Always Emily (18 page)

“Not anymore.” Emily smiled as she tied the rope around Keeper's neck. “If you had thought of him less as property and more like a friend, he might have chosen to stay with you.”

“But yet you call him Keeper?” he asked, his dark eyebrows raised questioningly over his laughing blue eyes.

“It's a term of affection,” she assured him with a smile.

Keeper whimpered, but Emily spoke firmly. “Now lie down and be quiet.” She turned to Harry. “What do you want me to do?”

Harry ran his thumb along his chin. “We have to get into the library. My uncle keeps all his papers there.”

“Tell me what to look for,” Emily said. “It's too dangerous for you to go; the servants would recognize you in an instant.”

“I can't tell you what to look for—I have to see for myself.” Emily started to speak, but Harry interrupted. “You can let me in secretly.”

Emily raised her eyebrows. “How?”

“Follow me.” He led the way up through the light rain to the rise of ground above the hollow where Ponden Hall was situated. The great house's stone walls were gloomy and the porch was covered with moss. There was a stand of malevolent fir trees, one of which stretched a branch toward the library window on the second floor, as though it were a ghoul tapping on the window.

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Harry asked, “Do you see the door behind the trees there?” He pointed to a spot below the library windows.

Emily could just make it out.

“It leads to a root cellar. But when I was a boy I discovered a passage between the cellar and the library. No one seemed to know about it but me. I hope that's still true.”

“A secret passage?” Emily clapped her hands in glee. “But if there's a way in, why do you need me?”

“The door from the cellar is unlocked, but the library door is locked. You can only open it from inside the library.”

“I wonder why?”

“I think my great-grandfather might have had his troubles with the Crown. This was an escape route to be used in great need. I only found it by accident.”

Emily was lost in the past. “When we were children,” she said slowly, “I recall you used to disappear mysteriously.”

He grinned wickedly. “You couldn't expect me to tell my secret to a mere girl, could you?”

Emily found the idea of a secret passage irresistible, but a vestige of caution, no doubt nurtured by Charlotte, gave her pause. “If you are found in the library,” she said very deliberately, “I'm compromised, too. And my father with me.”

Harry rocked back on his heels. “You're right. I shouldn't ask for your help, but there is so much at stake.” He flushed, and Emily caught her breath at how handsome he looked. “But you are right—what would people say if you broke into Ponden Hall with me? Say the word. I'll find another way.”

Emily suddenly grinned, restored to her usual equanimity. “I don't much care what other people think. I never have.” A crooked smile on her face, she added, “And we won't be caught.”

Emily took a series of calming breaths before she lifted the knocker. For once, she couldn't control the direction of a story with the stroke of a pen. As she waited for someone to answer the door, she could hear Keeper howling in the distance. With
the leaden clouds above, his muffled howls had an ethereal quality. “No wonder Tabby thinks a
gytrash
haunts the moor!” Emily murmured to herself.

Finally the door was opened by a housekeeper. She stared at Emily as though she was trying to place her face. “Yes?”

“It's Grace, isn't it?” Emily found the woman's name lodged deep in her memory. “My name is Emily Brontë.”

“The parson's daughter?” Grace asked. “If you're here to see the master, he's not here.”

“I just saw Mr. Heaton at church,” Emily replied. “He said I could visit the library.”

“Did he?” Grace asked suspiciously. “That doesn't sound like him.”

“Of course, you could refuse me entry and explain to Mr. Heaton why you turned away his invited guest,” Emily said.

The door opened a little wider. “I'm not refusing, miss. I'm just saying the master is particular about who comes into the house.”

“Because of his sister?” Emily hazarded. She was rewarded with an indrawn hiss. “Is she here? I'd like to pay my respects.”

“She's not here.” Grace was shaking her head. “And the less questioning about her the better.” Her lips squeezed shut and Emily knew she would get no more information.

“I know the way, Grace. You don't need to take me up.” Emily began climbing the stairs, transported for a moment to her childhood. She remembered how the window at the top of
the stairs would bathe the landing in light. But today the sun was obscured by black clouds.

It occurred to Emily it had rained at least part of every day for weeks. Perhaps Harry had brought the rain with him. Until the terrible wrong done to him was righted, until his mother was found or avenged, the sun wouldn't return.

The library was exactly the way she remembered it—uncannily so. It was a long paneled room full of bookcases from floor to ceiling. There was a small fire burning—no doubt to keep the damp away from the books. Under glass were the valuable books the children had never been allowed to touch.

There were two comfortable armchairs at the end of the room in front of the fireplace. In the corner, just above the root cellar, Emily guessed, was a bookcase built next to the window jamb. Outside the window the fir tree branches brushed against the panes.

Emily listened at the stairs, but the house was silent. She hurried to the corner bookcase where Harry had told her to look. She removed a stack of old hymnbooks and found a square panel of wood that was slightly different from the rest of the bookcase. She pressed it.

With a loud click, the bookcase swung out. Harry was waiting, covered with cobwebs and dust. “Well done,” he said, starting purposefully for the desk in the corner of the room. He began to fan through the papers on it.

“Is there anything useful?” Emily asked.

“Nothing. Uncle Robert is not such a fool,” Harry said. “Anything incriminating won't be left in plain sight.” He tugged on the drawer of the desk, but it was locked. “Do you see a key anywhere?”

“We don't need a key.” For once, Emily's hair was relatively tidy—it was Sunday, after all. Pulling a long pin out of the bun at the back of her head, she knelt at the desk and poked the pin in the lock.

“How on earth do you know how to do that?” Harry asked. “I had no idea a clergyman's daughter could also be a picklock.” His face showed his delight in her unexpected skill.

Closing her eyes to better manipulate the lock, Emily said, “I read about it in a novel and I practiced on my brother's desk until I taught myself how to do it.”

The lock clicked open.

“You amaze me,” Harry said. Heat suffused Emily's face and she was careful not to look at him. He pushed past her and took out the papers from the drawer. Scanning the top document, Harry said, “I don't believe it.”

“What is it?” Emily asked, stepping forward, only just restraining herself from snatching the papers out of his hand.

“It's a petition to the magistrate in Leeds to have my mother declared incompetent.”

Emily lifted her eyebrows. “Can he do that?”

“He says her mind has been ruined by drink.” He turned to Emily, his face pale. “She doesn't drink. Ever. My father was a drunkard—Mother wouldn't touch the stuff.”

She placed a hand on his arm. “At least this confirms she's alive,” Emily said gently.

His smile was wan. “True. Thank God for that.” He returned to the petition. “It's missing a doctor's signature.”

“Are there any doctors in the Three Graces Lodge? Wouldn't one Freemason help another?”

He nodded. “There's at least one. Dr. Fitzpatrick. And he's an old friend of my uncle's. Without anyone to speak for my mother, Fitzpatrick would believe whatever Robert told him.”

“But why do it at all?” Emily asked. “What does it accomplish?”

Harry paced around the library. “I don't know.”

“What is this?” Emily asked, picking up another set of papers in the drawer.

Harry glanced at it. “It's my grandfather's will.”

“Did he leave you anything?”

“I doubt it,” Harry said. “The old man hated me.”

Emily turned up the oil lamp to illuminate the paper. “I leave all my real property, the farms and the mills, to be divided equally between my children, Robert and Rachel Heaton.”

“Equally? That doesn't sound like the old curmudgeon. He must have been stricken with an attack of fairness before he died.”

Emily read on. “It says, ‘If, for any reason, either of my children are legally incapable of managing their affairs, I assign their legal offspring to manage their share of the property. If
there are no legitimate heirs, then the remaining sibling will control the entire legacy.' ” Emily glanced up from the paper. “What does that mean?”

Harry nodded sagely. “My great-grandfather had a brother who was kicked in the head by a horse. He never woke up, but he didn't die for half a decade. The family feuded over the farms for years. It even went to the courts.”

“But you are alive to manage your mother's legacy,” Emily pointed out. “What does your uncle gain by declaring her incompetent?”

Harry was distracted as though he were examining and discarding possible explanations. Emily reached past him and took the last item out of the drawer. It was an old leather-bound ledger.

“Harry, this is a registry of marriages from the church in Bradford,” Emily cried. “It was stolen last month.”

“Why would Robert have this?” Harry asked.

Before Emily could answer, they heard a noise from the stairs. “Quick! Hide!” Emily said. Harry ducked under the desk. Emily moved a chair in front of it and then moved to a bookcase.

Grace shoved open the door, her face avid, no doubt hoping to catch Emily doing something she oughtn't. She was disappointed, as the only thing she saw was Emily lost in contemplation of a rare First Folio of William Shakespeare in the glass cabinet.

“Yes, Grace?” Emily tore her attention from the folio.

Looking abashed, Grace said sullenly, “Would you be wanting tea, miss?”

“Thank you. That would be most welcome.” She picked another favorite, a novel of Sir Walter Scott's, and settled in the chair, flipping the pages.

The sound of Grace's footsteps had long faded when there was a whisper from under the desk. “Emily?”

“Oh, Harry!” She jumped up and pulled the chair away so he could emerge. “I'm sorry, I forgot you were there.”

He watched her for several seconds as he brushed the dust off his pants. Finally he began to laugh. “Let me guess. You started reading?”

Emily grinned and held up
Ivanhoe
. “Harry, we used to read this same book when we were children. Do you remember?” She held out the book.

Harry opened the cover and stared at the frontispiece. The sternness in his face softened and he began to flip the pages. “I do remember. I remember everything!” Suddenly he threw the book onto the fire.

“Harry!” Emily exclaimed, using the fire tongs to retrieve the book. Fortunately, she thought, she hadn't been examining the Shakespeare.

“I don't want to remember,” he said.

Brushing off the precious book, Emily spoke slowly as if Harry were still a child. “No matter what your grandfather
and uncle did to you then, there were wonderful stories in your childhood. It would be a great shame to destroy what was good and true because of your family's cruelty.”

He glared at her, but she returned his stare until he looked away. “You are right, Emily. After all,
you
were part of my childhood. I don't want to forget that.”

“I hear Grace coming back,” Emily said. “You must go.” He shoved the papers and ledger from the desk into a satchel, ran to the bookcase, and disappeared into the wall. The bookcase was clicking shut just as Grace appeared in the doorway carrying a tray with tea.

“Thank you, Grace,” Emily said, taking the tray from the housekeeper.

“You've been in here a long time,” Grace said with a sour expression. “Haven't you found something to read yet?”

Emily glanced at the desk and the long room with its floorto-ceiling bookcase and at the singed book in her hands. “More than I bargained for.”

Somebody has plotted something:
you cannot too soon find out who and what it is
.