“Don’t you want to light one, Miss Everly? For your mamma and papa?” Jacqueline held the lighting taper up for Veronica to take.
Veronica caught her breath as an old grief pulled at her heart. The sight of the little girl, the flaring taper in her hand poised above the candles on the altar, brought Veronica swiftly back to her own childhood, to the loss of her mother and father, the total devastation of it.
“Of course.” The words wisped out, for it seemed to Veronica that her organs of speech had broken. She took the lighting taper from Jacqueline's hand, and lit two candles.
“There now,” she whispered, and crossed herself.
The children immediately fell to their knees before the statue, and began, silently, to pray.
Veronica moved back to sit on the single bench and wait for them to finish. The Lady Chapel was tiny, but in keeping with the general décor of the church, the vault was covered in paintings of stars and the winged heads of angels. Rather than lending brightness, the aura of candlelight around the black Madonna made the atmosphere seem all the more gloomy. Prayer was meant to build a divine atmosphere, a sense of exaltation, not the despondency that was falling over her now.
The twins’ prayers seemed to take ages; their concentration was intense. Unable to pray, Veronica let her gaze wander out to the church, seeking the mural of the lady in yellow leading the pack of white wolves around the walls. Saint Lupine, indeed! Paintings could not just appear on the walls. It had to be a tale contrived to give an aura of miraculous power to the place, casting awe on its wealthy patroness, Lady Sovay. The children, being children, had simply taken the story literally. That was all. And it provided a nice opportunity to frighten the governess.
What kind of lady would decorate a church like this? Desecrate seemed the more accurate word.
The governess was falling asleep when the twins finally stood up.
“Miss Everly?”
Facing her with the brightly flaring altar at their backs, the twins looked like angels flown down from Heaven. It seemed a shame to break the illusion, but a bell was ringing the hour.
“We’ve been out for a very long time, Jack. It’s time to go.”
Veronica stood up, straightened her cloak and her bonnet, then guided the twins to walk in front of her back down the aisle. Her gaze kept falling on the crimson carpet under their feet. She didn’t want to see any more of this church, or wonder what kind of religion Lady Sovay practiced. She wanted to go home. Tall shadows rushed along the wall at her left, where Saint Lupine led the pack toward the door. Thinking the priest must have come inside, Veronica looked back at the communion table. Glowing from banks of white lilies, candlelight illuminated statues of saints, brightened a dull gold Crucifix that seemed to have been hung upside down.
Veronica's heart skipped a beat.
“Who keeps the candles lit?” she whispered.
“We don't know,” said Jacques.
“They stay lit for Mamma," Jacqueline whispered. “An angel of the Lord lights them for her.”
“The priest must take care of it,” Veronica said. “And why lilies? Always white lilies…”
“For the dead,” said Jacques. “Lilies are flowers for resurrection of the dead.”
Veronica shivered. Jacques was right. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can worship here. I've never heard of murals just appearing out of nowhere, or of wolves being in a church, or of Saint Lupine.”
“Where will you go?”
“Isn’t there a church in the village or something?”
They both nodded gravely.
“Methodist,” Jacques said regretfully.
“No, there’s Church of England,” said Jacqueline. “It’s almost the same as Catholic but instead of a Pope we have a Queen.”
The idea of the elfin Queen Victoria being head of the church had always struck Veronica as incredibly funny. Her Majesty was neither priestly, nor saintly, and hardly seemed spiritual at all.
“Do you know the story of Romulus and Remus?” Jacques asked.
“Of course,” Veronica said, urging them toward the exit. “Why do you ask?”
“It shows how one could be the son of a wolf,” said Jacques. “And go on to do great things.”
The twins must have known this place would scare Veronica half to death, and mission accomplished, they kept throwing matches on the fire with their stories of wolves and sons of wolves. Had they been told of her experience with Tala? Was that behind all of this? Well, if there were any wolves left in England, Tala had certainly grown up among them. And she would certainly not go on to do great things, if anything at all.
What Veronica saw just before leaving the building frightened her more than all the rest. In every pane of stained glass in the Tree of Life window was a face with eyes of blood. And just below, on a plinth set between the two arches of the exit, was the sculpture of a lady in medieval dress standing behind a wolf.
Veronica dragged the twins out into the sunshine, and pushed them down the path toward the road. About halfway down she sensed something strange, and turning, saw a priest standing in the graveyard watching them. He had a bell in his hand, but he did not ring it.
Jacqueline waved at him and he waved back.
“There’s Father Roche,” Jacqueline said. “Shall we ask him for a Mass?”
Father Roche stood still as a black obelisk among the gravestones. Veronica was about to greet him, but something put her off. She nodded at him, smiled wanly, then looked away.
Jacques watched the priest with narrowed eyes.
“Good morning, Father Roche!” he shouted.
Father Roche raised a thin arm and waved.
Veronica gave him another nod, then gripped the twins’ hands and pulled them down the path.
“Strange, silent creature he is,” she muttered. “I’m sure it’s he that takes care of the place.”
Jacqueline turned to look back. “Don’t you want to ask him?”
“For what?”
“To say Mass, of course.’
Veronica tugged Jacqueline forward. “Why did you show me this place? You must know it’s not a proper church.”
“Mamma came here,” said Jacques.
“We thought we might see her again,” said Jacqueline.
“But children, you know you cannot see her again. She is in Heaven now, with God and the angels. Someday, if you're good, you will join her. But she can't come back to earth. Not ever. ”
The twins walked straight ahead without speaking, their stormy expressions signaling that the conversation was over. Far ahead of Veronica, they slipped between the two stones at the end of the path to the road. Looking down as she walked, Veronica noticed that the lilies at her bosom were already limp and brown.
The sound of a bell echoed up from the trees behind her, tolling slowly, and faintly off key.
*
Seventeen
They’d barely stepped in the door when Mrs. Twig hurried to meet Veronica, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Miss Everly, Mr. Rafe insists you attend his dinner celebration in the Grand Hall. So put on your finest gown. I’ll have Janet lace you in.”
Her finest gown?
The idea of her having a gown at all struck Veronica as terribly amusing, but she didn’t let on. It was too wonderful to be invited to a special occasion held in the grand style. Being included in a family celebration was a rare honor for the average governess. Veronica was thrilled to be included.
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Twig. And thank Mr. Rafe for inviting me. It’s so unexpected.”
Slightly breathless from her long walk in the fresh air, Veronica took off her bonnet, unloosing streams of long chestnut tendrils.
“The fresh air does you good. Miss Everly. You’re absolutely glowing. There’s nothing like nature to bring one back to life. Though this house is lovely, it can become oppressive. So many large, unused rooms, the creaking of the foundations, children tiptoeing about at night, their voic
es echoing and laughing, can make the old house seem the habitation of ghosts. You should take a long walk every day to revive your spirits.”
“I think I shall. It’s good for the children as well.”
“I’m sure you’ve discovered how close the village is.”
“We didn’t get that far. The twins led me to a strange little church in the forest.”
Veronica hoped the housekeeper would elaborate on the subject, but something behind Mrs. Twig’s eyes seemed to shut like a window blind.
“If it’s a church you’re looking for, there’s one in the village. Church of England, I believe. Perhaps it's close enough.”
Veronica laughed uneasily. Since visiting Saint Lupine's, the nuns' old warning against entering an unconsecrated church took on a new coloration. Surely the housekeeper knew the truth behind the twins’ strange story of their mother bringing lightning down upon the steeple, and of murals magically appearing on the walls. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but Mrs. Twig's expression silenced her.
Smiling her acquiescence, Veronica changed the subject.
“How long do I have to get ready? I mean, what time is it now?”
“The clock has just chimed three times, Miss Everly. Didn’t you hear it? You have plenty of time.” Mrs. Twig turned to the twins. “Why Jack, you look like a pair of chimney sweepers. Come along for a wash. Now, they may need every minute between now and dinner to be made presentable. You on the other hand, Miss Everly, have time for a nap."
Veronica looked the twins over. They were quite grubby, their white clothes smudged with dirt and grass stains. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Twig. They were playing in the woods. Having such a wonderful time. Climbing the trees and such. I should have made them be more careful.”
“We’re starving!” they whined to Mrs. Twig.
“Well, luncheon is all ready, Jack. Into the kitchen with you. Then the bath.” Mrs. Twig patted the twins toward the kitchen, then turned to Veronica. “I’ll have Janet send a tray up to your room, Miss Everly. I’m sure you’re ready for your tea.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you. When is dinner?”
"At seven."
Vexation about her strange outing to Saint Lupine's gave way to excitement about the banquet. Veronica hurried through the vestibule toward the stairs. Halfway across the room, she slowed her walk. The warm light of an oil lamp was glowing through the partly open door of what looked like a small study tucked under the rise of the staircase. The rear wall was covered with books, and the lamp, sitting on a large, ornately carved desk, shed its aura upon the figure of a man sitting very still with his elbows on the blotter, his head in his hands. His shoulders heaved and he sighed as if there were no light left in the world. Then, looking up, he gazed into space as if he'd seen a horror. He seemed to pray, then covering his face with his hands, to weep.
Unsure of whether to speak to him, and perhaps offer comfort, or pretend she hadn’t seen him in his misery and move on, Veronica went still as stone. To spare the man's dignity, she mentally chose the latter course, but found it difficult to move away. He seemed so helpless and alone. She had no business witnessing him in this state, but she knew the agony of grief, and everything in her wanted to reach out to help. But how would Rafe de Grimston feel, knowing that she, a mere governess, had seen him so low?
The fear that he would look up and see her watching finally unglued Veronica from the spot. With a last worried glance, she tore away and fled up the stairs to her room.
Eighteen
Flicking through the dresses in her wardrobe, Veronica fretted. All of her clothes were so work-a-day, so plain and practical and worn out. The only dress she had that was even close to being presentable was her lightly worn black velvet mourning dress with lace collar and cuffs. Saying she already had too much black in her wardrobe, Sister Victorine had given the dress to Veronica for the funeral of one of the girls. How could one appear at a formal dinner in that? Just looking at the dress brought up memories of the girl who'd been found floating in a woodland pool, drowned. Only sixteen, she'd been the most beautiful girl at Saint Mary’s. No one knew how she ended up like that, though Veronica had her suspicions.
Uncertainty weakened Veronica. She sagged against the soft bank of her clothes and let her mind wander.
She was learning things about the de Grimstons, eccentricities she could never have imagined. Their ways were both welcoming and strange: the book in the library, the wolves, and that church.... The sight of her employer in the throes of grief was dispiriting. Shouldn't he be happy to be home with his children, and looking forward to his home coming banquet? Why wasn't he?
Veronica sighed. Rafe must have adored Sovay to suffer so much grief. It was sad that she was gone, but even so... Sovay had done things at that church, Saint Lupine's, that were seriously wrong. And she'd involved the children. How could he have allowed it?
Rafe's handsome image rose before her mind's eye. He'd been so different on roof of the tower last night, charming, playful, and (dare she say) flirtatious. His demeanor when he escorted her off the roof both intrigued and frightened her. She wished she had more understanding. Perhaps it would come with time. If she could last long enough.
She had to last.
To do so, she must appear strong and unshakeable. A governess must be reliable. That meant looking her absolute best for her employer's banquet. Only one dress would do, but she’d sworn never to wear it: the beautiful gown that her mother had worn as Olivia in Twelfth Night. Made of patterned silk velvet in deep emerald green, with insets of metallic lace and medieval motifs, it was the only memento her aunt would let her keep. It was the dress her mother shone in, the one that brought out her dusky, poetic beauty, her lustrous hazel eyes, and the lovely lines of her figure. Though Veronica’s eyes were deep brown, she’d inherited her mother’s abundance of dark hair, and her slim, hourglass figure. She had no doubt that the dress would work the same magic for her that it had for Mae Tyler. Yet it felt like a betrayal to wear it. Somewhat like desecrating a shrine.
Veronica pulled the dress out of the wardrobe, took it to the mirror, and held it up. It was lovely, but not particularly modest with its close-fitting lines, deep square neckline, both front and back, the low-slung medieval belt. It was not at all something a poor orphan or a governess would wear.
“I should stop feeling so guilty,” she murmured, stroking the silken folds of the skirt. It's softness brought back her mother's vivid and charming presence. This gown was all she had left of her mother, the only evidence of her unstable but happy childhood being carried through the theater world with her parents.
She thought of the twins' china dolls, their cloth bodies stuffed with the wild flowers of France to remind them of their mother. In the same spirit, Veronica should feel honored to wear her mother's gown. But perhaps that’s what she'd been afraid of doing all along: bringing her mother's memory alive to the point where she would feel the awful vacancy there had once been such love.
At the mirror, Veronica adjusted the lines of the dress against her body. It was astonishing how much she looked like her mother, a mother who had been a mere five years older than Veronica was now when she died.
Janet arrived to lace her in. The gown hugged her waist, then fell softly to the floor with a train at the back. The sensation of lush fabric against her skin, the dangerously low neckline, the smooth, natural line of her waist and hips, left Veronica feeling terribly exposed. Creamy silk ruffles around the edges of the neckline, and the long, tight-fitting sleeves, were too slight for coverage. Turning in the mirror, she was further dismayed by the deep square neckline at the back.
"Janet, I'm naked," she mumbled.
"No, no, no, Miss Everly. You're just not used to it. Its a beautiful dress," Janet said, her eyes shining.
The pattern of metallic embroidery ran to her waist. A flat, metallic gold belt fell in a long point down the front of her skirt. It was a gorgeous gown. It was wonderful to have a chance to show it off.
It just showed too much of her off for Veronica's comfort.
“Spin around, Miss." Janet said twirling her hand in a circle.
Veronica spun.
"That dress does look lovely on you.” Veronica was surprised to hear a trace of envy in Janet’s voice. No one had ever envied her before. No one had ever found her enviable. It was ridiculous.
"The skirt is too close in." Veronica pulled the sides of the skirt out to see how wide it would go.
"I can starch up a petticoat for you. That should give it a fuller shape," Janet said.
"Yes, thank you, that would help. The one I have isn't very nice, but no one will see it."
"I'll make it look nice, Miss."
Veronica pulled a worn taffeta petticoat out of the wardrobe and gave it to Janet. Starch would do wonders for it. "Thank you, Janet."
Still, it wasn't enough. She'd never shown an inch of bosom in her life.
“I need something at my neck.” Veronica stroked her throat as if she could make it go away. “But I don’t have any jewelry.”
“With your skin and hair, you don’t need jewelry. A dress like that is jewel enough.”
“You’re very kind, Janet. But a strand of pearls would work wonders.”
“The only pearls I know of belong to Lady Sovay. She had ropes and ropes of them. If you don’t breathe a word, I might fetch one for you. Just a loan, you see, for the evening.”
“That’s a wonderful idea, Janet. But I couldn’t. Someone might recognize them. I shouldn’t, really.”
“It's only borrowing. We’ll put them back straight away. No one need know they’re not your own. All pearls look alike. Just little round balls.”
Veronica assessed her practically bare bosom. She pulled a few tendrils down from her chignon and drew them close. A strand of pearls at her neck would do just the trick.
“Go on, then. Ask Mrs. Twig,” she said. “With her permission, I’ll do it.”
“I’ll find her now.” Janet smiled, and left Veronica alone.
The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Romance Page 10