It was none of her business of course.
“I’m snooping, aren’t I?” She chastised herself.
Veronica drew away and went back into the sitting room to take another look at Rafe de Grimston and his wife. She didn’t want to speculate about them. It wasn’t her job. Sunlight was pouring through an open door in an alcove to her right. Veronica moved towards it like a cat seeking warmth and found a stone floor curving towards a bay of open stonework and a stairway curving steeply upwards towards the roof.
Excited at the prospect of a magnificent view, Veronica pinched up her skirts and went up the stairs. Halfway up, she came to a wide landing with a door at the end, hinged and locked with iron. It looked like it went into the old tower. She paused, wondering if it was safe to keep going up the stairs that curved up the side of the tower. What if the upper steps were broken, the roof weakened by the elements? Still, the fresh air enticed her to risk it. She climbed higher. Finally arriving on the solid stone pavement of the roof, she hurried to the battlements, and leaned out to look over the land.
The grounds of Belden House were vast. A green lawn sweeping up between the birch wood and a juniper hedge created the effect of a wild mountainside. At the top of the lawn, backed by a row of hemlocks, was a ruined chapel of white stone with a crumbling bell tower. It was a folly perhaps, a conceit. Beyond the hemlocks were woods, rolling hills, and a green meadow dotted with sheep. The walled gardens on the far sides of the yard were likewise green and dark. The air was fresh, the sky blue and so clear that the moon was still visible.
As if guided by that harbinger of darkness, Veronica’s gaze fell down along the white spines of the birches to rest upon a tomb standing alone in a clearing. It was a lonely sight and seeing it made the whole world go silent and still. Crows flew up from the treetops into the pure, bright sky. A kind of longing tugged at Veronica’s heart. She looked down the side of the tower at the ivy, and then out over the lawn.
A bell was tolling, slow and out of tune. It seemed to be coming from the ruined bell tower, but who could possibly be ringing it? A hare flew out of the woods followed by the twins who, laughing with glee, chased it on all fours and at a remarkable speed. Veronica shook herself. Their arms could not be that long! She blinked and saw them gaining on the hare and in another blink, they had it. Her stomach rolled as Jacques lifted the hare’s neck to his mouth and bit it until it’s feet stopped thrusting and it hung limply in his hands. Then the twins stood up normally, and, sweet as angels, carried their victim ceremoniously towards the house as if they were bearing a great gift.
Veronica steadied herself. Somewhere in the house, a clock gonged nine. It was time for class. She was quite breathless when she hurried in. They were already sitting at their desks, clean, dressed in white, serene. They turned around to look at her, smiling their identical smiles, emitting the same curious green gaze. Veronica was aware that she had to struggle not to stare at them. They were so beautiful, so bright. But there was something else now, an uncanny element that she would have to forget about. Her job was not to speculate, but to teach.
“Well, children, tell me where you left off in your lessons with your last governess?”
“History,” said Jacqueline. “We were studying the kings and queens of England.”
“We left off at Anne Boleyn,” said Jacques. “Did you know that she was a witch?”
“An enchantress,” said Jacqueline. “She had an extra little finger on her left hand that she used to cast spells.”
“And she went about in six-fingered gloves,” aid Jacques.
They laughed as if it was a hugely funny joke.
“And where did you learn that?” Veronica asked.
“From Miss Blaylock,” said Jacqueline.
It seemed history was their pet subject. They were both able to rattle off the names of all of the kings and queens of Britain and France, with jovial asides about the mad ones.
****
Veronica couldn’t go to bed. She sat up on the balcony in her dressing gown, her forefinger pressed tightly between the pages of a romance novel while she studied the moonlight washing over the trees. The imaginings of the novelist were no match for her own. What was the hare for? Dinner? She hated to admit her sudden superstitious belief that it was wrong to consume hare’s meat. Hares were witches after all. Hares and queens….She kept seeing in her mind’s eye the children running like four-legged animals over the lawn. She bit her lip and crossed herself. And who was buried in that tomb?
The out-of-tune bell was slowly tolling. It was unearthly. Veronica tore herself out of her reverie with a shudder, and went in to bed. Her mind continued re-playing what she’d seen in the garden until she dropped off to sleep with her garnet rosary wrapped around her hand to ward off nightmares.
Her sleep was disrupted by a dog howling in the garden. Was it that white dog? she wondered. It howled again, more urgently. Her heart pounding, Veronica sat up, hurried into her warm dressing gown, and ran out to her balcony. The full moon cast long shadows over the grass. The only sound was the high-pitched organ grinding of frogs. She hurried to the children’s rooms. They were gone.
She looked around, hoping to see them among the shadows on the walls.
“Jacques! Jacqueline! Where are you?”
She looked through both of their rooms, and could not find them.
“This isn’t funny Jack, whatever you’re doing, you’d better not be outside.”
The howling was long and drawn out. There was a chorus of howls. Veronica froze in her tracks to listen. Those unhallowed sounds were not coming from the garden below, but from high above.
There was shouting downstairs. Mrs. Twig’s husky voice rose up to her.
“I’m not letting you in!”
“But you must, Cherie. I must see my children.”
Was that a French accent? Veronica swept silently down the stairs in the direction of the voices and saw Mrs. Twig at the front door. It was open a crack, and she was pushing it against someone on the other side. Trying to keep them out.
“If you do not let me in I shall go to the police!”
“It won’t do you any good. Go away.”
“What a cruel woman you are, Madam Twig, to keep a mother from her children. A woman who was foully murdered and buried alive. You see me, Madam. I was not killed. I am just as alive as you.”
The wind was whistling around the door when Mrs. Twig finally got it shut, and locked it. There was a scream and a howl as of a soul in agony. Mrs. Twig leaned against the door with her eyes closed and put her fists over her ears.
She is cruel, Veronica thought. How can she refuse a mother’s right to see her own children?
Veronica hurried back up to her room and went onto her balcony. The same white-clad lady as before stood in the garden wearing that strange birch bark hat. She was bent over screaming into a wind that swirled around her alone. As if in answer, melancholy, childlike howls echoed out from high above, from the tower. The lady reached towards the sounds and, with a mournful wail, vanished with the wind.
There were lights around the wishing well. Then, out onto the lawn, three children came, all wearing luminous hats of white bark that left their faces in shadow. A boy carried a rowan branch, a white-haired girl, who looked very much like the twins, held a doll, the other girl held a bunch of lilies. They stood together in a halo of golden light and looked up at the tower. Veronica couldn’t see them, but she sensed that there were other children present in that light, behind the others, like a troop of sentient shadows.
Eerie cries, howls of sorrow, wafted down from on high. The white dog crossed the garden. Chimes tinkled on the wind, but nothing stirred.
The grandfather clock in the gallery gonged three times.
****
It was dawn when Veronica woke on the balcony, dampish and freezing in her dressing gown. The garden looked deserted in the steel-gray gloom. She ran to the twins’ bedchambers. They were still gone. Veronica put he
r hands over her face, tried to relax.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” She steadied herself. “Mrs. Twig told me they did this. I should have expected it. Just not so soon.”
Veronica washed and dressed and went downstairs to find Mrs. Twig.
She was in the kitchen standing over a whistling tea kettle, looking as haggard as Veronica felt.
“Mrs. Twig?”
“Oh, good morning, Miss Everly. I’m just making tea. Janet, bring the tray will you?”
The young, dark-haired maid, Janet, came around a corner with a tea tray.
“Take it out to the dining room please, for Miss Everly.”
“Mrs. Twig? I should like to have you join me for tea. Please,” Veronica said.
Mrs. Twig looked tense and relieved at the same time.
“Of course,” she said.
They sat silently for a moment drinking the hot tea. Revived, Veronica reached for a warm scone and slathered it with butter.
“Were you able to sleep last night?” Veronica asked.
“No, Miss Everly. Not well.”
“The children are gone.”
“As I told you.”
“For how long?”
“Only a day or so. Don’t worry. Take the morning off. I am having a fresh carpet laid in the classroom.”
Veronica stared at Mrs. Twig. She had so many questions, but she sensed she would have to move cautiously. Mrs. Twig drank her tea slowly, looking as if she’d never revive.
“Mrs. Twig…I saw three children at the well. A boy carrying rowan branch and a girl with a sheaf of lilies. A second girl had a doll. There were howling sounds coming from high above. From the tower.”
Mrs. Twig looked up, alarmed for a second. “What did you do?”
“Why, nothing. The three children—“
“What about them?”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know, Miss.”
“But the girl with the doll had same hair and eyes as the twins.”
Mrs. Twig stared at Veronica and bit her lower lip.
“Are you sure it wasn’t one of the Jacks? They do love to play games and tricks,” she said.
“No. Oh, no. She was too tall. Older. And very obviously a girl. Her hair was very long,” Veronica said. “She looked to be about thirteen or fourteen years old.”
“Perhaps you were dreaming, Miss. You were curious about the extra desk, and so you dreamt of another child.”
“Perhaps. But the other two were different. They wore the most peculiar hats. Made of birch bark. Like that lady. I saw her again as well….”
Mrs. Twig stood up and cleared her tea things from the table.
“Lady de Grimston…Is she?”
“That woman’s a stranger. Enjoy your day off, Miss Everly. Good morning.”
Mrs. Twig went out of the room, leaving Veronica alone.
CHAPTER 3
*
Veronica needed to walk off her frustration. She had been anxious to explore the grounds of Belden House, so she slipped on her brown traveling cloak and headed out over the lawn. She steered clear of the wishing well, and headed towards one of the walled gardens. The door in the stone wall opened into a tranquil grove of lilac trees, a few young fruit trees, moss roses, and a marble fish pond.
Veronica looked in but didn’t enter. Rather, she hung in the doorframe, restless and burning to know where the twins were. As if someone had tapped her on the shoulder, Veronica swiftly turned round. She looked up at the tower. The mossy, ivy-covered masonry was rough, heavy, the window slits clogged with red leaves. She ran to stand in its shadow and, blinking from the brilliant rays of the sun streaming between the battlements, searched the windows for signs of life.
“Jack!” Veronica shouted. She expected one of them to lean out smiling, their pale hair gleaming against the dark stones. But the windows gaped empty.
Veronica looked down through the woods. Just visible in its little clearing, was the tomb. She hurried over a carpet of fallen leaves, broke through a fine mesh of birch twigs and softly entered the site.
The lintel bore the name de Grimston in large, hooked letters. Strangely for a tomb, the door was ajar.
Veronica called in. “Jacques? Jacqueline? Are you in there? Come on out now.”
Only an owl answered.
Veronica paused, uncertain about entering a house of the dead. She peered into the musty darkness. Stairs ran down to a tiled vestibule. Just beyond, an iron grille stood open on a chamber of flashing candlelight.
“Jacques? Jacqueline?” Her voice echoed back from the chamber. Nothing stirred.
Veronica held her breath, and went slowly down the stairs. Dead leaves, dried animal bones, feathers, bits of fur lay in heaps over the floor. Fresh lilies bloomed in vases flanking the grille, their spicy scent overpowering the nose-tingling odor of decay.
Veronica grimaced and looked into the crypt.
There were two marble coffins inside, raised on biers. Veronica approached the larger one. Across the top, in neo-Gothic script, was simply the name:
Sovay
Beloved wife of Rafe de Grimston
1837-1862
I hardly knew her…
So she was dead. But hadn’t she, or the lady that looked so like her, told Mrs. Twig she’d been buried alive and escaped from her tomb?
“How horrible!” Veronica breathed. “How horrible to shut her out after such an awful experience! It makes me wonder if Mrs. Twig colluded in the murder.”
There was the chance to find out, to prove Mrs. Twig’s story true or false. If the tomb was empty, then Mrs. Twig would be wrong to shut Sovay out of her own house. She would have to relent. But if the body was there, then….
Veronica pushed on the lid of the sarcophagus. It was very heavy, but she was able to jar it a little bit. Another shove, and it scraped open a crack. Something glittered up from the darkness inside. Veronica’s mouth went dry. She glanced over her shoulder at the other, smaller, coffin, then back at the palpable presence hidden in the darkness under the stone. Stricken by a terrible anxiety, she picked up her skirts and ran. Though the fresh air and sunshine cleared her head, she did not stop running until she was at the house, and safely in through the back door.
There were voices. One was Mrs. Twig, the other the rich, baritone cadences of a man.
Veronica patted her hair down, composed herself. It’s him. It’s Mr. de Grimston.
She crossed the drawing room to the reception hall. Still dressed in traveling clothes, tipping the man who had brought in his baggage, was indeed, Rafe de Grimston.
“Where are the twins? How do they like their new governess?” he asked Mrs. Twig who was looking straight at Veronica.
“Well, here she is Mr. Rafe. Come,” Mrs. Twig said and crooked her finger at Veronica.
Flushed and unable to control her pounding heart, Veronica stepped forward,.
“This is Miss Veronica Everly. This is Mr. de Grimston, Miss Everly.”
Mrs. Twig brought them together. Veronica gave him her hand, but couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Everly. If you don’t look at me, I will be afraid you’re hiding something. I’m no ogre, you know.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” said Veronica. She looked up at him and felt a warm blush spread over face. “I’m very sorry, Sir. I am afflicted with shyness meeting people for the first time.”
He was his portrait in the flesh, but twice as handsome and he smelled of trees and meadows and foreign soils. He was also laughing at her.
“I think we shall get along fine. A girl who blushes like that can never lie. Am I right, Mrs. Twig?”
“Right you are. Sir.”
“So where are the children? I’ve brought those dolls they were so desirous of, and a few other treasures.”
Rafe began opening a satchel and pulled out two white china dolls with pale blond hair.
“I found them in the house. In one
of the old rooms." Rafe turned to Veronica. "The children are fond of dragging things where they’re forbidden to go. And leaving them there.” He winked.
"I'll keep in mind, Sir," Veronica said.
“How is the chateau?” Mrs. Twig asked.
Veronica sensed Mrs. Twig was rather fond of the old property, and would regret the sale of it.
“It still hasn’t sold. The folk around there don’t think it ever will. Bloody place is cursed or something, they say. There are too many staircases. Had me cursing, I’ll tell you.”
He and Mrs. Twig exchanged glances.
“The children are away, Sir. As you know,” Mrs. Twig said.
“Oh, confound it, that’s right. The moon followed me here while I was on the train. I regretted packing the telescope." Rafe looked at the floor, then at Veronica. "So what have you been doing to while away the time, Miss Everly? Do you draw or something?”
“I’ve been exploring a bit. I only just arrived myself and wanted to see the gardens.”
“They are beautiful, aren’t they?"
"Lovely."
Rafe's smiled softly at Veronica, then held the dolls out to Mrs. Twig. "These dolls, Mrs. Twig. Make sure Jack doesn’t put them in the well. They were copied after something in Le Grande Albert. So I’m told.”
Mrs. Twig nodded sharply.
“Those dolls look like the twins,” said Veronica. “What is Le Grande Albert?”
Mrs. Twig gave Veronica a funny look. “Le Grande Albert is a grammar book, Miss. For learning how to speak properly.”
Veronica frowned. “What?”
“Grimoire,” said Rafe. “It’s a grimoire.”
Mrs. Twig's eyes shot wide, but she stayed silent.
Veronica shook her head and smiled. Good as her French was, she’d never heard that word before.
“I’m sure the children will love them,” she said. “It’s remarkable….”
The Lady in Yellow Page 2