Emily's Ghost

by Denise Giardina

  “Of course not,” Emily said. “I think you must write about him.”

  “And you do not judge me for it?”

  “Only if it harms your writing rather than helps.”

  They walked on while Anne lingered behind. Charlotte declared, “My new heroine shall be small and plain. It has not been done before.”

  “But Anne has done that,” Emily pointed out. “In Agnes Grey.”

  “Oh bother,” Charlotte said, careful to note that Anne was out of hearing. “Who shall notice Agnes Grey?”

  So Charlotte turned to writing Jane Eyre. Though Emily did not press her sister, she thought she recognized some aspects of the principal characters. Small and plain Jane. St. John Rivers, an idealistic young clergyman who throws his life away on a quixotic missionary effort. The gruff and challenging Mr. Rochester with his raffish air of continental worldliness. And Rochester’s inconvenient wife whom Charlotte condemned to confinement as a madwoman. Emily thought Charlotte took particular pleasure in slamming the attic door upon Madame Heger.

  The sisters read aloud to one another in the evenings after their father had gone to bed. The readings were stimulating, but the Brontës also began to feel the strain of their shared efforts. They were sisters. They loved one another. They were also rivals, though they never admitted to it.

  During these readings, Emily grew uncomfortably aware that neither of her sisters approved of Wuthering Heights.

  “What appalling characters,” Charlotte complained after one of Emily’s readings. “They are none of them admirable. How shall anyone be drawn to them?”

  Emily, hurt by her sister’s remark, said, “I love them.”

  Charlotte continued as if Emily had not spoken. “Such lost souls! Especially that horrible Heathcliff!”

  Anne said nothing upon that occasion. But Emily noticed Anne and Charlotte exchanged glances as she read aloud. After bearing several such exchanges and appearing not to notice, Emily stopped in mid-sentence.

  “What?” she demanded. “Is my style unclear? Are my descriptions lacking?”

  “No, no,” Anne rushed to assure her.

  “It is not your style,” Charlotte said. “Though that is troubling enough in one way. Must you insist upon spelling out all the swear words, instead of substituting a dash in their place? Even men do not write so baldly.”

  “That is dishonest,” Emily said. “I write the way people speak. Readers hear the words in their minds anyway, so it is hypocritical to leave them out.”

  “But there is more,” Charlotte continued. “Your people are detestable.”

  Emily looked to Anne for her defense, but her sister remained silent.

  “Your story gives me nightmares,” Charlotte added.

  “Do not be so dramatic,” Emily said. “Only little children get nightmares from their reading. I thought you a grown woman.”

  “But much of the book is beautiful,” Anne broke her silence at last, trying to calm the waters. “The descriptions. The moors. And Nelly Dean is rather sweet. Though her judgment—”

  “Do not trust Nelly’s judgment,” Emily interrupted. “Or her sweetness.” She would not look at either of her sisters but focused upon straightening the pages of her manuscript.

  “Well,” Charlotte said, “Nelly is sensible enough. Though it is odd she has such importance for your story when she is only an uneducated servant. But she possesses a better character than Cathy. And Heathcliff—Heathcliff is demonic.”

  “I would not go so far,” Anne said. “He might be reformed if—”

  Emily slammed the manuscript down on the table in front of her. “Reformed? Would you dare reform him? He would curse you for it! And do you despise Heathcliff? Then despise me! Because I—” She jabbed her finger against her chest as she leaned forward across the table. “I am Heathcliff! I am!”

  “I don’t believe it,” Anne said. “Heathcliff is such a violent man, sister, and you are not.”

  “I am well acquainted with hate. There are times I could have killed, and gladly. I have it in me. You must not think otherwise.”

  Anne was shocked into silence. But Charlotte peered at her sister through narrowed eyes. “If you are Heathcliff,” she said softly, “then who is Cathy?”

  Emily turned away and would say nothing more.

  Once, as they lay together in bed at night, Emily ventured to share with Anne that she conversed with Weightman. She had longed to tell someone, and she could say anything to Anne, could she not? But she regretted it at once. Anne was quiet for so long that Emily felt her cheeks begin to burn. At last Anne said, “Sister. I hope you will not be hurt by this question. Is it possible that you are not talking to Mr. Weightman at all, but only to your imagination?”

  Emily took her own time in answering. At last she said, “If I am not talking to Willie, then I am mad.”

  She did not bring up the subject again.

  The sisters hid behind masculine noms de plume—Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. But when Jane Eyre was published to great acclaim—though with some complaints about its “coarseness”—Charlotte, longing to receive the acclaim she deserved, revealed herself to her publisher. Emily chose to remain hidden as the mysterious Ellis Bell. Most reviewers had disliked Wuthering Heights for its violent intensity. If Mr. Bell might be criticized for his tale of passion, how much more would the author of Wuthering Heights be savaged if known to be a woman? But Emily told herself she did not care about the book’s reception. She loved it, and that was enough.

  Anne’s Agnes Grey was largely ignored, but she was already hard at work on a new and more ambitious book, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Emily had also begun a new novel, which she called Heaven and Earth. She prayed she would have enough time to finish, for she felt the congestion in her lungs more acutely. The new book would be Willie’s book, since her central character was a clergyman who stood up for mill workers and fell in with Chartists.

  Charlotte was appalled at Emily’s subject matter. Wuthering Heights had been bad enough, and she could have wished it had never been published. But labor unrest and sedition, dear God! Charlotte could only hope her sister’s new project would be stillborn. When it continued to progress, she decided a more effective response would be to write a book on the same theme, but from a more acceptable point of view. She was now, after all, an acclaimed novelist. Perhaps Emily would feel shamed enough to quash her outlandish work. Rebellion thrives upon resistance, Charlotte thought, whereas discouragement is a strong deterrent. If that failed, Charlotte had the satisfaction of knowing that her new book would be read widely while the public would scarcely notice a volume by the disreputable and shadowy Ellis Bell. The picture Charlotte would present, of a long-suffering mill owner persecuted by his despicable workers, would carry the day. And so she began Shirley.

  The evening readings grew ever more contentious. Charlotte named her novel after a character, Shirley Keeldar, whom she declared would be modeled after Emily. Emily was shocked when Charlotte divulged this information, and resolved to pay close attention to her literary icon. Charlotte’s hero was a half-Belgian mill owner, another stand-in for Monsieur. Shirley was a rich young woman who owned a substantial share of the trade from his mill.

  Emily listened as Charlotte read, biting her tongue. But she spoke out at last when Charlotte described a scene of the mill at work. “‘It was eight o’clock,’” Charlotte read.

  “The mill lights were all extinguished; the signal was given for breakfast; the children, released for half an hour from toil, betook themselves to the little tin cans which held their coffee, and to the small baskets which contained their allowance of bread. Let us hope they have enough to eat; it would be a pity were it otherwise.”

  Emily stood. “What a horrible thing to write!” she cried. She would have spoken further, but she was forced to stop and cough. She turned toward the hearth until she could regain control.

  Charlotte was stung, though she should not have been surprised. “What do
you mean? Do I not describe the poor things tenderly? Do I not wish them the best?”

  Emily snatched up the sheet of paper. “‘Let us hope they have enough to eat; it would be a pity were it otherwise,’” Emily read in a sarcastic tone of voice. She threw the paper back across the table. “You know it is not so! You know they don’t have enough to eat. Poor bairns! You make light of their cold coffee and their dram of bread, which they cannot eat until they have worked hours before dawn. Then you send your Mr. Moore home to his pleasant cottage for a breakfast of hot coffee and bread and butter and stewed pears. A character you claim is based upon me makes money from this. It is intolerable! I will not be party to it even as a fictional character.”

  Charlotte could not help but laugh. “What choice does a fictional character have?” she asked.

  Anne could not recall Emily so angry since Charlotte had redone the portrait of their mother.

  Emily said, “What do we see of the workers in this novel of yours? A few depraved idiots, a simple poor man who has no better sense than to be bought off by your Mr. Moore. And a—a drunkard who suffers delirium tremens.” Even as she mentioned this last character, Emily saw the connection to Branwell. She realized others were based upon the liberal family of Charlotte’s school friend Mary Taylor, and upon Patrick and his curates. Charlotte is getting her revenge upon us all, Emily thought, in one fell swoop. “And how dare you compare me to this—this monster?”

  “Monster?” Charlotte was thunderstruck. “She is you, sister, if you were wealthy. That is my intent. And so she is not monstrous at all. I love her, as I love you. I give her the characteristics I most admire in you, especially your free spirit. Shirley even has a large dog like Keeper I have named Tartar.”

  “Oh yes, Shirley is like me,” Emily said sarcastically. “Shirley is not me, she is my daemonic opposite!”

  “She is you if you had wealth,” Charlotte repeated stubbornly.

  “If I were wealthy, I would be content to earn my living from the toil of little children? Then thank God I am not rich. I would sooner burn a mill than profit from it!”

  “You defend the lower orders as rabidly as a Jacobin!” Charlotte cried, her voice rising to meet Emily’s. “No wonder you were taken in by Celia Amelia and all his ridiculous—”

  Before she could say more, Emily ran out the front door, slamming it behind her.

  Charlotte went to the sofa and sat, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth, breathing hard. Anne remained at the table, studying her fingernails.

  When Charlotte felt calmer, she said, “Emily has grown more difficult over the years since we returned from Brussels. I blame the lingering influence of Mr. Weightman. He was bad for her, truly corrosive.”

  “I think,” Anne said, “you have presumed upon Emily in creating your character. She feels it a violation, and I believe it may be so.”

  Charlotte’s face was set. “My characters belong to no one,” she said, “except myself.”

  Anne said, “Yet Emily does not belong to you.” She blew out the rush candle that stood beside her and went to her room. Anne undressed and washed in solitude, stopping now and then to cough, for her asthma, as she still thought of it, was worse. She was alone when she lay down, but assumed she would wake up when Emily crawled into bed beside her.

  Except Emily spent the night in the church curled on her side above William Weightman’s grave.

  “Oh, Willie,” Emily whispered as she lay, her head cradled upon a kneeling cushion from a pew and her shawl wrapped about her, “Charlotte’s vision will prevail. She will be read and I will not be.”

  The fear of the writer, Willie said.

  Emily found this no comfort. Still, she ignored the cold of the flagstones, for she was happy to be where she was. At last she fell asleep.

  The end came quickly.

  Branwell disappeared for several weeks, no one knew where. When finally he was deposited in West Lane, brought back to Haworth by a carter who passed him lying beside the road, he picked himself up and headed not to the parsonage, but to the Black Bull. The publican had the sense to send for John Brown.

  Branwell’s face was sharply etched as a skull, his mouth slack, and his hair filthy and matted. He stank. Somehow Patrick and the three young women, two of them ill with consumption, got him up the stairs and into Patrick’s bed.

  But if the Black Bull now refused Branwell’s trade, still the local urchins could supply cheap drink, home-brewed rotgut, in exchange for coins to feed their families. One warm August morning, Anne came upon Branwell in the washhouse, happily drunk, a bottle cradled against his midsection.

  Then one morning Branwell tottered the length of Church Lane where he met a lad bearing a flask in the pocket of his jacket. Branwell could not fix upon the boy, for the lane seemed to change shape and run on forever. The surrounding graves loomed close and the steeple of the church threatened to topple over and crush him. Branwell staggered.

  The boy was glad enough to pass on the flask, and Branwell was happy to reward him. Too many coins, for the boy snatched them and ran off. Perhaps Branwell had not counted properly.

  Then the world flipped, the lane crashed upon him, and the precious flask smashed to bits upon the pavement, liquor running down the paving stones to contribute to the inebriation of any insects that still survived the autumn.

  Branwell was past caring.

  He was in bed. His father’s bed? Branwell was strangely lucid. He clearly saw the people in the room. Charlotte in the far corner, staring at him with sorrow and contempt. Anne beside her, weeping, her blond hair straggling into her face. Mr. Wheelhouse, his face a mask.

  A matter of hours at most, Mr. Wheelhouse said.

  His father was close on one side, gripping his hand. Pray, my son. Will you not pray?

  “Papa,” Branwell said, “I have not prayed in so long. How can I? I don’t believe.”

  Someone’s arm was around him. Emily. She sat upon the bed and leaned close, her mouth to his ear.

  “You’re going on,” she said. “And Willie will be waiting to greet you.”

  “Are you sure?” Branwell said. He seized up, gripped Emily’s hand, and rose up from his pillow, his mouth open.

  “Papa,” Emily implored.

  Patrick began to pray. “Into your hands, merciful Savior, we commend dear Branwell, a lamb of your own flock. Receive him into the arms of your mercy. Amen.”

  Branwell said, “Amen.” His eyes turned up and the light went out of them.

  Charlotte was so upset she took to her bed, leaving Emily and Anne, despite their growing weakness, to make the funeral preparations. A friend of their father’s would preach the sermon, and must be fed and housed, and mourners who stopped by the parsonage to offer condolences must likewise be provided with refreshment. The funeral procession then traveled the short distance from house to church in a cold driving rain. When the service was done, Patrick, more aware than ever of his family’s fragile health, sent his daughters home. Charlotte and Anne negotiated the distance to the parsonage, their bombazine garments blown about by the early east wind like blackbirds in flight.

  Emily insisted upon following the coffin to the back of the church building where John Brown pried open the door to the crypt and guided Branwell’s coffin inside. He and another pallbearer shoved the coffin through the low entrance into the vault that held the Brontë remains. But Emily, shivering against the cold, only had eyes for the single wood box that rested apart at the entrance, one end visible in the gray light.

  She clutched her father’s sleeve. “Is that Willie?”

  Patrick said, “Yes. That is where we placed poor Willie.”

  Emily dropped the umbrella she held against the rain and moved through the doorway, where John Brown stood. The sexton was so startled he took a step back and stumbled. Emily stopped as the smell of damp decay assaulted her.

  Patrick reached out and put his arm around her thin shoulders.

  “Come home now, Emily,
” he said.

  She allowed him to guide her back outside and up to the parsonage. It was the last time she would walk though the door, for she had caught the chill that would bring her consumption to a climax.

  Emily spoke with William Weightman at every moment. Their thoughts flowed back and forth across the abyss as though each reached without impediment into the mind of the other. Emily continued to do her chores. On her last day, she dressed herself and made her painful way downstairs, each breath as sharp as a stabbing knife. She almost fell when carrying the dogs’ food bowls to the back door. And yet she remained leaning against the wall as Keeper ate his fill. Then Emily Brontë went into the parlor and swooned upon the sofa.

  John Brown and another man were summoned to carry her upstairs to her bed. Emily looked out her window. She could see the church, and the moors beyond. That was all she wanted.

  Her father and sisters gathered round. Tabby sat at the foot of the bed, dabbing her eyes with her apron.

  “Keeper,” Emily said, “where is Keeper?”

  The dog was lying across the doorway, a worried expression on his face. He raised his head and cocked it at the sound of his name.

  Patrick fetched the dog and urged him up on the bed. Keeper leaped up, turned round several times, and then settled at Emily’s side. He licked her face, and then he dropped his head, resting it upon her shoulder. Emily twined her fingers in his fur and looked out the window toward the church.

  At a great distance, she heard Charlotte say, “Is she smiling? How can that be?”

  Willie, what does she know of joy? Emily thought.

  A sharp pain caused her to double over. When the spasm had passed, she managed to say, “Perhaps—perhaps I will see Mr. Wheelhouse now.”

  But by the time Mr. Wheelhouse arrived, the pain had lessened and Emily rested more comfortably save for the invisible hand that clamped her neck. She refused the laudanum the doctor urged upon her. She feared she might, under the drug’s influence, miss her first sight of the world to come.