Emily's Ghost

by Denise Giardina

The next day Emily had not the heart to make Robbie wait in the pouring rain, so she slipped him inside the church. Patrick Brontë was away in Bradford, trying to rouse his superiors to take some action for poor relief in the district. It was a blessing to have a curate like Weightman to handle pastoral duties such as funerals while Patrick was away. Emily was glad as well. Her father would not have allowed the dog in the church. But Weightman glanced at Robbie lying at the end of the Brontë pew, a smile on his face, and then opened his Book of Common Prayer as if to say, There may be a dog present, but I certainly have not seen it.

  Whatever William Weightman did after, Emily would be his champion. Robbie settled with a deep sigh by the pew and kept a close eye upon the proceedings. Emily wondered what Robbie might make of the smell, for certainly he was close enough, and the coffin thin enough, to catch a whiff. Though it was winter, there would be enough change for a dog to note. And just as surely, Robbie would register the difference. His master, and yet not his master. Emily could see the confusion in the dog’s eyes.

  When the service was done, Emily waited with Robbie in the pew as people roused themselves and filed toward the back of the church. But William Weightman threw open the door and then called them up short.

  “Dear friends,” he cried, his hand raised, “it is cold and the rain continues, and you are going to homes without hearth fires. I do not think that brother Dean would wish you to linger in the downpour to watch his burial. It was good of you to come, but I suggest that you leave the interment to the sexton, John Brown, the gravediggers, and myself. Go home and warm yourselves as best you can, and leave to us the disposal of Old Dean’s bones.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, all seemed to agree and, bundling themselves and their children as best they could, ventured out into the downpour to run for their cold, but dry, hearths. Emily remained, the dog leashed in her hands. She walked to the back of the church.

  “Miss Emily,” said William Weightman. “I have an umbrella. May John or I escort you to the parsonage?”

  “Robbie and I intend to see to the burial,” Emily said. Even as she spoke, the dog pulled the rope from her grasp and headed to the coffin where he set to sniffing.

  “Then I insist upon you standing under the umbrella with me,” Weightman said. “I don’t want you catching your death.”

  They waited in the vestibule until a squad of four men, under the supervision of John Brown, carried the coffin to the open grave and lowered it into the hole with ropes. Then the men retreated into the shelter of the church until the curate could say the final words and the burial commence.

  Weightman opened the umbrella and, turning, offered Emily the crook of his arm. She took it with her left hand and clutched Robbie’s rope with her right. They proceeded to the grave. Because space in the churchyard was at a premium, and the death rate steep in Haworth, Old Dean’s grave had once belonged to others. Every few years, some of the graves were opened, the bones burned, and the spot made available for a new occupant. But Old Dean would at least rest until flesh and coffin could rot. Probably, Emily thought, he would not be moved in her lifetime. Though the old man could not afford a headstone, Emily would know the spot, and would be able to lay a flower whenever she liked. Perhaps he might talk to her.

  She walked beside Weightman, trying to keep dry but not wanting to cling too tightly. She would not be like Charlotte, who would take advantage of William Weightman’s proximity to remind him of her own. Still she must admit the sensation of his closeness, the hardness of his arm through the cloth of his coat, the smell of his dampened hair so near to her face, were quite pleasant.

  When they reached the edge of the grave, Weightman relinquished Emily’s arm and said, “Here. You hold the umbrella and I shall be free to use my prayer book.”

  Emily took the umbrella handle and held it with Robbie’s rope, careful to shield Weightman as best she could. The dog, who could not be so protected, shook himself and settled beside the grave with a ponderous groan, his head resting upon his paws.

  Weightman read, “‘ I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’”

  He picked up a muddy clod that lay beside the grave, ready to cast it ceremoniously on top of the coffin as he pronounced, “‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust—’”

  What he did not anticipate as he stepped close to fling his divot was that the careless excavators of the grave had undercut the top. The sodden soil at the edge, thus unsupported, gave way beneath Weightman even as he cast his morsel of earth. Emily felt the ground collapse and stepped back, clutching the umbrella. Robbie leaped back as well and began to bark even as William Weightman dropped into the grave feetfirst. Emily heard the sound of splintering wood.

  She approached the open grave and peered over. Weightman stood, his shoulders and head visible above ground level. One of his booted feet rested on the edge of the coffin, the other had broken through the thin wood of the lid and plunged inside.

  Weightman looked down and wondered what part of Old Dean he trod upon. He closed his eyes, gave a deep sigh, and looked up.

  The pallbearers, roused by the sudden disappearance of the curate, approached, expressions of horror on their faces. Robbie was pleased. He barked excitedly, his tail wagging.

  Emily gazed solemnly at Weightman, and he looked back. She saw a strange light in his eye, more devilish than clerical. Then he said, “One foot in the grave.”

  She burst out laughing, though she tried to suppress it, and then lapsed into giggles. Weightman laughed as well. He leaned his face against his upraised arm, his chest heaving. Robbie was beside himself with barking.

  Laughter in such a circumstance struck the pallbearers momentarily dumb. Then John Brown cried, “Come out of there, Mr. Weightman, come out! There’ll be no good luck in that.”

  His plea did not chasten Weightman, who sobbed with laughter. The curate stretched forth his arm to be hauled up. It was awkward work, and Weightman muddied the legs of his trousers against the wall of the grave as the men pulled him out. When he had righted himself, he turned to Emily. She had stopped laughing, but pressed her hand against her mouth, her eyes alight with mirth.

  Weightman took out a handkerchief and began to wipe the mud and rainwater from his face. He tried to sound severe. “You, Miss Emily, possess an odd turn of humor.”

  “Indeed,” John Brown interrupted, “you’ll be lucky if you do not curse yourselves.”

  “Oh bother,” Emily retorted. “If we cannot laugh at death, what can we laugh at?”

  John Brown stared at her. “Miss, I would have said the opposite,” he muttered.

  “And I would say the power of death is defeated when we laugh,” said Weightman, calmer now but in a lighthearted mood. “Or rather, death has been defeated, and our laughter acknowledges it.”

  “Certainly Old Dean will not mind,” Emily said. “He is laughing as well. Besides, the worms will have more ready access to him. They will appreciate the convenience.”

  John Brown shuddered at such irreverent talk. He went to pick up a shovel, but as he raised it, he cried, “Egad, Mr. Weightman, you’ve left your prayer book down there!” He nodded at the open grave.

  “Well,” said Weightman, “I certainly will not go back in after it. Let Old Dean have its use, I have another at home.” He stepped back beneath the umbrella, though he was drenched to the bone. “Now I shall escort Miss Emily back to the parsonage.”

  The sudden appearance of William Weightman, wet and stained with mud, in the parsonage hallway caused a commotion. Charlotte emerged from the parlor, where she had been reading. Anne, feeling better day by day, came downstairs. Even Aunt Branwell emerged from the back of the house where she had been attending to the
washerwomen who came once a week to do the heavy laundry. Emily, who had only just recovered from her fit of laughing, began all over again at the expressions on their faces.

  Aunt Branwell was at her best when confronted with a domestic crisis (which explained why she so quickly came to the rescue of her dead sister’s children all those years ago). She was also blunt with Emily, the most unconventional of the sisters. Emily took her aunt’s objections in good-natured stride. She accepted that she and the older woman were opposites, and thought there was no reason to judge either. She also enjoyed her aunt’s odd turns of phrase. Aunt Branwell was perhaps the most out-of-place resident of Haworth, as though a palm tree had been planted upon the brow of Penistone Hill. She was the well-off daughter of Cornish merchants, and yet in her way as eccentric as Emily. Thus the following exchange: “Law, child”—from Aunt Branwell—have you been dragging Mr. Weightman through the mud?”

  “I beat him first, then I dragged him.” Emily, who despite the umbrella was a bit sodden herself, fell into her third fit of laughter. Weightman, wholly unused to a hysterically jolly Emily, was carried along with her.

  “Where on earth have the two of you been?” Aunt Branwell continued, seeing nothing humorous in the situation.

  “A funeral,” Emily said.

  This answer was enough to send Emily and Weightman into fresh paroxysms of glee, to the confounding of their audience.

  “But, but—” Aunt Branwell lapsed into confused silence. She knew her niece’s oddities, but this was beyond her comprehension.

  Anne, the first to catch a glimpse of their true mood, asked, “Who died? Dogberry?”

  Emily and Weightman shouted with glee at this mention of Shakespeare’s moronic constable.

  Finally Charlotte, who had never, if truth were told, been fond of comical theatrics, pointed out, “While all stand making great fools of yourselves, Mr. Weightman is dripping all over our clean floor and will likely be dying of a cold in the morning.”

  Weightman managed a calmer demeanor then, and said as he wiped the water from the end of his nose with his sodden handkerchief, “Miss Brontë, you are the second person after John Brown to claim my adventure of this morning will send me to an early grave.”

  Charlotte failed to detect the teasing tone that underlay his remark and colored slightly. “Of course I would not think such a terrible thing,” she said. “But someone must take you in hand and get you out of those wet clothes.” She turned to Emily. “Sister, how have you got Mr. Weightman into such an uproar when he has just come from a funeral, as he says?”

  “Oh,” Weightman reminded her, “Miss Emily was at the funeral as well. And my predicament was none of her doing.”

  Charlotte, who had not comprehended that her sister might know someone in the village well enough to mourn, looked astonished. “Emily? Who has died that was close to her?”

  Emily had gone serious and silent, the drawbridge pulled up, the shutters closed. She looked down at her feet.

  “The old man I sometimes carried bread to has died. That is all.”

  “It was Old Dean,” Anne added helpfully since she knew her sister better than anyone, then lapsed into silence when she saw Emily wanted no explanations.

  Weightman was as surprised at Emily’s reaction as he had been at her outbursts of laughter. He would have assumed that her entire household knew Emily’s devotion to Old Dean. He began to observe the sisters more carefully. Charlotte was watching Emily just as intently, and then shrugged and said, “You chose an inclement day to show your respect.”

  Emily said in a matter-of-fact voice, “He chose an inclement time to die.”

  This might have roused Charlotte to a further rebuke but, practiced in this dance, she chose to maintain silence. She turned instead and said to Weightman, “Our aunt is most familiar with Papa’s clothes, as she tends to their cleaning regularly. You are taller than he is, but you might fit into one of his suits.”

  “Indeed,” said Aunt Branwell. “And if you leave your wet things, tomorrow Tabby can tend to them. They will need to dry overnight in any event. Then a stout brush and some water and vinegar should do the trick on those stains.”

  Aunt Branwell led Weightman upstairs to Patrick’s room and gave him a pair of pants and jacket. Afterward Weightman and Emily huddled in the kitchen before the fire, the only one in the parsonage, since Patrick thought it unseemly to heat the entire house when the village suffered. They drank a fortifying cup of tea. Robbie, who followed them into the hall and stood to the side, was led into the kitchen to lie beside Keeper. Emily was quiet and seemed to barely notice Weightman’s presence. No flattery, he thought, no flirting or coyness. But Weightman sensed Emily prized an inner circle, a small one whose only occupants had been Patrick and Anne Brontë, Tabby Ackroyd, Keeper, and Old Dean and Robbie. Now William Weightman had gained entrance.

  5

  Patrick Brontë wrote from Bradford that a load of coal purchased by devout Christian merchants would soon arrive for the poor of Haworth. When the carts were unloaded, William Weightman spoke to the villagers who stood with their buckets, waiting to receive the black lumps of fuel.

  “Remember from whence this fuel came,” Weightman said, “and thank those who went belowground at great peril to bring it to you.”

  Charlotte, who stood watching the distribution with her sisters, said, “How odd. He did not even mention the men who paid for the coal, or God. I hope Papa shall not be upset with him.”

  Charlotte had “lost her heart,” as she termed it, to Weightman, even as she thought herself more familiar with his flaws. All men had faults that must be endured. But she was also alarmed, for she feared Anne was growing enamored of the young curate. Charlotte judged her youngest sister to be fragile and innocent. She might herself love patiently and without much hope, but there was no possibility Anne could endure a man so fickle. (As Weightman continued to be. The most recent rumor divined from Branwell’s correspondence was that Weightman had met a young lady in Bradford, where he lately had been spending time on his day off.) Charlotte saw no possibility Weightman could sincerely grow to love dear little Anne, so kind and yet so painfully shy. Yet he might raise her hopes in a most cruel manner.

  And there they were, Anne and the curate, lingering behind Charlotte and Emily as all four skirted the brow of Penistone Hill. Charlotte glanced back. Weightman had offered the crook of his arm, and Anne had taken it. They were deep in conversation.

  Charlotte turned to Emily, who was striding along beside her, and said, “We are going too fast for the other two.”

  Emily obliged, and slowed a little. But when she otherwise said nothing, Charlotte added, “Does it not concern you? They are arm in arm, and only have eyes for one another. Mr. Weightman is along as our chaperone, and yet he needs watching himself.”

  Emily glanced back. She said, “I only see Mr. Weightman and Anne enjoying their conversation. As for being arm in arm, he has often escorted you in the same manner.” Emily did not wonder that Weightman had not done the same for her since Old Dean’s funeral. She had no desire to be escorted and assumed Weightman knew it.

  “But it does not affect me as it does Anne,” Charlotte said. “Look at her face.”

  Emily did as she was told, then said, “It looks no more radiant than yours when you are escorted by Mr. Weightman.”

  “Oh bother!” Charlotte slapped at her sister’s arm and started to walk again.

  Then Emily seemed to think better of her reaction. She took Charlotte’s arm in hers, in the same way Weightman squired Anne, and said, “Mr. Weightman is simply being charming Mr. Weightman. But perhaps Anne needs a reminder.”

  “Then you will speak to her?” Charlotte said gratefully. Both assumed that Emily, not Charlotte, must approach Anne. The younger sisters had always been a pair, the closest of confidantes. Charlotte on the other hand had been Branwell’s partner until her brother grew up and began to disgrace himself. Charlotte took his behavior as a personal r
epudiation. Because of that, and because like Branwell she harbored ambitions outside Haworth, Charlotte felt both allied by necessity to her family and at the same time, in a way she could not describe, estranged. And so frequently did Charlotte expect Emily to disagree that she now threw her arms about her sister in gratitude.

  “A détente?” Mr. Weightman called.

  He and Anne were still some yards behind. As they drew closer, Anne said, “We were just remarking that Charlotte and Emily must be arguing, the two of you were so intent upon your conversation and your expressions so serious.”

  “We do not always argue when we are serious,” Charlotte protested. “Only sometimes when Emily is obstinate.”

  Emily grabbed Charlotte’s arm. “Charlotte thinks me obstinate because she thinks me radical. And yet we are sisters, for all that. Who can long separate sisters?”

  “None can separate the Brontës, of that I am sure,” Weightman said as he approached. He smiled down at Anne as he spoke. Charlotte glanced at Emily to see that she had taken notice.

  Picking up her cue to interfere, Emily said, “Tell us, Mr. Weightman, how is your young lady at home in Appleby?”

  “If you refer to Miss Walton, she does well,” he replied. “I receive a letter from her every week.” His face grew more morose. “Though our prospects are worse than ever.”

  Charlotte could not refrain from the conversation after all. “And do you consider other possibilities?”

  “Perhaps,” Weightman said.

  “I understand,” Charlotte said, “that you have met someone in Bradford.”

  Weightman laughed. “Where did you hear that?”

  “A letter from Branwell. I must warn you, Mr. Weightman, do not tell anything to our brother that you wish kept from others. Branwell has no judgment about what to share and what not.”

  “Well,” Weightman said, “I have met a young woman in Bradford. Her father is a merchant who has taken the lead your father established in organizing fuel relief for the poor of West Yorkshire. Mr. Stafford is a fine Christian gentleman.”