Always Emily

by Michaela MacColl

  When she returned with a tray from the kitchen, she half expected him to have fled. But he was standing by the fireplace, staring down at the carpet.

  “This carpet has a very odd pattern of use,” he said. “It’s worn only on the edges.”

  Emily laughed, and the light sound seemed to put him further at ease. “In the winter, we sisters promenade around the room, arm in arm, reading from our stories or poems.” She poured him a cup of tea. “Sugar or milk?”

  “Two sugars, please,” he said. “Your brother was never part of your writing?”

  “Not since we were children. Now he writes in the privacy of his own room and refuses to share with us.”

  Harry’s blue eyes darted around the room and glanced up the stairs. She understood what he hesitated to ask. “Branwell is gone. Father sent him off to Bradford to study painting. I think he’ll remain there until after the trial.”

  “Trial.” Harry pronounced the word with a finality that chilled the room.

  Emily slowly stirred the sugar in the tea. “My father says your uncle is sure to be convicted of kidnapping, fraud, and injuring Charlotte. His Freemason friends have all deserted him, as have the other mill owners. He’ll go to prison.” She handed Harry the teacup, which he accepted with bandaged hands. She looked down at them for a long moment, then raised her eyes to his.

  “The doctor says I’m lucky.” Harry’s voice was bitter. “I will regain full use of my fingers.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Emily asked.

  “Of course, but he can’t say the same for my face.” Before Emily could say anything, he put the cup down and unwound the bandages, his hands clumsy. The skin around his eyes was clear, but his cheeks to his chin were covered with raw patches of skin and unhealed blisters.

  “Oh, Harry,” Emily breathed. She reached toward him and he recoiled. Slowly, as though she were approaching one of her wild animals, Emily showed him she was only going to stroke his hair. He closed his eyes and let her hand soothe him. After a few moments, he pulled away slightly, but enough so that she knew to stop.

  “I’m hideous,” he whispered.

  “Not to me,” she said.

  He shook his head and turned his back to her. She sipped her tea and waited for him to speak. Finally Harry said, “I’m here to say goodbye.”

  “Why?” Emily asked, staring down at the tea leaves floating in her cup.

  “My mother has such terrible memories of Yorkshire, she wants to get well away,” he explained. “I don’t know if she can ever return to Ponden Hall.”

  “But . . .”

  “It’s done, Emily.”

  Emily blinked away an unexpected tear. “That’s understandable, I suppose.”

  His clear eyes narrowed. “Really? Because I think you would confront your fears, not run from them.”

  “Perhaps,” Emily said. “But then I’m not afraid of much.”

  “I know.” With an echo of his old romantic bravado, Harry said, “You’re extraordinary.”

  Emily stood up and began rearranging Aunt B.’s bric-à-brac on the mantel. Compliments always made her uncomfortable. She heard a noise in the hall, but didn’t turn to look. Emily knew full well who was listening.

  “I’m not so brave,” Harry went on, oblivious to possible eavesdroppers. “I can’t stand to see the pity on people’s faces. Emily, when you greeted me at the door, you didn’t look away. You’re the first person to really look at me since the fire.”

  “In time . . .” Emily started to say.

  “In time, the burns will heal. But my face will always be horrible.”

  “Not to me,” Emily said again.

  “I know, and I thank you for it.” He looked at her for a long moment, as though trying to memorize every detail of her face. “If it weren’t so presumptuous, I would love you for it.”

  Emily’s hand jerked, and the tea sloshed out of her cup. She took out her handkerchief and mopped it up, taking a moment for them both to regain their composure. “That’s a ridiculous reason to love someone.”

  “Can you give me a better reason?” he asked.

  “Because you can’t live without her.”

  He sighed. “Even before I was burned, you made it clear you could live without me.”

  “Harry . . .”

  “Don’t,” he said. “I couldn’t bear it if you lied to me. It would crush me if you pretended to love me only because I’ve been injured.”

  Slowly she said, “I would never do that.”

  A bark of laughter escaped his mouth, and if it was perilously close to a sob, neither of them made any reference to it.

  “Where are you going?” Emily asked.

  “I’ve rented a house in northern Scotland.”

  “That’s very far,” Emily replied.

  “Far enough to discourage any visitors.”

  “I wish things were different,” Emily said. She glanced down at her ink-stained fingers. “Perhaps if I were more traditional . . .”

  “If you were the type of girl who wanted marriage and children and a household, you would not be my lovely, impetuous Emily.” He caught her hands in his bandaged palms. “I’m so grateful for all your help,” he said. “Without you and your sister, I would have nothing.”

  Emily stared at their hands, entwined together. After a few moments he released her.

  “I’m glad I kissed you that day, Emily.”

  Emily smiled a crooked smile. “I believe I kissed you.”

  “So you did.” He rewrapped his face with the bandages to protect the tender skin. “A memory I will cherish.” He turned and walked away.

  “Harry!” Emily said. He stopped. She ran to him and held out her arms. He hesitated and she stepped closer. Harry closed his eyes and let her embrace him. She held him gently for a long time.

  Harry had tears in his eyes when he moved away. “Please give my regards to Charlotte.”

  “She will be sorry not to say goodbye to you in person.”

  “I don’t want her to see me like this.” He started for the door. “Farewell, Emily.”

  “Goodbye, dear Harry.”

  The echo of the front door closing hadn’t faded before Charlotte walked into the parlor. Emily stood in the center of the room, staring into space. Charlotte, arms folded, waited until Emily noticed her presence.

  “I hope you were able to hear everything from the hall,” Emily said drily.

  Charlotte didn’t bother to deny it. “How can you let him go?”

  Emily stared at her sister. “You heard him. He decided to leave.” Her voice lacked her usual confidence.

  “You could have changed his mind if you wanted to,” Charlotte said. “But now that he’s ugly, he’s not good enough for you?”

  Charlotte meant to be cruel, but Emily wondered if her sister was more right than she knew. Harry had not only lost his good looks but his confidence and bravado. Harry assumed he was no longer worthy of love, and the assumption almost made it true.

  “You think I should have tried to convince him to stay?” Emily asked. “But I would never marry him. Or anyone for that matter.”

  “You are too cold,” Charlotte said with conviction.

  “I’m not cold,” Emily cried. “I did care for him a little, but Harry deserves someone to love him with a whole heart.” She glanced at the table with her pile of foolscap paper covered with her handwriting. “He would always have a rival for my affections.”

  “Writing is a poor substitute for love.”

  “Charlotte, I’m not in love with him! We had an adventure, but that doesn’t mean I have to fall into his arms. I’m not some lovesick queen in one of your stories.”

  Charlotte recoiled as if she had been struck.

  Emily winced. “I didn’t mean it like that. I love your stories. But in real life, does the queen really want to live with the duke? If the queen ends up with the duke, what happens to her own kingdom?”

  “I would give up my writing if I
could have a great romance,” Charlotte said. In a small, sad voice she added, “If he loved me, all the scars in the world would not keep me away from him.”

  “I don’t think I’m destined for love,” Emily said. “Even when it was most exciting with Harry, I was thinking all the time about how to tell the story on paper.” She reached her hand out to Charlotte. “If you don’t find love, you too can find solace in your stories.”

  Charlotte squeezed Emily’s hand. “If I wrote this story, I’d choose a happier ending.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Emily assured her sister. “Life is full of tragedy, and so my stories will be, too.”

  Charlotte glared at her as long as she was able, then burst out laughing. “You’re impossible! Must you disagree with me about everything?”

  Emily nodded. “Probably.” She returned to the table, picked up her pen, and began to write.

  THE END

  Dear Reader,

  The more research I did about the Brontës, the more I marveled at the unlikelihood of three wonderful writers growing up in this tiny house on the edge of the lonely moors. Every member of the family was a fascinating character. Branwell, Anne, and Rev. Brontë could each be the main characters of their own novels, but I was most interested (and challenged) by trying to capture the complicated relationship between the two most famous Brontës: Charlotte and Emily. Emily was mesmerizing but also impossible to live with, while Charlotte tried so hard to be true to her artistic self while being the only practical person in a house full of brilliant lunatics.

  The Brontë sisters lived a sheltered life in their father’s parsonage overlooking a crowded graveyard. Theirs was the last house in town. They were equally isolated socially because there were no other middle-class families in Haworth. Beyond the parsonage lay the open moors, a wild and desolate place that shaped their world and their writing.

  All the Brontë children died young, but during their short lives Charlotte, Emily, and even Anne (who is absent from Always Emily) wrote important novels that are considered classics today. Every few years a new movie or miniseries based on Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights proves these books have not lost their attraction for modern readers.

  Early death haunted the Brontës. Their mother died when the youngest child, Anne, was just a year old. The two oldest daughters, Maria (age eleven) and Elizabeth (age ten), contracted consumption (also known as the “graveyard cough”), or what we now call tuberculosis, at Cowan Bridge, a boarding school for poor clergymen’s daughters. The conditions at the school were terrible; one third of the students died, causing a national scandal. Charlotte, who narrowly escaped illness at the school, was deeply affected by her time there. A thinly disguised version of Cowan Bridge became the model for Lowood, the cruel boarding school in Charlotte’s famous novel Jane Eyre.

  With the death of her older sisters, Charlotte abruptly became the oldest in the family, a position of responsibility she took quite seriously for the rest of her life. There’s no proof that Emily and Charlotte snuck into the family crypt, but their sisters were taken from them so quickly that I wanted to give them an opportunity to say goodbye.

  Not surprisingly, Rev. Brontë was reluctant to send his remaining children away to school again. Charlotte, Branwell, Emily, and Anne were schooled at home for the next several years. Their father gave them great freedom to read almost anything, so, unusually for the time period, the sisters read the same novels, history texts, and philosophical treatises as their brother.

  The Brontë children were quick to take advantage of any library they could find, including the one at Ponden House, which was two miles from the parsonage. The children also liked to make up fantasy worlds and characters that inhabited them. By the time Charlotte was twelve, they were writing the stories down.

  Charlotte and Branwell wrote about a fantasy kingdom called Angria, while Emily and Anne created Gondal. Charlotte in particular liked to bind her stories in tiny books that could fit in the palm of your hand. Her penmanship was excellent, but so small that a magnifying glass was required to read it. Recently one of these Brontë juvenilia (books written by children) sold at auction for nearly one million dollars.

  Charlotte enrolled in the Roe Head School when she was sixteen. A diligent student, she excelled at her studies. Charlotte was always afraid of what would happen to her and her siblings if their father was to die. Not only was his salary the family’s only income, but their home belonged to the church, too.

  The options for young women to earn their own living were extremely limited in the 1830s, so not surprisingly Charlotte planned to become a teacher to support herself. After she finished her schooling, Charlotte was invited back to be a teacher at Roe Head. She was nineteen. Though she did not enjoy teaching, she stayed because part of her compensation included the cost of Emily’s tuition.

  At the age of seventeen, Emily was old to be a first-time student, and her time at Roe Head was not a success. Accustomed to complete freedom at home to read and write as she wished, as well as to take frequent treks on the moor in all weathers, she found life at school intolerable. She most likely missed her beloved pets. Besides her dogs Grasper and Keeper, she kept cats, geese, and even a pet hawk named Nero. Emily’s homesickness became so debilitating that she went home after only a month to be replaced at school by her sister, Anne, a few months later.

  In Always Emily, I sent Charlotte home from Roe Head just in time to help investigate the mystery. This visit home was fictional. However, I took the liberty of imagining what would have happened if the headmistress ever saw what Charlotte was writing. The story about the duke and the queen at the beginning of Chapter Two is my own invention, although typical of the high gothic romantic writing Charlotte favored as a teenager.

  Anne, Charlotte, and Emily all tried their hand at teaching or being governesses, but none of their positions lasted for long. One of the few nonfamily members admitted into the Brontës’ circle, Ellen Nussey, a school friend of Charlotte’s, noted that she could not imagine any family whose temperament was less suited to teaching than the Brontës.

  By 1846, all the Brontës had returned home. Charlotte finally abandoned the idea that the girls should earn their living by teaching.

  One day Charlotte snuck a peek in Emily’s portable desk and found a secret journal of her poetry. She remembered the experience of reading Emily’s poems for the first time: “To my ear, they had a peculiar music—wild, melancholy, and elevating.” Emily was furious with her sister’s invasion of her privacy, but Charlotte thought the ends justified the means. The girls could support themselves with their writing. She convinced Anne and Emily to submit poems to a publisher.

  In the 1840s, very few women published their work. The sisters knew that their writing would be judged unfairly simply because they were female, so they decided to submit it under pseudonyms that could be of either gender. Anne became Acton Bell, Charlotte was Currer Bell, and Emily took the name Ellis Bell.

  Their poems were published and received favorable reviews. Unfortunately only two copies were sold. Charlotte then decided that the sisters should try writing novels, which were more lucrative.

  Charlotte’s first novel was rejected, but her second, Jane Eyre, was accepted and published. It tells the story of Jane, an impoverished and plain governess. After suffering as a child for the sins of being poor and outspoken, Jane becomes a governess for the enigmatic Mr. Rochester. Their tragic love story has become a classic, beloved by millions of readers.

  It’s hard for the modern reader to appreciate how Charlotte’s novel defied conventions at the time. The novel is written in the first person, the first novel to feature a female protagonist speaking in her own intensely personal voice. And did she speak! Jane is honest about her passionate nature and the feelings she harbors for her employer. It was a shockingly original novel for its time.

  Jane Eyre was an instant success. Some critics called it coarse because obviously women shouldn’t have these sorts of feelings, and
if they did, they certainly did not talk about them.

  The identity of Currer Bell was the question of the day. The speculation intensified after the publication of equally unusual novels by Emily and Anne, also under their male pseudonyms.

  Emily’s only novel, Wuthering Heights, was published in 1847. A story of doomed love and revenge on the moors of Yorkshire, Wuthering Heights was often condemned as a brutal novel of amoral passion. However, now it is considered one of the most enduring pieces of writing in the English language.

  Emily was supposed to have begun work on another novel, but became ill before she could finish it. She believed her health had been compromised by contamination of the parsonage’s water from the church’s graveyard. Despite her worsening condition, she refused to see a doctor. She died of tuberculosis in 1848 at the age of thirty. Upon her death, Keeper howled at her bedroom door all night, proving his loyal companionship even after death.

  Unfortunately, Anne’s novels have long been overshadowed by those of her more famous sisters. Her first novel, Agnes Grey, was based on her own experiences as a governess in a middle-class household. Her second, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, about a woman who flees from an abusive husband, is considered one of the first truly feminist novels. Anne died of tuberculosis in 1849 at the age of twenty-nine, a year after Emily’s death.

  Despite his early promise, Branwell never succeeded in life. The only time he went away to school was in 1825, when he enrolled at the Royal Academy in London. He returned a week later, demoralized. His sisters never discovered what happened there.

  Branwell drifted from one job to another. He drank and eventually became addicted to laudanum. He died at the age of thirty-two from tuberculosis, complicated by his addictions.

  Some modern scholars have suggested that Branwell had an active role in writing his sisters’ novels; however, the evidence for this is not convincing. In fact, Charlotte said that he didn’t even know that his sisters had been published.

  Charlotte was devastated by the deaths of her siblings. She would publish two more novels, Shirley and Villette. Although both were well received, neither received the acclaim that Jane Eyre had.