‘Apart from the foxes that scavenge from the midden heaps,’ Harry said with a grin.
Emily shrugged. ‘Only in the winter, when there’s less food about. Then they’re back on the moor, the air fresh, and the footing sound.’
Harry grimaced, knowing what Emily was referring to. The recent rains had sent a river of waste from the privies and middens at the top end of Main Street down to the bottom. The steep hill had been lethal, even more so than normal; and people, horses and carts had slithered down it with a filthy, stinking regularity over the past few days.
He shuddered. ‘The sooner they lay them cobbles they keep talking about, the better.’
Emily didn’t appear to have heard him. ‘I love the ... space ... up there. No one else to annoy you, just fauna and flora.’
Harry scowled at her fancy words mixed in with her Yorkshire dialect, itself not as strong as most in the village. That more than anything highlighted the differences between them, and at times he struggled to understand her meaning.
He glanced at the parsonage then thought of his family’s cottage. Nine of them in two rooms; and that was only because four of his siblings were already in their graves.
‘Been up to Top Withens today,’ Emily continued, having mistaken Harry’s silence for interest. ‘Love it up there.’
‘Aye, thee can see for miles and there’s no folk to spoil the view,’ Harry said.
‘Yes,’ Emily exclaimed. ‘That’s it exactly!’
‘Mebbe one day we’ll live up there, together.’ Harry blushed fiercely, wondering if he’d gone too far, but Emily didn’t seem to have understood his meaning. Either that or she had far more tact than people credited her with.
‘I’d love to live up there,’ she said. ‘But Papa would never allow it. What time will Mr Barraclough release you?’ She looked at Harry, irritated, and he knew he’d taken too long to respond to her change of subject. He popped his head inside, and received a nod from his master.
‘Whenever thee wishes. What service can I do thee for?’ He smiled and winked, but again Emily failed to react.
‘Come to the parsonage for tea. In about an hour. Papa was complaining this morning that he doesn’t see enough of you.’
***
‘Have another sandwich.’ Charlotte proffered the plate. The eldest at fourteen, Harry knew, yet she was so diminutive, even her youngest sister Anne more than matched her for height.
But whatever her stature, she was the perfect hostess, with impeccable manners, even if she did have a strange manner of peering intently at her guests.
Must be all that reading she does, Harry thought, that makes her squint so. Bad for thy health, all them books.
‘I’ve just finished Don Juan,’ Branwell announced. ‘I found it to be an absolutely fascinating, if a little shocking, study of today’s society. Have you ever read Lord Byron, Harry?’
Harry refused to let his true reaction to this pretentiousness show on his face. He couldn’t abide Branwell, who lorded it over boys of his own age, especially those of the village. He idolised his father’s sexton, John Brown, and tried to pretend he was of the same age and life experience, despite the thirteen-year gap. Little did Branwell know, instead of appearing learned and a man of the world, he was viewed as a pompous ass by everyone in Haworth under the age of sixteen – unless their surname was Brontë.
‘No, I have not, Branwell,’ Harry replied, mocking the other boy’s upper-crust way of speech. ‘My reading tends to be limited to the memorial stones Mr Barraclough carves.’
Charlotte reclaimed the conversation with a small rebuke to her brother as she defended their guest. ‘Don’t be silly, Branwell, Harry doesn’t have time for such pursuits as poetry, he must feed his family, especially with young Mabel so poorly. How does she fare, Harry?’
‘Ailing at the minute, Miss Charlotte, but still breathing so there’s hope.’
‘Well, you must take the rest of these sandwiches home with you. Some apples too, we have a good stock, they’ll do her the power of good.’
‘Thank you, Miss Charlotte.’
‘Ha!’ Branwell interrupted, determined to regain the upper hand from his elder sister, and waved a newspaper over the children. ‘Look at this! Mr Rook will have a fit when he sees it.’
‘Sees what, Branwell?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Which publication is that?’
‘The Leeds Mercury.’ Branwell cracked the paper open in emulation of his father.
‘That scoundrel, Richard Oastler, is at it again, he’s blatantly calling for millworkers to strike!’
‘No scoundrel, Branwell,’ Emily said. ‘He speaks for many, and there is truth in what he preaches, even Papa says so.’
Branwell scowled. ‘He should not talk against the mills. Without them Haworth would starve.’
Emily snatched the newsprint from her brother. ‘You know as well as I the perils of working in the mills. Even now Harry’s sister is in her bed, barely able to breathe for the fluff in her lungs, and only ten years old, the same age as our Anne!’
‘Emily,’ Charlotte cautioned with a concerned glance at Harry. His face was white, but he showed no other sign of emotion.
Emily ignored her sister. ‘Richard Oastler speaks for all the mill children who have no voice. Their parents too.’ She jumped to her feet in her passion, her features pinched as she struggled to express the outrage flooding through her. She pointed at the newspaper, then her brother, and stamped her foot.
‘The Yorkshire Slavery he calls it, and slavery it is. Nippers crawling under them awful machines, and girls not much older running those huge spinning frames.’
‘Have a care, child. I will tolerate no Luddite tendencies under this roof.’
Emily jumped, paled, and sat down all in one motion at the sound of her father’s rebuke.
‘I am sorry, Papa. I am not speaking against the machines, only the lot of their operators.’
‘Those operators are lucky to have the work,’ a new voice said. ‘Without it, their families would starve. Is that not so, Mr Sutcliffe?’
‘Yes, Mr Rook,’ Harry said.
Baalzephon Rook, as owner of Rook Mills the employer of the majority of Harry’s extensive family, nodded and put a hand on the shoulder of his son, Zemeraim.
‘What say you, Miss Brontë?’ he said, glancing at Emily. ‘Should I allow those families to starve?’
Emily met his gaze, lifted her chin, and opened her mouth.
‘Come now, Baalzephon. You shall get no sense from a child,’ Patrick Brontë said with a cautionary glance at his most wayward of daughters, who blessedly kept her silence.
‘They show rather too much interest in a world they neither understand nor have no business therein,’ Rook Senior pronounced.
‘Nonsense, Baalzephon. ’Tis good for the new generations to learn about their world, surely?’
‘They do not seem to be learning, but passing judgements beyond their capabilities.’
Patrick shot another warning glance at Emily, then replied, ‘Merely a step on the road to enlightenment, my friend, ’tis all.’
‘And I’m surprised at you, Harry Sutcliffe, keeping such company.’
Patrick narrowed his eyes, unsure whether Harry or his own offspring were being insulted, but before he could enquire, Baalzephon and Zemeraim had taken their leave and departed.
Emily looked at Branwell, whose face resembled a thunderous sky at the perceived slight, and giggled.
Patrick sighed in exasperation.
‘I think I should also take my leave,’ Harry said, flustered. Why could folk not just say what they mean?
‘I shall see you out, Master Sutcliffe,’ Patrick said, and Harry fled.
‘Not so fast, boy.’
Harry froze on the stoop.
‘She’s not for you.’
He did not turn.
‘I encouraged your friendship, I know. My Emily does not make friends with ease, not the human kind. You have been good for her. You
have saved her life at least once. But she will never be your wife. My largesse shall not extend to that. Set your sights on another.’
Harry walked away. He did not look back. He would not allow Patrick Brontë to see the angry flush his words had ignited on his cheeks.
He passed through the gate from the parsonage garden to the churchyard, past the grave of his sisters, past the church, towards home on Weaver’s Row.
Patrick watched him go, wondering if he had done the right thing. Harry was the only person outside the family and household who understood Emily, who accepted her as she was, who loved the birds and animals as she did.
But he was a stonemason’s apprentice, and a weaver’s son. Emily was a parson’s daughter.
With a heavy sigh, he swung shut the front door and turned to see Emily staring at him.
One of the few things in the world that could make the Reverend Patrick Brontë flinch, was his daughter Emily’s fiercest stare. He not only flinched, but stumbled backwards against the closed door.
2.
‘Are you sure you should move back in there?’ Lara asked.
‘Yes, I can’t afford to stay at the White Lion indefinitely when my own place is just across the street. It was lovely over Christmas, but I need to face whatever is going on at The Rookery. Anyway, Vikram and the gang are back today, I can’t put it off forever, and nothing has happened since Antony’s visit.’
‘And you’ve had no more dreams?’ Lara asked.
‘No,’ I lied, and Lara narrowed her eyes, but with a glance at her daughter, she stayed silent. ‘And even if I had, the dreams aren’t the problem.’
‘No, just your friends and your ex-husband,’ Lara pointed out.
‘Well, I don’t think Antony will pay another visit.’
Lara laughed. ‘You can say that again – I’ve never seen anybody run so fast. Or look so pale.’
‘Like he’d seen a ghost,’ Hannah repeated the joke we’d been telling all over Christmas. ‘Like Scrooge.’
‘Just like Scrooge,’ Lara agreed, and Hannah buried her nose back in her book. I was struck anew by the way Hannah seemed to cope so well with such strange and frightening events. Yes, she was terrified when these things happened, but within a day she’d accepted it as normal. I envied her.
‘Anyway, I have to check out today, the room isn’t free again until after New Year. Apparently there’s a big do on in the village and they’re booked up already.’
‘I just wish Jayne had been able to stay longer,’ Lara said, and I looked at her in surprise.
She shrugged. ‘We may not agree on everything, but we do agree on looking out for you.’
I nodded and Hannah looked up from her book again and said, ‘And Grasper could have looked after you too, Auntie Verity.’
‘He certainly could, Hannah. What are you reading?’
Hannah showed me the book – a history of Haworth. ‘It has all the ghosts in it,’ she explained.
‘Hannah woke up on the floor this morning,’ Lara said. ‘Seemingly, it’s because of the ghost of the balloonist.’
‘Yes, Lily Cove,’ Hannah explained. ‘She parachuted out of her hot-air balloon, but the parachute didn’t open and she just fell.’
‘And you’re not scared?’
‘No. I was at first, but she just wants to tell people what happened to her and it’s difficult because she doesn’t have a voice or a body any more. That’s what Mum says. Maybe that’s what your ghosts are doing, Auntie Verity, trying to tell you what happened to them.’
‘You could be right, Hans,’ Lara said. ‘Have you finished your breakfast?’
Hannah nodded, put a large black feather into her book to mark her page, then closed the book.
‘Where did you get that?’ Lara asked with a shiver.
‘Outside Auntie Verity’s house. There are lots on the ground from those big black birds.’
Lara and I exchanged a glance, then I threw my napkin on to the table. ‘Right, come on. I need to get my stuff and settle my bill, then once I’ve spoken to Vikram and the build team, the rest of the day is ours.’
***
‘What’s that lot for?’ I pointed at the bag of crystals, amulets and other odds and sods Lara had bought from the new-age shop on Main Street.
‘If you’re moving back into that place, you’ll do so with some protection,’ Lara said.
‘Stones, herbs and symbols?’ I scoffed.
‘I’m willing to try anything,’ Lara said. ‘And don’t mock this stuff, used properly it can be very powerful.’
‘But you’ve already cleansed The Rookery. That didn’t do much good.’
‘How do you know? You’ve no idea if things would be even worse without that cleansing.’
I stayed silent, but knew my apprehension was clear in the set of my face and shoulders.
‘We’ll cleanse again tonight after the builders have gone, then every evening – and you need to carry on doing it after Hannah and I go home.’ She stopped in exasperation at the look on my face.
‘Look at it this way, Verity, it can’t hurt and you’ll keep me off your back.’
I relaxed. ‘You’re right, Lara, sorry.’ I gave her a quick hug. ‘I guess I’m a bit freaked out by it all. When the stuff in the kitchen started smashing, well ...’
Lara glanced at Hannah, who was peering into shop windows and not paying us any attention.
‘It must have been terrifying,’ she said. ‘But no one was hurt – and they could have been had the spirits wanted to. They’re clearly capable of it.’
‘They?’
Lara shrugged. ‘Well, yes, there were two orbs, remember?’
‘My dream man and the Grey Lady,’ I said.
‘I don’t think so – I don’t think the Grey Lady has anything to do with this. But whoever they are, we need to make sure you’re safe.’
‘I don’t think they want to hurt me,’ I said. ‘If anything, I think Hannah’s right, he – they – want to tell me something.’
‘Maybe, but to be honest, they’re going to a lot of trouble and energy to merely tell you a story. No, there’s something more going on here, and I’m not sure we want to find out what.’
‘I doubt they’ll give us the choice, they’ve been pretty insistent so far.’
‘That’s what’s worrying me so much,’ Lara said. ‘How much further will they go to make you understand?’
I hesitated, then said, ‘Okay, I’ll do whatever you want: spells, potions, rituals, the works. Even dance naked in the graveyard under the full moon if that’ll make you happy!’
Lara laughed with me. ‘We don’t need to go that far, Verity, not unless you really want to.’
‘I’d rather not – even if it appeases the ghosts, which is unlikely, I can’t see my new neighbours taking kindly to that spectacle!’
‘Why are you laughing, Mum?’ Hannah had grown bored of window shopping and re-joined us.
‘Oh, just picturing Auntie Verity dancing around the gravestones with no clothes on.’
Hannah looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Why would you picture that, Mum?’
I joined in Lara’s laughter. ‘Yes, why would you picture that, Lara?’
‘I wish I never had,’ she spluttered. ‘Shall we get on with the shopping instead? Didn’t you want to have a look at the art gallery?’
Still laughing, I linked arms with Lara, Hannah taking her other side, and we made our clumsy way over the cobbles.
3.
‘Auntie Verity!’ Hannah bumped into my back and I managed to put one foot in front of the other to make slow progress into the art gallery. The man behind the counter stared at me as intently as I stared at him, but neither of us spoke.
‘Hi,’ Lara said with a concerned look at me. ‘We’re interested in local landscapes ...’ she tailed off, glancing between me and the man, then plonked her handbag on to the countertop with an audible thump and broke the spell.
The man diverted his attenti
on to her and finally smiled. ‘Over here.’ He moved towards the far wall of the shop. ‘They’re my speciality – if there’s a local landmark you’re thinking of in particular and it isn’t here, just let me know and I’ll paint it for you.’ He shot another glance at me, his colour high.
‘Oh, you’re the artist too?’ Lara asked.
‘Aye, William Sutcliffe. At your service.’ He gave an awkward bow, the blush in his cheeks undiminished.
‘How wonderful,’ Lara said.
I still could not form words of my own and thanked my lucky stars that we’d done this today and Lara was here to speak for me.
‘Do you paint people too?’ Hannah asked.
‘Aye, sometimes, if someone takes my fancy.’
I met his eyes again then looked away just in time to catch Lara’s smirk.
‘Have you ever had your portrait painted, lass?’
‘No, only photographs,’ Hannah said, deadly serious. ‘I’d love a painted portrait, though. Mummy, can I have one?’
‘I think that might be a bit too expensive for your pocket money, Hans,’ Lara said, with a smile.
‘Ah well, you’ll just have to save up, lass. I’ll do you a good deal.’ He winked with a smile.
‘Or I could get a job, just like Aunt Jayne.’
‘Maybe in a few years. Come and have a look at these,’ Lara said. ‘Which do you think would look nice in Auntie Verity’s hotel?’
‘The spooky ones,’ Hannah answered promptly. ‘So the ghosts feel at home.’
I laughed – finally finding my voice. ‘They already seem to feel quite at home, Hannah, don’t you think?’
Hannah shrugged as the man – William – said, ‘Ghosts? You’ve bought in Haworth then, there’s barely a house without a ghost story on this hill.’ He smiled at me as I gave another nervous laugh.
‘Yes, we’re getting that impression.’ I stuck my hand out. ‘Verity Earnshaw,’ I said as we shook. ‘I’ve bought The Rookery – the place on West Lane with the skip outside,’ I added as I remembered that nobody but myself, Jayne, Lara and the build team knew the building by that name at the moment.
‘Ah, the old weaver’s cottages. Aye, I know the place. Have you seen the Grey Lady yet?’
Ghosts of Yorkshire Page 54
