Emily considered how much to share. Finally she said, “Yes. I have thought of it.”
“What sort of story?” Anne wondered.
“A love story. But a tortured one. More I cannot say.”
“I should like to write a novel,” Anne said. “I have seen so much of society these last few years. It is enough for several novels.”
“Shall we pledge?” Charlotte said. “Someday we shall each of us write a novel, a love story.”
Anne said, “But can we write of love when we have not known it?”
Emily started to speak, but thought better of it.
Anne continued, “Sometimes at night when I pray, I ask God why he ordered the world as he has. Why does what looks like such wonderful design in nature not continue with humanity?”
“What do you mean?” Charlotte asked.
“I speak of marriage,” Anne replied. “There are few men, it seems to me, to whom a woman would want to give over her entire life. Or rather, some women might require one sort of man, and some another. How many women meet a man they could love with their whole hearts? Or perhaps they believe they have found such a man, but upon closer inspection, he proves rather different.” She shifted restlessly. She did not tell her sisters that when she lay too long in one position, the congestion in her chest caused great discomfort. “Or perhaps a woman meets a sympathetic man, but he is spoken for.”
“Do you mean,” Charlotte ventured, “Mr. Easton?”
“I do,” Anne said with a sigh. “I hope I do not think too well of myself if I say I would have been a more congenial companion than his wife. I have no ambitions that would conflict with his present situation, and he did like to call upon me for help summer last. I have a letter from him, welcoming me back in a few weeks, so I know he thinks well of me, and remembers me. I ask, why does God not order things so that we meet the men we are likely to be contented by—and to make content—when it is most propitious?”
“Perhaps,” Emily said, “God prefers tormented love. It is more interesting than contentment.”
They were interrupted by a loud shriek from the room next door. They heard their aunt cry, “Emily! Emily!”
“Yes, Aunt!” Emily jumped out of bed, for fortunately she lay on the edge closest to the door. She rushed to her own room to find nothing more alarming than a large yellow cat prowling back and forth over her aunt’s prone body.
“What is it?” Patrick called from behind his own door.
“It’s only Tiger.” Emily scooped up the cat with one hand. “He was looking for me,” she assured her aunt.
“How did he get in the house?” Aunt Branwell demanded.
“I let him in,” Emily admitted. “He likes to sleep on the warm coals in the kitchen after the fires have died down in the hearth. Then he comes up and snuggles with me.”
“I’ll not have him in my bed!” Aunt Branwell cried.
“He expected to find me,” Emily said, “and will be as glad to escape as you are to be rid of him. Here, I will close your door.”
Back in the larger bedroom, Emily lay down on her back. The cat, who had found his accustomed bedfellow, settled on her stomach with a loud purr and began to knead.
“Now here,” Emily said contentedly, “is a man.”
Charlotte and Anne returned to their far-flung posts. One Saturday morning Emily went to her father’s study to carry away his breakfast things, for Patrick always took a bowl of porridge and pot of tea at his desk, when William Weightman entered in a state of excitement.
“I’ve had a letter from Branwell,” he said. “The Halifax Choral Society will perform Beethoven’s last symphony, his Ninth, with a touring orchestra from the Continent. Branwell has procured two tickets through his railway employers and has asked me to meet him.”
“Splendid,” Patrick said. “I heard Liszt in Halifax and I have never forgotten the experience.”
Weightman said, “But it is twelve miles, and the concert is next Friday evening. I shall have to walk all day on Friday and return the next day. I would need to change my day off, and take an extra day as well.”
“You have given advance warning,” Patrick said.
Emily stood. The two men looked at her inquiringly. She clenched and unclenched her fists and glanced at her cottage piano, as though seeking support.
“I should like to go,” she said. “I have never heard a symphony, not with an orchestra. I have read about the Ninth. They say it is divine.”
“But how on earth could you go?” Patrick asked.
“I shall write to Branwell. Perhaps he can procure another ticket. I’ll do washing or take in mending to pay for it.”
Weightman’s surprise gave way to an understanding of Emily’s longing. But he was at a loss for an answer.
“Emily,” he said, “I will walk the entire twelve miles, and back again the next day. No one else would be with us.”
Emily wanted to cry, You and I walked six miles to Ponden Kirk and back again, and we were alone! Yet she dared not betray their secret.
But Patrick said in a calm voice, “Do not think, Emily, to use Ponden Kirk for your argument. This is different.”
Weightman turned to Patrick, his face stricken.
Emily recovered quickly. “I know the way to Halifax. The school where I taught at Law Hill was close by. I have walked twelve miles many times.”
“But only once with my curate,” Patrick replied.
Weightman stood. “S-sir,” he stammered, a schoolboy caught in mischief, “We wished to take the falcon—”
Patrick raised his hand. “I have not chastised you,” he said. “Because I trust you. That does not mean I approve.” He turned to Emily. “Do not think, Emily, I would allow a trip to Halifax, even if a ticket were available.”
Emily’s eyes filled with tears, and she looked from one man to another. “But I desire nothing in the world so much. Oh, Papa! Only to hear Beethoven’s symphony, the greatest, everyone says—”
Weightman clasped his hands between his knees and forced himself to forget his shock at Patrick’s revelation. “Your brother and I will stay in common lodgings, and share a bed. We will meet Branwell’s friends in a public house. There will be no ladies for your company. It is impossible.”
Emily picked up the tray of dirty dishes and rushed out.
Weightman leaned back. “Dear God. I thought Emily would be excited by my news.” Then he recalled Patrick’s revelation. “You knew we went to Ponden Kirk?”
Patrick fiddled with the inkwell on his desk. He said, “You must consider me a most indulgent father.”
“I do,” Weightman said. “But also a generous one. A less wise man would be the ruination of a girl like Emily.”
“You judge her extraordinary,” Patrick said, pride in his voice.
“I do,” Weightman said. “As strong-willed as any man.” He shook his head. “Every young lady I have met wants a husband and children, and that is her scope. Emily has no desire to go beyond the West Riding, and yet she wants the world. One wonders whether to indulge or protect her, and whether it is possible to protect her without getting one’s eyes scratched. But just when I am expecting such an assault, she will smile in a way that makes it worth the risk.”
Patrick peered at his curate, and Weightman guessed it was not just because of his failing eyesight.
“Most men would not consider Emily one way or the other,” Patrick said. “Most might even dismiss her as mad.”
Weightman flushed. “I would defend her against such charges,” he said.
“At times,” Patrick pressed on, “I have thought you loved her.”
Weightman met Patrick’s eyes, and then looked out the window. A light drizzle fell among the tombstones and a ghostly fog obscured the church. “I have a great deal of affection for Emily,” he said. “I asked her at Ponden Kirk if she could link her fate to that of a clergyman. She said it would be unfair to that clergyman. She spoke honestly. People would do more than raise th
eir eyes to find their pastor with such a wife.”
Patrick sighed. “At least as things stand now,” he said. “I tell you, I don’t know what will happen to Emily. Charlotte and Anne will make their way as governesses, unhappy though they may be. I cannot see Emily acceptable anywhere as a teacher or governess. When I am gone, Emily will be destitute. Her only hope will be if one of her sisters is in a position to take her in. Or Branwell, perhaps, if he settles down and marries.”
Weightman sat up straight. “I promise you,” he said, “whatever my circumstances, I shall ensure Emily is not destitute.”
“You do not know what the future holds for you,” Patrick said. “Though I thank you for your concern. But I also am considering some options. Charlotte has written often lately on the subject of establishing a school. She has learned that her post with the White family will not be permanent, as the children will be sent away to boarding school the next term. So Charlotte looks to the future once more. She has talked of a school in the past, one that my three girls might run on their own, but there are severe hurdles to be faced. One is the money needed to start such a school. My sister-in-law possesses some funds, but she has refused them before. She is waiting until after her death for the money to be distributed, and some of it will go to family in Cornwall. Charlotte wishes Aunt could be convinced to part with the Brontë share now. I wonder if I myself might sway Aunt Branwell with such a plea. I must convince Aunt that Charlotte longs for her money, but not her immediate demise. Or better still, leave Charlotte’s name out of it all together, for they do not always get on.”
Weightman nodded. He said a bit hesitantly, “I suppose such a school would have to be located in a more congenial place?”
“That is at an impasse as well. Anne suggests Scarborough, beside the sea, for she has grown to love it there. It would indeed be a congenial and healthy location for young girls. But Emily insists that an attempt should be made here first.”
“It is unlikely that would succeed,” Weightman said, though he was crestfallen at the idea of Emily going so far away as Scarborough.
“No wealthy parent would send a child here,” Patrick said. “And what family would wish Emily to encourage their daughters to roam freely and say whatever is on their minds? Emily is aware of that, of course. But she insists she would be more suited to a school for poor girls. How on earth she thinks it would be funded I do not know.”
Weightman smiled ruefully at the image. Poor Haworth girls in a school, he thought, when we cannot even keep them alive. And yet the idea gave him food for thought.
“Another hurdle is foremost in Charlotte’s mind,” Patrick was saying. “She believes all three of my girls need more proficiency in languages, especially French, as well as exposure to advanced teaching methods.”
“That would not be needed at a school for poor children,” Weightman said.
“Unlike Emily,” Patrick said, “Charlotte plans for the more likely reality. Her friend Mary Taylor writes from Brussels about a school there, the Pensionnat Heger, which would accept older students from England who wished to train for teachers. Charlotte could not go alone so she proposes, since Anne cannot afford to leave her post at present, that she and Emily go to Brussels for a term to study.”
Weightman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I doubt Emily would agree to it.”
“I thought you might encourage her.”
“Me?”
“Come, Willie. You know you are the only person besides myself whose advice she takes into account. She pays you a great compliment, by the way.”
“She might indeed benefit if she were to study abroad for a time,” Weightman agreed. “You see how she longs to hear a symphony. She would be in a city with great cultural amenities, she would be at close quarters with others.” A hopeful look crossed his face. “It might be just the thing to modify her solitary nature, and teach her the patience to at least endure some social obligations.”
“Is that what it would take to make her a clergyman’s wife?” Patrick said gently.
William Weightman leaned back in his chair. “I suppose,” he said. “Although if the clergyman was somewhat unorthodox, perhaps the wife might be also.”
“And what, Willie, would you hope to result from the change?”
“Sir, I hope the change would not be too great. I would miss the Emily I know and love.”
Patrick placed his glasses on his nose and looked over them at his curate. “I doubt you need worry about that,” he said. “You will help convince Emily to go?”
“Yes,” said Weightman. “I shall encourage Aunt Branwell to entertain your proposal as well, if you like. I believe, if I may say so, that I have a way with her.”
Patrick laughed. “Not even Tabby has escaped your spell. Indeed, I should have locked up every female in the house when you first came through the door.”
Emily had been thinking frantically as she raced through her chores. She ran upstairs to clear Aunt Branwell’s tray, helped Tabby finish up the breakfast dishes and start the fire in the hearth that would cook their dinner. Then she went to her room and stared in the mirror.
The face that looked back at her was thin, and serious, with large eyes, framed with a tousle of dark brown hair held up at the back by a fan-shaped comb. Emily wore her hair up when she was about her chores. On the moors she let down her hair and tucked it behind her ears or let it fall in her face, shook her head and flung it back. The heroines of Gondal would wear their hair just that way—as a sign of their strength and freedom.
Emily took out the comb and let her hair fall about her shoulders. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring into the mirror, until she saw Weightman trudge across Church Lane and disappear into the Sunday school building. She opened the drawer of the narrow nightstand that stood beneath the mirror, and took out a pair of scissors. Then, gathering her hair in her left hand and pulling it up behind her head, she paused a moment to again study her reflection. I will carry this off, she thought.
She raised the scissors and cut off her hair to the bottom of her ears.
Keeper, who had stood a close watch, rose as she headed for Branwell’s old room. There she put on a pair of her brother’s trousers, a shirt and jacket. The trousers were a bit short, for Emily was taller than Branwell. She found an old hat at the back of the wardrobe and placed it on her head. No one saw her leave the house and cross Church Lane. Emily burst into Weightman’s study, Keeper at her heels.
Weightman looked up, and then started so badly he dropped his pen and nearly upset his inkwell.
“May I go to Halifax?” Emily demanded. “I look a boy, don’t I?”
He continued to stare at her, speechless.
“I won’t expect to go with you to the tavern with Branwell and his friends. I’ll stay to myself somewhere, in your room at the inn perhaps. I’ll take a book to read. I can sleep in my clothes, on the floor.” She spoke more and more quickly, at first out of hope but more and more out of desperation for she sensed this was not going well, it was not going well at all. Weightman had not been touched by her extravagant gesture; in fact the look on his face had only grown more horrified.
“Please,” she whispered, “can’t I go now?”
“No,” he said.
Emily stood frozen. She cried out, “Don’t look at me that way! Don’t! I can’t bear it.” She was hurt, and embarrassed, and angry she could not hear Beethoven, that she had acted so rashly, that Weightman was obstinate, angry that he must now think less of her, angry that she cared what he thought. “Oh, I hate being a woman!” she cried.
“Emily,” Weightman said, and stood. “I’m sorry—”
That small bit of condolence was enough to send her flying out the door, along the lane behind the parsonage and on up the hill, Keeper at her heels. She stopped once and looked back, her hand pressing her side for she unaccountably had a painful stitch there, and saw that Weightman was following her. That was unbearable. She turned and ran on, but he caught up to
her. He reached for her arm, and as he did he said, “You might as well stop! I can run faster than you.”
She pulled her arm away, rounded on him, and screamed, “I know you can run faster, Willie, but does that mean you must?”
She glared at him, and then turned and began to run again. This time he did not follow her. She looked back, just before she disappeared over the brow of the hill, and saw him standing still, looking after her.
As for Weightman, he turned away after she disappeared, and realized with sadness that she had finally called him by his Christian name, and it had taken disappointment and anger to draw it out of her.
On Sunday Emily remained in bed for she had no will to get up. Not even the prospect of a walk with Keeper on the moors was enough to encourage her to leave her room. Aunt Branwell had already expressed her dismay at her niece’s short hair, and even Tabby shook her head at the sight of it and said, “At least that will mend.” Patrick said nothing, though his face had registered his shock. Emily suspected Weightman had explained the circumstances. On Sunday evening, her father came upstairs and sat on the edge of her bed before retiring for the night.
He said, “It was wrong of you, Emily.”
Emily felt her throat tighten. It was rare for her father to chastise her. She turned her head to stare at the ceiling.
“Willie is worried about you, because you weren’t in church.”
“I couldn’t face him,” she said to the ceiling.
“Because you’re angry with him, or because you are embarrassed at what you did?”
“Both.”
“I think Willie is a bit angry as well. Or at least I think he has a right to be. You blame him for something that is none of his doing.”
“But it isn’t fair,” Emily said.
“No, it isn’t. But blaming Willie for the conventions of society is also not fair. Is it?”
After a moment, she said, “No.”
“I think an apology is in order. Then you will both feel better.”
She turned her head and looked at her father. “He won’t want to see me,” she said. “He must think what everyone else thinks of me. Mr. Brontë’s strange daughter, someone to laugh about when she is noticed at all.”
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