“No, he doesn’t think that.”
She sat up then. “But I think so sometimes. Why can’t I be like everyone else? Why can’t I make social calls and engage in parlor gossip and flirt and long for pretty clothes as other young women do?”
“But Emily, I’ve never known you to want to be like that. You don’t really, do you?”
She fell back on her pillow and stared at him. “No,” she said. “Only—” She fell silent and looked away again.
“Only—what?”
She could not tell her father. What she really wanted was for Willie to carry her away to the moors and make love to her.
“Nothing,” she said. “I cannot face Willie yet. But I will write him a note of apology and put it on his desk.”
That was what she did, although she waited until the day before he was to go to Halifax. “I am feeling well enough to play piano for the children next Sunday,” she wrote. “And I wish to beg pardon for my behavior. I did not mean to hurt your feelings and I think perhaps I did. That is what I am sorry for, because you are kind and do not deserve to be hurt. I suppose I should be sorry for much else, and perhaps someday I shall be. Yours truly, Emily Brontë.”
She made sure he was away from his desk before she left the note, and she did not see him the next morning when he set off for Halifax. That night, when she knew Weightman and Branwell would be sitting rapt in the presence of an orchestra and chorus listening to Beethoven, she slipped out onto the moors with Keeper and cried herself to sleep beneath a blanket of stars.
On Sunday morning, Weightman was back at his post, greeting the children as they made their noisy way into the Sunday school building. Emily entered without looking at Weightman and went straight to the cottage piano. A sheaf of sheet music was already on the stand. She picked it up and saw the word BEETHOVEN on the front.
It was a piano arrangement of the Ninth Symphony.
Emily turned to Weightman. He smiled and came over to her. “It was on sale in the hall Friday night. I knew you must have it.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The children continued to mill around, oblivious to the two adults, so Emily asked, “How was it?”
“It was the most glorious thing I have ever heard,” Weightman said. “And all the way through, all I could think of was that you were not there to hear it, and that I wished so terribly you could have been.”
“I went out on the moors and lay beneath the stars and tried to imagine it. Keeper and I heard only night birds. But I was grateful for that music.” She looked down at the sheet music. “I shall begin to practice it at once. It will be a while before I have mastered it.”
“When you do, I hope I may come to tea and hear it afterward.”
“Of course you must.”
“And I offer you a promise. Someday, I shall arrange for you to attend a symphony. I hope Charlotte and Anne will be able to come as well. We shall make a party of it, as we did in Keighley, and all shall be done properly.”
Emily nodded, and brushed back the hair that escaped from its place behind her ears and fell into her face.
“Nothing to be done about the short hair, I fear,” Weightman said in an awkward attempt at humor.
“I think I like it,” Emily responded defensively. “Perhaps I shall keep it.”
Weightman shook his head and walked away.
“George Sand wears hers short,” Emily called after him. “And Liszt does not care.”
Weightman rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Then he clapped his hands. “Children, let us begin. Let’s sing ‘There Is a Land of Pure Delight’ and then we shall learn a new song.”
The children settled down on the stone floor and sang with the uninhibited vigor of the very young, some out of tune, about the wonderful pleasures that would await them when they died. Emily remarked on the despair of their situation as she and Weightman gathered up their things afterward and the curate pulled on his robe for the Sunday service.
“They cannot hear Beethoven either,” Emily added.
“No,” Weightman said. “Nor can they read the words they are singing. But do you know what I have been thinking? I have been envisioning a school for poor children.”
“In Haworth?”
He set down his Bible and prayer book and folded his arms. “In Haworth.”
“I have long advocated for that,” Emily said, her eyes narrowed. “But how would it be funded?”
“Some sort of campaign must be organized,” Weightman said, “and subscriptions raised.”
“Haworth can barely afford the subscription to pay your meager salary,” Emily pointed out.
“True. But I have written to the bishop, to see if he has any suggestions. Perhaps wealthy individuals elsewhere might be enlisted.”
“The wealthy to help the poor?”
“Some rich people are altruistic.”
Emily set down her music and folded her own arms. “And who might run this school, Mr. Weightman?”
He grinned. “I have some ideas. Perhaps we might discuss them during a walk upon the moors on my day off.”
“You have stopped walking with me.”
“I have asked your father’s permission to begin again. And he has given his consent. All that is left is to invite me to dinner beforehand.” Then Weightman picked up his prayer book, bowed, and went out the door.
12
Autumn began with the September blooming of the heather on the moors into brilliant swatches of purple. Most afternoons when her housekeeping chores were done, Emily rambled with Keeper and Nero in tow. Again on Tuesdays, William Weightman accompanied her. They remained cautious. Neither spoke of their friendship; Weightman was careful not to touch Emily, and to keep a respectful distance. She longed to throw her arms about his neck and pull him down atop her in the tall moor grasses. But that would have been the end of it, and so she walked on and wondered if Weightman daydreamed about the same thing.
Nero distracted them. When Weightman asked if he could wear the glove and call the bird, she readily assented. It took a number of tries, for Nero remained skittish and kept trying to return to Emily. But at last he landed on Weightman’s fist as reliably as Emily’s, though he grumbled and fixed the man with an impertinent stare before settling down.
One Tuesday in October when the purple had disappeared from the hillsides and they climbed the moor beyond the falls of Sladen Beck, Weightman remarked, “I would like to try one more thing with Nero, with your permission. I wonder if he will come to me when you are nowhere in sight. We should find a place where you could hide, so if he does not come, you could retrieve him.”
“Why?” Emily asked. “Do you want to take him hunting when I am not around?”
Weightman trudged on, his lips pursed and eyes cast down. “Charlotte and your father have been corresponding of late.”
“Charlotte?” Emily burst out laughing. “What does she have to do with anything? Do you want to take Charlotte to hunt with Nero? She would as soon you were the prey.”
Weightman smiled. “I am well aware,” he said, “your sister does not love me. I wish I knew a way to make her my friend.”
“The best you can hope for is polite tolerance. Charlotte is convinced yours is the most callow soul in Yorkshire, and when Charlotte becomes convinced of something, she will not be disabused.”
Weightman said, “Nevertheless, your father shared Charlotte’s ideas with me. And some of them are quite good.”
“Oh,” Emily said, “Charlotte is dear, despite her infatuations. And valuable. Were it not for Charlotte, the Brontë family would not try anything new under the sun.”
“That,” Weightman said, “is precisely it. You three sisters have talked about starting a school.”
“Of course I have mentioned it to you. I want a school for factory children. Charlotte will only hear of a school elsewhere, where we would attract boarders of a certain social class. Then there is Anne, who has her heart set upon the seaside. So t
here you are, an imaginary school pulled in three directions. All three are at best abstract eventualities.”
“Perhaps,” Weightman said, “you might wish to be prepared for all three.”
Emily stopped walking and stared at him. “I know that tone of voice. It is the same you used when you talked me into playing the piano for the Sunday School.”
“Is it?”
“And the same you use when you urge Branwell to consider that he has had too much to drink.”
“Indeed?”
“Which means you are about to deal me a spoonful of medicine,” she said. “Whether for good or ill, I suppose I shall find out.”
“I hope,” Weightman said, “I should never offer you any medicine for ill, or force you to drink it.”
“What then?”
“Let me take Nero,” Weightman said. “You must be tired of carrying him.”
“What then?” Emily repeated, and stamped her foot so the bird squawked and flapped his wings. Keeper barked in sympathy.
“Your father asked me to speak to your aunt about providing the initial funding for a school. I have done so, and she has agreed. So we are no longer talking about an abstract eventuality.”
Emily stared at him. “A school here? For the poor?”
“That is not settled,” he said. “The sort of school you wish for would need a more stable source of income, since its pupils would have no money. But Charlotte believes, and we all think she is correct, that the possibility of students of a more well-to-do background must not be dismissed out of hand. My scheme may fail; Charlotte’s is necessary to your survival. And if such a school is to be undertaken, then the three of you need more training. Your aunt has agreed to pay.”
“More training? No, no. I see where this conversation leads.” Emily began to walk faster, her cheeks red with anger. When Weightman followed, she said, “No, Willie, I will not discuss it. I know enough to teach the children I wish to teach. I need no further training.”
“But suppose I am not successful in raising money for a school for the poor?” he repeated. “Have you considered how you shall make your way when your father dies?”
“No!” She clapped her hands over her ears. “I won’t listen to talk of Papa dying. I shall deal with that when it comes. Besides, I would not teach at all if it meant I had no time for my writing. I would rather be a washerwoman.”
Weightman had grown practiced at handling Emily Brontë’s moods. He changed the subject. But he knew she would continue to think about what he had said.
Weightman had an unwitting ally in Charlotte, who wrote Emily with the news that Aunt Branwell would pay to send her nieces to Brussels to learn French. She explained what she knew about the school.
I cannot go alone; it is not done. Anne cannot go, since she is employed. That leaves you, dear sister. I know you were miserable at school before, but now you are grown. Think how proficient in French we would become. And there is the adventure of living in a city.
The letter went on for several pages. Emily read with a sense of dread that settled into the pit of her stomach. She did not want to answer the letter. But at last she sent out a brief reply.
Are you certain Anne could not go? She might like to leave her post, and I am needed here.
On her bed she prayed, Please God, don’t let it happen, please, please God.
Weightman waited until Emily was captive in the parsonage kitchen on bread-baking day. He came when Emily shuttled dough back and forth from board to pan to oven, and was up to her elbows in flour.
“You are early,” Emily said, giving him barely a glance as she removed hot pans from the oven with a heavy cloth.
Weightman set about putting more pans in the oven to take the place of those she emptied.
“I have news,” he said as he worked.
“Do you?”
Weightman, unaware of Charlotte’s letter, replied, “The family of your sister’s friend, now in Belgium, has identified a school in Brussels to take older students like Charlotte who wish to improve their French.”
“Have they?”
“She cannot go alone.”
Emily banged pans against the counter to empty the finished loaves. “Can’t she?”
Weightman closed the oven door on the fresh loaves he had deposited. “Might you think about the possibility? Of gaining another attainment, I mean?”
Emily shoved aside the loaves and resumed kneading the pile of dough on the counter.
“If you went to such a school,” Weightman continued, “you would be forced to speak French from morn to evening. When you returned to England, you would be proficient in the language, or at least as much as you need be to teach in English schools.”
“Do you think I don’t know this?” Emily said. “I have had a letter from Charlotte, you know.” She pounded the dough.
“Oh,” Weightman said. “Then you think well of the idea?”
Emily slapped the mound of dough, plopped it over, and began to punch it. “I do not. I hope Anne will go instead.”
“Anne has a post—” Weightman began.
Emily rounded on him and cried, “Why do you try to make me leave? Why do you want rid of me? If it is uncomfortable for you to walk on the moors with me, then let us stop as we did before. But must you send me away?”
“Emily,” he said, “I do not try to send you away. If you went to Brussels I would miss you terribly. But it would do you good.”
“Good? What good can there be? I could study French here. I can—” Emily was so upset she could not continue.
Weightman waited. Emily returned to the dough, which did not need more kneading, but received it anyway.
“There are practical reasons that keep me from going,” she said at last, not looking at him.
“Such as—”
“What about my animals?”
“Tabby will feed the cat and the fowl. Your father will feed Keeper, and I will take him with me on my walks, as I did Robbie. As for Nero, why do you think I wanted to teach him to come to my glove?”
Emily considered. Then she said, “What of the Chartist letters I have been passing on to you? Shall I miss the plugs being pulled from the boilers?”
“It will be summer before anything happens. The market for cloth continues against us. As for the letters, I will think of something else.”
Emily grew angry. “You have been planning this. Why are you conspiring against me?”
“It has been something of a conspiracy,” Weightman admitted. “But your father and I think it best.”
Emily picked up the dough and slammed it down against the table. “Papa is in on this, is he?”
“He wants what’s best for you.”
She shook her head. “You cannot tell me why this is best.”
“Think how you would grow,” Weightman said.
“Grow?” she replied. “Who wants me to grow?”
“I do,” he said.
“You?” She turned and faced him. “Am I not good enough as I am? If not, I don’t care!”
Weightman faltered, and then said in a rush, “I want you to experience something of the larger world. I want you to walk through a museum and look at the paintings.”
“You want! What about what I want?”
“I want you to sit in a concert hall. As you know you long to do. The school in Brussels will take you to concerts, Emily. They will encourage you to play upon a full piano.”
She stood still, listening despite her resolve not to.
“You have said to me that if you were a man, you would go to America, to the frontier, or on a voyage to the South Pacific. But if you know you have the courage for that, can you not do this, as a woman? The strong woman I know you to be?”
Emily leaned against the table. “Charlotte described the school,” she whispered. “We would share a dormitory with young girls. The school is enclosed on four sides, with a garden in the middle. It is in the heart of the old city, surrounded by other bui
ldings. There will be no moors. Only buildings on four sides, and more buildings beyond. I fear I will die for a breath of air.” She looked at Weightman. “I would be in prison.”
Weightman stood beside her. “You told me on one of our walks about a story you were writing,” he said, “about someone named Alexandrina. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Emily whispered.
“Alexandrina was imprisoned in a dungeon because of her part in the cause she fought for. But she remained strong. And so will you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” Weightman said, and reaching out, he touched Emily’s forehead with the tips of two fingers, “you will be free here. In your mind.”
She gave him one of those piercing looks that never failed to melt his heart and break it all at once. Then she was in his arms. She felt the rough stubble of his chin pressed against her cheek.
“Six months,” he said. “They will pass in no time. You will be back in August, in time to see the heather bloom.”
Even as Weightman spoke, they heard the kitchen door open. Tabby entered, her shopping basket laden with purchases, and then stared at them as they sprang apart. Weightman flushed a deep red and turned round and round as though searching for something. “Tabby!” he said, more jovial than necessary, “Emily was saying she is out of pans, and I wonder where there are more?”
Tabby set down her basket and raised an eyebrow. “In t’oven, I daresay,” she answered. “But first, Mr. Weightman, take care of your back. ’Tis dusted with flour.”
He twisted his head, trying in vain to look over his own shoulder. Emily saw her floury handprints in several places. “Oh!” she cried, but could do nothing for when she raised her hands to brush off the prints, they were dusted liberally with flour. Weightman stood helpless, and then began to laugh.
“Emily,” he said, “we are caught white-handed.”
Tabby cackled with glee. “Aye, Mr. Weightman, and if you don’t want all Haworth to see, you mun let me take a brush to’t.”
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