wolves... wolves and ladies in yellow gowns... Why did they haunt her?

A shrill, ascending note drifted in from outside. It sounded like Jacques playing the penny whistle. No wonder the old antiques dealer wanted to get rid of the blasted thing. That sound could raise the hair right off the back of one's head.

It was funny about the twins, how after so many weeks, Veronica could detect no differences between them. Usually, even the most identical of twins had some differentiating traits, but not Jack. Though they'd claimed to switch roles, it seemed that Jacques was always the stolid, forthright boy, while Jacqueline was gentle, sweet and retiring. The one in trousers seemed to have taken charge of the penny whistle, the other of the dolls. Was Jacques was always Jacques, and Jacqueline always Jacqueline, after all? What if they didn't switch roles, but just pretended that they did? In any case, baffling the governess was a game they thoroughly enjoyed.

A high, thin wail muffled through again. It seemed to emanate from above, from the roof of the tower. Veronica rubbed her arms again. Goosebumps.

Thinking to go and find the whistler, Veronica went out to the passage that led to the landing before the tower door. In the light of the gothic windows, she paused.