Always Emily (20 page)

“How cruel!” Charlotte whispered.

“And wicked!” Emily agreed.

“But you're her son,” Charlotte said. “You would be in charge of her money, wouldn't you?”

“Harry's been away for years,” Emily said. “Perhaps Heaton thinks he's dead.”

“He's too sure of himself to risk the whole venture on the chance Harry might be dead.” Charlotte shook her head. “There must be more to his plan.”

“We found this, too.” Emily held up the registry of marriages.

“Bradford parish's missing register?” Charlotte asked. In answer to Emily's questioning look, she said, “Father told me about it.”

“Why would Robert have it?” Emily drummed her fingers on the edge of the cot. “It must mean something.”

Charlotte read the will a second time. “Your grandfather's will requires any child must be
legitimate
.” She stressed the last word.

Emily stared at her sister with admiration. Sometimes Charlotte's maddening insistence on rules and procedures paid unexpected dividends. “Harry, where were your parents married?” Emily asked. “And could you prove the marriage? Do you have a marriage certificate?”

“Of course I don't have their marriage certificate.” Harry looked puzzled. “They wed in Bradford, I think.”

“Your uncle has the register of marriages for the Bradford parish,” Charlotte pointed out. “If he also had taken or destroyed your parents' marriage certificate, you might find it impossible to prove your parents' marriage.”

“That's absurd,” Harry protested. “Uncle Robert can't just deny something everyone knows to be the truth. What about the priest who performed the ceremony?”

“That would be Reverend Smythe, a close friend of Father's,” Charlotte said. “He died two years ago.”

“Charlotte, does Harry have any other way to prove he's legitimate?” Emily asked.

Charlotte felt as though she had grown several inches: Emily was asking
her
for advice. She thought for a few moments. “There aren't any other marriage records. But wait: The baptismal record asks for your parents' names. Where were you born?”

“Haworth.”

“Father!” Emily and Charlotte said together. Harry looked confused.

“Father would have baptized you,” Charlotte explained. “He performs almost all the baptisms in the parish. And he keeps meticulous records.”

“Couldn't Robert steal that book, too?” Harry asked.

“He already tried,” Emily said to the amazement of the others. “He was the intruder who Father ran off with his pistol. He cut himself on the window.”

Charlotte nodded. “I saw the cut on his hand today.” “Might he try again?” Harry asked.

Emily and Charlotte shook their heads. “Father is extremely careful,” Charlotte said.

“No one could get near,” Emily agreed.

Harry pounded his fist into his hand. “This is not getting us anywhere!”

“Oh!” Charlotte's sudden cry startled both Emily and Harry. “I know what Heaton wants with Branwell. I found some scraps of paper in his room covered with what looked like Father's writing. But what if Branwell was imitating his writing?” She hated to think her own brother could be so wicked.

Emily had no difficulty imagining Branwell as a forger. “Branwell would be very good at it, I would think. Charlotte, what exactly did the scraps of paper say?”

With miserable eyes, she looked from Emily then to Harry. “ ‘Bastard.' ”

This scheme I went over twice, thrice;
it was then digested in my mind;
I had it in a clear practical form:
I felt satisfied, and fell asleep
.

I
need some air,” Harry said. He walked out into the rain and climbed the hill toward Ponden Hall.

“Harry—” Charlotte started after him, but Emily held her back. “Let him go,” she said. “He has an awful lot to think about.”

“Should he be alone?” Charlotte turned to look at Emily. “Shouldn't you go to him?”

“Why?” Emily asked sharply. “He's a grown man. He doesn't need me to think for him.”

“But . . .”

“
Charlotte
.” Emily gave her sister a shake. “If we want to help Harry, we must devise a plan to rescue Rachel.”

Charlotte nodded. Ever since Rachel had stopped her carriage on the road a week ago, she had felt there was a task left undone. A story in need of an ending. But there was another victim to protect. “What about Branwell? He can't fully understand what his involvement with Heaton means. We have to save him, too.”

Emily eyed her sister warily, but decided not to argue. “Perhaps we can do both. But first we find Rachel—that's the essential thing. We must do it quickly. Who knows what Heaton has planned?”

“Well, I know where she
was
.” Charlotte looked thoughtful. “Rachel was on foot when I met her. She couldn't have come from far away. We just need to find the nearest Heaton property. You can do that easily.”

Emily's fingers twisted around each other. “Charlotte, I know I mock you for being practical sometimes . . .”

“Often.”

“Often,” Emily conceded. “But I have no idea how to find out what property the Heatons own.”

“Mr. Greenwood, the stationer, is also Haworth's property clerk. He would help if
you
asked.”

Emily was puzzled. “Why would he help me especially?”

“He'd do anything for you.” An edge crept into Charlotte's voice. “He's completely smitten with you.” Under her breath she added, “Like Harry.”

“Charlotte, don't be ridiculous,” Emily snapped.

“All you need do is ask.”

“Is the shop open on Sunday?” asked Emily.

Charlotte rolled her eyes; Emily never did any errands, so she hadn't the faintest idea of when the shops were open. “He opens in the afternoon on Sundays.”

“Fine. I'll ask him,” Emily said. “And what will you do?”

“I'll find a way to keep Father's records safe from Bran-well.” She paused. “That will keep him and Father safe.”

Emily glanced up at Harry, silhouetted on the hill. “This is a good plan, Charlotte, because it's up to us. Harry can be emotional,” she said, thinking of how he had tossed the valuable book on the fire. “We're more reliable.”

Charlotte, to Emily's great surprise, burst out laughing.

Emily pushed open the door to the stationer's shop, the bell ringing sweetly above her head. The shop was empty except for Mr. Greenwood, looking small behind the battered wooden counter. He straightened up as soon as he saw her and adjusted his sweat-stained collar.

“Hello, Miss Brontë,” he said. “You're looking very well today.”

“Thank you, Mr. Greenwood,” Emily said.

“I saw you walking on the moors a few days ago.” His hairless skull was dotted with beads of perspiration.

“I didn't notice you,” Emily said. She wondered why he suddenly looked so stricken.

“Are you going to walk today? The weather is clear now, but I heard it's raining a bit to the north.”

“Perhaps, after I complete my errands,” she said.

“Are you out of writing paper already?” Mr. Greenwood asked anxiously. “I can't get any more until tomorrow.”

“We have enough.” Emily hurried to reassure him. “Charlotte hasn't begun writing yet. As soon as she does, I'll replenish our stock.”

“Then what can I do for you today?”

Emily leaned over the counter. “I heard,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “you have a record of every piece of property in Haworth.”

Mr. Greenwood seemed to stand a little taller. “That's true. Would you like to see my map?” Without waiting for her answer, he disappeared into the back room and came out with a rolled-up map. Emily moved aside the dusty bottles of ink and collections of pen nibs.

With a practiced flick of his wrist, Mr. Greenwood unfurled the map. “It's beautiful!” Emily exclaimed, distracted from her cause by the exquisite detail. Mr. Greenwood had drawn tiny representations of every building. His calligraphy took full advantage of the different-colored inks he had at his disposal. Farms were green, mills blue, and houses carefully drawn in red. The owners or tenants' names were carefully noted.

“You must have studied each building to get such detail,” Emily said.

Mr. Greenwood looked gratified and sheepish at the same time. “It's not required, but I like to illustrate my maps. It's by way of being a hobby of mine.” He let her admire it for a few moments longer before he asked, “Were you looking for something in particular?”

Emily ran her finger along the road between Bradford and Haworth. “Does the Heaton family own any property near here?” She pointed to the area where Charlotte had met Rachel.

“No, their properties are clustered around Ponden Hall and their mills.” Emily must have seemed disappointed because he said, “But they rent a large farm at Top Withins.”

“Why? They have plenty of their own, don't they?”

“But Top Withins includes the spring that provides water for their most productive mill. They want to control the water.”

Emily stared down at the map. “There are several buildings,” she said, thinking how easy it would be to hide one woman. “And it's quite remote, isn't it?”

He nodded emphatically. “It certainly is. And they don't welcome visitors. I stopped by once, just to ask for a glass of water, and I was run off by a vicious dog.”

Emily smiled to herself. A dog she could handle. She thanked Mr. Greenwood and turned to leave.

“Must you go?” he asked sadly. “I suppose with illness in the house you need to get home.”

She paused at the door. “Illness?”

“I noticed your brother visiting the apothecary's shop across the street.”

“When?” Her every sense was on the alert.

“Yesterday.”

“Thank you, Mr. Greenwood.” Emily bestowed on him a bright smile. “You've no idea how helpful you've been.”

He flushed, and stuttered a response, but Emily was already out the door. Picking her way to avoid the sewage flowing freely down the street, she crossed to the apothecary. Emily rarely went there; she didn't trust medicines. And as far as she knew, Branwell had no reason to go there either. Even when her brother had a sore head from overdrinking, their father administered his homemade remedies.

“May I help you, miss?” asked the clerk behind the counter.

“My brother, Mr. Brontë, was in yesterday,” she began.

“Are you here to pick up the tonic he ordered?” the clerk interrupted.

Feeling her way, Emily said, “Is it ready?”

“Yes. Tell your brother to be careful with this dosage. It's a stronger concentration than the one I made him a week ago. It's two teaspoons once a day. An overdose can make a patient very confused.”

“What's in it?” Emily asked.

“Mostly laudanum in a solution of alcohol.”

Laudanum was used for a cough, or to alleviate pain and intestinal problems. Branwell had none of these symptoms. And he certainly didn't need any more alcohol.

Watching her curiously, the clerk added, “And I'll say it again, I wish he would let me put it in the bottle I usually use
for medicaments. He had me reuse a harmless tonic bottle—I worry someone might take it in error.”

Or be dosed deliberately without their knowledge, Emily thought. “Oh, dear,” she said, opening her reticule and pretending to search for money. “I seem to have left home without my wallet. Branwell will have to come by and pick up his tonic after all.”

She hurried out and ran up the hill to the parsonage to tell Charlotte what she had discovered. Despite her haste, she slowed when she came to the graveyard. John Brown and his son were digging a new grave. Emily always admired how they dug a grave with the straightest of lines, in proportions just large enough for the recently deceased.