Always Emily (15 page)

“What happened to her?”

“Things went from bad to worse. Casson was a drunk and he beat her badly. He died soon thereafter, and Rachel came home to have her baby. Her father didn't want to take her back, but I prevailed upon him to do the decent thing.”

Could Harry's story be any more tragic, Emily wondered. “How did Casson die?”

“He burned to death in a fire caused by his own drunken carelessness,” her father said.

“How horrible!” Emily said, but her mind was conjuring up delightfully gruesome images of the scene. What an ending to a chapter. How could the reader not turn the page?

“You can never be too cautious about fire,” her father said sternly. He walked to the fireplace and checked the bucket of water was full. It was an unbreakable rule of the household that a bucket be stationed near every fireplace. “You can never be too careful.”

Emily's eyes went to the bare windows and carpetless stone floor. Her father's obsession with fire kept the house inhospitable in summer and freezing in winter.

“It was a merciful deliverance for Rachel,” Rev. Brontë continued. “But the Heatons never forgave her for marrying beneath them, nor the boy for the sin of being born.”

“So Harry ran away?”

“How do you know his name?” Rev. Brontë asked, his attention sharpened.

Emily thought quickly and responded with a half-truth. “I remember him from when we used to go to the library at Ponden Hall.”

“Oh, yes.” He twisted his long fingers together. “You see, I'm rather at odds with Robert Heaton. Why this sudden interest in his family?”

“Just curiosity,” Emily said. “I wondered if Rachel was still alive.”

“I don't recall burying her.” He closed his eyes and put his hands together as though he were praying. It was a familiar mannerism to his daughter as he dredged his prodigious memory. “No, definitely not. But I also haven't seen her in quite a long time. She wasn't at her father's funeral.”

“That's very strange, isn't it?”

“Perhaps she moved away. It's none of our affair.” He kissed Emily on the top of her head. “Good night, my dear. Don't stay up too late. It's already ten o'clock.”

Emily heard his heavy footsteps climbing the stairs, pausing to wind his clock. Her father's routine was a reassuring sameness every evening, as sure as the sun rising or the winds blowing across the moor. And his memory was to be relied upon: Rachel Heaton was probably still alive. Harry would be relieved. She returned to her story, confident she had a satisfactory ending.

She was filling up her last page of clean paper when she heard the front door open. Emily recognized Branwell's tread by the thumping his boots made on the back stairs. A moment later he came tramping down again. He avoided the dining room altogether and, to her surprise, she heard him going into their father's study.

She rose quickly and moved soundlessly to the study. She threw open the door and said, “Branwell!”

He was standing at her father's bookcase, his hand on one of the parish registers. He leapt backwards. “Emily, you startled me!”

“What are you doing in here?” she asked, watching his face carefully. Branwell had always been a terrible liar; his lip twitched whenever he uttered a falsehood.

“Just straightening up Father's office,” he said, his bottom lip flapping like a fish's on a hook.

The office was as neat as a new pin. Her arms crossed, Emily waited for a better explanation.

“I don't have to explain myself to you, Emily. Remember I'm the elder!” He pushed past her. Emily sniffed the air in the office. She smelt a sweetness, like incense. But not the holy kind used by the Catholics. This was a muskier, more masculine smell hanging oddly about Branwell's person.

She caught him in the hall where he was putting on his coat. Mindful of her father sleeping upstairs, Emily whispered, “Where is Charlotte? I thought she was with you!”

Branwell's handsome face distorted with a sneer. “Charlotte? Why would I know where she is? She's even worse than you when it comes to nursemaiding me.” With a bang of the front door, he was gone.

She tried to go back to her work, but her words had deserted her. Where was Charlotte? Emily might stay out all night in the rain, but Charlotte never would. In fact, Charlotte had never missed supper before. She might be hurt or lost. Emily considered going to her father, but rejected the idea out of hand. The last thing she wanted was her father wondering what mischief his daughters got into after sunset.

She had seen Charlotte last in the afternoon when she had stormed out muttering about Branwell. But he had denied knowing anything. Briefly Emily considered the trustworthiness of her brother. She shook her head—she could not rely on anything he said. She'd find him and make him help
her find their sister before their father realized anything was amiss. She'd start with the Black Bull, the nearest pub.

Emily considered bringing Keeper but reluctantly decided to leave him behind. Fondling his ears, she whispered, “Keeper, I don't know you well enough yet. You might do anything.” Keeper whimpered, but settled back down on the floor.

She slipped on her thick leather walking shoes and let herself out the kitchen door. The rain had stopped. The cherry tree in the front garden dripped and the cobblestones glistened. She kept to the shadows of the buildings along the steep street until it leveled out in front of the pub. A drunkard propped himself against the building as though he was needed to hold it up. Stepping over him, she pressed her face to the dirty window and peered inside.

There was her brother, a fiery bantam rooster crowing at the bar. He had a row of empty glasses in front of him. Branwell didn't have any money—how was he managing to get drunk every night? She stilled the impulse to rush inside and confront him. Even Emily didn't dare to risk her reputation—or, worse, to embarrass her father—by going inside the pub late at night.

Rubbing a patch of grime from the window, Emily watched Branwell lift his glass and speak for a full minute. Judging from the laughter of the men around the bar, Branwell was waxing eloquent. When he wanted to be, her brother was excellent company. He toasted a tall bearded fellow standing beside him who looked vaguely familiar—but then so did all the men in
the bar. Emily went to church each week to please her father, but she didn't pay a whit of attention to his parishioners.

The bearded man was dark and well dressed. He pulled out a pound note and slapped it on the bar and the bartender began pouring drinks for the crowd.

Emily watched for the better part of an hour. No one came out of the pub, not while someone else was paying for the drinks. At least she now knew how her penniless brother afforded his debauchery. Emily fumed, knowing she might wait all night for them to finish and she'd be no closer to finding Charlotte. The more hours that passed, the greater the likelihood Charlotte was in trouble.

Finally Branwell half-slid off his stool. Laughing, he righted himself. The bearded man took his arm and led him toward the door. Emily was surprised her hot-tempered brother didn't protest. She had just enough time to duck around the corner before the pub door slammed open. She was still close enough to overhear their conversation.

Supporting Branwell with a strong arm around his waist, the bearded man said urgently, “You'll remember what I said? It must be done immediately.” His pale blue eyes reflected the lamplight.

Slurring his words, Branwell assured him, “Of course. I tried tonight but I was prevented by my sister.”

“Your sister worries me. She's too curious for my tastes.”

“I can take care of her,” Branwell muttered.

“Remember, if you don't keep her out of my way, I'll take matters into my own hands.”

“Don't worry, Brother,” Branwell said. Emily couldn't help but wonder if Branwell and his “Brother” were speaking at cross-purposes.

Emily searched her memory, but she couldn't recall having met the bearded man. He must be speaking of Charlotte. What on earth did Charlotte have to do with all of this?

“Don't call me Brother,” growled the man. “You know the penalty.” He drew his finger across his throat and Branwell stumbled back fearfully. Emily, in the shadows, narrowed her eyes. Who was this man and why was he threatening her family?

For the next few minutes, Emily trailed behind as the bearded man helped Branwell up the steep hill. Branwell was deposited at the parsonage but Emily continued to follow the stranger, hoping he would lead her to Charlotte. Emily kept a safe distance behind him, glad there was enough moon to light the way.

When he emerged onto the moors, Emily left him to the path while she walked just parallel to him in the brush. It was tougher going, but there was less chance of him seeing her. Not that he was likely to notice anyone; he was stumbling as though he, too, had overindulged in drink.

The bearded man headed west, Emily not far behind. When the man took the turn leading to Ponden Hall, the
Heaton manor, Emily began to suspect she knew his name after all. She realized he had the same cornflower-blue eyes as Harry. This must be Robert Heaton, Harry's cruel uncle.

After much huffing, he reached the summit of the long hill overshadowing Ponden Hall. Emily waited at the crest of the hill and watched as he stumbled down the track and into the comfort of the substantial fieldstone house.

After Robert went inside, she saw a light appear on the second floor. She remembered this was the library. She could see him quite clearly, pouring himself another glass of whiskey, then sitting at a desk and looking at some papers.

She sat on the peat, her knees drawn up to her chest, watching him. Was this a wild goose chase? She had no proof this man knew anything about Charlotte, only that Charlotte had irritated him. It was no crime to be aggravated by Charlotte—it was the constant condition of anyone who knew her!

Did she dare just knock on the door and ask if he knew where Charlotte was? But this was the man Harry had described as dangerous. Emily clenched her fist and pounded her leg in frustration. She didn't know what to do.

Suddenly a steely grip immobilized her shoulder. Emily started to scream. A rough hand covered her mouth.

I lost consciousness: for the second time
in my life—only the second time—
I became insensible from terror
.

T
he sound of footsteps and voices faded away. The Masons did not know Charlotte had overheard their most secret rites and rituals. For the moment she was safe. She pushed against the lid of the box. It wouldn't budge. She shoved again. The darkness and the silence pressed on her, squeezing her breath from her body. Charlotte began panting, the noise of her breathing filling the small space. You're behaving like a trapped animal, she told herself. Stay calm. Keep your wits about you.

But fear, raw and bleak as a February storm, threatened to overwhelm her. What would her family think when she
didn't come home? They might never know what became of her. Would Branwell finally realize what a wonderful sister he had lost? Emily would finally be sorry she had been so hateful. Tabby would weep whenever she peeled her potatoes, remembering Miss Charlotte and her funny bossy ways. Father . . . he would mourn his little Charlotte.

A scream erupted from her and reverberated off the walls of the chest. She pounded the lid with her fists, kicked with her boots. Pressing her body from one side to the other, she tried to rock the chest, but it was too heavy.

“Help me!” she shouted. “Branwell! John Brown! Anyone! Please help me!”

It was no use. The silence grew more oppressive. The heat was unbearable. If her body was ever found, her father would not even need to spend money on a coffin—they could use the chest. It would sit on the altar in their church, and then John Brown would open the family plot and shove Charlotte inside. At least she would be reunited with Maria and Elizabeth. With a forlorn whimper, Charlotte thought for the first time Emily would envy her sister.

How ironic was it that she had often callously placed her Angrian heroines in situations exactly similar to this one? But those women had heroes to rescue them. Charlotte had no one. She would die shrouded in velvet. Alone. She would never know true love. Never marry. Never have children of her own. Never write a great novel. Her future snuffed out like a candle.

Was it her imagination or was the air getting thicker and closer? Her head swam and each breath rasped her throat. Charlotte felt herself slipping . . . slipping . . . slipping into oblivion.

They forgot everything the minute they were
together again: at least the minute they had
contrived some naughty plan of revenge;
and many a time I've cried to myself to
watch them growing more reckless daily
 . . .