The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Fifty-Four

Veronica sat at her teacher's desk reading her Book of Psalms.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;

He leadeth me beside the still waters...

 The still waters... The wishing well. 

She shuddered.

Coming to her favorite line, Veronica read it out loud. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil..."

Jacques came into the classroom, formally dressed in deepest black.

"Good morning, Miss Everly," he said. "I hope you liked the poem I wrote for you."

Veronica put her psalm book down and scanned her desk. Lifting the paperweight, moving her papers around, she sighed.

"I'm sorry, Jacques, but I haven't found your poem."

He gave her a glance so filled with disappointment that she put the Book of Psalms into a drawer, then shuffled a few more papers around on her desk as if a sheet of good writing paper bearing several lines of verse written in a decorative hand with a drawing of a deer in the garden was not directly under her nose. She picked it up and showed it to the child.

"Here it is. I'm so sorry, Jacques. I've been a bit preoccupied. I shall read it now."

"That's all right, Miss Everly. I shall tell it to you."

Despite the exhaustion that circled his eyes and shadowed the corners of his mouth, Jacques held himself with great dignity as he recited:

"The Hart-

My lady, like a wild hart,

flees from me in the garden.

She hides among the lilies,

throwing me off her scent.

How can she love me, a savage beast,

or redeem my heart-sore burden?

How can she love me in the least,

or bear the dark descent,

into the arms of one a-cursed,

in whose jaws she might be rent?

How can she love me?"

The poem was awkward, but astonishing for one so young, remarkable for how accurately it seemed to describe her struggle, her attraction and repulsion toward his father.

"Very impressive, Jacques. It sounds like that fairy tale you like so much. Beauty and the Beast."

Jacques winced a smile, as if she'd made light of his poem.

"It is rather like that. But more personal," he said.

"Who is the beast, Jacques?"

He swallowed and looked at the floor.

"One would think you had known the pains of unrequited love yourself to have been able to write such a poem," Veronica said.

"I have."

"But for whom?"

Jacques looked away, his face flushed pink under its pallor.

"Why, Mamma, and Sylvie. And of course, Jacqueline. But she won't speak to me any more."

The child's sadness moved Veronica deeply. He was too young to suffer so much loss, so much sorrow. She knew what it was like. Realizing that bitterness had made her voice sound sharp, she softened her tone.

"Why won't Jacqueline speak to you? She told me you two were fighting but she never said what it was about. Perhaps you can tell me. That way I can help you."

"I can't tell you. Now can we study our lesson for this hour? I say we open our Latin book to page 36."

Veronica knew there was no point in pushing the conversation further. He would never admit what had happened. She opened her teaching manual to page 36.

"All right, Jacques. But this cannot continue. You must both come to class together by the end of the week. Perhaps I can help you to resolve whatever it is you're arguing about. There is a great lesson in that."

"In what?"

"Forgiveness. As Our Lord instructs us in all relationships. We must learn to forgive, or we sink to the level of brute beasts indeed." Veronica studied Jacques's face, its expression of sorrow unrelieved. "The fact that you are both in mourning attire shows how much grief you are giving yourselves. There is no need. None at all. Don't you see?"

Jacques nodded silently.

"Good. Now, on page 36, we have our first conjugation of the word love."

***

By the end of the week, the twins were still apart. Though she hated using deception, Veronica could think of no other way to find out what was really going on.