Always Emily (11 page)

There was a knock at the front door. Delighted at the prospect of someone to talk to, Charlotte ran to answer it. She flung open the door and gaped when she saw the sardonic Robert Heaton.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Mr. Heaton,” she managed to say. Unbidden, he had invaded her thoughts several times in the past few days. Her mental image matched the actual man in every respect. She reexamined him with a critical eye, remembering Tabby's report of his cruelty. But he was no duke of Angria to be banished with a stroke of the pen; he was standing impatiently in her doorway. “What are you doing here?” she asked faintly.

“Miss Brontë,” he said, inclining his head. “I'm not accustomed to being left waiting on the step. May I come in?”

Charlotte gulped, stepped back, and opened the door wide for him. As he stooped to enter, she smoothed her skirts and made sure there were no stray strands of hair loose about her face. Despite Tabby's gossip, Mr. Heaton was an important man in her father's parish, she told herself. Besides, only a foolish girl didn't make the most of herself around a marriageable man.

“You are looking very well,” he said. “Traveling agrees with so few people, but perhaps you are the exception.”

Feeling a warmth in her face, Charlotte managed to say, “I think it is the prospect of being home that puts color in my cheeks.” Had she erred by complimenting herself? Would he think she was flirting with him?

He glanced around the entryway and Charlotte tried to see it through his eyes. It was exceedingly plain. For fear of fire, her father wouldn't permit curtains at the windows or rugs on the floor. But she knew it was clean and well-kept. The variety of prints on the wall spoke of a family with wider horizons than the Haworth Parsonage. They were poor, but she wasn't ashamed of her home.

“Please come sit,” she said, gesturing to the dining room, which also served as the family parlor. “I will arrange for some tea for us.”

He tilted his head to one side and a mocking grin twisted his lips. “I'm sure that would be very pleasant,” he said. After a pause, he finished, “However, my business is not with you. I am here to see the reverend.”

Charlotte felt as though she had received a body blow. “Of course,” she answered. “I meant, if you wait in the parlor, I will fetch him for you.” Without waiting to see if he obeyed her suggestion, she stalked away.

In front of her father's room, she closed her eyes and banged her forehead against the door. How could she have been so foolish as to believe the most eligible bachelor in Haworth was coming to visit her? On second thought, Mr. Robert Heaton definitely had a malevolent air. No doubt every awful story Tabby had told about him was the gospel truth.

The door suddenly opened and she fell into her father's arms. He held her at arm's length and stared down at her face.
“I thought I heard a knock,” he said. “Charlotte, are you feeling well? You look flushed.”

She shook her head, “I'm fine, Father. Mr. Heaton is in the parlor.”

His bushy white eyebrows rose high on his head. “Heaton? So now he delivers his ultimatums in person?”

“What do you mean, Father?”

“I haven't seen him since his father's funeral, but we've been battling in the newspaper about the shameful way he is treating his workers at the mill. He threatened to have me dismissed for my radical politics.”

“That's absurd,” Charlotte said, abandoning her personal humiliation. Underneath her righteous anger, Charlotte felt a frisson of fear: If her father was vulnerable, then the family was at risk. “You are doing your Christian duty. How dare he try to bully you!”

“With a champion like you, my darling Charlotte, I need fear nothing,” her father said indulgently. “Have him come in and I'll find out what mischief he's making now.”

Charlotte hesitated. “Father, would you mind terribly meeting him in the parlor?”

Rev. Brontë raised his bushy eyebrows. “I usually conduct parish business in here; you know that.”

“Just this once?” she implored. “There was a slight misunderstanding when he arrived and . . .”

A twinkle in his clouded eyes, the reverend kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Tabby always says a change is as
good as a rest. But somehow I don't think there will be anything restful about Mr. Heaton's conversation.”

“Should I join you, Father?” Charlotte offered.

“The discussion may get heated,” he warned.

“Against the two of us, he doesn't stand a chance,” Charlotte assured him.

Rev. Brontë pulled out two chairs from the dining room table and arranged them for himself and Charlotte in front of their guest, who sat on the sofa. The way Heaton kept shifting in his seat made Charlotte suspect he found the sofa as scratchy as she did. He hadn't removed his gloves; he apparently didn't intend to stay for long.

“Mr. Heaton, what can I do for you?” Rev. Brontë asked.

Heaton glanced from Charlotte's face to her father's and back again. “Perhaps our business is better discussed privately?”

“Is it about the grievances of your workers or is it a personal matter?” Rev. Brontë asked.

Charlotte started. It had not occurred to her Heaton might be there to discuss Rachel.

“Of course I'm here about my bullheaded employees,” Heaton snapped. “I want your blasted—excuse me, Miss Brontë—your letters to the newspapers to stop. Or, better yet, abandon your position and come round to the owners' side. After all, without our mills, the workers have no employment at all.”

Sticking his finger in his ear and twisting as though his ears were blocked, the reverend said, “I hope I will always do
my duty as a priest and as a human being. Your treatment of the working men who depend on you is abominable.” His voice took on the edge Charlotte associated with his preaching. “When you bring in these new machines that replace two out of every four workers, you take food out of their children's mouths! How would you feel if your own family was so threatened?”

Heaton glared at Charlotte. “Leave my family out of this, reverend. I don't know what your daughter has told you, but my relatives are perfectly safe without your meddling.”

The reverend looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

Heaton gave Charlotte a sharp look. “It's of no matter. Rev. Brontë, the owners have every right to increase our profits however we wish. If you want me to consider the plight of the families who depend on my mills, you must stop railing against me from your pulpit!”

“I'll stop railing when I see progress.” Rev. Brontë stood up. “I have a sermon to prepare, so if you will excuse me? Charlotte, please see our guest out.” He left the room with an alacrity that just bordered on rudeness.

Alone with Mr. Heaton, Charlotte's mind was racing. Heaton was obviously relieved Charlotte had not told her father about Rachel, the mysterious woman on the moors. Was she his very own sister? Well, she could confirm that right now. And if he were mortified, then so be it. “Mr. Heaton, I hope your sister is well?”

“Sister?” The look of surprise on his face was delightful, but he soon recovered himself. “Oh, yes, you met her the other day.” There was a heavy pause. “I don't recall telling you the nature of our relationship,” he said with a probing look. “How did you know?”

Charlotte refused to give him the satisfaction. “One hears things,” she said, shrugging. “She is recovered from her . . . adventure?”

“Completely.”

Well, that took the conversation precisely nowhere, she thought. “I would like to pay my respects. Where can I find her?” she asked.

“She doesn't like strangers to visit.”

“But she and I are acquainted now,” Charlotte pressed. “I'd like to be of service to her in her illness.”

“Miss Brontë . . .”

“Yes?” Charlotte said sweetly.

“May I speak bluntly?”

“Of course.” Now she might hear some truth.

“I'm grateful you didn't mention meeting my sister to your father. It shows a discretion I didn't know a woman was capable of, but I'll thank you to leave it at that. My sister has had a difficult life, and I don't want to expose her to the idle curiosity of strangers.”

“My curiosity is anything but idle,” Charlotte said. “My family has a Christian duty to care for the unfortunate.”

“Not in this case,” he said. “The Heaton family takes care of its own. Do not bother my sister or any member of my household.” He stood up. “I shall take my leave now; goodbye.”

Charlotte rose to let him out but before she put her hand on the doorknob, the door was flung open from the outside. Branwell came in.

“Hello, Charlotte.” Branwell saw Heaton in the doorway and stopped cold in his tracks. “You? We're supposed to meet at Newall Street, not here.”

Heaton drew his breath in with a hiss. Glancing at Charlotte, he said, “Good day, Miss Brontë.” Then, looking at Branwell, his right hand went to his eye and he laid his index finger at the side of his aquiline nose.

Branwell swallowed hard. “Never mind. Good day, Heaton.” He tugged on his ear and then placed his thumb on his bottom lip. Without another word, he ran upstairs, leaving Charlotte alone with Heaton.

Charlotte could see some sort of secret communication had just passed between Heaton and her brother. But she had the measure of this man and knew better than to ask for details. He would not tell her.

“You know my brother?” Charlotte inquired.

“We're acquaintances,” Heaton said, as though the odd scene with Branwell had never taken place. “As I was saying before we were interrupted, please respect my wishes and don't
meddle with my sister's well-being.” Without waiting for her answer, he left.

Charlotte stood in the doorway, watching his figure go up the path toward the moors and Ponden Hall. She bit her thumbnail and said to his retreating back, “In my own home, no one tells me what to do.”

“A rough fellow, rather. . . . 
Is not that his character?”
“Rough as a saw-edge, and hard as whinstone!
The less you meddle with
him the better.”
“He must have had some ups and downs in life
to make him such a churl.
Do you know anything of his history?”

E
mily's whole world shrank to the round opening of the pistol pointing at her heart. Her entire body clenched against the anticipated impact of a bullet. The mastiff, Keeper, pressed his body against her leg and growled at the man.

“Who are you?” the man holding the gun repeated angrily. He peered into the dim light under the canvas, trying to see her clearly. “And what have you done to my dog?”

“I won't say anything with a gun pointed at me,” Emily said, with a composure she did not feel.

Once he heard her voice, the gun wavered in his hand. “You're not a Gypsy,” he said. “You sound like a lady.”

“But you, sir, cannot claim to be a gentleman until you put that gun away.”

The stranger slowly lowered his arm. “I beg your pardon,” he mumbled. “I didn't mean to frighten you.”

Exulting that even though she was clearly in the wrong, the stranger was apologizing to her, Emily studied him more closely. He was tall, with dark wavy hair and blue eyes that reminded her of cornflowers. To her surprise, he was not much older than she; perhaps he was nineteen or twenty. His features were roughened by wind and sun, but his lips were finely shaped, even when pursed in confusion. He seemed oddly familiar. But how? She rarely met young men.

“You've had a good look at me,” he said finally. “Now, tell me who you are and why you're pawing through my things.”

“I'm not sure I want to talk with a man who abuses animals and terrorizes young women.”

He frowned. “I've never abused an animal in my life.”

Emily couldn't help but nod her approval of his priorities. She, too, would put a dog's welfare ahead of a girl's. “He had no food or water. I'd call that abuse, wouldn't you?”

The man ducked under the canvas door and strode over to the rocks by the campfire. Emily followed, grateful to escape the
confined space. The man held up a bowl, slick with moisture, that had been turned over. “I left him water, but he's excitable and knocks it over often as not.”

“Oh.” Her hand dropped to Keeper's head and massaged the knobs on his skull. “But why was he tied up?”

“I've had an intruder,” he said, not noticing Emily's instinctive flinch. “But as you can see, he's a terrible watchdog.”

“His collar was too small,” Emily accused.

“Because he's growing so fast. I ordered a new one last week.” A genial smile appeared on his face; Emily liked the way it made his eyes crinkle. “Is the inquisition over?”

“For now,” Emily said begrudgingly. The bite wound on her arm ached as though to punish her for misjudging the man. “Will you put away that gun?”