The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Forty

It was the last week of really fine weather before the frosts would begin to herd everyone inside.

In an attempt to find a moment of normalcy, Veronica took the twins out to the orchard to collect a few baskets of apples. She'd hoped it would be fun. It wasn't. The twins spoke to her in short, playful bursts, then lapsed into a low, secretive conversation. As they tugged their heavy baskets over the ground, Veronica tried to glean what information she could from their words, hoping they might discuss where they'd been that night, and why she'd seen Jacques with the lady in yellow.

She kept looking over her shoulder for a wolf, or a face in the leaves. Sovay was after her. If the twins only knew how risky it was for her to stay with them! Would they let her take them away from here? Would they fit in at Saint Mary's? The impending isolation of winter urged her to act quickly.

If only Rafe would come back. In the end, Jack's safety was his responsibility, not hers.

When they got back to the house and deposited the apples in the pantry, Veronica went up to Rafe's rooms and sat by the fire. There was often a fire blazing in the hearth, lit to keep the air dry, holding the damp at bay lest it set in and rot the precious silks and satins. She wandered into his bedroom to look at her sad, miserable face in the mirror. The gun and the bullets were untouched on the red silk runner. How could the man leave dangerous weapons lying around?

"He's irresponsible. That's what he is. Rich and spoiled and irresponsible." Picking up the gun, its heaviness surprised her; the acrid smell of steel stung her nostrils. She aimed at her reflection in the mirror. It was disconcerting to see herself thus, looking like an outlaw in one of her parents' plays.

Without Rafe's presence, the room was cold, like a beautiful but lifeless shrine.

She put the gun down, stroking its shiny silver muzzle with her finger.

As angry as she was with him, she wanted to understand Rafe. He was ashamed of something. She knew it. Some dark and horrible secret kept him away.

Did he have any idea that the twins had called their mother up from the dead?

It was unbelievable. How wicked had Sovay been, that she could be summoned up like that? Surely she was meant to be in Hell. But such beings, fearing eternal fire, would cultivate powers, even if it destroyed innocent children, to avoid death

Veronica's mood dropped another notch. She turned her back on the mirror, leaned against the dresser, and looked around at the room. These were Rafe's personal things. If she concentrated, she swore she could sense his inner self through them, feel his confusion and, though she must be fooling herself, see his face, his eyes, soft with thoughts of her.

That couldn't be real. She was confusing fantasy and reality all of the time now, it seemed.

Of course, Rafe stayed in France because of a woman. It was as simple as that. And what was also plain was that she, Veronica, was jealous.

She turned back to the mirror and tried to blink away the haggard face reflected there. She picked up the pistol, weighed it in her hand, then aimed it at the door. If only life were so simple: if you don't like something----shoot it.

She went out to the sitting room and stared up at the portrait of Rafe.

"We need you to come back now, sir. I need to know what to do."

As the day wore on, it grew chill, damp. There was a scent of ice in the air. November was drawing them in toward bitter cold and darkness.