“I have nothing further,” Patrick said.
“Then I am needed in Gauger’s Croft.”
14
The disturbance at the Bridgehouse Mill did not catch William Weightman by surprise. Haworth was a tinderbox ready to be set off. Weightman was aware that sometimes, when he spoke with workers from the mills, they were being watched. He had begun to suspect that a few were being paid by the mill owners to spy on their fellows, but so far his own position had given him a natural reason to be among them without raising suspicion. He wondered if that was beginning to change. Soon enough his worries would be far greater.
Patrick Brontë and William Weightman had long suspected the well water of the village was compromised, for a single privy used by a dozen families stood hard up against the water cisterns, and the cesspools beneath overflowed. The Head Well, which provided much of Gauger’s Croft with its water for washing and drinking, turned green and brackish that summer. Weightman carried a pail of the scummy mess to the high street where Mr. Wheelhouse had his office. The curate called the doctor outside and set the pail beside Wheelhouse’s horse, which was tethered nearby. The horse sniffed and turned his head away.
“Even a beast will not take it,” Weightman said angrily. “Yet this is what our people are supposed to use.”
“And what,” said Wheelhouse, cross at being disturbed, “am I supposed to do about it? It has been this way since long before you arrived and will no doubt be so when you are gone.”
“I will write a letter to the authorities in London,” said Weightman. “Again. This time I hope to have a great number of signatures on it, and yours should be at the top. Something must be done and it is beyond our scope here.”
Weightman wrote the letter and Wheelhouse agreed to sign. But when Weightman made the rounds of the more prosperous citizens of Haworth, the mill owners and shopkeepers, he was met with refusals. We have access to a private cistern at Sowden Spring, he was told, whose fresh water is piped into our houses, and we will not pay higher tax rates for the sake of some lavish new water system. It would do no good anyway, for the poor are happy to be filthy and will be naturally so, no matter what advantages they are offered.
So Weightman sent his letter, with the signatures of Patrick and Wheelhouse and a few others to London, where it, like the letters before it, disappeared.
And then, in late August, even as he waited for an answer from London that never came, even as word came down from Bradford for workers to pull the plugs in the mill boilers and step away from their looms, a different sort of call came to William Weightman. He emerged from the Sunday school where he had been preparing his sermon when young Samuel Bland came running up and tugged at his arm.
“Mr. Weightman, Mr. Weightman, come quick! Gram has collapsed and cries out something terrible, and can’t get up! Mr. Wheelhouse is sent for.”
“Where is she, Samuel?”
“They have carried her home,” came the answer over the boy’s shoulder, for Samuel had turned and run back down the hill.
Weightman went inside for his Bible and then set out for the single room in Gauger’s Croft where old Mary Bland lived with only her grandson for company, and subsisted on the pittance the boy brought home from his job at the Ebor Mill. But when Weightman reached the cellar, Mr. Wheelhouse was coming out, his face white with terror.
“Don’t go in, Mr. Weightman,” he said in a strained voice. “There’s naught you or I can do here. She’s near death, and a sure and sudden death it is.”
“Then she needs the benefit of clergy,” Weightman said, and started to push past.
Wheelhouse continued to block the door. “You don’t understand, Mr. Weightman. Cholera has come to Haworth.”
Weightman stared at him and took a step back.
“Aye,” added Wheelhouse, “and the farther back we stay from it, the better off we shall be.”
“There’s nothing you’ll do for her?” Weightman managed to ask.
“There’s nothing I can do,” Wheelhouse said. “Except warn people away from Gauger’s Croft. And I can try to ensure that Haworth still has a living doctor at the end of the week.” Wheelhouse put on his hat and walked away down the alley and out the arched tunnel into the high street.
Weightman stood still long after Wheelhouse had disappeared. He clutched his Bible, and he prayed. He thought of Emily, soon to come home, and how he longed to see her again. Oh God, please, he prayed. At last he pushed open the door and went inside to give the last rites to Mary Bland.
Patrick Brontë invited William Weightman into the parsonage, but Weightman refused, upon the advice of Mr. Wheelhouse. So they talked from a distance, Patrick in his doorway with Branwell at his side, and Weightman standing at the gate to Church Lane.
“The physicians have no idea how it spreads,” Weightman said, “Whether by touch, or respiration, or some other means. Except it comes upon a person suddenly. And yet it is capricious and some are never affected.”
Patrick said, “Mr. Wheelhouse guesses it to be a miasma of some sort that attaches itself to an area. He says that poorer precincts are especially prone to cholera, and wonders if it has something to do with cleanliness. But it is indeed quick to spread. He has heard of ten cases already today, all in Gauger’s Croft, but nowhere else in Haworth.”
“Then I should not come in,” Weightman said. “I have given Mary Bland the last rites. And I have ordered young Samuel to bed, for I fear he is infected. His stomach gives him terrible cramps.”
“The Merralls are making ready to leave,” Branwell said.
“Oh yes,” Patrick said, his voice bitter. “I suspect good Mr. Wheelhouse is making the rounds of all the mill owners, urging them out. No doubt they will be in York or at the seashore this time tomorrow.”
“Perhaps, Willie, you should go home and wait overnight,” Branwell ventured. “Then if you are all right, and surely you will be, you need not fear to come to us.”
“No,” Weightman said. “With your father’s permission, I am going to send the Widow Ogden and her servant to the parsonage. That way no one else will be at Cook Gate if I am affected.”
“Willie,” Branwell pleaded, “surely you don’t plan to go back to Gauger’s Croft?”
Weightman didn’t answer, but looked at Patrick, who closed his eyes and said, “Let me go in your place. I am an old man.”
“No,” Weightman said. “You have dependents to consider. I have none. Besides, I doubt there shall be much sleep to be had, and you know you are not up to that at your age.”
“Willie—”
“Here is what I propose,” Weightman continued as if Patrick hadn’t spoken. “I shall go into Gauger’s Croft and return to the Widow’s house, when I need to rest. I shall not attempt to go to another part of the village. That means I should not be in church this Sunday, or Sunday School.”
“I think,” Patrick said, “we shall close the Sunday school until the crisis is past, to keep the children from gathering.”
“You must handle all the services as well,” Weightman said, “the baptisms and funerals.” He paused and gave a bitter smile. “I doubt there will be calls for weddings just now.”
“No,” Patrick said. He was having difficulty seeing Weightman’s face clearly, whether because of his failing eyesight or for the tears in his eyes, he could not be certain.
“How may I help?” Branwell said in a small voice.
“You may take over one of my charges,” Weightman said. “Someone must look after Keeper and Nero.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Branwell said. “You know I am no hero, and yet it is cruel to remind me.”
“I am not making fun,” Weightman said. “I take their care seriously for Emily’s sake, so you should too. It would be a great kindness to her and to me.” He turned away and started out the gate.
“Willie!” Patrick said sharply. “If this disease has come to Haworth, then there is no saving the people who will contract it. Will you not foll
ow the example of those who are able, and leave? Or at least won’t you ride out the storm here with us?”
Weightman turned and considered him a moment. “Are you my tempter?” he asked.
Patrick said, “I suggest it, even if I should not, as an old man who wishes the survival of a young man he has grown terribly fond of.”
“And if I should leave,” Weightman said, “would you?”
“No,” Patrick said.
“And would you visit the sick in my place?”
Patrick took a deep breath. Then he said reluctantly, for he feared his answer sealed Weightman’s fate, “Yes.”
Weightman studied him a moment, an affectionate smile playing upon his face. Then he gave a slight bow and said, “The poor of Haworth will die without a physician. But they need not die without a minister.”
Cholera ran like wildfire through Gauger’s Croft, and by week’s end over a hundred people died. The manner of their passing terrorized the living. One woke feeling well, by noonday all bodily fluid had drained, and when light was out cold dead flesh lay upon a slab. An unfortunate few lingered in agony for days.
William Weightman sat exhausted inside a weaver’s hut on Sunday morning, listening to St. Michael’s church bell. He expected the service would be sparsely attended. The wealthier members of the church had fled the district; most of the others cowered in their homes, afraid of contagion. Still Weightman wept to hear the tolling of the bell. It was the first Sunday in all his time in Haworth that he would not climb the steps to the chancel, prayer book in hand. In his mind’s eye he followed Patrick up into the high pulpit, even as he gripped the hand of the woman beside him, whose young daughter writhed in agony upon a narrow cot.
The authorities, warned by Mr. Wheelhouse, feared the bodies of the dead might be contagious, and there were too many for conventional burial. So a lime-filled pit was readied in the pasture beyond the cemetery. The bodies were wrapped in shrouds, carried out by men careful to touch nothing but cloth, and dumped one by one. The funerals Patrick conducted were short and perfunctory. Survivors were not allowed to attend for fear of spreading disease.
Branwell brought mail and a newspaper each day to the stone gateway across from the Black Bull. These he weighted down with a large stone where someone was sure to find it and take it to Weightman. Everyone in Gauger’s Croft knew where to find the curate, for no one was in greater demand. Even the sick from dissenting families sought him out, for Patrick had gone to his fellow Methodist and Baptist clergy, all of them men with families of their own to care for, and urged them to stay away, and turn their parishioners over to Weightman’s spiritual care for the duration. Weightman prayed for each sufferer as requested, prayer book collects for the Church folk, extemporaneously in response to the leading of the Holy Spirit for those from the chapels. So for the first time in many years, the churches of Haworth were one.
Then Branwell sent word that he wished to meet Weightman at the arch. When the curate arrived, climbing up the steep incline, Branwell was leaning against the cool stone wall, but straightened as Weightman approached.
“My God, Willie,” he said, “you look as though you could fall asleep standing up.”
Weightman shrugged, rubbed the stubble of beard on his chin, and said, “I find a few hours’ sleep here and there.” He managed to smile and said, “I would offer you my hand, but I know you would rather I did not.” He looked Branwell up and down. “So,” he said, “you seem sober enough.”
“How can I drink,” Branwell said, “when you go through this?”
“How is your father?”
“He manages. Tabby is gone to stay with her sister. I think the sister wants some company because of the cholera. But we have your Widow Ogden and her Ruth to help now.”
“How is the Widow getting on in the same house with Aunt Branwell?”
“Like a house afire,” Branwell said. “The two old ladies rather like the companionship. And both of them say prayers for you every five minutes or so.”
Weightman laughed. “The Lord will be forced to protect me then, to be done with the badgering.”
Branwell reached inside his vest and pulled out a letter. “We have heard from my sisters. Charlotte writes Monsieur Heger has offered to let them stay until Christmas, instead of coming home. He values my sisters, apparently,” Branwell said, as though he could not quite believe it. In return for their keep, he explained, Charlotte would teach English, and Emily give music lessons. “Charlotte is ecstatic, and Papa is relieved because he thinks them safe in Brussels. But Emily is furious.”
“Your father has not told them of our situation?”
“No. He does not wish to worry them.” Branwell handed Weightman the letter, and did not admit he had sneaked a glance. Weightman recognized Emily’s handwriting; he read her anguished plea to her father that she had no wish to remain in Belgium. A second sheet was addressed to Weightman.
“‘Dear Willie,’” he read,
“I have done what everyone has asked of me. But I cannot stay until Christmas. The heather will be in bloom; we said I would be home in time for it. I suffocate to be upon the moors. I can find my own way home. I don’t care if traveling alone is unconventional, I don’t. I miss you, and Papa, and Keeper and Nero. If Charlotte will not come with me, I will leave without her and come alone, I swear it.
Your Emily”
Branwell watched Weightman, a quizzical expression on his face. Weightman folded the letter. “When you go home, you must write to Emily at once. Since we don’t know how cholera spreads, I do not wish to send her a letter of my own. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes,” Branwell said, “but I must ask, for this letter is addressed to you, and familiarly. Have you been corresponding with my sister?”
“I have,” Weightman said.
“With Emily? But why have you said nothing about—”
“It has been none of your business,” Weightman interrupted, not unkindly but firmly. “Now do as I say.”
“Shall I tell Emily we have cholera? To convince her to stay?”
Weightman sighed and said, “Perhaps it is wrong of me, but I am afraid for her to know. Her first reaction will be to come back. Do you understand how brave your sister is, and how stubborn?”
“I suppose so,” Branwell replied.
“You must write that she should remain in Brussels with Charlotte and continue her studies. Tell her you write in my place because I am at Appleby, but I have informed you by letter that I wish her to stay.” Weightman pressed his hand to his forehead. “She will be hurt, and angry. She will wonder why I do not write her myself. She may well believe I no longer care for her. But her disappointment is more likely to keep her safely away.”
“Willie, you say it is none of my business. But she is my sister, and you are my good friend. May I not understand the nature of your relationship?”
Weightman swayed on his feet. He put out his arm to steady himself against the wall. “I am in love with Emily,” he said.
Branwell did not know whether to be pleased, shocked, or amused. “Good Lord. Is it not like being in love with a tiger?”
“Oh yes. But by God, were it not for the danger to her, I would want her close. She fights.” Weightman took a step back, as though he stood too near to Branwell for the latter’s safety. Then he said, “If I don’t survive, tell her that I love her and wished more than anything to see her again. As for the letter at hand, tell her to stay in Belgium. Give her no hope that might cause her to return early.”
Emily Brontë was angry with Charlotte and even more furious with William Weightman. When Charlotte informed her they could remain at the Pensionnat Heger until Christmas (not asking Emily’s opinion, mind you, but assuming she would be pleased), Emily saw Weightman as her strongest ally. But he betrayed her.
Weightman had for a time written of various “possibilities,” as he termed them.
Although you remain unhappy in Brussels, it seems to me you have gro
wn. I am anxious to see you again and judge how much this is so.
After several mentions of this sort, Emily grew irritated. Did Weightman believe he had sent away some sort of oddity who would return with all her eccentricities worn away by her time in society? It would not happen.
Then another letter arrived.
“Your father has been supportive of my work here,” Weightman wrote.
But if the fullness of my connection to the Chartists becomes known—and I fear that may be inevitable—the mill owners in the district will be enraged. Since they are prominent in our parish, your father will have no choice but to let me go. It may be that the only way I will be able to exercise my ministry will be abroad, in Canada or America.
Dearest Emily, I know you are hesitant to marry for it might impinge upon your freedom, and you cannot see yourself in a parlor as a pastor’s wife entertaining the ladies of the congregation. I know the strength of your attachment to the moors.
But if you had a husband who respected your need for freedom and, yes, your singularities; if you lost your beloved moors but gained a companion who would accompany you into the larger world and one even more wild and free, would you go?
I do not want an answer now. It would be unfair to both of us. But I hope you will think about what I am suggesting. We will talk when you return.
Yrs—Willie
Emily did think about it. And in addition to what Weightman wrote, she could no longer ignore the physical nature of her love for him, which had only been intensified by the separation. After so long apart, she thought that if he should somehow materialize at her side, only the touch of a fingertip anywhere on her body would send her into a frenzy.
Emily took a vow. William Weightman had repeated his promise they would have something significant to talk about when she returned. Emily would hold him to that promise. And if he could offer some way for them to be together without sacrificing his ministry or her freedom, she was willing to try, even if it meant leaving Haworth.
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