Emily's Ghost

by Denise Giardina

  Anne and Emily shrieked and, giggling, wrapped their arms around one another. Charlotte stood to one side, her face red, and smoothed away a wet patch on the pink where Tabby’s fingers had touched it. “Do you think?” she said. “The postmark is Bradford.”

  “Mr. Weightman goes to Bradford,” Emily said.

  Anne was the first to open her valentine. She looked up. “There’s no signature,” she said. “But there is a poem.”

  “Read it,” Charlotte demanded.

  Anne read:

  “Soul divine

  A purer soul I do not know

  You’d make the hardest heart to glow.

  A gentler soul could not exist

  Nor kinder one by nature kissed.

  Your sweetness melts the heart that attends

  Your kindness warms the heart just so

  Your innocence cries for all to be

  As constant, warm, and kind as thee.”

  “He has captured you!” Emily exclaimed.

  Anne held her fist to her mouth, trying not to laugh. “In very bad verse,” she said, “and yet very kind.”

  “The meter is terrible,” Emily agreed, “and yet the sentiment to be greatly valued.” She opened her own and read:

  “Brave soul,

  You fear nothing, that I see

  Of all things that is clear to me.

  Were I in trouble or facing battle’s woe

  Your companionship would see me through.

  In times of sorrow and despair

  I’d want no more than your courage there.

  And should I face e’en death’s dark sea

  I know you would my champion be.”

  She grew quiet a moment, and then she looked up from the card and smiled at Anne. “It is a high compliment,” she said.

  Anne linked her arm through her sister’s. “He sees you as extraordinary, as do we all.”

  “Strange,” Charlotte said. “It is almost as if he were writing to a man.”

  Anne turned to Charlotte. “Now yours,” she urged.

  Charlotte opened her valentine slowly, her face flushed.

  “Away fond love,’” she read, and looked up as though reluctant to continue. “How he does speak,” she murmured. Then she continued:

  “Though you do long to leave this place

  I urge you, turn to its embrace.

  For though you wish to go away

  Those who love you wish you would stay.

  Don’t go away, whate’er you do

  For I must fain recover you.

  Your strength and honesty are dear

  Your love, devotion required here.”

  She folded the valentine carefully. Patrick Brontë had taken the poems from Anne and Emily and read them over, but Charlotte thrust hers in her pocket before he could ask for it. He looked over his glasses. “Indeed,” he said, “this is Mr. Weightman’s handwriting; it is familiar and he does not trouble to disguise it.” He clapped his hands. “Well, he has certainly made this Valentine’s a memorable one. No doubt now you shall have him for dinner again and feed him royally.”

  “Oh, we shall,” Emily agreed. She noted Charlotte had drifted into the parlor, and followed her sister. “Are you displeased?” she asked.

  “No, no,” Charlotte said, though Emily thought her manner odd. Charlotte had taken the valentine out of her pocket and was reading it over again. She shook her head back and forth, “The verse is indeed quite bad,” she said as though speaking to herself, “but surely he must be forgiven that. It was a great effort on his part.”

  “It was,” said Anne, who had come in the room, “and most thoughtful. He must have had it in mind ever since Emily let slip that we’d none of us had a valentine.”

  “I wonder,” Charlotte said. “Each one was addressed so succinctly. Anne, he appreciates your qualities, as he should. And Emily he admires, as also he should. Why, he would even take you into battle with him, sister. I think we must give you a martial nickname. But my valentine—” She hesitated as though unsure whether to confide what she was thinking. But Charlotte, being Charlotte, could not help herself. “Do you notice? It is the only one to use the word ‘love.’”

  Emily opened her mouth as though to offer a scornful retort, but Anne stepped close and trod on her foot. Emily closed her mouth at once. “We had not noticed,” Anne said.

  “He says he loves me,” Charlotte continued, looking down at the card. “And he says if he lost me, he must recover me.”

  “I think,” Emily said, “if he meant to express intimate sentiments to one of us, he would not have sent all three of us a card.”

  “But he is kind, as you say,” Charlotte said. “And he knows we are close. He would not hurt two of us by only writing to a third.”

  Again Anne sent Emily a warning look. Emily heeded it. And later, in the kitchen, where Anne and Emily stood peeling potatoes, Emily said, “I have long known Charlotte was in love. But this time she is delusional.”

  Anne sighed. “There is nothing to do except let her learn for herself where things stand. I hate to see her hurt. But you know she will not listen to us, so best not provoke her.” After a moment, she said, “Perhaps we should warn Mr. Weightman.”

  “I think,” Emily said, “Mr. Weightman will judge the situation without us.”

  That evening Charlotte proposed the three of them write Weightman an answer. “He will guess we are onto him,” she said, “and if we do not reply he will be hurt. But it would also be best if we responded together.”

  Emily and Anne were so relieved at the sensibleness of Charlotte’s response that they agreed at once. After the supper dishes had been put away and Aunt Branwell and their father gone off to bed, they sat around the parlor table with their heads together.

  Charlotte insisted on copying the poem. “Our response must project fondness, nothing else,” she insisted, and proceeded to compose most of the verse herself. Emily and Anne, happy to humor her, offered the occasional suggestion.

  They finally agreed on the following verse:

  “We cannot write or talk like you;

  We’re plain folks every one.

  You’ve played a clever trick on us,

  We thank you for the fun.”

  “What a joke!” Emily hooted. “We all of us can write better verse than he can!”

  “But he must be flattered,” Charlotte said. “He is a man.” She continued to read aloud:

  “Believe us when we frankly say

  (Our words, though blunt are true),

  At home, abroad, by night or day,

  We all wish well to you.

  And never may a cloud come o’er

  The sunshine of your mind;

  Kind friends, warm hearts,

  and happy hours, Through life we trust you’ll find.

  Where’er you go, however far

  In future years you stray,

  There shall not want our earnest prayer

  To speed you on your way.”

  “But it sounds as though he were leaving,” Anne pointed out.

  “Of course he shall,” Charlotte said.

  “I don’t know,” Emily mused. “He speaks as though he plans to be in Haworth for many years to come.”

  “He is dedicated,” Charlotte replied. “But how long, in reality, can he stay in such a place?” She signed the poem with a large “Charlotte B.” and handed the quill to Emily. “He is good as a good curate should be. But he shall come to his senses, find a prosperous living, and take a wife.”

  When they had all signed, Charlotte folded the letter and took a wafer from the drawer to seal it. She studied it a moment first, lost in thought. “If only one could write more,” she murmured. “But it would not do. He must be allowed to decide.”

  “Young men are like the Lord,” Emily said dryly. “You cannot dictate to them.”

  Anne, who knew the tone of her sister’s voice, kicked her beneath the table. Emily smiled and said nothing further. Charlott
e, oblivious to any teasing, sealed the letter and set it upon the hall table to be mailed the next morning.

  6

  Patrick Brontë watched the growing friendship between his daughters and his curate with pleasure, and yet some trepidation as he considered Charlotte’s feelings. The objects of her affection had once been the sons of local gentry, young men of wealth and standing, entirely unobtainable. Charlotte turned down two marriage proposals from men who did not interest her. One was the brother of a school friend, a clergyman who made it clear that he was not in love but wanted a wife to run the school he had founded. The other was also a clergyman, a Mr. Pryce, who proposed to Charlotte in tears only the day after meeting her while visiting Haworth with friends. Charlotte rejected him, not able to convince herself he was serious. Six months later, the young man, rather fragile in health (as well as in mind, Patrick guessed), was dead.

  Patrick believed in both cases Charlotte acted sensibly. She would not marry for the sake of being married, though the first proposal would have left her secure for life and many women would have been tempted by it. Charlotte considered love, a novel notion in some quarters, to be a requirement.

  Patrick was nevertheless taken aback by his daughter’s obsession with Weightman. When turning down the previous clerical applicants, Charlotte revealed an attitude Patrick had not realized she possessed—contempt for the clergy, especially curates. She regarded them as a dull and dunderheaded bunch, their scope not suitably heroic, especially those who labored in the vineyards of provincial places like Yorkshire.

  Her father was hurt. Patrick realized at his advanced age that he would never leave Haworth, nor progress past the perpetual curacy that tied him in a subordinate role to the vicar of Bradford. So be it. He was where the Lord had placed him. So, he suspected, was William Weightman. Patrick dared hope when he could no longer serve his charge at Haworth, Weightman would step into his place and carry on.

  That could not please Charlotte, who wanted the world. And yet here she was, moping around the parsonage, staring out the window at the Sunday school building where Weightman kept his study, talking of nothing but the curate and his future.

  Patrick sighed. It had a great deal to do, he suspected, with Weightman’s looks. An attractive boy if somewhat disheveled, with a clear eye, a firm chin, and a straight back. Patrick was aware that a number of young ladies in the district had lost their hearts to Weightman, and when it was the young man’s turn to fill the pulpit, the quantity of bonnets in the pews increased and the faces of their wearers were upturned with expectation. But he thought Charlotte would finally see reason, and he hoped the fall would be no more hard than necessary.

  Anne was taken with Weightman as well. But unlike Charlotte, who was an incorrigible romantic, Anne possessed a core of good sense. Finally recovered from her illness, Anne studied advertisements and sent out notices for positions. She knew the chances of a Brontë sister marrying, with no money and modest looks, were slim. She would need to make her own way in the world. Anne would not let attraction to Weightman trump reality.

  But it was Emily who astonished. Patrick felt closer to Emily than her sisters. Part of this was selfish. Emily was not inclined to pursue young men. Her lack of interest was not due to a rejection of the male sex but grew from an intensity of character that could not be matched by those she encountered in a general way. Emily would not lower her standards. And so her expectations would not be met.

  As Patrick Brontë declined into old age, with all its deficiencies, Emily would be the daughter who stayed home. He would lean upon her. He did already, as Aunt Branwell grew more decrepit.

  But beyond such practical considerations, Patrick admired Emily’s attributes. She was outspoken—at home, at least. Of all his children, Patrick enjoyed talking with Emily about items in the newspaper, or speculating over problems in the parish. In public Emily said not two words to anyone. And yet Patrick would have termed her bold. As he looked the other way while Emily wandered on her own unescorted, and went out on the moors at night (he had heard her, and upon chastising her in the morning, realized his words had not the least effect), Patrick thought of her as a sort of son.

  He agreed, when Emily asked, to teach her to shoot the pistol he kept in a drawer beside his bed. The gun was a habit he had acquired upon his arrival in Haworth, when the district had been especially lawless. Patrick had carried the pistol for a time upon his pastoral rounds; as he grew more familiar with West Riding folk, he stowed it away, but took it out now and then to keep it in firing order. Emily alone of his children noticed. She became a proficient shot. He admired to watch her stand in the back garden—her hair loose and her tall figure dappled by the play of sun and shade—and extend her arm to take aim at a target. She would have done well, Patrick thought, in the American backwoods.

  William Weightman was a sort of son as well. Patrick had begun to call the young man by his nickname. Willie. A boy’s name. His boy now, for Weightman was estranged from his own father. The elder Weightman thought his son had thrown his life away by burying himself among the poor of Haworth. He threatened to cut off Willie’s allowance.

  Patrick sat down with Willie to plan parish affairs for the coming March. When the work was done and Tabby carried in a tray of tea and Emily’s good bread and butter, Patrick said, “I wish to thank you, Willie, for the valentines you sent. My girls were most pleased to receive them.”

  “How did you know—” Weightman began.

  Patrick raised his hand. “We were onto you quickly. You need not have walked all the distance to Bradford to post them. Your mark was all over.”

  Weightman looked sheepish. “I’m glad that all was taken as I meant.”

  “Indeed,” Patrick said. “And you will receive an answer.” He had decided not to mention Charlotte’s infatuation. It would exist without the valentines, after all.

  “They are fine young women,” Weightman said. “I enjoy their company more than I can say.”

  Patrick considered how to put his question. Finally he said, “I must ask. Why do you take such an interest?”

  “Do you find it inappropriate?”

  “I do not. I find it unusual.”

  “Ah.” Weightman thought. Then he said, “I enjoy the company of women. They are in many ways more admirable than men. They have fine minds, which they have not been allowed to develop. Yet women feel deeply. They possess a quiet compassion. I understand why, when our Lord rose, he appeared at the tomb first to women. They would not scoff or turn away from him as men would. They would worry over him.” He paused a moment and smiled. “I have a fancy that they first asked Jesus if he would like something to eat. The writers of the Gospels, being men, didn’t bother to mention it.”

  “I see,” Patrick said. It was the sort of response he was coming to expect from his curate. “Well, your friendship has been a great boon. I am especially pleased for the sake of Emily and Anne. They are ignored when the society of the vicinity is gathered, because they are so quiet. And because—”

  “Because they do not fit,” Weightman supplied.

  “I suppose that is one way to put it,” Patrick acknowledged.

  “It is a compliment, rather than the reverse.”

  Patrick was grateful. “Emily and Anne are rarely invited to anyone’s parlor,” he said. “Not that Emily minds in the least. Anne feels the want.” He paused. “Emily dislikes to sit and sip tea in drawing rooms, and so she is not invited. She would rather traipse the moors and engage in her daydreams. You will understand that it does my heart good to see how she has warmed to you.”

  “Emily is quiet,” Weightman said, although as he spoke, he remembered the challenge in his study. “Yet I think her fearless. I daresay sipping tea in a drawing room seems tame to her.”

  Patrick nodded, pleased. “But society, as you know, does not countenance that in a woman. Emily has no place to apply her gifts, so she turns inward. This village, these moors, and her own soul, are her field of inqui
ry. And being narrow, her purview is intense.” Patrick sighed. “I suppose I am criticized in polite circles because I do not rein her in. But it would break my heart to see.”

  Weightman thought it might be well nigh impossible to rein in Emily Brontë. But he said nothing. The two men sat companionably for a time. Then Weightman said, “May I change the subject? I understand you once had Chartists speak in Haworth. Emily told me.”

  Patrick felt an instant of shock. “Oh yes,” he admitted. “It was over the Poor Law. It did little good,” he added.

  “It always does some good,” Weightman said.

  Patrick sipped his tea and regarded his curate over the brim of his saucer. “Why do you remind me of this?”

  Weightman leaned forward, his hand clasped between his knees. “I posted my valentines in Bradford for a reason that has nothing to do with secrecy. I go there on my day off. I helped raise the coal relief, as you asked. And as Charlotte may have mentioned”—here he allowed himself a smile—“I met a young lady I called upon once or twice. That is not why I keep going. I have long been in contact with Chartists in Bradford. They are some of the most active in the north of England. And I will admit to you that I am in some sympathy with their cause.”

  Patrick felt the ground give way beneath his feet. And yet the sensation was not unpleasant. “Do you know,” he said after a time, “how a poor Irish boy was able to go to Cambridge? William Wilberforce was my sponsor. He not only helped free the slaves, he pursued many another worthy cause as well. I was one of them. I felt obligated to come to Yorkshire afterward, to serve in Wilberforce’s home county.”