Always Emily (12 page)

“In return, you must tell me why you are searching my things.” He put the pistol in his pocket. “Why don't you sit down? I suspect it may be a long story.” He indicated a rock.

“Thank you,” Emily said, perching on the rock and tucking her skirt behind her knees. Keeper settled down next to her feet. “You've not told me your name.”

“Nor have you. Perhaps when we trust each other more,” he said. He knelt by the campfire and added bits of wood until he had a brightly burning fire.

Rather than explain herself, she decided to take the offensive. “Why are you spying on Ponden Hall?”

He started. “I don't know what you mean,” he said unconvincingly.

“It's a coincidence that your camp is situated on the edge of Heaton land, near a rise from which you can watch Ponden Hall unobserved?”

He said nothing.

“I wager if we went up to the top of that hill, we'd find signs you have spent time there.” She began to get to her feet. “Shall we look?”

“Never mind,” he said holding up his palm. “So I've been watching the house.” He sat on a rock on the opposite side of the fire and cracked his knuckles.

The gesture wakened a glimmer of recognition in Emily. “Have we met before?” she asked.

“It doesn't seem likely.”

Emily stared intently at his face; his sky-blue eyes under dark eyebrows struck a chord in her memory. “Do you prefer the novels of Sir Walter Scott or Lord Byron?” she asked suddenly.

He burst out laughing. “When I was a boy, I loved Scott. But now . . .”

Emily hopped up and ran to the wooden box in the canvas tent. She found the Byron book and brought it back. He narrowed his eyes and held out his hand, but she didn't give it to him. She opened it to the flyleaf.

“When I was ten or so, I used to visit the library at Ponden Hall,” Emily said, watching him closely. “There was a boy I used to see there. Sickly, so more often found in the library than in the fields or stables. His name was Harry. He used to help me get books that were out of my reach.”

A slow smile appeared on his face and he said with a reminiscent air, “I recall a scrawny girl with flyaway hair who liked all my favorite books. She was always a curious thing. I suppose that hasn't changed,” he said. “It's a pleasure to renew our acquaintance, Miss Brontë.”

With a wide gesture to their informal surroundings, Emily said, “Why don't you call me Emily and I'll call you Harry.”

He nodded, a wary look in his eyes casting a shadow over his smile.

“One day you were gone. I never heard what happened to you,” Emily said. “And now I happen upon you here, not staying in your family home, but lurking around outside like a criminal.”

“Perhaps I've become a thief,” he said.

“I doubt that,” Emily said. “You don't seem in any need. And surely there are easier places to burgle than Ponden Hall, which is always filled with servants and family.” She stopped, realizing perhaps the parsonage might be one of those places. The strange events on the moors coincided with Harry's arrival.

She gave herself a little shake and returned to her questions. “Family! Does your family know you are back?”

“No.” His tone made it clear it was an unwelcome subject. “Nor do I wish them to.”

“Then why are you here?” Emily asked.

“I've come back to reclaim someone who is mine.” He was tense, and Emily admired how his whole body seemed focused on his internal purpose. No longer a pale and sickly adolescent, Harry had grown into a fine man with an admirable physique; a hero worthy of inclusion in one of her stories.

“A woman,” she guessed, breathless.

“Only the kindest, most wonderful woman in the world,” he said, a look of tenderness transforming his demeanor. “I speak of my mother.”

Emily blinked. “Your mother?”

“She has suffered such trials and I've been nothing but a misery to her. I'm here to make amends.”

“I don't recall your mother,” Emily mused. “But your grandfather was important in my father's church. He was a deacon. My father buried him last month.” Slowly, remembering the newspaper clippings, she added, “But you know that already.”

Harry leapt up and began pacing with wide angry steps. Keeper, at Emily's feet, watched intently, growling deep in his throat. “My grandfather was a brute who would as soon knock me down as look at me. He despised my mother for making a poor marriage and me for being born. I shouldn't have left her here alone, but I thought he might kill me if I stayed.”

Emily paid little attention to gossip in the parish. Only the most lurid of her father's dinnertime stories stuck in her mind.
But she had never heard anything scandalous about the Heatons until the old man's funeral. Her hand caressing Keeper's shoulder, Emily asked, “And now?”

“Now Grandfather's dead and I want to rescue my mother.”

Emily watched him pace, her eyes glistening. A quest. She loved nothing better. “Tell me more,” she said.

“I've been at sea these past six years and I've heard nothing of her. She's not at Ponden Hall. Even my old nanny, Hannah, is gone. I'm afraid she might be dead.”

“Surely it isn't hard to find out,” Emily said.

“I don't want to reveal myself to my uncle.” He held out his hands in a helpless gesture. “But unless I come into town, how can I find out if she is alive or dead?”

“I can look in the parish records if you like,” Emily offered.

After a long speculative look, Harry nodded. “I would be grateful, but please, be careful. My mother's fate depends on your discretion.”

Emily's startled gray eyes met his. “Assuming she's alive, you think she is in danger?”

Harry said. “My Uncle Robert is a vicious man. The improvements he's making to the mills must be taking all the money he inherited from his father. My mother's share may be too tempting for him. That's why I have to find her.”

“Don't the Heatons own property all over the moor?” Emily asked, thinking of his well-thumbed map.

“Exactly. Robert may have stashed her anywhere.”

“What will you do if you find her?” she asked.

“When I find her,” he said, “I'll take her far from here. Robert can't be trusted. I've made enough money to support her, even if he has taken hers. She can start life anew.”

There was a roll of distant thunder. Both Harry and Emily had been raised on the moors and knew how quickly a storm could overtake them.

“You should get home,” Harry said.

“I'll come back tomorrow and tell you what I've learned.” As Emily turned to leave, Keeper got to his feet and began to follow her.

“Roland, Roland, get back here, boy!” He called after the mastiff, but the dog didn't respond. “Emily—that's my dog!”

“Dogs choose their own owners.” Emily shrugged.

“Perhaps in your imagination,” Harry protested. “In the real world, I paid three guineas for that animal.”

“Then you should have been a better friend to him.” She saw him draw breath to argue and held up her hand. “I accept your explanation that you were trying to be a good master—but apparently he has not.”

Harry glanced from the dog to Emily and back again. “Fine. I'll lend him to you. To keep you safe on the moors. But I will expect his return.”

“The only danger I've seen on the moors is you,” Emily said. “I'll take good care of him.” She started for home, Keeper at her heels. She was well satisfied to have learned so much while admitting nothing. She glanced back; he was still watching her.

It little mattered whether my curiosity irritated him;
I knew the pleasure of vexing and soothing him by
turns; it was one I chiefly delighted in, and a sure
instinct always prevented me from going too far
.

R
ushing down the hill at her usual headlong pace, Keeper easily matching her, she saw Charlotte pruning the family's sickly lilacs in the garden. Privately, Emily thought the flowers were so spindly they couldn't afford to lose any foliage.

Charlotte noticed her at the gate. “Where have you been?” Her sharp voice reminded Emily they had parted in anger.

“On the moors,” Emily said matter-of-factly. “And look what I found.” She opened the garden gate and Keeper bounded through.

Charlotte took one look at the huge tawny animal and ran into the house. Through a crack in the door she berated Emily, “Where did you find that awful beast?”

“He found
me
,” Emily replied. “His name is Keeper.” She pushed open the door and brushed past Charlotte on her way to the kitchen. Charlotte pressed herself against the wall as Keeper walked by, his toenails clicking on the sandstone floor.

In the kitchen, Emily poked the banked fire in the stove until she had coaxed a bit of flame. The kitchen was empty, but Emily knew it wouldn't remain so for long. Without delay, she took a narrow flatiron from its hook on the wall and thrust it into the flame. While it heated, she unwrapped her arm and bathed the place where Keeper had broken the skin with his long teeth.

As though Keeper knew he was responsible, he lay on the floor and pressed his massive head on his paws.

“Don't be ashamed, Keeper,” Emily reassured him. “You were only doing your duty.” She pulled the iron out of the fire. It glowed a dull red. “This is going to hurt, but it's the only way to make sure I don't get rabies.” She took a deep breath and brought the iron to her skin.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Keeper smelled the burning flesh and growled. At that moment, Charlotte walked into the kitchen.

“Emily!” Charlotte pulled the iron off Emily's arm. Bits of skin stuck to the hot metal. “Are you deranged?” she snapped as she tossed the iron into the bucket of water kept near the stove in case of fire. There was a long hiss.

“Charlotte, there's no need for hysterics,” Emily said, stepping back to avoid the billowing steam. “I'm fine.” The tears
streaming down Emily's face belied her calm tone. She held her arm stiffly at her side. The dog pressed against Emily's leg, growling at Charlotte.

“Call off the dog, Emily,” Charlotte ordered. In the drawer where Tabby kept them, she found a clean cloth and frantically pumped cold water on it until it was soaked through. Turning to her sister, she wrapped the cool cloth around the burn. “It's already blistering, you idiot. What on earth were you doing?”

“I was bitten,” Emily said, matter-of-factly.

“I told you it was an awful beast.” Charlotte scowled at Keeper. “I'll fetch the doctor.”

“I've already cauterized the wound,” Emily protested. “There's no need for a doctor.”

Charlotte shook her head and opened her mouth to argue.

“Charlotte, please. I don't want to worry anyone. I'm fine.”

Narrowing her eyes, Charlotte said, “When you start foaming at the mouth, then may I summon Doctor Bennett?”

“If I start to foam, then it will be too late,” Emily pointed out. “And I don't have any faith in doctors anyway.”

Charlotte couldn't blame her. There had been too many illnesses in the Brontë family for which the doctors had proven useless.

“If I see any symptoms, I'm sending for him,” Charlotte insisted. “But that dog should be put down.”

“He's my pet now.” Emily dropped her hand lightly on Keeper's head. “Keeper, meet Charlotte.”

Charlotte threw up her hands. “I give up. You're absolutely impossible.” As she left the kitchen she collided with Branwell in the narrow hallway.

“Charlotte, what is all this noise? I'm trying to work!” he said, a whining tone in his voice.

“You're working?” she said eagerly. “A new Angria story? Can I see it?”

“I've no time for our childish stories,” he said. “I am a grown man doing serious work now.”

Charlotte recoiled. It was one thing for him to have new friends and be mysterious about his comings and goings, but to abandon Angria was the deepest betrayal of all. “And what kind of work is that?” she asked with a waspish tone.

“None of your concern. While you've been locked in that girls' school, I've become accustomed to my privacy.” He threw his head back and his thick red hair framed his face like a halo on fire. “I'll thank you to respect it now that you're back. Or else.”

“Or else what exactly?” she asked. And to make certain he paid attention, she held up her fingers in the same twisted way that Mr. Heaton had signaled to Branwell.

Now it was his turn to step back. “You mustn't do that. . . . Girls aren't allowed. . . .”

Charlotte laughed with delight at the success of her little experiment. “Branwell, I'm going to find out all about it, so you might as well tell me now. You never could keep a secret. Tell me about the meeting on Newall Street.”