Always Emily

by Michaela MacColl

  The raspy voice said, “Do you have the compass and the rope?”

  Charlotte willed herself not to flinch as his hands searched around the chest. “Here they are,” the other voice said. With a snigger, he added, “I’ve got the pants, too.” The chest lid slammed down, but didn’t lock because of her forethought to place a chisel in the hinge.

  Charlotte breathed again. Cautiously, she peeked out to see the curtains had been drawn and the sliver of light became brighter as candelabras were lit. A thick, sweet smell of incense penetrated her hiding place. She pinched her nose closed to keep from sneezing.

  There was a long silence, then after a few minutes, the room filled with men speaking in hushed tones. Not unlike church, Charlotte thought irreverently. Two men moved to the corner where her hiding place was, as though they wanted to speak privately.

  “So, Brother, is the Initiate ready?” Charlotte knew that voice from a thousand encounters; it was John Brown. So Charlotte had been right to suspect that odd conversation between Branwell and Brown a few days earlier.

  “Yes, Worshipful Master.” Although the title was deferential, Charlotte thought the tone was not. Whoever was speaking did not perceive himself to be inferior to Brown, Worshipful Master or not. Charlotte was practically certain the speaker was none other than the prideful Robert Heaton. “I’ve catechized him thoroughly. He will be fine during the ceremony.”

  “We are moving too quickly with this one,” Brown said. “I’ve known him most of his life, and he’s never been constant to anything for more than a few months.”

  “Master, only he can do what I need to be done,” Heaton insisted.

  “I don’t like the Three Graces Lodge being involved in your family’s business.”

  “With the Initiate’s help we can right an old mistake,” Heaton replied. “And the lodge will profit handsomely. Think of the alms the lodge can distribute with my generosity.”

  Reluctance in his voice, Brown said, “Then let us begin.”

  What followed next felt like a dream to Charlotte. She heard John Brown—or, as he was ridiculously called, the Worshipful Master—call the meeting to order. Then Heaton announced there was an Initiate petitioning for entry into the Three Graces Masonic Lodge.

  The Freemasons! This explained the secrecy. The fraternity was notoriously private. They claimed their purpose was to do good works, but no one, excepting their members, knew anything about their meetings and customs.

  “Has any objection been urged against the Initiate?” the Master went on. There was no objection and he called for a ballot to be cast by each Brother.

  Charlotte gingerly peeked through the crack between the lid and chest. Each man was handed a black ball and a white one. Then Heaton moved about the room with a box. Each member deposited only one ball. When everyone had voted, he displayed the box for all to see. Every ball was white.

  “He is accepted,” the Master pronounced. “Bring him hither.”

  At the door, there were three loud knocks. One of the Brethren, at the Master’s signal, responded with three knocks. Outside there was a single knock, which was answered by one knock. The door was opened, and the man with the raspy voice asked, “Who comes there? Who comes there? Who comes there?”

  “A poor, blind Initiate, who has long been desirous of having and receiving a part of the rights and benefits of this worshipful lodge.”

  Charlotte felt as though all the blood had drained from her body. The voice was beloved and familiar. Branwell was the Initiate.

  She twisted in the chest and lifted the lid several inches higher to see. Branwell was blindfolded and the length of blue rope hung around his neck and left shoulder. His left foot was bare and his right was in a slipper. He looked small and pale, like a plucked chicken, surrounded by older men wearing lambskin aprons over their suits.

  Heaton approached him and pressed the point of a compass against Branwell’s bare chest. Branwell yelped in pain and Charlotte clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from crying out.

  “Did you feel anything?” Heaton asked.

  Through gritted teeth, Branwell answered, “I did.”

  “That was a torture to your flesh. So may it be to your mind, if ever you should reveal the secrets of Masonry.”

  Then Heaton grabbed the rope in his fist, tightening it. “Do you feel the rope around your neck?”

  Branwell’s body tensed, and Charlotte could hear the wariness in his voice. “I do.”

  “This rope binds you to the Brethren. As we are bound to you. Do you agree to go to the aid of any Brother with all your power?”

  “I do,” Branwell responded. Charlotte wondered if anyone else heard the relief in Branwell’s voice when Heaton released the noose. Heaton pushed Branwell to kneel on the floor.

  The Master approached and said, “Mr. Brontë, you are ready to take the solemn oath of an Apprentice Mason. Say after me: ‘I, Branwell Brontë, of my own free will in presence of Almighty God, and this worshipful Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons . . .’ ”

  In a quivering yet oddly triumphant voice, Branwell repeated the words. “Do most solemnly swear, that I never reveal the mysteries of ancient Free Masonry, to any person in the known world. Furthermore, I will not write, print, stamp, stain, hew, cut, carve, indent, paint, or engrave it on anything moveable or immoveable, under the whole canopy of heaven, whereby the secrets of Masonry may be unlawfully obtained through my unworthiness.”

  If the oath hadn’t been so frightening, Charlotte might have admired their thoroughness. These fellows didn’t leave anything to chance.

  Branwell finished in a ringing voice Charlotte barely recognized: “I do most solemnly swear, binding myself under no less penalty than to have my throat cut across and my tongue torn out by the roots, so help me God.”

  Charlotte all at once saw her danger—and, worse, Branwell’s. If she were discovered, both their lives were forfeit. Her infernal curiosity had put them both in danger. She must stay concealed. She lowered the lid and carefully arranged the cloth to hide her from anything but the most determined inspection of the chest.

  She could hardly hear the rest of the ceremony. But then the Worshipful Master’s voice suddenly rang out. “Brethren, bring this new-made brother from darkness to light.”

  Charlotte started when the floor resounded with an enormous thump. The Brethren were clapping and stomping their feet.

  “Remove the blindfold and we will dress you appropriately.”

  Charlotte, huddled under fabric, could only imagine what Branwell looked like—the bandage dropping from his eyes. He would be blinking furiously, giving him the look of a weeks-old kitten.

  The Master was saying, “Brother Branwell, I now present you with a lambskin apron, an emblem of innocence, and the badge of a Mason; it has been worn by kings, princes, and potentates of the earth, who have never been ashamed to wear it.”

  Heaton’s authoritative voice said, “Brother, I present you with the working tools of an Apprentice Mason, a chisel and a square.”

  Branwell murmured something Charlotte couldn’t quite catch.

  Heaton concluded by saying, “Brother, it has been a custom to demand from a newly made brother, something of a metallic kind, that it may be deposited in the archives of the lodge, as a memorial that you were herein made a Mason.”

  “I have two guineas!” Branwell shouted.

  Charlotte pursed her lips. She knew very well where that money came from. Her father, who said he could not afford to buy her a new dress, handed out sovereigns to Branwell as though they were trifles.

  Finally, the initiation ended. Charlotte, feeling a little drowsy from the lack of fresh air, heard Branwell being congratulated by his new brethren. The meeting became more of a social gathering, with men talking in small groups. She became more alert when she heard Robert Heaton’s voice.

  “Brother Branwell, welcome,” he said.

  “Thank you, Master Heaton,” Branwell said ingratiatingly. “I wil
l be more than happy to help you with that little family problem . . . now we are lodge brothers.” He lowered his voice and Charlotte had to strain her ears to hear him. “I’ve been practicing all week.”

  “Good man!” A slapping noise, as though Heaton had clapped Brandon on the back. “How soon can you do it?”

  “This very night,” Branwell answered, “if I have the opportunity.” They moved away from the chest.

  Oh, Branwell, Charlotte thought, what nefarious plot have these Masons drawn you in to? She heard nothing else of interest and finally dozed off. When she awoke, the room was almost silent. Had they all left? But no, she heard the same hobnailed boots from before.

  “Be sure to put everything back the way it ought,” the raspy voice said.

  Charlotte heard steps close to her chest and the creak of the lid being opened. The man who smelled of garlic. She nearly cried out when a great weight descended upon her head. It was the lambskin aprons; their heat and stink was suffocating her.

  “The chest isn’t closing properly,” the garlicky man said. Charlotte felt rather than saw his presence leaning over the chest. “Blimey, a chisel got stuck in the hinge.”

  “Careless,” said the other.

  “I’ve taken care of it. No harm done.”

  The lid to the chest slammed shut, locking itself with a loud and final click.

  All you need do, is to wait well on your father,

  and cheer him by letting him see you cheerful;

  and avoid giving him anxiety on any subject:

  mind that, Cathy! I’ll not disguise but you might

  kill him, if you were wild and reckless.

  Outside, the rain cleansed the filth from the streets and washed the grime off the gravestones. Emily sat alone in the parlor, oblivious to the weather. Her pen moved frantically, as though her words were like water overflowing its channel. She wrote of a strange man hiding on the moors, his only companion a fierce mongrel dog. She thought mongrel sounded better than a purebred mastiff. The man had been wronged and yet his heart remained virtuous. Or perhaps he was vindictive, bent on avenging his rotten childhood, but a chance encounter with a young woman led to his redemption. She stared at an inkblot on the paper and weighed her options. The story could go either way.

  Every few minutes, she would leap to her feet and circle the dining table, round and round, before flinging herself back into her chair to write again.

  “Miss Emily!” A shout made her pen slip across the page. With a half-expressed curse, she looked up to see Tabby in the doorway holding a dinner tray.

  “Tabby! Don’t scare me like that!”

  Unperturbed, Tabby deposited the tray on the table. “You didn’t hear me the first three times I spoke.” She straightened out the papers, removing the last half-filled sheet forcibly from Emily’s hands. “I’ve fed your father in his study, but I can’t find Branwell or Charlotte.” She gasped as she caught sight of Keeper, whose massive body was longer than the hearth in front of the fireplace.

  Stepping back toward the safety of the door, Tabby asked, “You found a new dog?” Her expression begged Emily to say no.

  Emily nodded. The defiant tilt to her chin warned Tabby not to argue.

  But Tabby said only, “He’ll eat us out of house and home.”

  “He’s a wonderful guard dog,” Emily countered, shoving the steaming stew in her mouth. “You’ve been worried that we’ll all be killed in our beds. Not with him about.” She noticed Tabby wore her shawl. “Where are you going?” she asked around the chunks of mutton burning her tongue.

  “It’s my day out tomorrow, and the reverend has given me leave to stay the night with my sister in town. But I can’t leave until I’ve given Charlotte her dinner; do you know where she is?”

  Emily could see Tabby was eager to be gone. “I expect she’s with Branwell.” Emily shrugged. “I’ll make sure she eats when she returns. Go.”

  “I’m glad Charlotte has made her peace with Branwell. She’s been out of sorts since she came home. Maybe they’ll start their scribbling again and we’ll get some peace.”

  “It isn’t scribbling, dear Tabby. Writing is what makes life sweet to the tongue. Charlotte will start to write again soon, whether or not Branwell is amenable. She won’t be able to stay away.” Emily jumped up and kissed Tabby on the cheek. “Have a lovely visit with your sister.”

  Briefly, Emily wondered where Charlotte might be, but decided it was none of her affair. If Emily wanted her own privacy, she could hardly intrude on Charlotte’s.

  Emily picked up her pen again. It seemed like only a moment later before her father interrupted her writing. She looked up, confused because the room was so dark. Night had fallen while she was working.

  “You must save your eyes, my dear,” he said, lighting a candle for her.

  “It’s Charlotte and Branwell whose eyes are weak—mine are fine.”

  “All the more reason to safeguard them.” A muffled growl at his feet made him look down. His jaw dropped. “Emily, I don’t want to alarm you, but there’s an enormous dog on the hearth.”

  Emily laughed out loud. “Father, don’t be silly. This is Keeper. He found me on the moors today.”

  The reverend took in every detail about Keeper, from the enormous length of him to his pointed white teeth, dripping with saliva. Emily waited patiently, knowing her father would give in.

  “Has Charlotte seen him yet?” he asked in a resigned voice.

  “She’s already been introduced,” Emily assured him. “She adores Keeper.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I rather doubt that.” He glanced about the small room as though Charlotte was concealed somewhere. “Where is she?”

  Even accompanied by Branwell, Emily knew her father would worry about Charlotte out so late. Lying effortlessly, she said, “I think she’s in bed. She was very tired.”

  “She needs her rest,” Rev. Brontë said. “She takes so much upon herself.”

  “And she doesn’t let us forget it,” Emily said.

  “That’s unkind, Emily.”

  “I know. I’ll be better.” Emily glanced down at her story. Perhaps her father could help her fill in the gaps in Harry’s history. “Father, do you recall everyone you’ve ever buried?”

  Rev. Brontë was used to Emily’s rapid changes of subject. “There are so many, but I try to give each one a proper farewell. I’d probably remember.”

  Suddenly she realized she had neglected to ask Harry his mother’s name. Charlotte would never have made such an error. With a flash of inspiration, she said, “What about old Mr. Heaton’s daughter?”

  He shot Emily a surprised glance. “That poor girl.”

  “In what way?” Emily asked with an avidity that startled her father. Usually she was supremely uninterested in the parish happenings.

  “Rachel Heaton was the apple of her father’s eye. He was planning a fine marriage for her, to another mill owner.”

  “But she had other ideas?” Emily asked.

  “She spent a few months in Bradford with family and she formed a liaison with a very unsuitable character. Rachel was with child before the Heaton family could do anything about it. They married her off to the fellow—Casson, his name was. My old friend Rev. Smythe officiated. I remember him mentioning he had never seen a sadder bride.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Things went from bad to worse. Casson was a drunk and he beat her badly. He died soon thereafter, and Rachel came home to have her baby. Her father didn’t want to take her back, but I prevailed upon him to do the decent thing.”

  Could Harry’s story be any more tragic, Emily wondered. “How did Casson die?”

  “He burned to death in a fire caused by his own drunken carelessness,” her father said.

  “How horrible!” Emily said, but her mind was conjuring up delightfully gruesome images of the scene. What an ending to a chapter. How could the reader not turn the page?

  “You can never be too c
autious about fire,” her father said sternly. He walked to the fireplace and checked the bucket of water was full. It was an unbreakable rule of the household that a bucket be stationed near every fireplace. “You can never be too careful.”

  Emily’s eyes went to the bare windows and carpetless stone floor. Her father’s obsession with fire kept the house inhospitable in summer and freezing in winter.

  “It was a merciful deliverance for Rachel,” Rev. Brontë continued. “But the Heatons never forgave her for marrying beneath them, nor the boy for the sin of being born.”

  “So Harry ran away?”

  “How do you know his name?” Rev. Brontë asked, his attention sharpened.

  Emily thought quickly and responded with a half-truth. “I remember him from when we used to go to the library at Ponden Hall.”

  “Oh, yes.” He twisted his long fingers together. “You see, I’m rather at odds with Robert Heaton. Why this sudden interest in his family?”

  “Just curiosity,” Emily said. “I wondered if Rachel was still alive.”

  “I don’t recall burying her.” He closed his eyes and put his hands together as though he were praying. It was a familiar mannerism to his daughter as he dredged his prodigious memory. “No, definitely not. But I also haven’t seen her in quite a long time. She wasn’t at her father’s funeral.”

  “That’s very strange, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps she moved away. It’s none of our affair.” He kissed Emily on the top of her head. “Good night, my dear. Don’t stay up too late. It’s already ten o’clock.”

  Emily heard his heavy footsteps climbing the stairs, pausing to wind his clock. Her father’s routine was a reassuring sameness every evening, as sure as the sun rising or the winds blowing across the moor. And his memory was to be relied upon: Rachel Heaton was probably still alive. Harry would be relieved. She returned to her story, confident she had a satisfactory ending.