Emily rummaged in a drawer and, locating a brush, handed it to Tabby, who began pummeling Weightman’s back. When she was done, the flour had been reduced to a light dusting. As the curate prepared to leave, Emily said as she gathered up a bunch of loaves, “Here, Willie, take these with you.”
“I have a nice piece of mutton for later,” added Tabby, who often as not offered the dinner invitations to Weightman, so sure she was that all in the house would welcome him.
In November, sleet and a sharp east wind punished Haworth for its exposed position on the brow of the moor. Winter promised to be more difficult than the year before. And William Weightman’s father, piqued that another year passed without his son searching for a more beneficent living elsewhere, cut off his son’s allowance.
Patrick shook his head over supper. “An appalling way for a father to behave. May I never do such a thing to any child of mine,” he said, glancing around the table in his nearsighted way before continuing to eat his bit of cheese and bread. Only Emily was there to hear.
“Will Willie have enough to live on?” she asked.
“Willie has always lived simply, and must continue to do so,” Patrick said. “Now he has no margin of comfort. And no one knows, except myself, how much he has given of his own money to poor people here. Scraps of meat have found their way into cooking pots, many a poor dying soul has been comforted with a dram of spirit, thanks to Willie. If his father means to punish him in as cruel a way as possible, this is it. But if I know Willie, the effect will be the opposite of what his father intends.”
No more new books would be ordered from London. Weightman apologized for the loss on one of their Tuesday outings.
“It is no matter,” Emily assured him.
“I shall walk to Keighley,” he promised, “and bring you what you want from the circulating library.”
She studied him as he walked beside her, his head down and his hands clasped behind his back. Curiosity overwhelmed her inclination not to probe. “Why do you stay,” she asked, “when your father so hates your position here?”
Weightman would not look at her. He said, “I told you once I believe God has placed me here.”
“Many people,” Emily said, “would convince themselves God could use them someplace else. For most, calls from God include convenience.”
Weightman shook his head. “Even if I might be useful elsewhere, I would not give my father the satisfaction.”
“Oh,” Emily said.
“He is a bully,” Weightman continued. “He dictates to my mother, and my brother and sister. But I have withstood him before and I shall continue. Besides, I am content here. I cannot say happy. Haworth is too difficult for anyone’s happiness.” He stopped and looked at Emily. “But one is so alive here. Every exertion, every breath precious, and sustaining.”
But by December Weightman appeared not sustained, but haggard. Late one darkening afternoon when Emily sat drinking a cup of tea with Tabby, Weightman knocked once at the back door and then pushed it open. But instead of his usual cheery greeting, he sat at the table without removing his coat. He did not look at either Emily or Tabby.
Tabby set a cup of tea beside him and said, “There, lad, you look done for.”
He nodded his thanks, but did not touch the cup. “I’ve just come from a funeral,” he said. “My second today. I buried three people yesterday, one the day before, and two on Monday. Not one of them was above the age of thirty. Now I’m on my way to look in on a four-year-old boy who is dying.” He glanced at Emily and said, “Matthew Moore from the Sunday school.”
“The little boy with curly red hair,” Emily said.
Weightman nodded. “I suppose I shall have to bury him—”
He stopped and continued to look down at the cup of tea in front of him. He was pale, and Emily noticed how thin he had grown. Then he closed his eyes and she was stunned to see a tear course down his cheek. For a moment she didn’t know what to do. She had never seen a man cry, though she supposed her father must have shed tears in private. Then Tabby was waving at her, urging her to go to Weightman. Emily did so, standing behind him and wrapping her arms about his neck. He grabbed her arm with one hand like a man clutching a life preserver that held his head above water. Emily felt him heave with silent sobs as she pressed against his back. She laid her cheek against the top of his head. Tabby came close as well, sitting in Emily’s chair and grasping his other hand between her two rough ones.
Weightman cried himself out like a small child, and then with a great shuddering sigh gave both their hands a squeeze and said in a broken voice, “Sit down, please, sit down.”
Emily did so, drawing her chair close and continuing to hold his hand. He said, “I’m sorry. One can only see so much—” He took another deep breath and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes still wet with tears.
“You don’t look well,” Emily said. “Couldn’t you take a rest?”
“If I don’t tend to people, your father must,” Weightman said. “And at his age, he can only do so much.”
“But so can you only do so much. And it will do no one any good if you make yourself sick,” Emily answered. “If only I could help.”
“Unless you can convince the government to come to Haworth and study why people die right and left—”
“I know what they would say,” Emily replied bitterly, “for I read it in the newspapers. They will say poor people do not care if they live in squalor, and so they sicken and die.”
Weightman balled his hands into fists and pressed them against his mouth. “So they will say,” he agreed. Then he stirred himself as though forcing himself to be cheerful and said, “Tabby, forgive me, I have let your cup of good tea grow cold.”
“I’ll get you another,” Tabby said, going to the settle. “You should drink something warm before you go see that poor dying child. Or eat a bite, some cheese and bread perhaps?”
“No,” Weightman said, “I should get along to Ginnel and look in on the little fellow.”
He stood and went shakily to the door, leaning on Emily as he did so. Then he took his arm away from her and left without a word.
“Law,” Tabby said, her hand pressed to her throat. “I have never seen that lad in such a state.”
“No,” Emily agreed. She went at once to her father, who was working on his sermon in his study, and told him what had happened.
“Willie must have a rest,” Patrick said, taking off his spectacles.
“I doubt you will get him to leave Matthew Moore’s bedside,” she said. “That boy is one of his favorites.”
“I shall speak with him tomorrow then,” Patrick said.
No one was surprised when Weightman took to his bed with a high fever and congestion, not long after burying Matthew Moore. Mr. Wheelwright feared the congestion might settle into pneumonia. But the fever broke, drenching Weightman’s bedclothes with sweat, and he was back out on the streets of Haworth a few days later. Patrick urged him to take a break from services and preaching for a week, and invited him to sit in the Brontë pew that Sunday as a member of the congregation.
Charlotte was home preparing for the move to Brussels. Anne was back at the parsonage as well, on Christmas holiday. Weightman found the three sisters in the pew on Sunday morning.
“Look who has returned!” he exclaimed, a smile lighting his face. “Your father has invited me to join you,” he added a bit tentatively, for he was wary of Charlotte.
Emily gave up her seat next to Anne at once and moved to Charlotte’s side of the box pew. Weightman settled beside Anne, his arm across the back of the pew.
“Miss Brontë,” he said to Charlotte, “welcome home.”
Charlotte nodded and merely said, “Mr. Weightman.”
Weightman turned with relief to Anne, who was beaming a welcome. He leaned close and said, “Miss Anne, you are looking well.”
“My asthma has not bothered me for months,” Anne replied. “But I hear you have been ill, Mr. Weightman.”<
br />
“I am on the mend,” he said. He smiled at Charlotte again, but she was careful not to meet his eyes. He glanced at Emily and she saw the color mount a bit in his cheeks. Then Patrick entered the church to begin the service. Weightman picked up a prayer book, found the place, and shared his book with Anne. Charlotte cast a number of baleful glances at the two of them.
When the service was done, Charlotte caught Emily by the arm and led her out of the church, while Weightman lingered at the pew, talking to Anne.
“It is disgraceful,” Charlotte began when they were outside. “Do you see how he is flirting with her?”
“Flirting with Anne?” Emily said. “Mr. Weightman?”
“Who do you think I mean? I feared as much last year. It is bad enough when he raises the hopes of an Agnes Walton or Caroline Dury. But it is unacceptable that he should toy with poor Anne’s feelings.”
“I think he likes Anne quite a lot,” Emily protested. “He wishes to hear about her experiences these past months.”
Charlotte ignored Emily’s response. “Did you not see how familiar he was? He practically had his arm around her, and was most anxious to share his prayer book with her. And the way he kept watching her out of the corner of his eye, as though to see what impression he made upon her. At least she was modest and kept her eyes down.”
“You, on the other hand, had no hesitancy about staring.”
Charlotte swatted Emily’s arm in her usual manner. “Someone must look out for our little sister,” she said. “You have your head in the clouds too often to be bothered. But that fickle young man must be made to understand that Anne is not a plaything. Today shall be the only Sunday we see him in our pew, I hope. I shall speak to Papa this very afternoon.”
“Very well,” Emily said. “But you must wait until after dinner, because Mr. Weightman is invited.”
Branwell came home for the holiday and the party was complete. Emily might have looked back upon it as one of the happiest times of her life, had not the prospect of Belgium loomed. She had reluctantly agreed to accompany Charlotte. Even Anne had urged her to it. I cannot oppose them all, Emily thought wearily. So she had resigned herself.
Weightman approved her decision after pushing her toward it, and yet once it was made, he too seemed subdued. He was outwardly cheerful, but displayed an underlying air of melancholy that seemed more than just the lingering effects of his illness. Only Patrick knew his curate’s thoughts on the matter. Weightman had spoken to him after one of their meetings in Patrick’s study, when Emily left the room after bringing a pot of tea and cups on a tray.
“She doesn’t want to go,” Weightman said as soon as the door closed behind her.
“No,” Patrick agreed. He poured the tea and handed a cup to the younger man. “But she is resigned to it.”
“Well, so am I.” Weightman tried to sound resolute. “It shall do her good, surely. But I must confess one of my greatest fears. I have hoped time in Brussels might soften Emily and make her more amenable to social situations. But the more I consider, I fear the opposite. I fear instead it will confirm her in her isolation.”
“You may well be right,” Patrick agreed. “I remind you, Willie, we have agreed we must leave this matter in God’s hands.”
“Of course, of course,” Weightman muttered.
“Your friendship with my daughter may not lead where convention dictates. But I think it still must be of great value to you both, for love is never in vain.”
Weightman nodded and said nothing further on the subject.
On Christmas Eve, the Haworth band made its rounds, ending at the parsonage where furniture was shoved aside and dancing, spiced by Tabby’s good mulled ale, ensued. Branwell escorted Emily; Weightman shuttled between Anne and Tabby, and once even enticed Aunt Branwell to take a turn about the parlor. Charlotte declined, except for a single outing with her father. It was time to develop an air of sophistication before traveling to a city like Brussels, and rude country dances did not fit her idea of refinement. Then there was the unwelcome presence of William Weightman. But she must tolerate him, since the rest of the family had seen fit to include him. Charlotte decided to use his presence as a test of her ability to encounter new and inconvenient circumstances. She was traveling to a country with different mores from those in England, a Catholic nation whose very religious institutions would include elements of corruption. Weightman would suffice for practice. Charlotte forced herself to converse with him, though she could not resist poking him with a needle of sarcasm.
“Mr. Weightman, how does Agnes Walton?” she asked when he stood near her filling his cup with punch.
He bowed and said, “I have not heard, Miss Brontë. We do not correspond regularly as before. I believe she may be engaged to a gentleman from London.”
“Indeed? You have let her get away from you?”
“I have,” he answered, and turned back to the punch bowl.
“And your family? Are they well?”
“I believe so.”
“Surely you know?”
“I would have heard if they were not,” Weightman said stiffly, and moved away to sit beside Anne.
Charlotte felt a pang of guilt. She already knew from Brontë family conversations that Weightman’s kin had distanced themselves. It was cruel, she supposed, to remind him of it on Christmas Eve. Still, she considered, he should be reminded of it. He had no business throwing away family connections, as well as a fiancée, for a place like Haworth. Let him go someplace where he might have more competition. Then we would see how William Weightman fared.
Christmas passed; Anne and Branwell returned to their positions. Patrick determined to accompany his daughters to their foreign destination. Charlotte drew up a list of French phrases for the trip (“S’il vous plait montrez moi le priver”—Please show me the toilet) and a list of preparations (repair tears and hems, sew handkerchiefs, nightgowns, petticoats, add pockets). She took the liberty of remonstrating with Emily (Sister, you must obtain new petticoats. The ones you have hang as limp upon you as a dishrag.) She received a poisonous look in return.
On the last Sunday in Haworth, Emily sat in the family pew, riveted on Weightman. She watched every movement as he moved from pulpit to table to altar rail, trying to memorize him. At home, while Aunt and her father took their naps and Charlotte made an inventory of their belongings, Emily sketched a drawing of Weightman in the pulpit, clad in his black gown and white bands, scanning the congregation. She placed it in the bottom of her trunk, along with sketches of Keeper and Nero, careful to cover them with clothes so that Charlotte wouldn’t see.
Then came the morning when the trio of Brontës were to set out on their journey. Patrick had hired a gig to take them to the railway station in Leeds; from there, they would travel to Euston Station for three days in London, then on to Brussels by boat. Charlotte’s trunk stood in the hallway and she watched impatiently out the parlor window for a sign of the rented conveyance. Emily was in the kitchen; she said her goodbyes to the geese and Nero and the cat Tiger, and then sat on the floor with her arms disconsolately around Keeper, who now and then licked her face. Tabby, as distressed as anyone to lose Emily, stood at the sink ferociously attacking the skillet she had used to fry the breakfast eggs.
Keeper roused himself at a rapping on the kitchen door, and then Weightman entered carrying a book. He looked at Tabby and said, “May I say a quick goodbye? Alone?”
Tabby went into the hall without a word and pulled the door shut behind her. Emily sensed she remained on the other side standing guard, and wondered if she and Weightman had conspired over the moment.
The curate held out the volume he carried. The poems of Shelley.
“I want you to have this,” he said.
Emily took the book and said, “To borrow, you mean.”
“I want you to have it,” he repeated. “To remember me by.”
She ducked her head. “It is very kind,” she said, and began to leaf through the volum
e. She stopped when she saw an inscription on the title page, in Weightman’s strong hand.
For Emily
With much love
W
Her eyes filled with tears. The hair she had tucked behind her ear fell across her face. Weightman reached out and brushed it back. He leaned close and whispered, “When you return, I hope we will have much to say to one another.”
Emily looked up and their eyes met, for what seemed an eternity. She thought she could not breathe. He leaned close and his lips gently brushed her forehead.
From the hallway, Charlotte called, “Emily, the coach is here. You must fetch your trunk.” Her voice came closer. Then, “Tabby, why on earth are you standing here?”
Weightman pressed Emily’s hand, and then he was gone.
He rejoined them as the gig prepared to depart, as though he had been working at his desk and sauntered across the lane to bid them farewell. Aunt Branwell was saying goodbye to each in turn. Emily hugged the old woman, who clung with a sudden ferocity.
“I pray,” Aunt Branwell said, “I was not unwise to use my money in this fashion.”
Emily could say nothing in return but “We are in God’s hands, Aunt.”
Aunt Branwell dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Willie,” Patrick said, “I know I leave the church in good hands. I will see you in a few weeks. He shook his curate’s hand.
Charlotte was so pleased to be away that she was friendly to Weightman. “Goodbye,” she said, offering her hand. “We are off on our great adventure.”
Then she followed her father as they saw to the lashing of the trunks to the back of the vehicle.
Emily turned to Weightman and said in a low voice, “I put the book in my trunk. I don’t want Charlotte to know I have it. But if she does find it, how shall I explain the inscription?”
“Tell her it is from Mr. Wheelhouse,” Weightman said.
Emily could not help the yelp of laughter that escaped her. Then she stood still. “I will miss you,” she whispered.
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