“A novel? How splendid!” Weightman leaned forward. “Can you speak about it?”
She shook her head. “Very little. I could only truly know it as I wrote it, you see. So how can I speak about it now? It may be some years yet before I start. But it looms.”
“But can you say anything at all? Where would it be set?”
Emily stared into space as she tried to shape her thoughts. “I would set it here. My fellow feeling with Sir Walter Scott, you see, is that he writes of wild and desolate places with peaks and valleys and heath. Not civilized places, not flat green cultivated places with pretty gardens where people take tea on benches. I want places where the landscape torments people, and people torment one another.”
She loved the openness of Weightman’s face, the way, when he thought deeply about something, one could almost track the changeableness of his feelings as he moved from one idea to the other. At last he said, “No Jane Austen then?”
“I have not read Jane Austen. I have heard of her, of course.”
“She writes of love in an entertaining manner.”
“But is love an entertainment? And where does she set her scenes of love?”
Weightman considered the question. “I suppose most of her scenes are set in parlors or drawing rooms.”
“Then I question her,” Emily declared. “Love should not be confined to a parlor, no more than this merlin should be confined to his cage. Love must span eternity if it is worthy of the name, otherwise it is only affection.” Emily was seized by a spasm of passion. “The hero and heroine I am considering for my novel would wreak havoc on one of Miss Austen’s parlors. They would be more at home in Hell than in a country house.”
Weightman raised his eyebrows and Emily’s shyness returned. She was certain he must be appalled, and she cursed herself for sharing with him.
Weightman was indeed reserved and thoughtful on the way back. They had reached the place where they must part so they would not be seen returning to the village together—Weightman to follow the road to West Lane, Emily to climb to the pasture behind the parsonage. She assumed he was happy to put the discussion of her writing behind him. Who would wish to read such a horrible book? she imagined him thinking. And by a woman? How monstrous!
Instead, William Weightman said his goodbye and then added, “I shall expect to read that book someday. And to be disquieted by it, and moved as well.”
And he said it, Emily thought as she lay on her bed that night, without a hint of condemnation, or of condescension, and not with mere politeness, but with warmth. The next morning when she came to the kitchen for breakfast, she found Weightman had been there and departed. Tabby pointed to a slip of paper on the cupboard, a list in the curate’s clear hand of some thirty volumes he possessed. Weightman’s taste was catholic. Some of his books were favorites she would like to reread, but most were new to her. She chose Dickens’s Pickwick Papers, Charles Darwin’s Journals and Remarks, the naturalist’s just-published account of his recent trip aboard the HMS Beagle, and another new volume, the complete works of the poet Shelley, with notes by his widow Mary. She left the list on Weightman’s desk while he was out on his pastoral rounds. The next morning he appeared at the parsonage for his meeting to discuss parish affairs with Patrick Brontë. He carried the three volumes under one arm.
“An offering for Emily,” he told Patrick.
“Oh my,” Patrick said, putting on his spectacles to study the titles. “She will be pleased.”
And Emily, who had heard the front door open and her name called from the kitchen, was pleased indeed. She touched the collected Shelley with an especially reverent hand. If Sir Walter Scott was her favorite novelist, Shelley was her most beloved poet. She had been four years old when he died, but she dreamed she had known and loved him. She kept the Shelley long after she had finished with the other two volumes, and returned it only reluctantly.
The Tuesday afternoons continued, and Emily broached the subject of the merlin. Weightman agreed it was time, and added, “When you spoke of his plight in his cage, I knew you were set on this course.”
He asked where she intended to try. Emily had been debating this point, and decided to carry the bird several miles to the wild area around the rock at Ponden Kirk. Falcons seemed to thrive there, and if Nero became lost, he might have the best chance for survival.
Because of the distance, they would need the entire day. Tabby agreed to manage dinner preparations by herself, and Emily packed a bag of sandwiches for the journey. Then she went to tell her father she would be taking a longer walk. Patrick looked up from his desk and stared at his daughter over the top of his glasses.
“Gone all day? Where are you going?”
“To Ponden Kirk.” Emily tried to keep her voice casual. “You know I have made the trek before.”
“Yes, with your brother and sisters. But alone?”
Emily’s heart sank. Please, don’t forbid me, please, she thought.
“Keeper will be with me. I want to see if Nero will fly on his own. I may release him there.”
Patrick was drawn to the edge of desperation in his daughter’s voice. He had not heard that note before in Emily. Something was drawing her beyond herself, and only her writing, he had assumed, could do that.
He had also observed her friendship with William Weightman. He began to think that Emily, for once in her life, was in love.
Patrick knew Ponden Kirk. He passed by on pastoral visits to the manor house at Ponden Hall but rarely stopped. The place was well known in the district, a massive rock formation high above one of the most isolated moors. Why was it called a “kirk,” an old word for church? No one knew, but more educated people in the West Riding speculated the name reflected antecedents of pagan worship. An opening cleft the bottom of the pile of rock. It must be crawled through, and only by one person at a time. Some claimed that a maid who went through the rock cleft would either be married before a year was out, or remain unwed for the rest of her life. Another tale, more ominous, held that if a couple went through the opening one after another, they would die if they did not marry in a year. Or, if they married other people, they would kill themselves and haunt the moors forever.
Emily knew the stories. Weightman might not, Patrick suspected, since he was not from the district. He had already guessed that his curate, whose day off was Tuesday, would accompany his daughter to Ponden Kirk. Should he forbid it?
He studied Emily’s face as she stood before him. He was moved by her loneliness as well as the intensity and, yes, the purity of her passion. And Weightman? He thought of the young man who spent his days going from hovel to hovel in the poor districts of Ginnel and Gauger’s Croft, offering Scripture and prayer and food and solace.
Patrick said, “If Tabby says she does not need you, then go ahead. Take care of bogs on the way.”
Emily ran to him and gave him a hug and then bounded out, a wild thing, with Keeper at her heels.
They set out separately as usual. They had come over time to hate the subterfuge, but feared to end it. So Emily walked with Keeper and the merlin past farmsteads to the waterfall on Sladen Beck, where Weightman waited. They took turns carrying Nero, though Emily bore most of the burden, for the bird was unsettled when Weightman had the gauntlet and craned his neck backward to glare at the man. They stopped several times to let the falcon fly on the long creance. He soared out, but settled back and took his mouthful of offal from the Haworth butcher.
“My fear,” Emily said, “is that he would starve.”
“But has he not taken small animals even on the creance?”
“He has. And he catches mice in the washhouse. So he knows something of what he must do.”
The dell narrowed, the path forced them up onto a ridgeline and the moors took them in so that they forgot to talk, both of them absorbed in their thoughts. At last the mass of Ponden Kirk loomed and the valleys fell away all round its height. They stopped to eat, Nero’s creance tied to Emily’s wrist. T
he bird settled on a rock and scanned the expanse below as though he forgot for a time the presence of the man and woman. Emily watched the merlin, and Weightman watched her watching him.
“I wonder if he will return to the bell?” Emily mused.
“If he returns,” Weightman said, “that is what he wants. And if he does not return, that is also what he wants.”
Emily looked at Weightman. “I know,” she said.
They talked of other matters as they ate. Emily said, “Since I help deliver your letters, may I ask what is happening with the Chartists? I know I must tell no one, but I should like to be kept informed.”
“I think that is reasonable. The plans continue. It will take time to bring all the many mills together for some joint action. But here is what will happen. You understand the factories are powered by great steam boilers?”
“Yes.”
“The boilers hold the water, and they have plugs so they may be drained if need be. At a certain hour, when all is ready, the plugs will be removed and the water drained.”
Emily clapped her hands in delight. “It is brilliant! The looms will stop?”
“And not start again until the plugs are replaced. All over the north of England, can you imagine? And the threat of a similar stoppage will remain as long as people are in those mills, until the demands of the workers are met.”
Emily heard a note of hesitation in Weightman’s voice. “What could go wrong?” she asked.
He turned to his sandwich and chewed, then stopped. “The timing must be right. The market is depressed, so a work stoppage will drive up the price of cloth. That would please the mill owners rather than harm them. Besides, there is a split among the Chartists. Some advocate violence. They say it is the only way to achieve our goals.”
“And you disagree?”
“Of course. I am a clergyman. I preach the gospel of loving one’s enemy, of turning the other cheek.”
“I must say,” said Emily, “when I consider what is being done to the poor people of Haworth, I want to pick up a gun myself and storm the barricades.”
She read the shock on Weightman’s face, and ducked her head. She was used to writing about violent revolution in the stories of her fantasy land of Gondal, and had to warn herself that others did not live in her world.
“It would be a disaster for the Chartist movement,” Weightman said, “if it turned violent.”
Emily said, “I have read about revolutions. George Washington was one of my childhood heroes. We could bear a whiff of revolution in England.”
“I think not,” Weightman said. “Not for myself, for I would have to turn away. And not for the British people, who would turn on us.”
They fell silent for a time. Keeper, sprawled on his belly, worked his way close for a handout of scraps. Nero trod back and forth on a nearby rock and tugged at Emily’s wrist. She sensed Weightman’s eyes upon her, probing in a way she was unused to.
Then he said, “Would you approve if the workers turned to violence?”
Emily picked apart a sandwich she did not want and fed the pieces to Keeper. “Some things are worth dying for,” she said, her head down.
“But worth killing for?”
Emily looked up then. “I don’t know.”
“If the Chartists turned to violence, your father, as a Tory and a leader of the established Church, might be a target.”
“The people of Haworth know Papa is their friend,” Emily objected. “They know as well that nothing in the district will change unless they force it. Why should the mill owners sleep peacefully in their beds when they help people to die?”
Weightman shook his head. “When the genie of violent revolt is out of the bottle, it will not be forced back in until innocent people have been killed.” He added, “I must tell you, this is not the sort of conversation one has with a woman.”
Emily’s cheeks flushed with anger. Much of it was at herself—she should not have been so forthcoming—but at Weightman as well, for drawing her into conversation and then offering what she saw as abrupt criticism. Go back to Sarah Sugden, she thought sullenly, who will talk of any silly thing you want. Nero saw something just then, something no one else could see or imagine, and began to squawk and flap his wings. Emily welcomed the distraction.
“It is time.” She stood and brushed her hands upon her skirt. She was glad at the sudden change in atmosphere, for it forced her to deal with the merlin once and for all. She put on her glove and called Nero to it with her bell. Weightman stood as well. He knew Emily was upset. He had not meant to offend, more to think out loud. Emily was a mercurial young woman, and one with talons to match the bird’s. Weightman pursed his lips and watched her fumble with the creance where it attached to the jess, then stop and look back at him.
“When I unloose it, he will fly?”
“He will,” Weightman said. “And be free.”
The word seemed to steel Emily’s resolve. Free. Nothing was so valuable, not wealth, not fame. Not love. Freedom.
She let Nero go before she could change her mind. The bird exploded from her fist as he was used to on the long creance. But he did not stop. With nothing to fetter him, he rose, higher and higher, first in a tight circle, then a widening one, farther and farther until he was a black speck in the blue sky.
Emily forgot herself and began to run. She did not notice Weightman followed, staying close behind her with his longer legs but surprised at how she covered the rough ground. She ran until she was out of breath, a stitch in her side, then the bird wheeled and headed back in the direction of the great rock of Ponden Kirk, where he settled on a ledge, fluffed his wings, and looked down on the human pair as imperiously as his namesake.
Emily stopped, gasping for breath, and clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from crying out for pure joy. Nero shrieked and set out again. He led them beyond the kirk, Emily running again and Weightman following, unable to take his eyes off her. He thought Emily, arms flailing and skirts billowing to her thighs so that her chemise and stockings showed, might take off and be lost to the earth.
Then she fell. Her toe caught on a rock and she tumbled. Weightman dove after her, to break her fall. They crashed into a stand of heath and came to rest in a jumble of arms and legs, the breath knocked out of them.
Emily was first to move. Her gasps became a low moan. She rolled onto her back, turned her head, and stared straight into Weightman’s eyes. He looked back unblinking. Then Emily saw his face change and grow tense. His stare hardened, he pressed his lips together. He turned onto his side, away from Emily.
Suddenly she knew, as she watched him breathe, his hand clenched in a fist and pressed against the side of his head. Emily Brontë had no direct experience with male desire, though she was well acquainted with her own. She had heard Branwell, passionate and indiscreet Branwell, speak of it. She was in its presence, and knew that Weightman turned away from her, not toward her, because he fought it.
She wanted nothing more in that clear moment than for Weightman to turn and roll atop her. She sensed how close he was, felt the heat rise from the back of his shirt. But she also knew Weightman was a clergyman. Either he would give up Emily Brontë after leading her along the path of what he would consider a terrible error, or he would give up the ministry. She could not bear either outcome. She knew as well—she forced herself to think so as to calm herself, as she sensed he did—that if he were willing to give up his calling for her, she would love him less. And if he found the strength to relinquish her, she would love him more. They were doomed, either way. The realization brought her to tears. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, Weightman sat, his head cradled in his arms resting upon bent knees. He turned his head. They conversed without words.
Weightman pushed himself into a standing position, leaned over, and offered Emily his right hand. She took it, felt its warmth and strength, and allowed him to pull her to her feet. They walked toward the gray mass of Ponden Kirk. Weightman stopped and pu
t his hand on Emily’s arm.
“Try to call the merlin,” he said.
To her chagrin Emily had forgotten Nero. Glancing about, she could not spy him. She fumbled in her pocket for the bell, suddenly awkward. She rang it. The sky remained empty. She rang it again, waving her arm as hard as she could.
“Look!” Weightman called, and pointed.
The hawk was coming, a speck emerging from the shadow of the rock. He grew larger and larger, circling as Emily sounded the bell, then swooped down and settled on her outstretched glove in so precipitous a manner that she almost toppled over. Weightman caught her and they stood frozen, astonished that the bird had come back. As Weightman made sure Emily had righted herself, his arms about her, he reached round and fixed the end of the creance, which Emily had forgotten, to the bird’s jess.
They stood motionless for a moment, until Nero calmed himself on the glove. Then they began to walk back toward Ponden Kirk. Keeper brushed against Emily’s thigh and sent her bumping into Weightman. The man and woman moved farther apart. When they reached the kirk, Weightman stopped.
“Someone in the village told me it is a great tradition to crawl though that cleft in the rock,” he said. “I have never done it. Have you?”
“No,” Emily said.
Weightman said, “John Brown told me people have been going through the cleft since the beginning of time.” He smiled. “Perhaps we should before we leave.”
Emily brushed her hair back from her forehead. Twigs of heather and gorse were caught in her hair and her dress. Weightman was similarly disheveled. “Perhaps you will not want that connection with me, Mr. Weightman, since I fear I have more in common with the fairies than with convention.” She began to fiddle with Nero’s jess, too shy to look at him.
“Who better to be paired with at Ponden Kirk,” he replied, “than a fairy?” He reached out and pried Nero from the glove. “You go first and I’ll hold Nero, then we can switch. That way, whatever we do and wherever we go in the future, we can declare a bond because of Ponden Kirk.”
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