Emily's Ghost

by Denise Giardina

  Emily nodded. Though she did want to see the headmaster. What would “a terror” look like? She would have preferred he arrive at a different time of day. All the girls were disappointed, for his carriage pulled into the drive just as they were to begin their evening recreational time. Instead they must line up to greet the arrival. Miss Andrews, who introduced Mr. Wilson, reminded the girls that here was the authority to which they must bow, the man who had undertaken their education with all its responsibilities, as if she had not mentioned this fact almost daily either in a prayer or an admonition. The girls stood in ranks, oldest to youngest, for inspection. Emily was at the end, the shortest and most restive, though she tried to stand still. The Reverend Mr. Wilson was a tall man of fair complexion, wrapped from head to toe in the furs that had kept him warm on his journey. When he walked, he kept his hands clasped behind him, and peered down from his great height to study the girls. Now and then he put a monocle to his eye to aid his sight, and pointed to some imperfection—a collar folded under or a stray curl peeking from beneath a cap. He seemed to hate and even fear hair, so much did he wish to ensure the girls tamed their own. Emily thought he looked terribly silly, a great bear with a protruding glass eye.

  But she froze when he reached the end of the line, leaned down peering through his monocle, and Miss Andrews appeared suddenly at his side. “This is our youngest, Miss Emily Brontë. I believe, sir, that you should speak with her as soon as possible. I shall inform you of the reason after you rest and have a bite to eat.”

  The Reverend Wilson raised an eyebrow and straightened. “Very well,” he said with a parting glance at Emily.

  The others sensed Emily was in danger. Miss Evans kept the child’s arm in a protective grip all the way to the dormitory that night, and some of the other girls came up to her and hugged her, or patted her upon the back, as she made ready for bed. All three sisters gathered round. Maria and Elizabeth, who had been there longest, already knew about the Reverend William Carus Wilson. But though Elizabeth felt somewhat better, Maria was so ill that the sisters only kissed Emily, climbed onto their cot, and fell into their mutual embrace. Charlotte hugged Emily until she thought the younger girl fell asleep, and then she drifted off. But Emily only waited, and sought guidance from her ghosts. They were mostly silent, but then Henry said, “We don’t know what he wants. He is an intruder here. But if he asks about us, just tell him.”

  Emily nodded, Charlotte’s arm around her neck, and fell asleep as well.

  The next morning Miss Evans was so concerned about Maria that she sent for Mr. Hawthorne, the local physician. Mr. Hawthorne diagnosed inflammation of the lungs and applied a blister to Maria’s chest, a burning hot poultice designed to draw out the poison. Maria cringed at the painful application to her chest but then lay still, crying silently.

  “She should remain in bed for a few days,” Mr. Hawthorne counseled, and left.

  But Miss Evans, busy with the welfare of forty other girls, failed to tell Miss Andrews. She also did not notice that Emily slipped back upstairs after breakfast with a scrap of bread she had scrounged from the kitchen when Cook turned her back. Emily considered that she was stealing, but as she left the kitchen with her prize, she was passed by another servant, a large girl with a blotched face named Nancy, carrying a tray with a covered dish. Emily followed down the hall and saw Nancy draw up before a closed door that Miss Andrews had always referred to as “Mr. Wilson’s study,” though no one ever studied there as far as Emily could tell.

  “Nancy,” Emily said.

  The serving girl turned, startled.

  “What do you have there?” Emily asked.

  “The headmaster’s breakfast,” said Nancy, who was in a foul mood because she now had extra work. “And you nearly made me drop it, you did.”

  “What is it?” Emily asked, eyeing the elegant silver cover she had never seen before.

  “Eggs and toast and a rasher of bacon,” Nancy replied.

  Emily’s eyes watered with longing, even though she had just eaten her smidgen of porridge. She considered the crust of bread in her pocket, scurried on up the stairs, and thought no more about theft.

  Maria ate her bounty gratefully, but because Emily lingered she was late for Bible study. And because Emily was late, she was caught at once when Miss Andrews, who taught the older girls, came to inquire why Maria was tardy. So Emily watched in horror as Miss Andrews caught Maria by the arm and dragged her from bed, despite her cough and fever and the hot blister that burned her skin. Maria cried out in agony. And Emily reacted as any spirited six-year-old might do upon seeing an older sister so abused. She threw herself upon Miss Andrews’s leg and bit her upon one bony calf.

  A few minutes later Miss Evans, who had missed her youngest charge when she began the Old Testament lesson for the younger girls, ran up the stairs to look for Emily. She met the party upon the stairs—Maria now dressed though her face was drawn and pale, and Emily, who had been crying and whose cheek bore a vivid red mark. Miss Andrews, in the middle, had a tight grip on each girl’s arm.

  “Take Maria to my group,” Miss Andrews said, her eyes glittering unnaturally. “Tell them to wait for me. I shall be there as soon as I deliver this—” Miss Andrews started to use a pejorative term, but instead only shook Emily’s arm sharply. “I shall take this one to the Reverend Wilson’s study, and then return to my pupils.”

  Miss Evans put her arm around Maria’s waist for support and watched, her hand pressed to her mouth, as Miss Andrews disappeared down the stairs and into the gloom of the hallway, dragging Miss Evans’s “dear little Em” behind her.

  The Reverend William Carus Wilson was finishing his breakfast. He scraped his plate with a piece of toast that soaked up the last of the egg yolk. Then he cut the remains of the bacon into pieces with his knife and fork. Emily watched carefully, her mouth watering. She knew little of money but she did not think that her father, a clergyman like Mr. Wilson, could afford bacon. Mr. Wilson pressed a napkin to his mouth and seemed to notice for the first time the small child staring up at him from beyond the desk. (Though he must certainly have been aware of her presence, for Miss Andrews had made a dramatic entrance and Mr. Wilson, while ignoring the child, had expressed fulsome appreciation to her. Miss Andrews had blushed as she left the room. Emily watched the pair through narrowed eyes and decided to cast them in a story as demon lovers.)

  Mr. Wilson was disconcerted. The child stared up at him steadily, the irises of her eyes seeming to disappear beneath her upper lids, so that the whites predominated, like an epileptic in mid-fit. He paused in dabbing his lips and then let the cloth drop, and gave an involuntary shudder. He had at first thought Miss Andrews overdramatic, but he began to share her misgivings. “Why do you stare, child?” he demanded. “Keep your head down as a modest girl would do.”

  Emily continued to stare, though her gaze had focused beyond him. She was fascinated by the rank upon rank of books, in shelves from floor to ceiling, their dark bindings scored by gold titles. Emily sensed most had not been taken down from their places in a long time. She thought of books calling to be rescued and of fairies gathering to do the job, scurrying about and toting the heavy volumes upon their backs until none remained. Then the wee folk would leave the books at the foot of the beds of poor scholars.

  She was shaken from this reverie by the voice of William Carus Wilson.

  “You are Emily,” he said in a deep voice. “Your father is a clergyman.”

  “Yes,” Emily said brightly, turning to address him.

  “You will speak when spoken to,” Mr. Wilson said sharply.

  “But you spoke to me,” Emily said.

  Mr. Wilson regarded her with what seemed to be grave disapproval. He stroked his chin. “Can it be,” he said after a time, “that even in a clergyman’s family, a servant of the devil may be found?”

  Emily was so surprised she could not have answered back even if encouraged. She stared at her interrogator.

  “H
ead down!” he said.

  Emily ducked her head and studied the carpet, which was of a deep blue woven with pale pink roses. There was nothing so grand anywhere else in the school. She saw out of the corner of her eye that the headmaster had begun to leaf through a book at his elbow. Then he stopped.

  “Emily Jane Brontë,” he read. “I see here a notation from your teacher which says you ‘read prettily.’ Indeed. But do you read faithfully? Or do you vainly bask in your accomplishment, to the detriment of your soul? Do you seek to please God Almighty, or another master?”

  Emily stared at the floor, glad now of the admonition to keep her eyes down.

  “Answer me, child!”

  “I—I don’t know what you mean,” Emily stammered. She concentrated upon one bloom that seemed to yearn toward a bee.

  “I hear you have been telling stories.”

  The child brightened. “Oh yes,” she said, looking up. “They’re quite lovely stories.”

  “Lovely stories about ghosts and fairies and the devil?”

  “Oh yes. The ghosts are ever so nice.” Emily spoke quickly in her excitement. “Well, two of them are. One of them was quite bad once. But I think he is really very sorry now. And the fairies can be very wicked. But they don’t think so. They think themselves ever so clever, and they don’t do things the way people do, not at all. They have their very own way of—”

  “Silence!” the Reverend William Carus Wilson roared, and smacked his hand flat on top of his desk so that Emily jumped. When he was certain he had silenced the girl, he leaned forward so that he could stare directly in her face. “You, child, are possessed by Satan.”

  Emily took a step back. “I’m not,” she whispered. “I tell stories.”

  “Do you know what happens to little girls who are not saved?” William Carus Wilson continued as though Emily had not spoken. “They go to Hell. Only those God chooses to have by his side go to Heaven. Those he casts away shall be cast away forever. I sense, Miss Emily, you are cast away.”

  A tear formed in the corner of her eye. She wanted her papa, wanted to sit upon his knee and listen to an Irish story. Papa told stories about the devil, and Papa was not going to Hell. Papa had never told Emily she was going to Hell. Papa said God loved Emily. She felt the tear lose its grip on the corner of her lashes and slip down her cheek, so she ducked her head to keep Mr. Wilson was seeing it.

  She heard, rather than saw, the headmaster take down a book from the shelf behind him. Some of the books, at least, were not lonely. She waited.

  “Here is a story I have written myself,” the Reverend William Carus Wilson said in his sonorous voice. Emily heard him sit back in his chair. “My stories are published in this book. Do you know, Emily, how special it is to have a story published in a book?” He began to read the story of a young girl, only just older than Emily, who had sauced an elder, an old uncle who had reproached her for her outspokenness. When chastised for her behavior, the child, named Susan, laughed. But then Susan became ill.

  “‘She cried to God,’” the headmaster read, ‘“but God would not listen. Susan, you see, was not one of God’s elect. Night after night as she rolled upon her sickbed, she begged for forgiveness. She acknowledged how terrible it was to speak harsh words to her devout uncle. But there was no answer, for God had turned his back upon the reprobate. As he always does. A child can be such a lost one, you see, as well as can grown men. So Susan died, and went to Hell. She cried out there, in agony, but no one cared.’”

  Emily heard the book slam shut.

  “So you see, Emily, God does not help those he has cast out. Tell me, have you been cast out?”

  Emily watched the bee and the rose, which did not move. She fervently hoped she had not been cast out, but it all sounded terribly unfair. She decided to ask Maria. Maria would know.

  “Answer me, child.”

  “I don’t know,” Emily whispered. “I haven’t done anything to be cast out.”

  “Haven’t you? You broke the rules. And you bit a teacher. You have done enough this morning to earn yourself a trip to Hell even if God had not already so determined.”

  Emily felt dreadfully cold.

  “Do you fear you shall end like Susan in my story?” the headmaster continued, his voice thick with unctuous delight. “Or did my story not impress you?”

  Emily looked up and met his gaze. In her eagerness to answer, she forgot to be afraid. “It wasn’t a proper story at all!” she exclaimed.

  It was the clergyman’s turn to be astonished. “Not a proper—”

  “That little girl Susan didn’t tell you that story,” Emily said.

  “Of course she didn’t!”

  Emily was excited again. “Then it’s not a proper story. It’s just something you said. In a proper story the people come tell you everything. Then you just write it down. But no little girl would ever tell a story like yours. I don’t believe Susan is real at all.”

  William Carus Wilson leaned back in his chair, both hands planted palm down on his desk. His face was red. Emily thought for a moment he would flee. Instead he stood abruptly, went to the study door and flung it open, and bellowed, “Miss Evans!”

  He turned back toward Emily and folded his arms. When Miss Evans appeared in the doorway, a frightened look on her face, he said, “Dear Miss Evans. This wretched girl is your charge, I believe. Take her now and stand her on a stool in the schoolroom. Keep her in place for half an hour. And inform the other pupils that for the next week, they are to shun her. Explain to them further that their souls will be in danger if they listen to this—this little reprobate and her stories. They should take great care of her.”

  “But—but her sisters,” Miss Evans said, “her sisters must not shun her? Must they?”

  “They must. They are in more danger than anyone.”

  Emily endured her time on the stool. She pretended that because she could not see the other students, they were not there. She considered what it was to be so unusually tall. Someday I shall be tall for good, she thought. Perhaps I shall be so tall I shall be able to touch the ceiling. She decided to write a story about a giantess, the first woman on earth, even before Eve. The giantess said her name was Agatha, and the conversation began. So the time passed rather quickly.

  When she was let down from the stool, her sisters Charlotte and Elizabeth sent yearning glances in her direction. Once, as they were putting away their French books and preparing to take up their arithmetic, in a moment when Miss Andrews had gone out of the room to consult with the headmaster, Emily saw Miss Evans draw Charlotte and Elizabeth to her. The teacher put an arm around each girl’s waist and whispered in each ear, while looking at Emily. Then Miss Evans smiled, and her sisters smiled.

  Emily learned that even Miss Andrews would say nothing if Charlotte and Elizabeth came to her and gave her a hug, as long as they did not speak. Since Emily fancied that she could tell what her sisters were thinking, she did not feel quite so alone. As for the silence imposed upon her, it certainly could not shut the mouths of her friends. The ghosts and the fairies and, yes, the devil were as noisy as ever.

  But Emily missed Maria terribly. Maria remained sick in bed. Emily did not see her sister until that night. And very soon, terribly soon, she would not see her at all.

  Patrick Brontë was shocked to receive word from the Clergy Daughters’ School that his oldest daughter Maria was ill, perhaps mortally ill, and he must come to retrieve her. He set out by coach, leaving his son Branwell and youngest, Anne, in the care of their Aunt Branwell.

  “What have you done for her?” he asked Maria’s teacher, a Miss Andrews, as he stood beside his daughter’s bed looking down at the still, sleeping form.

  “The doctor has been here every day,” the woman said.

  Patrick felt a tug on the hem of his coat. He looked down to see Emily clinging to his leg. “Papa, they haven’t done anything,” Emily said. “They haven’t even given her broth. Or eggs, though Mr. Wilson eats eggs. And Miss
Andrews pulled Maria out of bed by the arm and hurt her terribly.”

  “Why I never—” Miss Andrews sputtered.

  “You did,” Emily said. “It’s why I bit you.”

  Miss Andrews, after a poisonous glance at Emily, turned on her heel and left. She did not return. Nor did Patrick lay eyes upon Mr. William Carus Wilson, who he was told was off to dinner at the house of the neighboring squire. But Patrick relaxed somewhat when another teacher, Miss Evans, came to tend to his daughters. She was a kind enough woman, and the children seemed to regard her with affection. He studied the girls. Emily had taken Miss Evans by the hand, and Charlotte looked well enough, though worry about Maria had drawn her expression. Elizabeth on the other hand appeared pale and tired. But Patrick put that down to concern about Maria.

  In any event, Patrick had already spent more money than he could afford on coach fare, and there was the necessity to hire a conveyance for the return trip. He had enough to deal with to see Maria back to Haworth and to keep her as warm as possible against the February cold. So he kissed each of the others in turn, promised to write every day with news of their sister, and left them to the tender ministrations of the Clergy Daughters’ School.

  For the next three months, the Brontë girls prayed in their bed at night after everyone had retired. They slept three to a bed, Emily wedged in between Charlotte and Elizabeth. She was no longer allowed to tell stories, not even to her sisters. Only to her invisible friends could she speak freely.

  The news from home was not good. Their father walked a terrible line—he did not want to leave his daughters hopeless yet he dared not give them hope only to have it crushed. Maria was dying. The girls sensed it, even when Patrick shared with them how their sister included them in her prayers each night, how she asked every Sunday after the service what hymns had been sung, the way she listened when Branwell read to her, and little Anne snuggled with her in the bed to keep her warm. Elizabeth had once heard the school doctor, Mr. Hawthorne, pronounce the word “consumption” after one of his visits. She told this to Charlotte, though not to Emily, who she judged too young.