The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Forty-Three

"Book of Unholy Beasts..."

Veronica traced the gold leaf letters with her finger.

"Rafe."

His name was only a breath, barely there, nothing more than a vowel, really. But the man who owned it was complex. It was obvious that he'd suffered, but he was kind. And passionate. How could he have married Sovay, with her séance parties and castle soirees?

You're very beautiful, Miss Everly...

Veronica had replayed the words in head a hundred times in the past four hours. She recalled Rafe's look as he said it, a look that told her that he saw her, had seen into her, and found her lovely.

He liked her dress.

He wanted her to stay.

What was she to think?

It seemed he felt something for her, but she was fraught with doubt. What about the one in France? A horrible thought entered her mind: that Rafe might be a rake, a seducer with a woman in every port. A girl in her position must be vigilant. Careful. One misstep could lead to ruin.

She looked over at the séance room and shivered. During the day, its terrors dissolved, and she saw only a mass of ugly furniture. But, as her torn dress proved, the strange events she'd lived through had been real. These apparitions had power. And what about next time? If only Rafe would stay here and confront the dangers that swirled around them when the moon was full, instead of running back to his mistress in France. She hissed the last three words in her mind.

Veronica wondered what the lady's name was. What did she look like? Was she anything like Sovay? What if Rafe were merely manipulating Veronica into taking complete charge of the twins so that he would have the freedom to remain in France?

It was possible. She'd seen actors do it.

Sighing with resignation, she opened the Book of Unholy Beasts.

On the frontispiece was an engraving of a monster: part lizard and part cockerel with wings. Cockatrice, it said underneath. Veronica froze in its gaze, hesitating to turn another page. What on earth did Rafe expect her to get out of pictures such as these?

She needed air.

Wrapping up in a thick mohair shawl, she took the Bestiary out to the balcony and sat down on the wicker rocking chair Janet had put there during her cleaning. She pondered the cover of the book and its apt title. Marvels waited in its pages, images that had the power to blight her very soul. The sisters at Saint Mary's had warned the girls about books inspired by the Devil. Dangerous books that no Christian should ever even lay eyes upon.

A cold, thin rain began. Hugging the Book of Unholy Beasts, Veronica stood up and looked out over the lawn. The workmen were hurrying toward the woods. They entered into the birch grove and vanished into the mist as if they were never there.

Two people had died, but who were they? Why did no one talk about it? Mrs. Twig supervised the pallbearers as if they were nothing more than furniture movers. Why was she so cold?

Veronica knew from the receipt on Rafe's dressing table, the one still lying there beside the gun, how costly a large sheet of silver was. Those laid to rest in these silver coffins must be very special, very important people, indeed, to warrant such expense. Yet, Rafe wasn't at all grief-stricken. No one was being buried----he'd said.

Perhaps these were new coffins for those already dead. One for the child, one for Sovay, whose grave was broken, its cross shattered, and lying on the floor.