The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Thirty-Three

Charging through the front door of Belden House, Veronica ran straight into Mrs. Twig.

"Good morning, Mrs. Twig," she said curtly.

"Good morning. You've been out early." Mrs. Twig said.

"I had trouble sleeping."

Mrs. Twig gave Veronica a level gaze, and seemed to grope for words. "We had a very unsettling time last night."

"That's an understatement." Veronica tried to brush past her, but Mrs. Twig grabbed her arm. "Well?" Veronica said, trying to shove the housekeeper off.

"What did you hear last night?"

"Let me go first."

The housekeeper dropped her hand from Veronica's arm.

"Might we sit down and have some tea?" Mrs. Twig looked away as if to hide her emotions. "Come on. Please. Janet's not up yet."

"I didn't think you would be, either."

"I, too, was unable to sleep, Miss Everly. I think you know why."

***

Veronica sat on the edge of her chair in the breakfast nook, smoothing the frown from her forehead. She felt drained. Good thing Mrs. Twig was making the tea.

Mrs. Twig set the teapot on the table among the cups and saucers and cream and sugar, then sat down as if her bones ached.

"I just don't understand," Veronica said, staring into her tea. "Meaning no disrespect, I feel like I'm living in a kind of madhouse. The second night I was here, though you deny it, I saw a mysterious figure come out of the well. There have been strange bells and wolves howling at night..."

"Dogs..."

"No. I thought that at first, but I am utterly convinced they are not domesticated dogs. Dogs don't sound like that. They're wolves."

Mrs. Twig held Veronica's gaze, then looked away.

"Then, when I was ill, I dreamed of a lady in a yellow gown with a crown of birch twigs on her head. And----other things." Things she wasn't sure of seeing: the dolls in the well, the mysterious children in ghostly light, so did not want to mention them.

Mrs. Twig clenched her hands together as if she were praying. She looked about to speak, but seemed at a loss for words.

"It was not the first time I'd seen her."

"What else?"

"I saw Jacqueline... I mean a wolf... kill a hare."

Mrs. Twig bit her lip.

"Is it possible? But of course not. My eyes were playing tricks." Veronica failed to keep sarcasm at bay.

"Go on."

"One minute, I was looking at Jacqueline; the next, I saw a wolf chase down a hare..."

Mrs. Twig heaved a large sigh. She looked the picture of despair.

"Then I saw Jacqueline again. Carrying the dead animal to the house." Memory rising up before her mind's eye, Veronica rushed on. "Later on, after dark, I heard the door knocker slam. A voice came through the door... a woman saying she'd been buried alive. Oh, Mrs. Twig! What is going on?"

Mrs. Twig nodded, working her mouth as if it were full of mud. She sipped her tea, then gulped it down.

"Tell me the truth, Mrs. Twig. If I'm to stay here, I must know what this is all about."

"She is not a living woman, Miss Everly."

"Go on."

"She's dead. She's been dead for well over two years." Mrs. Twig sagged against the back of her chair as if this situation had exhausted her.

"So it is Sovay. Come back to haunt us." Veronica said.

"Yes."

"But how?"

"I fear Jack had something to do with it. They missed her so."

Fear crept up Veronica's spine. "She was buried alive, and they helped her escape."

"No."

"No?"

"She was not buried alive."

Fixing Mrs. Twig with an incredulous stare, Veronica cast her mind back to the tomb in the woods, to the palpable presence glittering up from the darkness of the sepulcher, the yellow gown of the corpse clearly entombed there. Veronica wanted to ask, to make sure it was Sovay's body, but she could never let anyone know she'd opened the grave. It was a crime.

"Not entirely anyway." Mrs. Twig sipped her tea as if she were trying to hide behind her cup.

"Are you saying she's a ghost?" Veronica asked.

"More a kind of revenant."

"I don't know what that means."

"She can't die. She is undead."

Gasping softly, Veronica collapsed against the back of her chair.

"Can't die?"

Mrs. Twig seemed to go away somewhere in her mind. "You can only see her in certain kinds of light, at twilight, or in moonlight. Yet, she has solidity." Her tearful eyes twinkled with a fearful light, as if that alone could convey her meaning. "Her passing was... strange... as strange as her life had been. She can't die, Miss Everly. Even if she wants to."

Veronica's head ached. It was too awful. It sounded like nonsense. Yet she couldn't deny that the lady in yellow was Sovay, or that she was something other than alive.

"Perhaps we should open the tomb and see if she's there."

Mrs. Twig laughed. "But why? Haven't you already opened it? Haven't you seen her lying there?"

"You saw me?"

"Of course."

"You must think me a monster."

"No." Mrs. Twig leaned in and gripped Veronica's wrist. "She must never be allowed into this house. Must never be." Mrs. Twig's gaze was hard. "She is a danger to the children. And to you."

"Me?"

"Let us leave it there, Miss Everly. Lady Sovay is dead. And we are haunted by her spirit."

Veronica's confidence sank like lead.

"Does she want revenge? For something?"

"Perhaps that's it, Miss Everly."

"She wants the twins."

Mrs. Twig clutched her hands together and stood up. "Now if you will excuse me, I must get on with my work."

The housekeeper walked briskly toward the kitchen, leaving Veronica alone with the weight of her discoveries. It was easy to understand how the spectral lady in yellow could be a danger to the twins, but why would she hate Veronica? There was more to the story, and she was more determined than ever to find it out.

***

She went out to the orchard intending to pick apples, but ended up going to the bottom gate to stare out at the moor. The horseman knew what went on here. If only he would ride by, she would flag him down and make him tell her. Insist that he explain. But he was in France, wasn't he? Leaving her alone to grapple with horrors while he enjoyed his mistress, his perfumed courtesan.

Perhaps he hoped Veronica wouldn't be here when he returned.

The ears of a white hare poking up from the grass in the endless vista of the moor tugged at her heart. Driving away the memory of her nightmare on the moor, she fancied Rafe coming toward her, striding through the long grass impatient to embrace her, his black hair falling over his brow, his blue eyes, with their violet slash, intent on her.

"Where are you, Rafe de Grimston?" she said to the great emptiness. "When are you coming home? We need you."