Always Emily

by Michaela MacColl

  She was filling up her last page of clean paper when she heard the front door open. Emily recognized Branwell’s tread by the thumping his boots made on the back stairs. A moment later he came tramping down again. He avoided the dining room altogether and, to her surprise, she heard him going into their father’s study.

  She rose quickly and moved soundlessly to the study. She threw open the door and said, “Branwell!”

  He was standing at her father’s bookcase, his hand on one of the parish registers. He leapt backwards. “Emily, you startled me!”

  “What are you doing in here?” she asked, watching his face carefully. Branwell had always been a terrible liar; his lip twitched whenever he uttered a falsehood.

  “Just straightening up Father’s office,” he said, his bottom lip flapping like a fish’s on a hook.

  The office was as neat as a new pin. Her arms crossed, Emily waited for a better explanation.

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you, Emily. Remember I’m the elder!” He pushed past her. Emily sniffed the air in the office. She smelt a sweetness, like incense. But not the holy kind used by the Catholics. This was a muskier, more masculine smell hanging oddly about Branwell’s person.

  She caught him in the hall where he was putting on his coat. Mindful of her father sleeping upstairs, Emily whispered, “Where is Charlotte? I thought she was with you!”

  Branwell’s handsome face distorted with a sneer. “Charlotte? Why would I know where she is? She’s even worse than you when it comes to nursemaiding me.” With a bang of the front door, he was gone.

  She tried to go back to her work, but her words had deserted her. Where was Charlotte? Emily might stay out all night in the rain, but Charlotte never would. In fact, Charlotte had never missed supper before. She might be hurt or lost. Emily considered going to her father, but rejected the idea out of hand. The last thing she wanted was her father wondering what mischief his daughters got into after sunset.

  She had seen Charlotte last in the afternoon when she had stormed out muttering about Branwell. But he had denied knowing anything. Briefly Emily considered the trustworthiness of her brother. She shook her head—she could not rely on anything he said. She’d find him and make him help her find their sister before their father realized anything was amiss. She’d start with the Black Bull, the nearest pub.

  Emily considered bringing Keeper but reluctantly decided to leave him behind. Fondling his ears, she whispered, “Keeper, I don’t know you well enough yet. You might do anything.” Keeper whimpered, but settled back down on the floor.

  She slipped on her thick leather walking shoes and let herself out the kitchen door. The rain had stopped. The cherry tree in the front garden dripped and the cobblestones glistened. She kept to the shadows of the buildings along the steep street until it leveled out in front of the pub. A drunkard propped himself against the building as though he was needed to hold it up. Stepping over him, she pressed her face to the dirty window and peered inside.

  There was her brother, a fiery bantam rooster crowing at the bar. He had a row of empty glasses in front of him. Branwell didn’t have any money—how was he managing to get drunk every night? She stilled the impulse to rush inside and confront him. Even Emily didn’t dare to risk her reputation—or, worse, to embarrass her father—by going inside the pub late at night.

  Rubbing a patch of grime from the window, Emily watched Branwell lift his glass and speak for a full minute. Judging from the laughter of the men around the bar, Branwell was waxing eloquent. When he wanted to be, her brother was excellent company. He toasted a tall bearded fellow standing beside him who looked vaguely familiar—but then so did all the men in the bar. Emily went to church each week to please her father, but she didn’t pay a whit of attention to his parishioners.

  The bearded man was dark and well dressed. He pulled out a pound note and slapped it on the bar and the bartender began pouring drinks for the crowd.

  Emily watched for the better part of an hour. No one came out of the pub, not while someone else was paying for the drinks. At least she now knew how her penniless brother afforded his debauchery. Emily fumed, knowing she might wait all night for them to finish and she’d be no closer to finding Charlotte. The more hours that passed, the greater the likelihood Charlotte was in trouble.

  Finally Branwell half-slid off his stool. Laughing, he righted himself. The bearded man took his arm and led him toward the door. Emily was surprised her hot-tempered brother didn’t protest. She had just enough time to duck around the corner before the pub door slammed open. She was still close enough to overhear their conversation.

  Supporting Branwell with a strong arm around his waist, the bearded man said urgently, “You’ll remember what I said? It must be done immediately.” His pale blue eyes reflected the lamplight.

  Slurring his words, Branwell assured him, “Of course. I tried tonight but I was prevented by my sister.”

  “Your sister worries me. She’s too curious for my tastes.”

  “I can take care of her,” Branwell muttered.

  “Remember, if you don’t keep her out of my way, I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

  “Don’t worry, Brother,” Branwell said. Emily couldn’t help but wonder if Branwell and his “Brother” were speaking at cross-purposes.

  Emily searched her memory, but she couldn’t recall having met the bearded man. He must be speaking of Charlotte. What on earth did Charlotte have to do with all of this?

  “Don’t call me Brother,” growled the man. “You know the penalty.” He drew his finger across his throat and Branwell stumbled back fearfully. Emily, in the shadows, narrowed her eyes. Who was this man and why was he threatening her family?

  For the next few minutes, Emily trailed behind as the bearded man helped Branwell up the steep hill. Branwell was deposited at the parsonage but Emily continued to follow the stranger, hoping he would lead her to Charlotte. Emily kept a safe distance behind him, glad there was enough moon to light the way.

  When he emerged onto the moors, Emily left him to the path while she walked just parallel to him in the brush. It was tougher going, but there was less chance of him seeing her. Not that he was likely to notice anyone; he was stumbling as though he, too, had overindulged in drink.

  The bearded man headed west, Emily not far behind. When the man took the turn leading to Ponden Hall, the Heaton manor, Emily began to suspect she knew his name after all. She realized he had the same cornflower-blue eyes as Harry. This must be Robert Heaton, Harry’s cruel uncle.

  After much huffing, he reached the summit of the long hill overshadowing Ponden Hall. Emily waited at the crest of the hill and watched as he stumbled down the track and into the comfort of the substantial fieldstone house.

  After Robert went inside, she saw a light appear on the second floor. She remembered this was the library. She could see him quite clearly, pouring himself another glass of whiskey, then sitting at a desk and looking at some papers.

  She sat on the peat, her knees drawn up to her chest, watching him. Was this a wild goose chase? She had no proof this man knew anything about Charlotte, only that Charlotte had irritated him. It was no crime to be aggravated by Charlotte—it was the constant condition of anyone who knew her!

  Did she dare just knock on the door and ask if he knew where Charlotte was? But this was the man Harry had described as dangerous. Emily clenched her fist and pounded her leg in frustration. She didn’t know what to do.

  Suddenly a steely grip immobilized her shoulder. Emily started to scream. A rough hand covered her mouth.

  I lost consciousness: for the second time

  in my life—only the second time—

  I became insensible from terror.

  The sound of footsteps and voices faded away. The Masons did not know Charlotte had overheard their most secret rites and rituals. For the moment she was safe. She pushed against the lid of the box. It wouldn’t budge. She shoved again. The darkness and the silence
pressed on her, squeezing her breath from her body. Charlotte began panting, the noise of her breathing filling the small space. You’re behaving like a trapped animal, she told herself. Stay calm. Keep your wits about you.

  But fear, raw and bleak as a February storm, threatened to overwhelm her. What would her family think when she didn’t come home? They might never know what became of her. Would Branwell finally realize what a wonderful sister he had lost? Emily would finally be sorry she had been so hateful. Tabby would weep whenever she peeled her potatoes, remembering Miss Charlotte and her funny bossy ways. Father . . . he would mourn his little Charlotte.

  A scream erupted from her and reverberated off the walls of the chest. She pounded the lid with her fists, kicked with her boots. Pressing her body from one side to the other, she tried to rock the chest, but it was too heavy.

  “Help me!” she shouted. “Branwell! John Brown! Anyone! Please help me!”

  It was no use. The silence grew more oppressive. The heat was unbearable. If her body was ever found, her father would not even need to spend money on a coffin—they could use the chest. It would sit on the altar in their church, and then John Brown would open the family plot and shove Charlotte inside. At least she would be reunited with Maria and Elizabeth. With a forlorn whimper, Charlotte thought for the first time Emily would envy her sister.

  How ironic was it that she had often callously placed her Angrian heroines in situations exactly similar to this one? But those women had heroes to rescue them. Charlotte had no one. She would die shrouded in velvet. Alone. She would never know true love. Never marry. Never have children of her own. Never write a great novel. Her future snuffed out like a candle.

  Was it her imagination or was the air getting thicker and closer? Her head swam and each breath rasped her throat. Charlotte felt herself slipping . . . slipping . . . slipping into oblivion.

  They forgot everything the minute they were

  together again: at least the minute they had

  contrived some naughty plan of revenge;

  and many a time I’ve cried to myself to

  watch them growing more reckless daily . . .

  Emily clawed at the fingers pressing into her lips, smothering her scream. There was a whisper in her ear, but the blood rushing to her head drowned out the muffled words. With her other hand, she reached around on the ground, feeling for anything to use as a weapon. Grabbing a loose rock, she smashed at her attacker’s hand.

  “Ow, Emily! That hurt!” She recognized the aggrieved whisper.

  “Harry?” she asked, dropping the rock.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked.

  “You attacked me!” Emily struggled to get her breath back. “Did you think I wouldn’t defend myself?”

  “I didn’t want you to cry out,” he said. Sullenly he added, “But I didn’t expect you to fight like a tiger.” Harry dropped to the ground next to her. “I should have known better.”

  Emily smiled to herself. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard someone moving about. More to the point, why are you here?”

  Emily said, “I was following your uncle.” She pointed at Ponden Hall, where Robert Heaton’s silhouette could still be seen at the library window. “My sister is missing. And he knows something, I’m sure of it.”

  “How long has your sister been gone?” Harry’s concern felt like a warm blanket wrapped around Emily’s shoulders.

  “Since this afternoon. It’s not like her.” Emily bit her lip. She explained how Charlotte had left the house on a mysterious errand connected with Branwell and had never returned. Branwell had claimed not to know where Charlotte was, but Emily didn’t believe him.

  She recounted following Branwell to the pub where she’d seen Robert buying drinks for him. “At first I didn’t know who he was. But he called Branwell ‘Brother.’ ”

  “Ah.” Harry’s eyes brightened in the new moon. “And today is Friday.”

  “What happens on Friday?”

  “It’s lodge night. Robert’s a Freemason, didn’t you know?”

  Emily shook her head, her mind racing as she tried to connect Charlotte’s disappearance with the secretive Masons. “I don’t know anything about the Masons.”

  “Nor do they want you to.” Harry went on, “My grandfather was a Mason and he had Robert join as soon as he turned twenty-one. Every Friday they went to Newall Street for the lodge meeting. I used to follow him there. If he called Branwell ‘Brother,’ then your brother’s a Freemason, too.”

  Emily got to her feet and began to pace around on the narrow ledge. “Branwell can’t be a Mason. We would know.”

  “Does he have friends you don’t know about? Maybe he makes odd gestures with his hands when he’s talking to men in town?”

  Emily nodded slowly, realizing just how odd Branwell’s behavior had been lately. “And somehow he has plenty of money for drinking.”

  “It sounds as if Branwell has just been initiated into the lodge. Robert must have been his sponsor—that’s why he was buying the drinks.”

  “You said Robert joined at twenty-one. Branwell is only eighteen.”

  “Sometimes they make exceptions.”

  Emily frowned. “But there’s nothing special about Bran-well. He’s neither wealthy nor important.”

  “I remember him a little bit from when we were younger.” Harry stroked his chin thoughtfully. “He was always good company, and I envied his breadth of reading.”

  “Breadth but no depth,” Emily sighed. “Branwell is all promise and no accomplishments.”

  “They must have a use for him.” He glanced down at Ponden Hall. Emily’s eyes followed. As they watched, Robert turned down the lamp in the library and the windows went dark. “But what does this have to do with your sister?”

  “Your uncle ordered Branwell to make her mind her own business.”

  “Perhaps Charlotte knows something dangerous to the Masons,” Harry suggested.

  “The Masons grossly overestimate Branwell’s ability to influence my sister.” Emily tapped her fist against her lips. “If Charlotte thinks she’s in the right, it would be easier to turn back floodwaters than to divert her from her purpose.”

  “And you say she mentioned Newall Street?”

  Emily looked up and met Harry’s eyes. “What if she tried to stop Branwell from joining the Masons? What if she made trouble at a meeting?”

  “The Masons claim they are a fraternity dedicated to charitable works—but it’s not coincidental they are all powerful men. They value their privacy and threaten death to anyone who penetrates their secrets.”

  “Would they harm a woman?” Emily asked, fearing the answer.

  “The Freemasons are mostly decent men,” Harry said slowly. “I’m sure they wouldn’t hurt Charlotte.”

  “Then why hasn’t she come back?” Emily asked. She took a deep breath and steeled her resolve. “I’m going to that lodge.”

  “Wait! It’s too dangerous,” Harry said.

  “If Charlotte is being held there, all the more reason for me to hurry.” Emily started to run down the hill.

  She heard thudding footsteps behind her and she slowed as the land flattened out. “Why are you following me?”

  “It’s too risky to go alone,” Harry said, panting a little.

  “To protect my family—I’ll risk anything,” Emily declared, her voice ringing in the darkness. Then more gently, “You should understand. What wouldn’t you do to save your mother?”

  “I’ll go with you, then.”

  “I’d welcome that, but you can’t come into town,” Emily pointed out. “You said it yourself; your only advantage is secrecy.”

  “Then I lose my advantage.” Harry squared his shoulders. “I cannot permit you to do this alone.”

  Emily reached out and touched his hand. “Harry,” she said gently. “You do realize you couldn’t stop me?”

  He grasped her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “If I can’t sto
p you, then I must help you.”

  Emily paused, her whole world narrowed to the soft pressure of his lips on her hand. They were alone in the dark and Harry was kissing her hand. A scene from one of her stories. Or, more likely, Charlotte’s. But this heroine had more important things to do. She snatched back her hand.

  “Let’s go, then. Charlotte may be imprisoned or hurt or . . .” Emily’s lurid imagination provided altogether too many awful fates that might have befallen her sister.

  “I have to get a few things,” he said, turning toward his camp.

  Emily waited impatiently. A few minutes later, he returned carrying a shielded lantern. Emily’s keen eyes noticed his pistol was stuck in his waistband.

  As they made their way back to town, Emily broke the silence. “I asked my father about your mother. He conducts every funeral in Haworth, but he doesn’t remember burying your mother.”

  “Is he sure?”

  “Well, to be certain, we’d have to ask him to consult the parish records. My father doesn’t allow anyone but himself to touch them. But your family is important enough that I think we can rely on his memory.”

  “That’s a great relief,” Harry said. They continued hurrying along the path. After a moment he continued, “After we find your sister, may I ask you for a favor?”

  “Anything,” Emily said with sincerity. “But first we must find Charlotte.”

  The clouds rolled back in to cover the moon and obscure their vision. As they walked down the path past the parsonage, scattered drops of rain were making the stones slick and slippery. The town was dark and even the Black Bull was shuttered and quiet.

  Harry led her down a narrow alley to the tall house at the end. “This is it.” Swinging the lantern so it illuminated the cornerstone of the house, he pointed out the symbols of Freemasonry: the chisel and builder’s square.

  “It’s a substantial house,” Emily said thoughtfully. “I somehow thought their meetings would be held in a lonely barn or a damp cave.”