Always Emily

by Michaela MacColl

  “His name is Roland.” Harry snapped his fingers for the dog to come to him, but Keeper stayed at Emily’s side.

  “Not anymore.” Emily smiled as she tied the rope around Keeper’s neck. “If you had thought of him less as property and more like a friend, he might have chosen to stay with you.”

  “But yet you call him Keeper?” he asked, his dark eyebrows raised questioningly over his laughing blue eyes.

  “It’s a term of affection,” she assured him with a smile.

  Keeper whimpered, but Emily spoke firmly. “Now lie down and be quiet.” She turned to Harry. “What do you want me to do?”

  Harry ran his thumb along his chin. “We have to get into the library. My uncle keeps all his papers there.”

  “Tell me what to look for,” Emily said. “It’s too dangerous for you to go; the servants would recognize you in an instant.”

  “I can’t tell you what to look for—I have to see for myself.” Emily started to speak, but Harry interrupted. “You can let me in secretly.”

  Emily raised her eyebrows. “How?”

  “Follow me.” He led the way up through the light rain to the rise of ground above the hollow where Ponden Hall was situated. The great house’s stone walls were gloomy and the porch was covered with moss. There was a stand of malevolent fir trees, one of which stretched a branch toward the library window on the second floor, as though it were a ghoul tapping on the window.

  With a mischievous glint in his eye, Harry asked, “Do you see the door behind the trees there?” He pointed to a spot below the library windows.

  Emily could just make it out.

  “It leads to a root cellar. But when I was a boy I discovered a passage between the cellar and the library. No one seemed to know about it but me. I hope that’s still true.”

  “A secret passage?” Emily clapped her hands in glee. “But if there’s a way in, why do you need me?”

  “The door from the cellar is unlocked, but the library door is locked. You can only open it from inside the library.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “I think my great-grandfather might have had his troubles with the Crown. This was an escape route to be used in great need. I only found it by accident.”

  Emily was lost in the past. “When we were children,” she said slowly, “I recall you used to disappear mysteriously.”

  He grinned wickedly. “You couldn’t expect me to tell my secret to a mere girl, could you?”

  Emily found the idea of a secret passage irresistible, but a vestige of caution, no doubt nurtured by Charlotte, gave her pause. “If you are found in the library,” she said very deliberately, “I’m compromised, too. And my father with me.”

  Harry rocked back on his heels. “You’re right. I shouldn’t ask for your help, but there is so much at stake.” He flushed, and Emily caught her breath at how handsome he looked. “But you are right—what would people say if you broke into Ponden Hall with me? Say the word. I’ll find another way.”

  Emily suddenly grinned, restored to her usual equanimity. “I don’t much care what other people think. I never have.” A crooked smile on her face, she added, “And we won’t be caught.”

  Emily took a series of calming breaths before she lifted the knocker. For once, she couldn’t control the direction of a story with the stroke of a pen. As she waited for someone to answer the door, she could hear Keeper howling in the distance. With the leaden clouds above, his muffled howls had an ethereal quality. “No wonder Tabby thinks a gytrash haunts the moor!” Emily murmured to herself.

  Finally the door was opened by a housekeeper. She stared at Emily as though she was trying to place her face. “Yes?”

  “It’s Grace, isn’t it?” Emily found the woman’s name lodged deep in her memory. “My name is Emily Brontë.”

  “The parson’s daughter?” Grace asked. “If you’re here to see the master, he’s not here.”

  “I just saw Mr. Heaton at church,” Emily replied. “He said I could visit the library.”

  “Did he?” Grace asked suspiciously. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

  “Of course, you could refuse me entry and explain to Mr. Heaton why you turned away his invited guest,” Emily said.

  The door opened a little wider. “I’m not refusing, miss. I’m just saying the master is particular about who comes into the house.”

  “Because of his sister?” Emily hazarded. She was rewarded with an indrawn hiss. “Is she here? I’d like to pay my respects.”

  “She’s not here.” Grace was shaking her head. “And the less questioning about her the better.” Her lips squeezed shut and Emily knew she would get no more information.

  “I know the way, Grace. You don’t need to take me up.” Emily began climbing the stairs, transported for a moment to her childhood. She remembered how the window at the top of the stairs would bathe the landing in light. But today the sun was obscured by black clouds.

  It occurred to Emily it had rained at least part of every day for weeks. Perhaps Harry had brought the rain with him. Until the terrible wrong done to him was righted, until his mother was found or avenged, the sun wouldn’t return.

  The library was exactly the way she remembered it—uncannily so. It was a long paneled room full of bookcases from floor to ceiling. There was a small fire burning—no doubt to keep the damp away from the books. Under glass were the valuable books the children had never been allowed to touch.

  There were two comfortable armchairs at the end of the room in front of the fireplace. In the corner, just above the root cellar, Emily guessed, was a bookcase built next to the window jamb. Outside the window the fir tree branches brushed against the panes.

  Emily listened at the stairs, but the house was silent. She hurried to the corner bookcase where Harry had told her to look. She removed a stack of old hymnbooks and found a square panel of wood that was slightly different from the rest of the bookcase. She pressed it.

  With a loud click, the bookcase swung out. Harry was waiting, covered with cobwebs and dust. “Well done,” he said, starting purposefully for the desk in the corner of the room. He began to fan through the papers on it.

  “Is there anything useful?” Emily asked.

  “Nothing. Uncle Robert is not such a fool,” Harry said. “Anything incriminating won’t be left in plain sight.” He tugged on the drawer of the desk, but it was locked. “Do you see a key anywhere?”

  “We don’t need a key.” For once, Emily’s hair was relatively tidy—it was Sunday, after all. Pulling a long pin out of the bun at the back of her head, she knelt at the desk and poked the pin in the lock.

  “How on earth do you know how to do that?” Harry asked. “I had no idea a clergyman’s daughter could also be a picklock.” His face showed his delight in her unexpected skill.

  Closing her eyes to better manipulate the lock, Emily said, “I read about it in a novel and I practiced on my brother’s desk until I taught myself how to do it.”

  The lock clicked open.

  “You amaze me,” Harry said. Heat suffused Emily’s face and she was careful not to look at him. He pushed past her and took out the papers from the drawer. Scanning the top document, Harry said, “I don’t believe it.”

  “What is it?” Emily asked, stepping forward, only just restraining herself from snatching the papers out of his hand.

  “It’s a petition to the magistrate in Leeds to have my mother declared incompetent.”

  Emily lifted her eyebrows. “Can he do that?”

  “He says her mind has been ruined by drink.” He turned to Emily, his face pale. “She doesn’t drink. Ever. My father was a drunkard—Mother wouldn’t touch the stuff.”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “At least this confirms she’s alive,” Emily said gently.

  His smile was wan. “True. Thank God for that.” He returned to the petition. “It’s missing a doctor’s signature.”

  “Are there any doctors in the Three Graces Lodge? Wouldn
’t one Freemason help another?”

  He nodded. “There’s at least one. Dr. Fitzpatrick. And he’s an old friend of my uncle’s. Without anyone to speak for my mother, Fitzpatrick would believe whatever Robert told him.”

  “But why do it at all?” Emily asked. “What does it accomplish?”

  Harry paced around the library. “I don’t know.”

  “What is this?” Emily asked, picking up another set of papers in the drawer.

  Harry glanced at it. “It’s my grandfather’s will.”

  “Did he leave you anything?”

  “I doubt it,” Harry said. “The old man hated me.”

  Emily turned up the oil lamp to illuminate the paper. “I leave all my real property, the farms and the mills, to be divided equally between my children, Robert and Rachel Heaton.”

  “Equally? That doesn’t sound like the old curmudgeon. He must have been stricken with an attack of fairness before he died.”

  Emily read on. “It says, ‘If, for any reason, either of my children are legally incapable of managing their affairs, I assign their legal offspring to manage their share of the property. If there are no legitimate heirs, then the remaining sibling will control the entire legacy.’ ” Emily glanced up from the paper. “What does that mean?”

  Harry nodded sagely. “My great-grandfather had a brother who was kicked in the head by a horse. He never woke up, but he didn’t die for half a decade. The family feuded over the farms for years. It even went to the courts.”

  “But you are alive to manage your mother’s legacy,” Emily pointed out. “What does your uncle gain by declaring her incompetent?”

  Harry was distracted as though he were examining and discarding possible explanations. Emily reached past him and took the last item out of the drawer. It was an old leather-bound ledger.

  “Harry, this is a registry of marriages from the church in Bradford,” Emily cried. “It was stolen last month.”

  “Why would Robert have this?” Harry asked.

  Before Emily could answer, they heard a noise from the stairs. “Quick! Hide!” Emily said. Harry ducked under the desk. Emily moved a chair in front of it and then moved to a bookcase.

  Grace shoved open the door, her face avid, no doubt hoping to catch Emily doing something she oughtn’t. She was disappointed, as the only thing she saw was Emily lost in contemplation of a rare First Folio of William Shakespeare in the glass cabinet.

  “Yes, Grace?” Emily tore her attention from the folio.

  Looking abashed, Grace said sullenly, “Would you be wanting tea, miss?”

  “Thank you. That would be most welcome.” She picked another favorite, a novel of Sir Walter Scott’s, and settled in the chair, flipping the pages.

  The sound of Grace’s footsteps had long faded when there was a whisper from under the desk. “Emily?”

  “Oh, Harry!” She jumped up and pulled the chair away so he could emerge. “I’m sorry, I forgot you were there.”

  He watched her for several seconds as he brushed the dust off his pants. Finally he began to laugh. “Let me guess. You started reading?”

  Emily grinned and held up Ivanhoe. “Harry, we used to read this same book when we were children. Do you remember?” She held out the book.

  Harry opened the cover and stared at the frontispiece. The sternness in his face softened and he began to flip the pages. “I do remember. I remember everything!” Suddenly he threw the book onto the fire.

  “Harry!” Emily exclaimed, using the fire tongs to retrieve the book. Fortunately, she thought, she hadn’t been examining the Shakespeare.

  “I don’t want to remember,” he said.

  Brushing off the precious book, Emily spoke slowly as if Harry were still a child. “No matter what your grandfather and uncle did to you then, there were wonderful stories in your childhood. It would be a great shame to destroy what was good and true because of your family’s cruelty.”

  He glared at her, but she returned his stare until he looked away. “You are right, Emily. After all, you were part of my childhood. I don’t want to forget that.”

  “I hear Grace coming back,” Emily said. “You must go.” He shoved the papers and ledger from the desk into a satchel, ran to the bookcase, and disappeared into the wall. The bookcase was clicking shut just as Grace appeared in the doorway carrying a tray with tea.

  “Thank you, Grace,” Emily said, taking the tray from the housekeeper.

  “You’ve been in here a long time,” Grace said with a sour expression. “Haven’t you found something to read yet?”

  Emily glanced at the desk and the long room with its floorto-ceiling bookcase and at the singed book in her hands. “More than I bargained for.”

  Somebody has plotted something:

  you cannot too soon find out who and what it is.

  Emily ran headlong down the hill that sheltered Harry’s campsite hugging the singed edition of Ivanhoe to her chest, a trophy of her daring excursion into Heaton territory. The grass was slippery with the mist that had descended on the moor now that the rain had stopped. Arriving out of breath, she found the campsite empty except for Keeper, sprawled by the fire. She exclaimed in disappointment; she wanted to relive her adventure with Harry.

  She decided to wait inside the tent. She pulled aside the flap.

  “Harry!” He stood in the center of the small room, a shielded candle burning on the trunk. His head was slightly ducked to keep from hitting the ceiling.

  “Harry,” she said again, then lost her words as her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she took in the sight of him. He wore his trousers and boots and was just shrugging into a clean shirt.

  His body was lean and long. He had only a scattering of chest hair. His muscles were marked across his torso as though a Renaissance painter had sketched them in.

  “Emily!” His blue eyes widened and he stepped toward her. “I was beginning to worry.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You were so long at Ponden Hall, I was afraid Robert had caught you there.”

  “I thought I should stay a little longer,” Emily said, moving toward him as though drawn by a magnetic force. “To allay any suspicions.”

  Henry tucked a strand of Emily’s damp hair behind her ear. “And did you?” he asked. His fingers lingered, twisted in the lock of hair.

  Emily’s hand went to her cheek, almost but not quite touching his hand. “Did I what?” she breathed.

  “Allay suspicion?” A half step and Harry narrowed the gap between them.

  Emily stared at the sheen of moisture on his bare chest. She wondered what it felt like. As though her desire controlled her actions, she placed her palm flat on his chest.

  “My brave Emily,” he said, his voice husky. “So bold and so lovely.”

  “No one has ever said that before,” Emily said. Suddenly she was in new territory and all her previous habits of indifference and solitude deserted her.

  “Then no one has ever seen you like this—fresh from the moors. You are . . . luminous.”

  She mouthed the word, enjoying the way it pursed her lips. Harry touched her bottom lip with his fingertip, tracing its shape. She leaned in, tilted her head, and pressed her mouth to his for an instant. His lips were soft to the touch and his freshly shaved face was smooth against her skin.

  “Emily,” he breathed. The single word made her senses swim and she pressed her body against his. His arms surrounded her in his embrace. He smelled of wood smoke and library dust. His mouth came down hard on hers. Emily felt the warmth of his body. She returned his kiss, matching his passion with her own.

  “Emily!” As though a butcher’s cleaver had crashed between them, a shrill voice drove them apart. Charlotte stood in the opening of the tent, her face pale and shocked.

  Breathing hard, Emily wheeled on her sister. “Charlotte, get out!”

  Without saying a word, Charlotte grabbed Emily’s hand and hauled her outside the tent.

  “Charlotte, what are you doing?” Emily s
hook off Charlotte’s hand.

  “Arriving just in time, I suspect,” Charlotte cried. “Emily, how could you put yourself in such a compromising position? You were alone with a half-dressed man. And you were . . .”

  “Kissing him!” Emily interrupted. “It was lovely. I’d like to do it again. So go home and stay out of my business.”

  Crossing her arms in front of her chest, Charlotte said, “I would be failing Father if I left you unchaperoned.”

  Emily recognized Charlotte at her most stubborn. “How did you even know I was here?”

  “I was watching Ponden Hall. After that scene you made at church, I knew you wouldn’t wait long to do whatever it was you wanted to do there. I followed you when you left. And a good thing, too. I arrived before you completely ruined your reputation.”

  “Spare me your platitudes. You forget I’ve read all your Angria stories. You would throw yourself into the arms of the duke if only you had the courage.” Emily frowned and added, “And if he were real, of course.”

  “Courage? You think it takes courage to meet a man secretly and misbehave?”

  A puzzled expression on her face, Emily repeated, “Misbehave?”

  Charlotte nodded violently. “You were kissing him!”

  “So?” Emily shrugged.

  Charlotte shook her head. “Emily, poor gentlewomen like us—with intelligence but no dowries—we cannot afford to tarnish our reputations. Not if we ever hope to marry.”

  “Marry? Who wants to get married? Have you seen the women around here? Walking hangdog at their husbands’ heels, with bruised eyes and no freedom?” Emily threw out her arms. “I’ll never marry anyone!”

  “Sssh! He’ll hear you!” Charlotte hissed.

  “So?”

  Her lips pursed and her eyes bulging, Charlotte made a rude sound. “You’re impossible!”

  Emily started to laugh. “If you could see the expression on your face!”

  “Who is he, anyway?” Charlotte asked.

  “I was wondering when you would ask. Don’t you recognize him?” Emily asked slyly.