Always Emily

by Michaela MacColl

  But it was one of their chief amusements to

  run away to the moors in the morning and

  remain there all day, and the after punishment

  grew a mere thing to laugh at.

  The household had long ago gone to bed but Emily paced around her bedroom, her long stride making the tiny room even smaller. The doctor had confined her to the house for a fortnight and her sentence was up tomorrow, but she felt as though she were overflowing with energy. She feared she might explode if she didn’t go outside. Despite her assurances that she was completely recovered, Father and Aunt B. still forbade Emily to walk on the moors. They did not understand Emily required physical exercise, not only for her body but also for her mind.

  The full moon shone directly into Emily’s room through the open window and the chilly air burned her lungs. Outside the window, the branches of the cherry tree made a pleasing pattern against the glowing orb.

  When Emily was a child, she had climbed that tree more than once. Years ago, Emily and Branwell had often played Pirate King, with Emily forever in the role of the hostage doomed to walk the plank by venturing out on the tree limb. The game had ended when Emily surprised Branwell by nimbly climbing down the tree to freedom. Her tongue darted across her lips. She had eluded captivity before; why not now?

  A fast-moving cloud traversing the moon seemed like a signal. Clad only in her nightdress, Emily hurriedly wrapped her shabby shawl around her shoulders. She slipped on her walking shoes without taking the time to put on her stockings and then clambered over the windowsill.

  Half climbing, half falling, she made it to the ground and ran to the garden gate. Glancing back at the parsonage, she reassured herself the house was still undisturbed. Slowly she opened the gate, wincing at the loud creak.

  Emily hurried along the gravel path between the parsonage garden’s stone wall and the row of tall trees on the other side. The cool night air caressed her skin and the north wind felt like a familiar friend’s embrace. Even in the darkness, her feet had not forgotten the way up the steep hill marking the end of the churchyard and the beginning of the moors. At the top, she reluctantly stopped, her hand pressed against a stitch in her side. It had been too long.

  Her breath recaptured, Emily gasped in delight when the moon reappeared and illuminated the vast moor unfolding itself like a carpet being rolled out for her pleasure. The wind caught the fullness of her nightdress and it billowed out around her knees like the plumage of some fantastic bird. The scent of heather and bracken, mixed with a coming storm, was better for her health than all the elixirs and medicaments they had forced down her throat.

  Holding her arms out wide, she hurtled down the path, away from Haworth. She had no purpose and no destination, like a tuft of cotton grass being tossed on the air currents. She laughed out loud from the sheer joy of being outside and unaccounted for. Finally she came to a favorite rock. It was shaped like an armchair, and Emily often stopped there with a book. She climbed onto it, ignoring the damp chill of the stone through her cotton nightdress.

  Emily stared at the brilliant stars, clearly visible in the clean, crisp night air. Her attention was captured closer to earth when she saw a light flicker across the moor.

  “Who would be out at this hour?” Eyes trained on the light, she headed across the moor once again. If her sister Charlotte were here, she would be tugging on her sleeve to lead Emily back to the safety of the beaten path. Tabby would warn Emily of the hazards of following a will-o’-the-wisp, whispering tales of travelers being led fatally astray by malicious spirits. And Father? He would worry about human villains. Emily thought it was just as well none of them was here, because she saw only the possibility of adventure.

  Without the full moon, even Emily would not have been able to navigate the boulders and bracken littering the moor like a giant’s abandoned toys. As she closed in on the light, Emily saw it was a small campfire in a hollow tucked underneath the shelter of a small bluff, sparks flying into a pool of darkness beyond.

  Careful to keep her steps soundless, Emily crept closer. Suddenly an enormous creature leapt in front of Emily. She cried out and stumbled back, falling heavily to the ground. The beast growled deep in its throat, louder than her beating heart.

  It was a dog, a mastiff, easily outweighing Emily. His huge fangs glistened and his eyes glowed red from the fire’s reflection. Trembling from head to toe, she forced herself to be perfectly still.

  “Gently, boy,” Emily whispered.

  Slowly she got to her knees, keeping a close eye on the animal. Careful not to make eye contact, knowing this would seem like a challenge, Emily reached out a hand, palm first. He bared his teeth and growled again.

  “Shh, boy, I’m no danger to you,” Emily said in her most soothing voice. She kept her hand extended. The dog sniffed, and after a moment to consider, he licked her palm. Emily stroked his nose. He nuzzled against her, almost knocking her over with his bulk. Fondling the sagging skin around his neck and jowls, she whispered, “Good boy, I know we’ll be friends.”

  The dog barked. Emily shushed him, but then, tail wagging, the dog barked louder. The noise rolled along the moors, echoing in the darkness.

  “Who’s there?” A man’s voice called out. On the far side of the fire, Emily saw a silhouette in a long cloak.

  “Show yourself!” he shouted.

  Emily might have spoken up, but then she heard the unmistakable click of a cocking pistol. Without another moment’s hesitation, she scrambled to her feet and fled. The dog didn’t follow but set up a fusillade of barking. With no time to pick out the best path, Emily tripped and stumbled in the underbrush.

  “Stop,” yelled the man.

  Emily ran. The prickly gorse caught her nightdress and held her back. Emily thrashed at the sharp bushes until she could tear herself free. She saw the hill leading back to the parsonage and she pushed herself to run faster.

  Her eyes fixed on the slope, she didn’t see the hollow in the ground at her feet. She fell headlong, knocking the breath from her body. She listened, struggling to hear over her labored breathing.

  There. Emily heard the sound of footsteps, distant enough, but still coming toward her. A thud and a muffled curse told Emily her pursuer was suffering from the whims of the moor, just as she was.

  She got to her feet and mustered all her strength for the final hill. At the crest, she looked down to see the parsonage ahead, beckoning her to safety. Behind her, the stranger was just starting to race up the hill. He wasn’t far behind.

  Emily flung herself down the hill until she reached the parsonage gate. Her fingers fumbled as she undid the gate’s latch, but at last it was open and she practically fell into the garden. She only had to shout and Father would rescue her. She peered through the gate, but saw no sign of her pursuer. Emily sucked air into her lungs and let her thudding heart realize she was safe.

  A man’s hand grabbed her shoulder. Emily screamed.

  It’s a pity he cannot kill himself with drink.

  Get away from me!” Emily jerked away from the grip on her shoulder. “I’ll call my father. He has a pistol!”

  “Shhh, Emily . . . for God’s sake, be quiet!” The voice at her elbow was slurred but familiar. “I know Father has a pistol.”

  Emily’s voice shook until she got it under control. “Branwell? Why were you chasing me?”

  “What?” Her brother slumped against the stone wall. The moonlight lit up his red hair like a beacon. “Em, what are you doing here? Were you waiting up for me?” Pushing himself away from the wall, he threw his arms around her. “I knew you still cared.”

  Now the danger was past, her legs could hardly support her. She looked down on Branwell’s head, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. “Oh, Branwell, you’re drunk again.”

  Branwell blinked behind his spectacles. “I’m not drunk.” He scowled suspiciously. “Were you following me?”

  “I just needed some air.” Before Emily could finish her explanation, Branw
ell’s mouth started working and his eyes bulged. Without any further warning, he vomited all over her shoes.

  “Branwell! That’s dreadful!” Emily shoved him away from her. He stumbled over to the wall, fell to his knees, and lost the rest of his stomach contents. She shook off her shoes and brushed the disgusting chunks from her nightdress. Her mouth twisted to avoid vomiting, too.

  She stood over him, pinching her nostrils at the stench. “What am I going to do with you?” she scolded. “It’s the middle of the night. I’ve half a mind to wake Father and let him deal with you.”

  “Em, don’t let him see me like this,” Branwell pleaded.

  “Where have you been?”

  He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I was with some friends at the snug.”

  The snug was the private room at the Black Bull Tavern, just down the hill. Branwell was too often to be found there. In recent years, disappointment and drink had dulled the brilliance of the bold twelve-year-old pirate who had been Emily’s nemesis and playmate. Self-pity had worn away all his promise.

  “And . . .” Emily’s voice trailed off expectantly.

  “Then we went to a boxing match.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Emily knew his telltale signs of guilt.

  “Was there gambling at the match?” she asked, dreading the answer.

  Shamefaced, he nodded. “I lost the money Father gave me.”

  Emily caught her breath. “But he gave you two whole pounds!”

  “I can count, little sister.” Branwell wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  Emily thought of how many books she could buy with so much money and shook her head.

  “I don’t need your disapproval, too,” Branwell said. “I get more than enough from Father and Charlotte. But you’re different—you accept me as I am.” Even in a whisper, she could hear the charm in his coaxing. “Be a love and let me in the house,” he said. “All the doors are locked.”

  “What’s to stop me from finding my own way in and leaving you out in the cold?” Emily retorted.

  “Nothing,” Branwell said. “Just as there’s nothing to prevent me from telling Father I found you outside at this hour.”

  Emily had to clap her hands over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “Branwell, you’re the one who’s drunk and sick and will have to explain your gambling losses. My crimes are minor in comparison.”

  Branwell took off his spectacles and cleaned them with the bottom of his shirt that had escaped his trousers. “We both know I won’t be punished. But Father would keep you from the moors for months.”

  Emily scowled. Branwell was right. If Father knew Emily had disobeyed him, he would keep her inside indefinitely.

  “Just a minute.” She went back to her tree. Looking up at the window to her room, it seemed impossibly high although she knew she’d done it before. If only she were not so tired.

  Pushing away her fatigue, she began to climb. In an instant, she was dragging herself over the windowsill into her bedroom. She hurried downstairs to draw back the long iron bolt and lift the latch.

  Branwell was waiting outside the door. He staggered inside. “I’m hungry,” he said. “And thirsty.”

  “There’s a pitcher of fresh water in the larder, and Tabby made you a plate since you missed dinner.”

  “Aren’t you going to serve me?” he asked querulously.

  “Why would I?”

  “Because I am the son of the house and you’re just a girl.”

  “Save that for the unfortunate woman you marry. You’re not my lord and master.” Now she was within the closeness of the house, Emily felt exhaustion creeping into her limbs. “I’m going to bed.”

  “You’ve a cold heart to abandon me after the night I’ve had,” he whined.

  “I’m tired,” Emily said. She glanced to the clock on the stair landing, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in the window. “It’s past midnight.”

  “Give your brother an arm,” Branwell pleaded. “Help me get to bed.”

  She crinkled her nose. “I think not. You reek of spirits, tobacco, and worse.” Making sure the front door was firmly shut and locked, she turned to go upstairs.

  “You needn’t be so high and mighty,” he accused, deliberately blocking her way.

  Placing a palm flat against his chest, Emily pushed him easily against the wall. “Don’t try to bully me. I trounced you when we were children and I still can.”

  “That you can, dear sister.” It was one of Branwell’s many grievances that of all Rev. Brontë’s children, only Emily had inherited their father’s height. And Tabby thought Emily might grow still taller, if only she would eat more.

  Branwell slid down the wall until he was sitting, miserable, on the cold stone floor. In the darkness, Emily heard him sob. “What kind of man am I?”

  “Whatever kind of man you choose to be,” Emily said, not unkindly. “If you like, I’ll try imagining who you should be.”

  “I’m not a character in one of your stories,” Branwell said scornfully.

  “No, my heroes behave much worse,” Emily said with a crooked grin. “Good night.” Without a backward glance, she ran up the stairs on silent feet.

  “Em, at least give me a candle!” Branwell’s despairing whisper dogged her heels up the stairs.

  Emily didn’t stop. If only she could stay awake a little longer, she longed to write. Her adventures tonight were good enough for her next story. She just had to make sure her father never read it.

  I surveyed the weapon inquisitively.

  A hideous notion struck me: how powerful

  I should be possessing such an instrument!

  The sound of glass breaking entered Emily’s dream and tugged her back to consciousness. It seemed like only minutes since she had laid her head on her pillow. She heard her father shouting but she couldn’t make out the words. Fully awake now, she held her breath so she could listen. The sky outside her window was completely black; the moon was gone but dawn had not yet arrived.

  Suddenly a pistol shot startled Emily upright. The noise made even the sturdy parsonage shake.

  “What was that noise?” Her aunt’s frightened voice filled the house. “Patrick! Branwell!”

  Emily scrambled out of bed, nearly falling to the floor in her haste. She rushed into the hallway. Her aunt was waving a candle wildly. Her pale face, looking oddly naked without its false fringe of hair, wore a terrified expression. “Thank goodness you are safe, Emily. Where is your father? Where’s your brother?”

  Placing her arm around her aunt’s shoulders, Emily said, “I’m sure everyone is fine.” But Emily’s heart tightened with fear. “Father! Where are you?”

  “Emily!” Her father called from downstairs. “Are you all right?”

  “Stay here, Aunt B.,” Emily said. Without waiting for her aunt’s response, she charged down the stairs. The house was dark, but she could make out her father’s tall figure in the doorway to his study.

  “Father!” Emily cried. “Did you fire that shot?”

  “Yes,” he said, and his breathing was ragged as though he had been running. He moved into his office and found the lamp on his desk. Emily could see his hand tremble as he lit the wick. “I was asleep when I heard the sound of breaking glass in my office,” he went on. “So I came downstairs to investigate.”

  “You shouldn’t have come down alone,” Emily said. “You might have been killed.”

  “I saw a figure reaching in to unlatch the window.” Her father pointed to the shattered windowpane. “I warned him I was armed . . . then I fired!” Rev. Brontë sank into his chair and put his head in his hands. “I don’t know if I hit him or not, but he didn’t get into the house.”

  The horror on Emily’s face was reflected on his. Her father’s eyesight was impaired by milky white cataracts that grew thicker every year. What if he had killed a man? They could lose everything. She ran out into the hall and threw open the front door.

  “Emily! Don’t go outside!�
� her father called.

  Emily paused to ensure the garden was deserted. Then she hurried to the flowerbed in front of her father’s study. She squinted at the ground covered with green moss, afraid of what she might see.

  Nothing. No one was there, dead or even wounded. Emily put her hand to the sill and let herself breathe. “Father,” she called into the study through the broken window. “You missed! There’s nothing here,” she said, her voice full of relief. The moss did not take any footprints, so there was nothing to be learned from the ground.

  “Thank God,” he said.

  She went back inside and took her father’s lamp off the desk to better examine the windowsill. She touched her finger to some spatters on the wood. They were fresh and bloody. She started to tell her father, then thought better of it. It was most likely the burglar had cut his hand when he broke the glass, but perhaps her father had only slightly missed.

  She held up the lamp to the wall near the window. A bullet hole in the window sash bore witness to the reverend’s lack of marksmanship.

  She turned to her father. “Did you see who it was?”

  He shook his head. “It was too dark.” Recovering his composure, Rev. Brontë said, “I always told your aunt it was a sensible precaution to have a pistol in the house.” Emily ducked her head to hide her smile at his smug tone.

  Emily’s hand went to her lips. “Aunt B.! I left her upstairs.”

  “Branwell is taking care of her, no doubt,” her father said.

  Emily had plenty of doubt that Branwell could take care of himself, least of all anyone else. “I’ll go see,” she offered. She ran upstairs and found Aunt B. in Branwell’s room, staring at Emily’s unconscious brother sprawled half on and half off his bed, wearing only his trousers. His snoring was loud enough to drown out almost anything except a pistol shot.

  “Is your father all right?” Aunt B. asked, her quavering voice full of anxiety.

  Emily nodded.

  “Thank goodness.” Her voice lost the worry and became censorious as she pointed at Branwell. “He’s been indulging again, hasn’t he?”