Always Emily

by Michaela MacColl

  “Don’t go setting your cap at him, young lady,” Tabby said, shaking the knife at Charlotte. “He’s not a good man.”

  “You’re being ridiculous, Tabby,” Charlotte exclaimed. “I mistrusted him on sight.”

  Tabby rolled her eyes.

  “What happened to the girl?” Charlotte asked hurriedly. “I don’t recall.” Tabby frowned. “I remember hearing she took her son’s leaving very hard.”

  Charlotte asked slowly, “Could the woman I met today been his sister? He called her Rachel. Could she have fallen so far?”

  Tabby’s eyes glittered with the prospect of a rich tidbit of gossip. “Maybe.”

  “If it is her,” Charlotte mused, “she’s afraid of her brother. Something’s not right there.”

  “Well, Miss Charlotte. Remember your father’s first rule.”

  “Don’t meddle in parish affairs. I know. It’s curious, though, don’t you think?”

  “I’d rather hear about that school of yours.”

  Obediently, Charlotte told Tabby all about school, not mincing any words. Tabby laughed and laughed at Charlotte’s unkind descriptions of her students. “And you are fed well at school? It’s warm enough?”

  Charlotte had undergone this catechism upon every return from school. “Of course. Roe Head is not like that other school.”

  They were both silent, remembering how Maria and Elizabeth had suffered. The cold and damp, combined with the inadequate food, had killed them, of that Charlotte was certain. “I suppose Emily and I should consider ourselves fortunate to have survived,” she said quietly.

  “The Lord only takes those he needs. You and Emily were spared because you have wonderful futures in front of you.”

  But didn’t her other sisters have wonderful futures, too? Charlotte wondered. She pushed away the blasphemous thought. Glancing out the kitchen window, she saw a flash of unmistakable red hair. Branwell was passing by the house without coming in. Remembering what everyone had said about his erratic behavior, she decided to find out for herself. “How much time do I have before supper?” she asked.

  “At least an hour.”

  “I won’t be that long.” Charlotte slipped out the back door and ran with light steps around the house to let herself out the front gate. Branwell had disappeared. He might be in the church, she thought, although she was hard-pressed to think of a reason.

  Skirting the graveyard, she entered the church. It was empty at this hour; no Branwell. Well, if she couldn’t visit with her live brother, she’d spend some time with her dead sisters. Charlotte’s feet led her unerringly to the gravestone in the floor.

  Staring down, she murmured, “Hello, Elizabeth. I’m back from school. I wanted to let you know I haven’t forgotten you and Maria.”

  The tall church door creaked open and Charlotte fell silent. Emily would happily talk to the dead in front of the whole congregation, but Charlotte was shyer. When footsteps headed toward her, she ducked into a pew box and crouched down. She peeked over the box and saw it was John Brown, her father’s sexton for the past ten years. He lived across from the parsonage above his own workshop, digging graves, carving tombstones, and keeping the church in good order. He had a broom and was heading for the vestry when another voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “John!” It was her brother’s voice.

  Charlotte started to get to her feet. How fortuitous! Branwell had found her.

  “Worshipful Master!” Branwell called.

  Worshipful Master? Charlotte stiffened. Why was Bran-well calling Mr. Brown such a ridiculous name? She experienced a sense of unease and stepped back into the shadows of the pew box.

  John Brown turned around, scowled, and with a sharp motion drew his finger across his throat.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot,” Branwell stammered.

  John’s stern face relaxed. “You’re new to our ways. But remember, you are sworn to secrecy.”

  “Not yet I’m not,” Branwell said. Charlotte recognized the touch of sullenness in his voice. “But I want to be.”

  “Do you have the money?”

  Branwell reached into his pocket and pulled out two sovereigns. A fortune for a poor man with no income. Charlotte wondered where he had gotten it. “When will it happen?” Branwell asked.

  “Friday.”

  Branwell’s face lit up and abandoned his momentary disgruntlement. “So soon? Finally I’ll be one of you!”

  “If you survive the ritual,” John said with a smile.

  Charlotte almost jumped up from the pew to demand what was going to happen to her little brother two days hence. After a moment’s reflection, she decided she might learn more if she stayed concealed.

  “Where?” Branwell asked, apparently undaunted by the danger.

  “Newall Street. At six o’clock. You remember the sign I taught you?”

  Branwell started to hold up his fingers in the shape of a V but John batted his hand down.

  “Idiot! You must be discreet. The price for breaching our secrets is high.”

  “Of course, of course.” Branwell was practically trembling with excitement. “Six o’clock on Friday. Newall Street. I’ll be there.”

  John Brown nodded solemnly and the two parted ways.

  From her hiding place, Charlotte was trembling herself with fear for her feckless brother.

  “Oh, Branwell, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” she whispered.

  “You’d better let the dog alone,”

  growled Mr. Heathcliff. . . .

  “She’s not accustomed to be spoiled—

  not kept for a pet.”

  You’ve been home barely a day, Charlotte, and already you’re insufferable!” Emily flung Charlotte’s list of chores on the floor and folded her arms tightly across her chest. “I managed my chores perfectly well when you were away.”

  “I thought a schedule of tasks would be useful.” Charlotte plucked the hateful paper from the floor and waved it in Emily’s direction.

  Charlotte’s constant need to tidy everything and order everyone about was driving Emily mad. “My dear sister, we all do our share without being told.”

  “Is that so? It must be pleasant not to have any obligations or responsibilities. No wonder you left school!”

  “And why did you leave school, Charlotte?” Emily shot back. “That’s the only subject you’ve been reticent on.”

  “I’m going back to Roe Head,” Charlotte said. “Which is more than I can say for you. Your illness conveniently brought you home, exactly where you wanted to be.”

  “That’s unkind,” Emily retorted. “But surely it was a good thing I left, else I’d be transformed into a miserable tyrant like you!”

  “That’s a wicked thing to say!”

  Emily didn’t back down an inch. “I wish you had stayed at Roe Head. The house was a happier place without you in it.”

  Charlotte recoiled and red patches appeared high on her cheeks. She closed her lips in a tight line and deliberately tore the paper in half. “Are you happy now?” As the pieces fluttered to the floor, she turned and headed for the study door. “I’m going to the kitchen, where my contributions are valued.”

  “You’ll have to go farther than that!” Emily shouted after her. Leaving her shawl behind, she ran out of the front door, through the gate, and onto the path leading to the moors. Let Charlotte make her lists—Emily would do as she pleased.

  A stiff breeze whipped her skirt around, pressing it against her legs. That was another thing Charlotte had scolded her about. “It’s not proper,” Charlotte had said. What rule said Emily must wear at least three petticoats to give the dress some shape? Especially since she would just get them dirty. Emily wasn’t bothered; why should Charlotte be?

  It was a lovely day. The bright morning sun was blinding across the limitless moor. The sky was a brilliant autumn blue, but in the north Emily could see the gathering of storm clouds on the horizon. She reached the place where two moorland paths intersecte
d. She could go east to her favorite waterfall . . . or west toward Ponden Hall and her mystery man from the other night. Her father’s admonitions rang in her ears. But she told herself there couldn’t be any danger in full light of day and headed west.

  Soon she was a stone’s throw from the camp where she had received her scare two nights ago. She did wish she had her father’s pistol weighing down her pocket. To her father’s surprise, if not her own, Emily had been a good shot. Now that Charlotte was back, who knew how long it would be before she got another lesson?

  The campsite was tucked into a fold of a hill and was almost invisible unless you were looking for it. Emily realized she had only found it that night because she had followed the light of the campfire. There was no smoke from a fire now.

  In the daylight she could see there was a canvas tent set up in the shadow of the hill. Unless she was mistaken, if she climbed to the top of the hill, she would have an excellent view of Ponden Hall. The shelter would be inadequate in the winter, but until the autumn turned colder, it would protect the occupant from the rain. Just beyond the rock was a small natural spring. It was a good spot to set up camp.

  She heard a low snarl. Clutching the stick like a weapon, she advanced into the camp. The huge mastiff whose acquaintance she had made two nights earlier lay on the ground. A chain from his collar twisted around a rock formation to keep him tethered. He lifted his head and panted. His tongue was lolling as though he were desperately thirsty.

  Where was the stranger? Scanning the surrounding countryside, Emily edged up to the campsite. The fire was mostly out, but when she poked at the embers with a stick, she saw some were still glowing. Someone had been here recently.

  Finding a small bucket by the fire, she dipped it into the small spring. She brought the bucket to the dog’s mouth. He was so eager to get his massive snout into the can that he knocked it out of her hands. She grabbed his collar to hold him back. Without warning, he snarled at her and nipped at her arm, drawing blood.

  “Ow!” Emily cried. “Why would you do such a thing?” When she looked closer, she saw the leather collar was too tight and had rubbed his skin so badly there was an open sore. “You poor thing! Let me get that off you.” Emily unhooked the heavy collar and flung it aside. The chain clinked as it hit the ground. “What kind of devil would lock you up like this?”

  Only then did it occur to her the dog might attack. But no, her instincts were sound. His tail thudded even faster than her beating heart and he eyed the water thirstily. She held it firmly on the ground so he could drink it without mishap. She rubbed the top of his bony head with her free hand. Her arm throbbed.

  “Boy, you didn’t mean to do it. Your master is to blame. And I’ll be sure to tell him so if I meet him.”

  The dog whimpered. He drank deeply, pressing his whole body against her. She thumped him on the side.

  “You’re a good dog, aren’t you? You’re a keeper.”

  He wagged his tail and she grinned. “Keeper? You like that name? Then Keeper you shall be.” She cringed to think of what her father would say when she brought the enormous dog home. On the other hand, her father couldn’t hope to find a better guard dog. Who would bother her with Keeper at her side?

  She dunked her handkerchief in the remaining water and cleaned her arm around the bite. She would have to do something about that when she got home. But for now, she was going to find out about the absentee landlord of this fine estate. She took a long look round to make sure she was truly alone, then ducked under the canvas.

  She explored the tidy area. Several blankets were neatly rolled up against the tent wall. There was a small wooden trunk—easily portable. It was irresistible. Without a qualm, Emily tried to lift the latch. It was locked. She examined the lock; it was not a complex one. She pulled out one of the few hairpins still in her untidy hair. With a little poking and manipulation of the tumblers, she managed to open the trunk.

  The hairs on the back of her neck rose when she thought of what the owner might say if he found her rummaging through his belongings. Overcoming her scruples, she looked inside.

  There was a change of men’s clothing. Whoever her mysterious stranger was, he knew about clothes of quality. Beneath the clothes was a cache of newspapers. She picked them up, recognizing the Leeds Mercury. Her father subscribed to it, too, often contributing polemical letters to the editor or the occasional poem.

  There was the obituary about Mr. Paul Heaton of Ponden Hall. As Emily leafed through the clippings, she noticed they were all about the strife between the millworkers and the owners. But in every newspaper story, the Heaton mills were mentioned, particularly the huge capital improvements in the mills made by Robert Heaton, the heir to the family fortune. Surely the site of the camp, so near to Ponden Hall, was no coincidence.

  She dug a little deeper and found several leather-bound books. Hmmm. Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. She hadn’t read that in years. In fact, as she recalled, she had been forced to read it secretly at Ponden Hall. Even her father, a liberal in so many respects, had balked at giving Byron to an eleven-year-old.

  She opened the book and saw a bookplate from Ponden Hall on the endpaper. So the mystery man had access somehow to the Heaton library.

  There was a map of the Haworth Moor—she had never seen one so detailed. It was filled with pen scratches, as though someone was marking off locations. A treasure map perhaps? But she had never heard the moor had any buried gold—or any wealth at all.

  In the farthest corner of the trunk, she found a small box. She pulled it out—it was heavy with a rattling sound inside. She brought it into the light and pursed her lips. She had handled a similar box only yesterday morning. The box contained lead balls for a pistol. With a sense of urgency, she rummaged through everything again, searching for the gun that went with the ammunition.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” An angry male voice took her breath away. She dropped the lid closed and whirled around.

  A tall stranger, his face shadowed by a hat, pointed a gun at her heart. Now she knew where the pistol was.

  You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre;

  and though you are not pretty any more than

  I am handsome, yet a puzzled air becomes you.

  Charlotte shoved open the kitchen door with both hands, slamming it into the wall.

  “Miss Charlotte, gently with the door!” Tabby ordered. She was at the large sink, peeling potatoes. “That wall was just whitewashed and there you go scuffing it. That’s not like you.”

  Charlotte pulled up a stool next to Tabby. “Don’t scold me, Tabby. I’ve just had a blazing row with Emily.” She began to arrange the carrots on the table in order of length.

  Tabby chuckled. Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “Pray tell, Tabitha, what is so amusing?”

  “We’ve been wondering when you and Emily would have words. Your father thought the peace would last at least another day. I knew better.”

  “That’s outrageous,” Charlotte sputtered. “Just because Emily is aggravation personified.” She put her elbows on the kitchen table and rested her chin in her hands. Tabby, from long practice, let Charlotte fume in silence. “I don’t like being predictable,” she complained finally.

  Tabby looked up from her peeling. “You and Emily have always struck sparks off each other. I think it is because you are so different.”

  “Precisely!” Charlotte answered. “Emily is impossible and I’m not!”

  A small grin appeared on Tabby’s broad face. Her skin, pale like that of so many Yorkshirewomen, was flushed from the heat of the stove.

  “I thought everyone would be happy to see me,” Charlotte said in a low voice, blinking back tears.

  “We are, dear,” Tabby said, placing the peeled potato in a pot filled with water.

  Charlotte pointed to the potato. “You missed that eye.”

  The grin disappeared. “I will say, Miss Charlotte,” Tabby said, without looking at Charlotte’s fac
e as she fished the potato out of the water, “no one complained about my potatoes while you were away.”

  Grinding her teeth, Charlotte swung her legs down from the stool and stormed out, taking care not to slam the kitchen door on the way out. She thought of visiting with her father, but he was busy in his study and wouldn’t welcome any interruptions, even though she had noticed this morning there were cobwebs in the corners above his bookcases. It was on the list of chores Emily had so despised.

  She flounced down on the horsehair sofa in the parlor and indulged in a self-pitying moment. “Doesn’t anyone want me?” she muttered. She thought of looking for Branwell, but not for very long.

  Once, Charlotte and Branwell had been the closest of all the children. He had led their literary adventures and she had gladly followed. But lately he had no interest in reviving their collaboration. She had offered to read his work or show him her own, but he had rejected her every overture. Something was amiss with Branwell, and Charlotte was certain it had to do with his secretive conversations with John Brown.

  A large silence filled the parlor as she steeled herself to confront her true grievance. It wasn’t dissatisfaction with her family, but with herself. She had nearly lost her job because she could not stop writing at Roe Head. Now she was home, but she had yet to pick up her pen. Instead, she felt the weight of the household on her shoulders. Every dusty corner, unpolished window, or unbeaten carpet haunted her waking moments. Worse was the paralyzing fear that something—an illness or an accident—might take down her father, and then what would happen to them all? If only she could just put aside her cares and write!

  There was a knock at the front door. Delighted at the prospect of someone to talk to, Charlotte ran to answer it. She flung open the door and gaped when she saw the sardonic Robert Heaton.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Mr. Heaton,” she managed to say. Unbidden, he had invaded her thoughts several times in the past few days. Her mental image matched the actual man in every respect. She reexamined him with a critical eye, remembering Tabby’s report of his cruelty. But he was no duke of Angria to be banished with a stroke of the pen; he was standing impatiently in her doorway. “What are you doing here?” she asked faintly.