The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Thirty-Five

It was with a heavy tread that Veronica trod up the stairs to her room. Once there, she didn't want to go in with the Ouija boards and the ectoplasm and the treasures. She went round to the twins' rooms, looking in at the pallid emptiness of Jacqueline's room, then turning to see the disconcerting effect of its mirror image on the other side of the hallway. She broke the illusion by going into Jacque's room. It was cold. There had been no fire lit in here for two days.

The little tower room at the end of the hallway was open. She wondered if it housed a stairway, or a secret room where Jack went to hide on the nights of the full moon.

The space was quite small. The three narrow windows looked out on a walled garden, woods, and heath fading in the autumn dusk. A small table and chairs, the remains of a child's tea party, held pride of place in the middle of the floor. In three cast iron chairs sat three china dolls wearing red hoods. They stared up at Veronica as if they were waiting to be served.

Veronica picked one up. The doll's legs felt odd. Flipping it over she found, not legs, but the furred upper body and head of a wolf. She set the doll back down to tea, wolf-end-up.

They were everywhere, these wolves. And again, not two dolls at tea, but three.

The rounded walls were sealed; there were no stairs leading up or down. The tower room was a dead end.

It was so frustrating to be kept in ignorance all the time. Had there been any news from Rafe? Surely he must have written by now. Naturally Mrs. Twig would not think it important to share his letters with the hired help, but it seemed only fair to at least let her know how he was faring. To share a word.

Veronica wandered upstairs and stood before the door of the master suite. She laid her hand on the wood of the door and sighed. She shouldn't be missing Rafe like this. It would lead to nothing. But, she wanted to be among his things. For just a little while, to look at the portraits again.

She went into a room fragrant with the scent of lilies and resinous pines. The portraits above the mantel loomed large: Rafe and Sovay de Grimston in all of their finery.

Veronica's gaze lingered over Rafe's handsome face, so clear-eyed, so young and fit, so sure. Whatever had happened to him had robbed him of this confidence, replacing it with torment. Looking deeper than the surface of the painted image, Veronica sensed something of Rafe's spirit. He was a wanderer on earth, a seeker, like she was. One for who change was a constant, and constancy a dream.

Her eyes tracked over to the painting of Lady Sovay. For some reason, the eyes looked unusually bright and green and alive. The small oval face with its perfect features, the long neck and delicate shoulders, the long flaxen hair, the yellow dress with its floating violet veil, seemed to fade under the brilliance of her ladyship's eyes.

Here, indeed, was the lady in yellow. The only bits missing were the birch twigs, and skin that glowed brighter than the moon.

The eyes in the portrait seemed to darken. Lights flared up in their depths. Veronica spun around to see if they were caused by the reflection of someone opening the door. There was no one. Breathless, she turned back to look at the painting.

The eyes were as red as burning coals.

"Ah! She sees me."

Her heart in her throat, Veronica ran out to the passage, past the tall gothic windows, and flew up the stairs to the roof of the tower. There, she clung to the battlements, panting with fear. She should just throw herself off and end it all. Belden House was mad. And all of the de Grimstons were stark, raving mad.

The world spun around, her stomach heaved.

"Oh dear God, please help me!"

She sank down and leaned her forehead against the battlements. Holding onto the wall as if the solidity of stone could save her, she entered the blackness.

***

Cold air brought her back to the outer world. She rose stiffly. It was deep twilight. The moon, still so large and white and full, was slashing the birch trees with light.

The bell began tolling.

Veronica looked out over the battlements at the ruined bell tower where the sound seemed to come from, but did not. The lilies glowed white as a phosphorescent wave on the sea of shadows that was the wishing well, and a low wind blew over the land, rising out of the tide of encroaching night, like the high silvery howling of a thousand wolves.