Always Emily

by Michaela MacColl

  “The Freemasons have money and all the property they need,” Harry said with a tinge of bitterness.

  “How do we get in?” Emily asked. The front door looked unassailable, and visible to any passersby on Main Street besides. They went around to the side entrance and found the door loose on its hinges. Harry forced open the door with his shoulder. The house stayed completely silent. Holding the lantern high, Harry said, “Let me go first.”

  “I think not,” Emily retorted, taking the lamp. “Charlotte is my sister.” She led the way up the stairs to a spacious antechamber with a large ornate door. She pushed the door and it opened with a loud creak that made them both jump.

  “This must be where they meet,” Harry said in a hushed tone.

  Emily took the lantern and shone its light on the walls. “Branwell painted this one,” she said, pointing to a portrait. “It’s our sexton, John Brown.” She turned back to Harry. “Is everyone a Mason?” She ticked off on her fingers. “My brother, your uncle, Mr. Brown. But where is Charlotte?” Her voice rose on the final words. Harry held up a hand. “Listen!”

  Emily fell silent. There was a faint moaning sound from a decorative chest in the corner of the room. Holding fiercely to hope, Emily crossed the room to the chest. She slid the latch open and lifted the lid.

  “Charlotte!” she cried.

  Her sister, pale and wan, blinked at the lantern light. “Emily, is that you?”

  “Yes, Charlotte. I’m here!” Emily said.

  Harry gathered Charlotte up in his arms. She looked into his face and murmured, “My duke!” Then she fainted dead away.

  The next thing I remember is, waking up with a

  feeling as if I had had a frightful nightmare,

  and seeing before me a terrible red glare,

  crossed with thick black bars. . . .

  In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment

  dissolved: I knew quite well

  that I was in my own bed, and that

  the red glare was the nursery fire.

  Charlotte woke in a cold sweat, her chest heaving and her fingers clawing at her blankets. Trapped in a velvet coffin, she had suffocated. Or had she? She opened her eyes and found herself in her narrow bed in the tiny room she shared with Emily. She inhaled and tasted fresh air off the moors, full of rain. Never before had her tongue fully appreciated the tang of wind and freedom.

  “Emily—how many times have I told you to close the window?” she mumbled, but her heart wasn’t in it. There was no answer. “Emily?” Charlotte propped herself up to see her sister’s bed. It was empty, the bedclothes flung about every which way.

  Suddenly it all came rushing back. Charlotte had been rescued from that chest by Emily. And a handsome young man. She dimly remembered him gathering her in his strong arms, like a scene from Angria come to life!

  Did it really happen? Or had she finally lost the ability to distinguish between her fictional world and real life? The thought terrified her. She clasped her hands together and prayed for clarity.

  As if to answer her, the church bell began tolling. It was the first call for the congregation to come to worship. Charlotte bolted upright. Her father would never forgive her if she missed his sermon. Why hadn’t Emily or Tabby wakened her? She threw back the covers, noticing for the first time she was wearing her night shift.

  Reaching for her dress from the day before, she stopped and stared at her once-immaculate dress. It was covered with dust and bits of red velvet. One of the narrow sleeves was torn at the shoulder seam, and her careful embroidery on the collar was stained with perspiration. She brought the fabric to her nose and recoiled from the unmistakable scent of fear. Her hand brushed against her cheek and she winced. Her knuckles were cut and bruised from pounding on the chest lid. Her adventure had really happened. She sighed with relief; she was not insane.

  If she was not mad, then her brother and sister owed her some explanations. Since Emily was gone, she would start with Branwell. She pulled on another dress and hurried to his room. She knocked but there was no answer.

  She pushed open the door. His room was one of the largest in the house, but its only window looked out on the privy. A chisel and a builder’s square lay on his battered desk, additional proof that the events of the night before had not been a dream.

  Branwell had tossed his coat on the back of a chair. Hesitating only for a moment, Charlotte decided her need for answers outweighed Branwell’s privacy. She checked his pockets and found a piece of paper. It was covered with her father’s fine script; the same word was repeated over and over.

  The church bells rang again, more insistently this time. She rushed downstairs and out through the garden to the churchyard. It was raining. The way the mud sucked at her shoes made her realize it had rained every day since she returned home. Where did all the water go? She gave herself a little shake; such whimsical considerations were Emily’s domain, not hers.

  As she made her way past the crowded graveyard, she was relieved to see other latecomers from town and the moors beyond, drawn by the urgent chiming of the bells.

  The church was full, as it always was on Sunday. The parish of Haworth was a large one and there were many devout worshippers: rich, poor, the educated, and those whose wits were dulled by constant backbreaking labor.

  Once inside, she kept a decorous pace as she walked to the family pew. She passed the Heaton pew, the short-tempered Robert Heaton its only occupant. He glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye and turned to watch her as she passed. Charlotte kept facing forward. What would he do if he knew what she had witnessed the day before? She flexed her sore hands. What was a little pain to scoring such a victory over Heaton’s smugness and arrogance?

  The Brontë pew was an enclosed box in the front of the church to the left of the altar, squeezed in under the organ loft. The pew walls were higher than her waist, and the family name was painted on the low door. She slipped inside and found Branwell and Emily clad in their Sunday best, only slightly damp from the weather.

  Charlotte sat next to Branwell. His eyes were bloodshot and he winced with every toll of the bell. He glanced at Charlotte, but said nothing. Emily sat in the corner, wearing a bored expression. She came to church only because their father insisted. When Emily saw her sister, she smiled, the first true welcome Charlotte had received from her.

  The bells stopped their ringing and the organ began to play, causing their wooden pew to vibrate in tune. Emily took malicious pleasure in the pained expression on her brother’s drink-addled face. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the barrel shape of John Brown patrolling the aisle. It was his job to knob sleeping parishioners with his stick. His mighty arms had been strengthened by years of working stone; he seldom had to poke twice.

  From their front-row pew, the Brontë siblings had an excellent view of Rev. Brontë as he mounted the narrow stairs leading to his pulpit high above the congregation. He wore a white surplice that suited his tall frame. He carried no notes; he never did, and he could quote excruciatingly long biblical passages from memory. But his sermons were rousing as well as scholarly. Lately, he had addressed the inequities between the rich and poor. But the reverend’s position depended on the support of those rich mill owners. Charlotte might fear he would not be circumspect, but Emily hoped he would lay into the mill owners with the verbal equivalent of a scourge.

  Rev. Brontë raised his hand to gather the congregation’s attention. His normal mild manner deserted him in the pulpit. When he opened his mouth, his voice was authority itself. The voice of God on earth.

  “Let me quote this passage from the book of Ezekiel.”

  Charlotte sighed; Ezekiel did not bode well for a tactful sermon.

  “ ‘The people of the land have practiced oppression and committed robbery, and they have wronged the poor and needy. . . . Thus I have poured out My indignation on them; I have consumed them with the fire of My wrath,’ declares the Lord God,” Rev. Brontë thundered.

  Th
en in a calmer voice he said, “Let us reflect for a moment about what these words mean to us here in Haworth. The mill owners are bringing in new machines that eliminate jobs. They are depriving workers of a decent wage. Children are starving and families are being ripped asunder by the poorhouses. Can the owners claim they have not wronged the poor?”

  There was a stirring in the congregation. Emily settled in to enjoy her father’s tirade.

  Charlotte looked round to watch the mill owners, particularly Robert Heaton. His brows were drawn together in a fierce scowl, and she could see his hands were white from gripping the pew railing. The paleness made a recent scar on the top of his hand all the more visible. As she watched, he made an odd gesture with his thumb and forefinger to another rich mill owner. That man signaled another in the same way. Secret messages were flying furiously about the church.

  Charlotte felt a deep foreboding. This meant trouble for her father, she was sure of it. Rather than exhaust herself with worry, she leaned back in the pew and closed her eyes, reducing her father’s ringing tones to a quiet refrain behind her thoughts. She wanted to remember each terrible detail of last night’s adventure. Now that she had known real terror, she wondered whether the melodrama she wrote into her scenes from Angria was convincing. Perhaps she couldn’t express any true emotion until she had felt it herself? Charlotte felt as though she were on the brink of a great revelation that might change her writing forever.

  The sermon ended exactly one hour after it had begun. It was never a minute overlong, even though the reverend never consulted his watch. After some parish business, the congregation was dismissed.

  Without discussing the matter, Charlotte, Emily, and Branwell waited until their father emerged from the vestry. He was met by Robert Heaton leading a group of mill owners. Heaton’s jaw, with his pointed black beard, was the sharp edge of a wedge of discontented parishioners. Branwell hung back, looking ill as he watched his Freemason sponsor accost his father. Charlotte tried to pass him to stand by her father’s side, but Branwell blocked her way.

  “You always interfere, Charlotte, but not this time,” he said, his eyes fixed on Heaton.

  “That’s Robert Heaton, isn’t it?” Emily whispered to Charlotte. Charlotte gave her a sharp glance, but nodded. “I’ve never seen him up close.” Emily rested her elbows on the pew door and watched, curious to see Harry’s uncle in action.

  “Brontë!” Heaton said.

  “Mr. Heaton. Gentlemen,” Rev. Brontë greeted the delegation. His voice was gentle and meek again, as though the mantle of justice weighed on his shoulders only when he preached. “Do you all wish to speak with me?”

  “I’ve warned you before: Stop preaching we are monsters,” Heaton growled. There was a murmur of agreement among the other men. “We own the means of production and we are entitled to make a profit. The more successful we are, the better it is for our workers.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Heaton,” Rev. Brontë began crossly, “that is not true. You grow richer but the workers suffer for it. For instance, I know for a fact that just one of your new looms deprives two men of gainful employment. What will happen to their families?”

  Heaton glanced around at his fellow owners and said, “Brontë, it’s no business of yours how we run our mills. And you’re just encouraging the malcontents.” The others were nodding.

  Emily’s attention sharpened. Last night, after delivering Charlotte to the parsonage, Harry had asked Emily to help him gain access to Ponden Hall.

  It would be dangerous, Emily knew, but her gratitude outweighed her caution. And if she were not mistaken, an opportunity to repay her debt had presented itself. She pushed open the pew door and before Branwell could try and stop her, she strode over to the group of angry men.

  Heaton was still talking. “We pay the bulk of the fees to maintain this church and your position here. You have forced our hand. Stop preaching your incitements to riot, or we’ll be speaking to your bishop about your future in Haworth.”

  Rev. Brontë took a breath to defend his views, but Emily interrupted him.

  “Father, excuse me for interrupting.” Although she spoke to her father, she watched Heaton closely.

  Branwell frowned. “What is she doing?” he asked Charlotte. “The two of you don’t know how to mind your own business.”

  Charlotte wondered the same thing. What could Emily want with Mr. Heaton? Perhaps she was going to confront him for luring Branwell into the Masons. But how could she know?

  Rev. Brontë was dismayed. “Emily, my dear, go to the parsonage. I’m in the middle of an important conversation.”

  “I will, Father, but first I wanted to introduce myself to Mr. Heaton.” She held out her hand to him. “I am Emily Brontë.”

  Robert Heaton was taken aback, but after a moment he took her hand.

  “Mr. Heaton, you may not recall,” Emily said, “but when I was younger, I used to visit your library.”

  “Emily, this is not the time!” Rev. Brontë whispered.

  Visibly discomfited, Heaton nevertheless answered civilly. “My father was very proud of his books. Perhaps we can discuss it after my conversation is finished?”

  “I won’t be a moment. I wondered if you would mind if I borrowed a volume or two?” Emily asked sweetly.

  There was a quiet chuckle from one of the other owners. Charlotte saw Heaton could not refuse Emily’s request without looking churlish. “Well . . . I don’t see why not.”

  “May I come today? I’ve nothing to read, and I’m at my wits’ end.”

  “Of course.” Heaton was impatient for her to go. “Just tell my housekeeper I said to admit you.”

  “Thank you.” Having achieved what she wanted, Emily was about to slip away when she noticed a nasty cut on Heaton’s right hand. In a flash she realized she could make a very good guess as to the identity of the parsonage’s intruder. “That’s a vicious cut. I hope you haven’t injured yourself too badly, Mr. Heaton.” Before he could respond, she slipped away and disappeared in the milling crowd.

  Heaton was momentarily speechless and Rev. Brontë seized the moment. “Gentlemen, if you would like to continue this conversation, perhaps you might call on me in the parsonage, where such business should be conducted. I shall be available after two o’clock.” He walked away, leaving the owners thwarted and confused.

  “Father should be more deferential,” Branwell said to Charlotte. “Robert Heaton is too important a man to offend.”

  “Where are your loyalties?” Charlotte tackled her brother. “Your fine friend Mr. Heaton wants to destroy our father.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Branwell said with a sullen glare.

  “Stop acting the fool,” Charlotte snapped. “He’s using you.” That was as far as she dared go without revealing what she knew about Branwell and his new friends.

  “Charlotte, you are talking nonsense,” Branwell protested. Then, with an air of inspiration, he added, “Heaton’s like a brother to me. A refreshing change to be accepted among men, not trapped in a henhouse with my sisters.” As Heaton left the church, Branwell’s gaze followed him with near adoration.

  Charlotte shook her head. “If you aren’t careful, you’ll bring ruin upon the whole family.” Without another word, she hurried out of the church, heedless of the drizzle. Heaton was halfway down the hill on his way into town. She followed, struggling to keep her footing on the slippery stones.

  “Mr. Heaton,” she called. “A word, if you please.”

  He looked behind him and shook his head irritably. “Another Brontë? What have I done to deserve such attention from your family?”

  Charlotte stopped above him on the hill. It gave her the illusion of being able to meet his eyes at an equal height. “What do you want with Branwell?” she asked directly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I know you’ve inveigled Branwell into some scheme.” The Freemasons’ threats still rang in Charlotte’s ears, so she kep
t her questions circumspect.

  Heaton’s eyes bored into hers. “What has he told you?”

  “Nothing!” Charlotte said. “But I’m very observant and I can’t help wondering if your scheme has anything to do with your sister Rachel.”

  Heaton’s face turned red and he spat out his words. “I’ve warned you before to stay out of my business. I won’t be thwarted or questioned by a woman.” He turned away and continued to walk rapidly down the hill.

  Charlotte exhaled and put her hand on a wall to keep her equilibrium. “He won’t be thwarted by a woman, will he?” she thought. “Let’s see if Robert Heaton can be undone by two Brontë sisters.”

  “No books!” I exclaimed. “How do you contrive to

  live here without them? if I may take the liberty to

  inquire. Though provided with a large library,

  I’m frequently very dull at the Grange; take my

  books away, and I should be desperate!”

  Heedless of the inclement weather, Emily headed for the moors. She was wearing her Sunday best, but she couldn’t be bothered to change—every dress was alike to her. Stopping at home only to collect a shawl to keep off the rain and to bring Keeper along, she was soon approaching Harry’s campsite. Inside his tent, he was reclining on the cot, reading Byron. He wore a white linen shirt and his hair was mussed. Emily committed the details of his appearance to memory. For a story someday, she told herself.

  “Don’t you think it’s time for a new book?” Emily teased.

  “Emily!” He leapt to his feet to greet her, smoothing his hair. “What do you mean?”

  “Why don’t we go to Ponden House?” Emily said.

  He was taken aback. “Now?”

  “I asked your uncle for permission.”

  “And he agreed?” Harry was incredulous.

  “He didn’t have much of a choice.” Emily smiled at the memory. “He was with a group of men whose opinion mattered to him. It would have been rude of him to refuse.” She looked around the campsite and found the old rope Harry had used to tie up Keeper. “Come here, Keeper.”