“Let’s just say Tabby’s soup may be a bit thin tonight.” Emily grinned. “Mr. Greenwood mentioned a vicious dog, and I thought we could use an advantage.”
“He’s licking your hand.” Harry stared at Emily with approval.
“He’s not the only one,” Charlotte muttered.
“You two go to the door,” Emily whispered. “I’ll tie the dog up behind the house.”
A moment later, Harry was knocking on the kitchen door. All houses on the moors are the same, Charlotte thought. No matter how grand the front door, entry is almost always easier at the kitchen. And so it proved. A tiny elderly woman opened the door.
With an exclamation of delight, Harry stooped down and embraced the woman in a warm hug. “Hannah!”
“Is that young Harry?” A curious mixture of disbelief and dismay crossed the old woman’s features.
Harry turned to Charlotte and Emily, who had rejoined them. “Hannah was my nursemaid.” He embraced the woman again, his height dwarfing her tiny frame. “I’ve been searching for her.”
“Mister Harry, we thought you were dead,” Hannah said, dashing tears from her cheeks.
“I’m very much alive,” Harry assured her. “But where is Mother? Is she here? Is she well?”
“She’s well enough, considering . . .” Hannah’s voice trailed off.
Harry placed his hands on her shoulders. “Take me to her, Hannah!” Charlotte admired his restraint. She had rather thought he would have pushed past the old lady and started searching.
“I’m not supposed to bring her any visitors,” Hannah said, wringing her apron.
“Visitor?” Harry cried. “I’m her son!”
Her face distressed, Hannah said, “I’ll lose my position if I disobey the master. And who would hire an old woman like me?” Tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks, she said, “Mister Harry, don’t ask it of me!”
“I don’t have much time!” Harry glanced back toward the barn.
“Harry, let me.” Charlotte stepped forward so Hannah could see her. “Hannah, do you know me? I’m the Reverend Brontë’s daughter.”
“Yes, miss.” Hannah’s eyes darted from Harry to Charlotte. “This is my sister,” Charlotte said indicating Emily. “We’re here to bring Mrs. Casson to the parsonage.”
“We don’t call her that anymore,” Hannah whispered. “She’s Miss Rachel now. Mister Harry, Misses Brontës—she’s not well. The Master thinks her mind might be going.”
Harry’s face darkened.
“All the more reason she needs her son,” Charlotte said, placing her hand on Harry’s muscular forearm to restrain him.
“Let us in, you silly woman!” Emily cried.
Glaring at Emily, Charlotte put her arm around Hannah and led her away from the door into the large kitchen. The ceilings were low and a large fireplace took up one whole side of the room.
Charlotte sat Hannah down on a bench against the wall. “Do you want to be responsible for keeping Miss Rachel and her son apart? What if it’s his absence that turned her brain?”
“Oh, Miss Charlotte, I don’t know what to think.” Hannah grabbed Charlotte’s hand. “I practically raised that boy, but the master says terrible things about him!”
Harry moved about the spacious kitchen like a caged animal. He began searching the rooms adjacent to the kitchen. Emily perched on the back of a settee, her eyes fixed on him as though she was memorizing every detail of his distress.
Hannah’s eyes also followed Harry’s every movement. Charlotte had to snap her fingers in front of Hannah to get her attention. “Did you believe what Mr. Robert said?”
Hannah shook her head. “I never did.”
Charlotte squeezed Hannah’s hand. “And you were right. Harry is here to help his mother. Won’t you let him see her?”
“I don’t know, miss!” Hannah wailed.
“Of course you do. Aren’t you a decent, God-fearing woman? One of my father’s parishioners? You’ll do the right thing. Is she upstairs?”
Hannah was sobbing now, but in between her heaving breaths, she nodded. “She’s locked in for her own protection.”
Furious, Harry was about to run up the stairs when he heard Charlotte ask, “Do you have the key?” He froze, waiting for Hannah’s answer.
Hannah reached into her deep pocket and pulled out an iron key. Emily darted forward and snatched it from her hands, and she and Harry bounded up the back stairs.
“Miss Brontë,” Hannah whispered. “My master comes every day to give his sister her medicine.”
“He cares so much about her welfare, does he?” Charlotte asked drily.
“He visits as regular as winter in December.” Hannah’s eyes were fixed on the clock hanging on the wall.
A sinking feeling in her stomach, Charlotte understood Hannah’s warning. “When?”
“Always at sunset.”
A glance out the window told Charlotte the bad news. They had very little time.
Then her ears finally registered a distant noise that had been steadily growing louder. It was the thudding of hooves. Charlotte rushed to the door and saw Robert Heaton riding up to the house.
“Run upstairs and tell Harry his uncle is here!” Charlotte turned to Hannah. “I will deal with Mr. Heaton.”
Hannah hesitated.
“Hannah, what will happen if Mr. Heaton finds Harry with Miss Rachel?”
“I’ll warn them,” Hannah said, and rushed upstairs. Charlotte straightened up and steeled herself. No matter the cost, she must purchase enough time for Emily and Harry to rescue Rachel.
Charlotte waited until Robert had tied his horse to a post near the stable. He wore tight riding breeches and a fine green riding coat. She met him on the gravel path leading from the house to the barn.
“You!” He stared at her in consternation. “What are you doing here?” He carried a riding crop he impatiently slapped against his leg.
“Good day, Mr. Heaton.”
“Answer me, Miss Brontë.” He looked down his long nose at her, his beard like an arrow piercing her breast. “Why are you trespassing on my property?”
“Surely it’s not trespassing to knock on the door.” Charlotte forced herself to laugh lightly, as though she found his question the most amusing thing in the world. “I heard your sister was still unwell and I felt it was my Christian duty to pay a visit.”
“Who told you she was here?” He glanced at the house.
Barely hesitating, Charlotte decided to drive a wedge between Robert and her brother. “Why, Branwell, of course.”
Without taking his eyes from her face, he shouted over his shoulder at the wildly barking dog. “Shut up, you cur!” Glowering at Charlotte, he said, “I don’t believe it!”
“Really?” Charlotte asked, conscious that every word she spoke bought Emily a little more time. “How else would I know the apothecary mixes a special tonic you administer each evening?”
Robert gaped at her and swayed a little as though she had thrown him off-balance. He shook himself and started to walk past her.
“An odd tonic, to be sure,” Charlotte went on, catching at his sleeve. “It seems to make your sister terribly confused. One might wonder if it was filled with opiates!”
“You’ve spoken to her?” he asked, turning around, his brows drawn together in a fierce scowl.
She tore her eyes from his face, suffused with rage, and kept a sharp watch on his clenched fists. Her next volley was sure to push him over the edge of good sense.
“Don’t worry; she is in excellent hands.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “Her son is with her.” She braced herself for an explosion.
Instead he said in a flat, angry voice, “The bastard?”
“I wouldn’t count on that, Mr. Heaton. Harry can prove he is legitimate.” She lifted her gaze to see the inevitable dismay on his face. “You’ve lost.”
Heaton snapped without warning. With a roar, he slashed at her head with his riding crop. The crop cut into he
r forehead and she fell to the ground. Dizzy from the blow, she lay in the gravel, watching helplessly as he burst into the house.
She clambered to her feet and touched her hand to her head. Blood seeping through her fingers, she stumbled toward the house.
And hark you, Heathcliff!
Clear you too quite from my reach and hearing.
I wouldn’t murder you to-night; unless, perhaps,
I set the house on fire: but that’s as my fancy goes.
A few minutes earlier, Harry had bounded up the uneven wooden stairs, Emily close behind. They paused at the landing, staring at the three doors. Only one was shut. Harry tried the handle; it was locked. Wordlessly, Emily handed him the key.
The door swung open to reveal a small, dark room. Even though it was not yet dusk, the curtains were drawn and a small oil lamp glowed dimly. The only furniture was a narrow bed and a rickety chair. A woman was huddled under a blanket. She peered out, blinking at whoever was invading her privacy.
“Mother!” Harry cried, rushing to embrace her. She wore a dressing gown and her feet were bare. Her red hair hung around her shoulders.
“Is that you, Harry? Has my son come back to me?” Rachel began sobbing. “I thought you were dead! I was all alone.”
“Mother, I’m here.” Emily saw the guilt on his face. He had run away to save himself—but his mother had borne the cost. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
Emily stepped into the room. Rachel recoiled. “Who is that?”
“This is my friend.” Harry tightened his arm around his mother’s shoulders. “You remember Rev. Brontë’s daughter, Emily?”
Rachel tilted her head and studied Emily for a moment. “Harry, she’s tricking you. This isn’t the reverend’s daughter. She was a little girl with her nose in a book.”
Over Rachel’s head, Emily met Harry’s stricken gaze.
“Hello, Mrs. Casson.” Emily greeted her gently. “I used to be little, but I’ve grown up since then.” She tugged on Harry’s arm. “We must get her away from here. Once we’re in town, my father can protect her.”
Emily noticed Rachel’s hair was clean, as was her person. She might be a prisoner, but Hannah took good care of her. She looked around for Rachel’s shoes.
There was a thudding of steps coming up the stairs. Hannah burst into the room. “The master is here! Miss Charlotte is outside trying to delay him.”
“We’re out of time,” Emily cried. “Where are her shoes, Hannah?”
“The master made me hide them after she ran away last time.” She saw Emily’s horrified expression and said quickly, “I’ll get them!”
“Did you hear, Emily? Uncle Robert took away her shoes. She’s a prisoner.” Harry’s jaw was set and his hands were forming into fists. “I’ll kill him for what he’s done.”
“Harry, the most important thing is to save your mother!” Emily cried.
“My mother will only be safe when my uncle is no longer a threat,” Harry said. “But you’re right. First we have to get her to a safe place.” He wrapped his mother’s white shawl around her shoulders.
Hannah appeared, holding Rachel’s shoes. She and Emily knelt at Rachel’s bare feet and began lacing.
From below, they heard Charlotte cry out a desperate warning. It was too late. Robert Heaton stormed up the stairs and filled the doorway. Harry leaped up to stand between Robert and Rachel. Emily was struck by the resemblance between the furious men.
“So you’ve come crawling back,” Robert said. “I suppose it’s been you sneaking around Ponden Hall like a thief?”
“I’m not here to fight with you,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “I’m here to take my mother away.”
“I think not. She’s unwell,” Robert said, an immovable object. “Hannah, tell him.”
Tying Rachel’s laces, Hannah said, “It’s true. Mr. Heaton has a doctor come to see her every week.”
“Another Mason, no doubt,” Harry spat out.
“You’re not needed here, nephew,” Robert said. “I’ll have the law on you for trespassing.”
“You’ve betrayed us all for money,” Harry said with a snarl. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a hand in Grandfather’s death. Not that I cared for the old man. But to kill him? For what? Money?”
“That’s a lie!” Robert jabbed a finger at Harry’s chest. As though Robert had burst a blister of anger and hate, Harry pulled back his right arm and landed a punch on his uncle’s chin. Robert stumbled back, then, like a bull, dropped his shoulder and charged Harry. His momentum carried them both into the wall.
Emily shouted, “Watch out, Harry!”
Rachel began screaming, a high-pitched, terrified noise.
“Mr. Robert, Mr. Harry! Oh, stop!” Hannah cried. “You’re upsetting Miss Rachel!” She covered her own eyes and began to sob.
Harry pushed back from the wall and clawed at Robert’s coat, pulling it over his uncle’s shoulders and pinning his arms for just long enough for Harry to slip out from Robert’s grip. To Emily, Harry shouted, “Take my mother!”
“What about you?” she cried.
“I have unsettled business. Go!”
Emily pulled Rachel toward the door; she couldn’t take her eyes from the two men fighting. Robert ripped off his coat and began pummeling Harry in the stomach. Winded, Harry slumped against the wall.
Moving more quickly than Emily anticipated, Heaton lunged for Rachel. He grabbed Rachel’s arm and tried to pull her away from Emily and the safety of the door.
“No!” cried Emily. “Harry, help!”
Emily struggled to hold on to Rachel in this life-or-death tug-of-war, but Robert was too strong for her. Instinctively she let go entirely and Rachel fell forward into his arms.
Emily took her father’s pistol from her pocket. She leveled it at the exact center of Robert’s chest. “Release her, Mr. Heaton. Now.” If Emily’s voice trembled, her shooting hand did not.
Heaton’s eyebrows lifted high as he saw the gun. “You don’t have the nerve.”
Emily took aim at a mirror hanging on the wall behind him. He turned around to see the scene reflected in the cloudy surface. Emily squeezed the trigger and shot his reflection dead in the center of his forehead. Splinters of glass flew everywhere. A tiny shard cut Harry’s cheek. Rachel and Hannah shrieked with terror. Heaton was made of sterner stuff, but he paled.
Harry pushed himself away from the wall and pulled the glass from his face. “She has more than enough nerve,” he panted.
“Let Mrs. Casson go,” Emily repeated. “Or your leg will be next. Or perhaps your head. I’m a good shot.”
Robert slowly unhanded his sister.
“Thank you,” Emily said. She pulled Rachel behind her. Walking backward, Emily’s pistol unwaveringly aimed at Robert’s heart, they moved toward the doorway. “Hannah,” Emily said. “Come help us with Mrs. Casson.”
“My shawl,” Rachel said, reaching for where it had fallen to the floor. For a split second, Emily took her attention from Heaton, who lunged at Rachel, pulling her out of Emily’s grasp. Harry shouted and dove at his uncle’s legs, loosening his uncle’s grip.
Emily pulled Rachel out of harm’s way, but Harry and Robert, fighting as if their lives were at stake, blocked the doorway. The women backed into the corner.
Robert threw Harry against the table. With a crack, the rickety table collapsed, sending the oil lamp crashing to the floor. Within seconds, oil pooled all around. A lick of flame touched the oil briefly, then suddenly the flame was everywhere. The fire leapt to the curtains and began to travel, quick as lightning, around the room. In moments, the room was filled with smoke.
Harry and his uncle were still rolling about the floor, pummeling each other, oblivious to the flames around them. Rachel and Hannah cowered on the floor, shrieking, while Emily thought furiously.
“For God’s sake, stop screaming!” Emily shouted. She stuck the pistol back in her pocket and wrapped the pale shawl about Rachel�
�s head, leaving some fabric to cover her mouth. She did the same with Hannah’s apron. “Breathe through the fabric.” She took a strong grip on Rachel’s waist with one hand and grabbed Hannah with the other and held her breath. She propelled them both through the fire to the now open doorway. Emily spared a fleeting moment to wish she had more time to fix the sensation of passing through flame in her memory.
“Harry, save yourself!” Emily shouted. “I’ll take care of your mother!” Half carrying, half pushing Rachel, Emily made it down the stairs. Hannah, shaking, recalled herself to her duties and began to minister to her mistress. At that moment, Charlotte stumbled into the kitchen, her eyes glassy and a cut bleeding profusely across her forehead.
“Charlotte!” Emily took one look at her sister and grabbed a clean cloth from the table.
“Where’s Harry?” Charlotte asked.
“Upstairs, fighting with Robert.” Emily wadded up the cloth and pressed it to Charlotte’s cut. “There’s a fire. Get Rachel and Hannah somewhere safe.” She paused. “Can you do that?”
The moment Charlotte nodded, Emily grabbed a ewer full of water.
“Emily! Where are you going?
“To save Harry!”
Robert was unconscious in the hallway. Harry must have dragged him out. In the bedroom, Harry had pulled the burning curtains to the center of the room and was stomping out the flames. Emily poured the water over the smoldering mattress.
“My mother?” Harry asked, his back to Emily, his voice strained.
“She’s fine,” Emily assured him. “Charlotte is with her.” When he didn’t turn around, she touched him on the shoulder. “Harry?”
He turned slowly and she gasped. His face was a ruin of blisters and burns. She had escaped with Rachel, but Harry had paid the price.
He held out his hands to her and she saw that they were blackened. Emily let herself recognize the unmistakable odor of burnt flesh. Harry saw the reflection of his injuries in her eyes and his legs gave out beneath him. She caught him, stumbling under the dead weight. She wrapped his arm around her shoulder and somehow got him into the fresher air in the hallway. Turning her head, she shouted, “Charlotte! I need you. But don’t let Rachel come up!”
Always Emily Page 16