These spying raids could not last long; there was always an Iago lurking in the wings. In the eight years since it had happened, she could still remember that tattler, Lucy Gordon, smirking as the nuns led Veronica off. She still felt the pain of the beating she'd received, the nine days and nights of penance, kneeling on a hard floor covered in uncooked rice until her knees bled, saying rosary after rosary after rosary, begging God to exorcise the demons from her soul before she collapsed in agony.
That was all it had taken. When Veronica had focused on her duties, life went on quite smoothly. When her insistent curiosity got the better of her, she gripped the silver crucifix hanging over her heart and begged her mind to stop.
The shrillness of the train whistle blasted Veronica back into the present. Watching the dark moor flash past the window, she brooded. What did that Mr. Crowe mean about her experience with a mad child? What would her experience with a feral, wild child, have to do with her career as a governess? A governess position was highly valued. And, even if it was a post mostly sought after by women in dire straits, it was respectable.
The rhythm of the tracks lulled Veronica into a doze. Out on moor, it seemed an animal cried out. Veronica jerked awake. Tala...
When Veronica was fifteen, a feral child was found living in the forest. The authorities brought her in to Saint Mary's wrapped in sackcloth and chains, depositing her on the floor like a piece of rubbish. She peered out through long, tangled hair, her dirty face rigid with fear, her eyes widening as the Sisters glided toward her in their trailing black robes. As they leaned in to help her, the child fought to escape, kicking and screaming as if she were being dragged into the very pit of insufferableness. It took five stout nuns to carry her down to the basement below the dormitories, push her into a barred cell, and lock the door upon her.
Veronica remembered the girl’s screams echoing up through the floorboards all night, her harsh, guttural sobs keeping everyone awake until dawn. Having known feelings of helplessness and, yes, anger, Veronica could not help but wonder how much worse it must be for a poor, half-starved child. It was cruel to lock her up in a cage like an animal. How could the nuns do it? Veronica would have screamed all night too!
She had just fallen asleep when the sepulchral bells of Lauds were ringing the hour of dawn, summoning the sleep-deprived girls out of their beds for Mass.
Veronica had been dying to see the feral child, to find out whom she was, to see, for herself, how she'd fared. At the long breakfast table, she'd folded some leftover crusts into her napkin, grabbed a candle, and gone downstairs toward the barred cell.
Soft cries filtered down the dingy corridor in tones of desperate misery. Clearly the girl had survived her ordeal of the night. Curious, yet fearful of what she might find, Veronica moved toward those cries with the slow, buoyant strides of a sleepwalker floating through a dark and vivid dream.
Though the laundry room sweltered with steam heat, the rest of the cellar was chilly, growing colder toward the corridor’s end where Veronica found the cell. There in the gloom, curled up in the straw piled against the back wall, whimpering and shivering and wiping her nose with her hair, was the feral girl. When Veronica approached, the girl stopped crying, set her eyes on Veronica, and stared. Then, as if she mistook the wall for a forest into which she could blend, the girl went very still.
Veronica remembered how her heart seemed to rise into her throat, how she’d breathed a soft greeting to the poor, frozen creature, only to be met by a pair of hungry green eyes.
“Have you had anything to eat?” Veronica opened the napkin full of bread crusts.
The girl shifted in her corner, her eyes aiming straight for the food.
“It’s bread. I’ll leave it here for you.”
Veronica set the napkin on the floor, just inside the bars of the cell. The girl stared fiercely at the bread, then at Veronica. The girl seemed quite young, perhaps four or five years old, but the spirit looking out through the eyes revealed, not innocence, but a ruthless instinct for survival. Having been that small when her own mother died, Veronica felt she understood.
“What happened to you?” Veronica whispered.
The girl cocked her head as if listening.
“What is it like, being all on your own out there, with not even a home, or a bed, or a fire to warm you?”
The girl titled her head again. Then, bending sinuously forward and placing both hands on the floor like an animal, she prowled toward Veronica.
Veronica's heart faltered. Before the girl was near enough to wrap her fingers around the bars of her cage, Veronica was hurtling down the corridor, running back up the stairs, and crashing out the door into the clean, bright hallway. She slammed the door shut and leaned against it, gasping for breath, trying to erase from her mind the image of a child becoming a beast.
A soft howl filtered through the door.
Crossing herself, Veronica backed away, and ran.
All she had done for this mad child, who came to be called Tala, was be foolish enough to try to help her.
eee
The bleak sky, smudging into solid grey, sank into the rolling hills until sky and land merged into one inky entity. Only the moon shone through the black pane of window, brighter than Veronica's gas-lit reflection. She stood up and stretched. It was time to find the wagon lit and allow the rocking of the train to lull her to sleep.
The bed on its shelf was narrow, the mattress thin. But she was used to austerity. It was worry that kept her awake. What was she really facing with the twins? Were they merely unusual, or something worse?
Three
When the train, wheezing its last blast of smoke, finally screeched to a standstill, it was dawn. Stepping out onto the cold, abandoned platform, dragging her two bags through the cold, abandoned station, Veronica was grateful to find a large black carriage with a matching team of four horses, and the red and gold de Grimston crest emblazoned on the door, waiting for her. A tall, silent driver in a black frock coat and stovepipe hat jumped down, helped stow her bags on the roof, and, with a curt nod, held the door open and handed her into the carriage. It was plush inside: fine leather, red velvet curtains and windows large enough to enable one to enjoy the view.
What an astonishing situation! Who would have dreamed she would ever experience such luxury? Veronica sank into the soft cushions and gave herself up to comfort.
The drive seemed to go on forever across the open moors, their heathery vastness sometimes broken by misshapen hillocks, solitary rock formations and low boundary walls. They entered a wood with a leafy canopy so dense that only scattered sparks of sunlight broke through the overhanging limbs to light the road before them. Still, the horses trotted on, emerging at last into broad daylight on the grounds of a manicured estate.
Black iron gates opened to a drive leading down to a broad forecourt with a fountain in the midst. As the horses slowed to a walk, Veronica gazed out the carriage windows, unable to believe that this was to be her new home.
Belden House was beautiful. Built of quarried yellow stones, its flawless proportions graced the center of a wide lawn, its chimney pots, gables and crenellations set off against a background of hills and tapering evergreens. Sunlight glinted off the many diamond-paned windows so that the entire length of the façade sparkled. The only flaw in the house's perfect symmetry was a tower looming at the back like an unwelcome visitor from the Dark Ages.
As the carriage pulled up to the front door, a shout rang out. Soon, a maid in a black dress and white apron came out to the porch, accompanied by two working boys, and a tall, slender, auburn-haired lady in widow’s weeds whose face visibly brightened at the sight of Veronica.
“Good day.” She came down the steps and grasped Veronica’s hands. “I’m the housekeeper, Mrs. Twig. We shall see quite a lot of each other.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Twig,” Veronica said. “I’m Veronica Everly. My, this is a beautiful house.”
“Yes. The newest bits are
Georgian. The tower at the back is tenth century.”
“Oh my. That’s very old, isn’t it?"
"Yes. The de Grimstons are a very old family, going all the way to Roman times in these islands."
"That's quite impressive," Veronica said. Of course her family went all the way back as well, just not as impressively.
"This," Mrs. Twig introduced the maid, "is our maid, Janet."
Janet bobbed a curtsey. She wasn't much older than Veronica. Her hair, pulled straight back from her round, pretty face, was dark brown. Her smile was sweet, her eyes hazel. She blinked a lot as if she were afraid to look directly at people.
"And here we have our groom and steward, Mr. Croft."
Mr. Croft jumped down from the driver's box of the carriage and came around to stand beside Mrs. Twig. On closer inspection, he proved to be a strong, square-built man, his pale face darkened by a smudge of black beard that looked impossible to shave off.
"At your service, Miss." He doffed his well-worn stovepipe hat.
"Pleased to meet you," Veronica said, with a little nod. "Again."
Eyes glittering with humor, Mr. Croft smirked.
"We would be utterly lost without our Mr. Croft," Mrs. Twig said. "He is often the only man we have around here. Isn't that right, Mr. Croft?"
He nodded. Mr. Croft seemed a man of few words.
"Our cook, Peggy, is preparing luncheon, but you'll meet her soon enough. We have a small staff, but our needs are few." Mrs. Twig smiled. "Everyone here works hard for the de Grimstons. Members of their families have been employed at this estate for generations."
That was a good sign, Veronica thought. That kind of loyalty suggested trustworthiness and mutual respect.
The boys, both displaying the sharp-eyed, restless energy of ten year olds, were called Petey and Sam. They greeted Veronica with fidgety bows, looking anxious to run off.
Mrs. Twig laughed. "The boys put themselves to good use in the stables and such. And I'm sure they will have the entire neighborhood informed about the pretty new governess by this afternoon."
Veronica felt her face heat up and knew she was blushing. She wasn't used to compliments. "Thank you," she breathed.
Mr. Croft gave her another smirk and a wink. "I'll be off, Mrs.," he said to Mrs. Twig. Tipping his hat to Veronica, he left.
Startled by the wink, Veronica watched him go. Turning back, she found Mrs. Twig waiting by the door.
"Is it possible to meet the children right away?”
“Of course. Come this way, please.”
Mrs. Twig led Veronica through the elegant high-ceilinged rooms, all so light and airy, and tastefully done. At the back of the house, French doors opened out into a large open garden. A wide, green lawn spread out in all directions, a stand of white birches the only portion not in full sunlight. The soft, light voices of children floated through the trees, carrying the strains of an old folksong.
Green grow the lilies oh, bright among the bushes oh...
Mrs. Twig stopped short as if she had second thoughts about continuing on, then, pressing her lips together, beckoned Veronica to follow her toward the singers.
Shielded by a fringe of white lilies, were two white-blonde children of about eight years old. One was standing on a mossy hummock tying a china doll to a low branch. Small stones dangled from the doll's ankles, as if to weigh it down.
Mrs. Twig gestured to Veronica to wait as the children, thoroughly engrossed in their curious play, continued to sing the old ballad.
“One is buried beneath the tree,
One is buried beneath the well,
The well below the valley-o…”
Singing out the burials, they slowly lowered the doll into what appeared, through the screen of lilies, to be a pool of dark water at the base of the hummock.
Mrs. Twig must have seen Veronica frowning. "It's our wishing well, Miss Everly."
"Oh," Veronica replied, wondering what in the world the children wished for that required the sacrifice of a doll to obtain. Perhaps they wished to bring their mother back. Veronica sighed. She knew all too well the futility of such a desire.
The twins stopped singing and stared silently down into the well. Then with an air of great solemnity, they straightened up.
Mrs. Twig waved to them. “Jack! Come along and meet your new governess, Miss Everly.”
Both children looked at her. Veronica’s scalp tingled at the eerie duplication of their faces, the intense gaze of their pale green eyes. They came out of the lilies and walked slowly toward her, their eyes shielded by long, white lashes. They both wore white, one a simple frock and the other trousers and a shirt. Their chin-length, sun whitened hair and pale eyes glowed like photographic negatives against their sun-kissed skin. Veronica had never seen identical twins before, but she’d heard a superstitious belief that they were magical. In that moment, she was sure that superstition had been founded on truth.
Heart pattering nervously in her chest, Veronica smiled at them pair.
“So you're our new governess,” the one in trousers said.
“Yes. I’m Miss Everly. And you’re Jacques aren’t you?”
“Yes. And this is my other half, Jacqueline. Together we are called Jack.”
"Oh! How unusual." She glanced at Mrs. Twig who was gazing through her eyelashes at the twins. "Well, Jack, how do you do?" Veronica extended her hand.
"Very well, Miss." Jacques set his small hand in hers.
Jacqueline curtsied deeply, then laughed as if good manners were a great joke.
The twins were indeed unusual. Veronica tried not to be flustered. "I’m so happy to meet you both. I think we shall be very good friends.”
"She looks like a deer," Jacques said to Jacqueline. "A pretty doe."
The children narrowed their eyes at Veronica.
Mrs. Twig gave them a forbidding look.
As if caught being naughty, the twins smiled in a sudden, shy way. When the sun broke through the clouds, they seemed to vanish in its rays.
Four
Tea took place in a corner conservatory, its beveled, lead crystal windows looking out on a marble terrace. Beyond the flower-filled urns, shrubs and benches along the terrace's edge, the lawn sloped north to a bit of ruin at the top of a rise, and east toward the white dazzle of the birch grove. Inside, swathes of ivy and summer flowers, banked against the glassed-in curve of the western wall, glowed brightly in the last rays of the afternoon sun. The statue of a fawn played his pipe amongst the foliage, its half-naked cavorting appearing to have set loose a flurry of leaves and rose petals over the checkerboard floor.
A crystal vase of irises, lilies and ferns adorned the tea able. Sunlight sparkled on the silverware, rimmed the bone china cups. Mrs. Twig sat stiffly in her chair, glancing out at the terrace from the corner of her eye.
“Mrs. Twig, the children are charming. I wonder why they have a reputation for being difficult,” Veronica said, watching her spoon as she swirled it around in her tea.
“They aren’t bad children. They’re just different.” Mrs. Twig said. There was tension, a slight reluctance in the housekeeper's voice and manner.
Veronica wondered if it were obvious that she'd found the twins unsettling.
“The other governesses complained that they were secretive. Elusive,” Mrs. Twig went on.
“Elusive?”
“Yes. They disappear sometimes. No one can find them.”
“Like they did in the garden just now?”
“What do you mean?”
“In the sunlight. Didn’t you see them vanish in the sunlight?”
“No…. It must have been an optical effect of some kind. Your eyes are playing tricks on you, Miss Everly."
"Of course. I didn't mean..."
"I mean, they hide.”
“Hide? Where?”
Mrs. Twig sipped her tea.
“They always come out again. Safe and sound,” she said with a small laugh.
“Well, I’m glad
of that.” Veronica was a trifle put off by the housekeeper's enigmatic speech. Sipping her tea, she gazed into the room beyond the conservatory, taking in the high ceilings, the crystal chandeliers, the carved woodwork and damask-covered walls. “This is such a beautiful house. Who built it?”
“This house has been in the de Grimston family since the 17th century when Mr. Rafe’s ancestor, Lord Howard de Grimston, came into his fortune. When Mr. Rafe inherited the property, it had been abandoned for years. And you know what that brings."
"Oh, yes. Was it terribly decayed?"
"Not past saving, fortunately, but as murky as a tomb. As you can see by the tower at the back, there was once a proper castle on this spot. Parts of the ruins were incorporated into the garden walls.”
“That’s quite ingenious.”
“Yes, it is. There are more bits of castle in the basement.”
“Not a dungeon?” Veronica widened her eyes dramatically.
Mrs. Twig laughed. “No, no, no. We use it as a wine cellar. It was Lady Sovay who brought Belden House back to its former glory. Without her ingenuity, it would have gone the way of the castle."
Veronica couldn't imagine this gorgeous house being murky and desolate. "I must say Lady Sovay had a wonderful eye. These rooms are so bright and welcoming, it's hard to imagine them being otherwise."
Mrs. Twig looked thoughtful. "Yes. Lady Sovay created art everywhere she went. It was her gift."
"Was she very beautiful?"
"I've yet to see anyone surpass her."
"May I ask... what happened to her?"
Mrs. Twig's eyes shifted away. She gripped the edge of the table as if she were about to rise, but sighing, seemed to change her mind. "I can't tell you that. I... I don't know."
Afraid she'd been too nosy, Veronica blushed. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Twig. It's none of my business. It's just that... one can't help wondering."
Mrs. Twig smiled and lightly thumped the tabletop.
“I shall take you on a tour, Miss Everly. Mind you, there are one hundred rooms in this house, so we won’t be able to visit them all.”
The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance Page 2