Always Emily

by Michaela MacColl

  “Yes, your sister’s legal heir. Harry has told me everything.” Emily deliberately stepped into a clear patch of night, the fog framing her like a painting.

  “I see you now, you little minx. You’ve nowhere to run,” Heaton said, his eyes darting around the dark graveyard. “Where is Rachel?”

  “I’ll never tell,” she said.

  As she had hoped, Heaton rushed forward to grab her. But Emily had lured him well. His momentum almost carried him across the hole just the right size for a coffin. As he plummeted, his hand caught the edge of her ragged skirt.

  “Let go!” Emily clawed at his hand, but it was no use: Heaton was pulling her down with him. “Let me go!” she shouted again.

  As the tattered fabric ripped away, Heaton was thrown into the grave. There was an awful crack.

  “My ankle—it’s broken!” he shouted.

  Emily gathered up her skirts. “Are you sure?” She peered into the hole.

  Heaton was lying in the dirt, grasping his ankle. Even from her viewpoint, she could see it was swelling up.

  “For God’s sake, get a doctor!” he snarled.

  “I would, Mr. Heaton, except he is needed to minister to your nephew. You’ll have to wait,” Emily said, watching him struggle with no little satisfaction. The grave was deep and there were six inches of water at the bottom, so Heaton’s feet had no purchase even if his ankle was sound.

  She hooted three times.

  “I won’t stand for this!” Heaton cried. “I’ll ruin your father and I’ll ruin you!”

  “Hush,” Emily said. “Hoot. Hoot.” She listened but heard nothing. “Hoot. Hoot.”

  She sighed with relief when her keen ears heard the wheels of the cart, then the familiar squeak of the gate. She put one hand on a tall gravestone and trembled, allowing herself finally to experience all the terror she had carefully bottled up until her part was done. Rachel and Charlotte were safe. She had done it—Heaton was no longer a threat to any of them.

  A loud bark came from the parsonage garden. Keeper, looking like a mythical creature of darkness, bounded to the top of the wall. His noble head sniffed the air and came running to Emily in the graveyard. He nuzzled Emily’s hand. She hugged him, drawing strength from the massive dog.

  “You witch!” Heaton wasn’t finished with his threats. “I’ll have the law on you if you don’t get me out right now!” Keeper’s tail stopped wagging and he stepped toward the grave, looked down, and growled. Heaton fell silent.

  “Good boy, Keeper,” Emily said. “I’d rather not attract too much attention until I’ve talked to Father.”

  The door to the sexton’s house opened, spilling out a pool of light. “Who’s there?” John Brown’s stentorian voice called out.

  “Too late,” Emily muttered.

  A moment later Brown, his nightshirt hastily tucked into his trousers, approached the graveyard, his son in tow, carrying a lantern.

  “What’s going on here?” he called. He stopped short when he saw Emily. “Miss Brontë, I heard voices,” he said. “Is anything the matter?”

  “Mr. Heaton has stumbled into a grave,” Emily said, not forgetting for a moment that John Brown was not only her father’s employee but also the Worshipful Master of the Three Graces Lodge. Her hand dropped to Keeper’s broad forehead.

  Brown’s son leaned over the grave and held up the lantern to peer in.

  “Mr. Heaton?” The boy’s voice was unbelieving. From Heaton in his grave, the boy looked to Emily with wide eyes that looked black in the lantern light.

  “Get me out! This madwoman shoved me in here!” Heaton shouted. “She broke my ankle.”

  “Robert, I’ll get you out!” Brown called, keeping a wary eye on the dog. “Son, get the ladder.” The boy placed the lantern on a gravestone and obediently loped away.

  “Before you do, Mr. Brown,” Emily said, “you might ask how Mr. Heaton came to be chasing me through a graveyard in the middle of the night.”

  “Chasing you?” Brown’s eyes became as wide as his son’s. “Miss Emily, tell me everything that has happened. There is more at stake here than you realize.”

  “I doubt your stakes are higher than mine,” Emily said. “He was threatening my life, after all.” Brown stared at her.

  “She’s a lunatic. Brown, get me out of here.” Heaton shouted from the grave.

  “Don’t you think you ought to consult my father? I think it very likely he will be summoning a constable to place Mr. Heaton under arrest.”

  “Arrest?” Brown was shocked. For the first time, Emily considered the possibility that his role in all this was innocent. “What are you accusing him of doing, Miss Emily?”

  “Don’t listen to any of her lies, Brown. Get me out of here!” Heaton’s voice was hoarse from his shouting.

  Emily had known John Brown since she was a babe; she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She drew him away from the grave and spoke in a low voice. “Kidnapping, to start.”

  “Who?” Brown asked uneasily.

  “His own sister. He kept her prisoner at Top Withins and drugged her.”

  “She wasn’t kidnapped,” Brown protested. “He told me she was losing her mind and it was for her health’s sake.”

  Emily shook her head. “He drugged her so she would seem incompetent. He wanted to take control of her legacy. I’ve witnesses, too,” Emily assured him. “If you’re associated with this man, you must sever all ties with him immediately, lest he drag you down with him.”

  Emily could see him considering this; unconsciously Brown took a step away from the grave.

  Pursuing her advantage, Emily added, “He also viciously attacked my sister.”

  “Miss Charlotte?” Brown asked in a small voice, as though this last piece of information were too much to bear. “What did he do?”

  “Heaton hit her across the face with a riding crop.” She embellished the story for effect. “She may bear the scar for life.”

  Almost under his breath, Brown said, “Little Miss Charlotte. She doesn’t have any good looks to spare.” He stared at the grave with revulsion, and Emily knew he was on their side.

  In a voice loud enough for Heaton to hear, Brown said, “Those are serious charges, Miss Brontë.” His son reappeared, carrying a ladder under his arm.

  “Brown, I’ll break you, too!” Heaton called up. “Don’t you dare turn on me. I’m invoking the Mason’s code.”

  “Shut up, Heaton,” Brown snapped. Suddenly he seemed a different person, someone powerful and fearsome. He stalked over and stared down into the open grave. “I won’t let your greed tarnish all the good work the lodge does. You have dishonored the fraternity. You’ll be expelled at our next meeting.”

  “What should we do now?” Emily asked.

  Brown ran his fingers through his thick fair hair. He turned to his son and told him to drop the ladder and fetch the constable. “Go as far as Bradford, if you have to.”

  Heaton’s frantic voice called up. “Brown, don’t listen to her! You have to help me!”

  “Heaton, shut up,” Brown said.

  Emily called down, “My father will have Rachel seen by a doctor who will see she is perfectly sane, despite the laudanum you have dosed her with. And he’ll bring you before a magistrate in Leeds. Someone you can’t buy or threaten.”

  She turned to John Brown. “I’m sure my father will be out to speak to you in a moment. Good night, Mr. Brown.”

  She slipped away. At the parsonage gate she paused and looked back on the scene. She hoped to see her sisters Maria and Elizabeth, floating above the graveyard, enjoying the spectacle, but there were only markers for the dead, a confused sexton, and the voice of a very angry, frustrated, soon-to-beformer landowner and Freemason.

  My help had been needed and claimed; I had given

  it: I was pleased to have done something; trivial,

  transitory though the deed was, it was yet an active

  thing, and I was weary of an existence al
l passive.

  Ten minutes earlier

  After hearing Emily’s hoots, Charlotte led the horse and cart carrying Rachel to one side of the house, then slipped in the gate and found the front door locked. She pounded on the door. Finally a worried Tabby answered.

  “Miss Charlotte, where have you been?” Tabby cried. “Your father is frantic about you and your sister. And did you hear that terrible explosion? Your father thinks it was an earthquake!” Keeper appeared in the hallway and bulled his way past them with a loud howl and disappeared into the garden.

  “It wasn’t an earthquake, it was a bog burst.” Charlotte forestalled her questions. “I’ll explain later, Tabby. Where is Father? There’s a lady outside who needs our help.”

  Branwell appeared from the kitchen. “There you are! I told Tabby she was worrying for nothing.”

  “Mr. Branwell, you help bring in the poor lady; I’ll make up a bed in the sitting room.” Tabby bustled off, but not before saying, “Do I smell smoke?”

  “What lady?” Branwell said. “Charlotte, you’re soaking wet!” He looked closer. “What happened to your head?”

  Charlotte didn’t trust herself to speak. She led the way to the cart and lifted the horse blanket and showed Rachel to Branwell.

  Branwell went pale. “That’s Heaton’s mad cousin.”

  “Sister,” Charlotte corrected. “Heaton has been drugging her to make her seem mad. And you helped him.”

  “His sister? What are you talking about? It was a tonic prescribed by the doctor.” He stepped back, shock on his face. “How do you know about that? Why is she here?”

  “Because Emily and I rescued her from Robert Heaton.” She fingered the dried blood on her forehead.

  “You’ll ruin everything!” Branwell started shouting in a high voice. “I’ve only just joined . . .” He gulped before continuing. “A new group of friends—who accept me.”

  Charlotte was impatient with his explanations and his secrets. “Branwell, Robert Heaton sponsored you to be a Freemason only to use you in his own schemes. He is not your friend.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is,” Charlotte said flatly. “Now help me bring Rachel inside.”

  “I don’t dare go against Heaton.” Branwell heard voices from the graveyard. “That’s Heaton. He’s here! Well, this makes it easier, Charlotte. If this woman is supposed to be here, he’ll say so.” He started to walk to the graveyard, hands cupping his mouth to amplify his shout. “Heaton!”

  “Stop, Branwell!” Charlotte said. Something in her tone made him turn around. He saw what she was holding and blanched.

  “Put that away!” he said.

  Charlotte’s hand was shaking as she pointed the pistol at Branwell. “Bring Rachel in. And don’t cry out, or I’m liable to shoot something important. I’ve never had lessons like Emily.”

  Tabby fussed over a barely conscious Rachel on the couch. Branwell sat sulking at the table, glowering at Charlotte, who kept her hand on the pistol.

  Rev. Brontë came in the room. He blinked when he saw Charlotte holding the pistol. “Charlotte, put that away. It’s not a toy.” He spied Rachel on the couch and rushed to bend down to her. “Who is this? Is she ill? Am I needed for the last rites?”

  “Father,” Charlotte implored, “please leave Mrs. Casson to us. Emily needs you in the graveyard.”

  Her father straightened up and gave Charlotte a sharp glance. “Mrs. Rachel Casson? Heaton’s sister? Charlotte, what have you done?” Before she could answer, he noticed the cut on her face. “What happened?”

  “Father, for heaven’s sake! I am fine.” She pointed to her bleeding head. “Robert Heaton did this to me. Emily drew him away so I could get this lady to safety. She needs our help. And Emily needs yours.” She pulled the pistol out of her pocket. “Take this—you may need it. Go. Now!”

  Blinking rapidly, Rev. Brontë seized the pistol and hurried outside.

  “The poor thing,” Tabby crooned, fussing over Rachel. “I’m going to get her a cold compress. You stay with her, Charlotte.”

  Glaring at her brother, Charlotte said, “I wouldn’t think of leaving her alone, Tabby.”

  Charlotte went to the window and looked toward the graveyard. She could see her father’s tall figure standing next to Emily and Keeper. Sexton Brown and his son were bringing a body out of an open grave. It was Robert Heaton! Chuckling, she reminded herself not to be surprised at anything if Emily was involved.

  She returned to Rachel and checked she was still asleep. Branwell lifted his pale eyes to Charlotte and finally spoke. “Did Heaton really strike you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He put his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his thick red hair. “Of course not.” His eyes filled with tears. “Was he really just using me?”

  Charlotte hesitated, torn between punishing Branwell further and giving him comfort. She finally decided to do what Emily would do and tell the unvarnished truth.

  “You were his pawn in his plot to cheat Rachel out of her father’s inheritance. If Emily and I had not intervened, an innocent woman would have been committed to an asylum and robbed of her legacy. And you would have tarnished Father’s life’s work.”

  Branwell began to sob. Charlotte resisted her impulse to go to him. After a long moment of self-pity, he turned his head so he could look directly at her. “What will happen to me now?”

  Charlotte was swept by a wave of complex feelings. Anger that Branwell’s first thought was still of himself. But also ineffable sadness that the boy who had shown so much promise was reduced to this coward sniveling at the table. He stared at her, waiting for an answer. At last she said, “It depends on Rachel. Did you know what the tonic was for?”

  “He told me she had nerves and suffered from delusions that people were trying to hurt her.”

  “No delusion,” Charlotte said. “It was true. He was her enemy.”

  “Charlotte, you must believe me. I didn’t know.”

  Charlotte wished she could believe him with a whole heart. “She might not press charges against you. And thanks to Emily and me, you never had a chance to alter Father’s records.”

  “You know about that, too?”

  “We know everything.”

  “But I didn’t do it,” Branwell said. He heaved a sigh of relief. “In fact, there’s no proof I did anything at all.”

  At that moment, there was a fusillade of knocks at the door. They heard Emily’s voice calling, “Open up!” The commands were interjected with deep barks from Keeper.

  Tabby bustled down the hall to open the door, her pale complexion flushed. “Emily! First Charlotte comes in with that woman, drunk by the look of her! Then your father stormed outside with his pistol. Now you—covered with mud. What on earth is happening tonight?”

  Branwell got up. “I can’t face her, too,” he said, and scurried up the stairs.

  Without a word, Emily pushed past Tabby and went into the drawing room, not noticing Branwell’s hasty departure.

  “Emily!” Charlotte exclaimed, embracing her with wide-open arms. “Thank goodness you are safe. I sent Father to rescue you.”

  “I didn’t need rescuing,” Emily said. “However, Mr. Brown was badly in need of his guidance. Somehow Heaton fell into an open grave and broke his ankle.”

  Her hand to her mouth, Charlotte laughed, “What a shame!”

  A wicked smile on her face, Emily said, “Yes, isn’t it? He’s in terrible pain.”

  Charlotte clapped her hands softly. “Well done, Emily!”

  “I’m very tired now.” Emily sank down on the stairs and closed her eyes. Charlotte sat down next to Emily and put an arm around her. With a grateful sigh, Emily lay her head on Charlotte’s shoulder.

  “Did you send a doctor to Harry?” Emily asked sleepily.

  “Yes, it was the first thing I did once I got Rachel inside. Tabby s
ent the scullery maid to tell him to go directly to Top Withins,” Charlotte said. “I only hope he’s in time.”

  “As do I,” Emily agreed.

  After several moments of unprecedented unity between the sisters, Charlotte broke the silence. “Emily, what on earth happened to your petticoat?”

  Emily’s laughter echoed throughout the house.

  You see, Mr. Lockwood, it was easy enough

  to win Mrs. Heathcliff’s heart.

  But now, I’m glad you did not try.

  Two weeks later

  Emily’s story poured from her fingers, filling page after page of foolscap paper. In her fictional world, the parsonage walls had dissolved and the north wind tossed her hair about, making her eyes water with its force.

  Suddenly a loud knocking intruded as though a giant’s fist had pounded the bog, bouncing her characters off their feet. Frantic, Emily grasped at the thread of her story, trying to pull herself back into the tale, but the pounding continued.

  “Will someone answer the door?” she shouted. There was no response. Another knock. Muttering an oath, she shoved the papers away across the square dining room table and stalked to the front door. She pulled it open, ready to treat whoever had disturbed her writing with the disdain they deserved.

  “Harry!” Her irritation dissolved. The loose bandages about his face and hands dismayed her, but she was glad to see his eyes were clear and lucid. “It’s good to see you finally. Charlotte and I tried to visit you, but we were turned away every time.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was raspy as if from long disuse. “I wasn’t ready for visitors, even if their name was Brontë.”

  She opened the door wide and stepped back, careful not to crowd him. How could she put him at ease? What would Charlotte do?

  “Come in. You’ve never been to the parsonage before, have you? Here’s the parlor. Won’t you sit down while I get us some tea?” Her inconsequential talk of hospitality was foreign to their usual conversation, but she prattled on to give him time to find his footing.