Always Emily (21 page)

“Who died?” she asked.

“Mrs. Taylor, the seamstress,” Brown said without taking his attention away from his digging. “Her heart gave out. The funeral is on Tuesday.”

John Brown buried more than a hundred people each year in his perfectly measured graves and marked them with his expertly carved stones. He might as well have been making an entry in her father's register. Name. Occupation. Cause of Death. Add the date, and an entire life was tidied away.

That reminded her of Charlotte's task. She hurried inside the parsonage where Charlotte was arguing with her father in the dining room.

“Charlotte, I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, the parish records are perfectly safe,” Rev. Brontë said. He looked up at Emily's entrance. “Hello, dear.”

“That's what the priest in Bradford thought, Father,” Charlotte answered in her most reasonable voice. “And look what happened there.” She and Emily exchanged a quick knowing glance.

“That was a terrible shame.” Rev. Brontë looked solemn. “All those records lost. I don't wish to speak ill of the priest there, but he had a sacred duty to protect those records.”

“But even your records are only as secure as your study,” Charlotte argued. “What harm could there be in locking the registers up?”

“Father, have you forgotten someone tried to break in last week?” Emily added.

Rev. Brontë's face paled. “On second thought, Charlotte, you are correct. There's no sense in taking risks. I'll lock the registers in my cabinet right now.”

“Let us help you,” Charlotte said, beckoning to Emily to follow him into his study.

“Well done!” Emily whispered to Charlotte as they walked.

The reverend took out his keys and opened his glass cabinet. “I'll put them in here.”

“Father, I'll shift them for you,” Charlotte offered. “Why don't you finish your tea and I'll bring you the key.”

“That's very kind of you, my dear, but I'll do that.” He placed all the registers in the cabinet and tucked the key in his waist pocket.

Charlotte shot a dismayed glance at Emily, who shook her head slightly. She took her father's arm and said, “Father, Tabby has an excellent tea waiting for you.”

“Thank you, my dear. I must say all the dramatics at church today have given me an appetite.”

“I thought your sermon today was inspiring,” Emily said, “I was very proud.” She hugged her father. Both Rev. Brontë and Charlotte stared at her with surprise. As soon as he was gone, Emily held up the key she had slipped out of their father's pocket.

“You're incorrigible,” Charlotte said, beaming. “But how will we get it back to him?”

“He won't believe it if I embrace him again—you'll have to do it!” Emily said.

“Or we could just ‘find' it on the floor, and pretend he dropped it.” Charlotte unlocked the cabinet and removed the register of births. “Do you know when Harry was born?”

“June fifteenth, eighteen sixteen.” She looked at Charlotte sidelong.

“Elizabeth died on June fifteenth,” Charlotte said sadly.

“I know.”

Blinking away a tear, Charlotte thumbed through the book. “Here it is. Father did baptize him.”

Emily held her breath.

“And the record shows his father is Mr. George Casson, husband to Rachel.”

Emily exhaled. “Thank goodness. Branwell hasn't changed it yet. We're in time.”

“And now the books are locked safely away, Branwell can't hurt himself or Harry.” Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. “How did you fare at Mr. Greenwood's? Do the Heatons own property near that stretch of road?”

“No,” Emily said. “But they rent several farms near Top Withins. It's not far from where you met Rachel on the road. It's very remote, a perfect place to hide someone.” Emily went to the door to be sure they weren't overheard. “But I found out something else.” She told Charlotte about the apothecary.

“Laudanum?” Charlotte asked.

“In an unmarked bottle . . .”

“Rachel!” Charlotte gasped. “That might explain why she acted so very strangely. And as I recall, her pupils were dilated. What if Robert is drugging her to make her appear incompetent or drunk?”

“I wouldn't put it past him. If he had a hand in killing his father, what's drugging his sister compared to that?”

“But why would Heaton have Branwell collect the drug?”

“Heaton is a suspect after his father's accident. He can't afford to be connected with the drug.”

“Why would Branwell agree?” Charlotte asked.

Emily waved her hand toward the now-locked-up register. “Who knows why our brother invariably takes the most self-destructive path? Why would he agree to compromise Father's life's work?”

“Altering the register is one thing,” Charlotte said. “Robert Heaton could spin him a tale to justify that. But to conspire against an innocent woman? Branwell must be ignorant of what the laudanum is for.”

“I don't know,” Emily said flatly. “He'd do anything to impress Heaton.”

Seeing she wasn't going to convince Emily that Branwell was essentially good, Charlotte pursed her lips. “If it's true, how do we use this information?”

“I thought it might help us find Rachel. When Branwell picks up the medicine, we'll follow him directly to Rachel's location.”

Charlotte steepled her fingers and considered. “But what if he just brings it to Robert?”

“Then we'll know to follow Heaton.” Emily clasped Charlotte's hand. “It's the quickest way to find her.”

Charlotte nodded. “It's a good plan.”

Emily said, “I'll get Harry. He needs to be a part of this.” But before Emily left the house, she made a stop in her father's bedroom.

Slamming the front door behind her, Emily set off to find Harry. Her father's pistol felt solid and comforting in her skirt pocket.

You say you never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at the
house up yonder . . . but I daresay you have many a
time inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious
lunatic kept there under watch and ward
.

B
y the next afternoon, the trap was set. Emily and Harry waited on the moor overlooking Haworth.

“Emily, we must talk,” Harry said. “About what happened yesterday.” He looked down on Emily, who was seated on a rock beneath a stunted tree. The weather was thick and humid, as though another storm was coming.

“So much happened yesterday,” Emily said, her eyes fixed on the graveyard below where Charlotte was hiding and watching for Branwell. The apothecary didn't open until two o'clock, so Branwell couldn't pick up his tonic before then. Once Charlotte spied him, she would signal to Emily and Harry, carefully concealed on the moor path.

“I feel like a complete cad,” Harry said. “I never should have kissed you.”

“I kissed you first,” Emily corrected. “I'm not embarrassed or ashamed. Are you?”

“No, of course not!” He took her hands in his. “But you must be wondering about my intentions.”

Emily shook off his hands. “I know your intentions perfectly well. To rescue your mother.”

“But what about us?”

“We'll rescue her together,” Emily said.

“Damnation, Emily!” he cried. “You are being extremely aggravating—deliberately or not, I cannot decide. Shouldn't we discuss our future?”

Emily took her eyes off the graveyard and gave him her full attention. “I refuse to consider anything beyond this moment.”

Harry splayed his hands and then clenched them into fists. His jaw was set, and Emily smiled to herself; she had often seen that same exasperated expression on Charlotte's face.

In the graveyard below, Charlotte's mind swirled with uncharitable thoughts. Emily claimed not to be interested in romance, but somehow she had maneuvered events so Charlotte sat alone on a damp gravestone while Emily waited with the handsome young man with a tragic past. Goodness knew what they were up to without a chaperone.

A door slammed and Branwell came out of the parsonage. Charlotte waved a white cambric handkerchief for Emily to see.

Branwell hurried down the hill to the apothecary. Looking from her brother to her sister, Charlotte's irritation rose anew as Emily made no signal back. “Confound her, she's probably kissing Harry again.” After making sure Branwell would not see her, Charlotte stood up and waved her arm wide. Finally, Emily replied with the same signal.

After a short time, Branwell hurried back up the hill, unknowingly passing Charlotte's hiding place. He carried a small package wrapped in brown paper. When he was safely ahead of her, she followed. Hunting quarry was rather exciting, Charlotte thought. Then she recalled Rachel, held against her will, no doubt terrified. This was not a game.

Branwell set a terrific pace, sticking to the path instead of striking out across the waterlogged moors. Harry and Emily waited for Charlotte behind a stand of trees.

“Finally, Charlotte!” Emily exclaimed. “Can't you walk any faster? Branwell is halfway across the moor.”

Charlotte scowled, but before she could express her feelings, Harry interrupted. “Never mind; we need to let your brother get ahead of us, anyway.”

The three of them took up the chase. Within moments, Harry and Emily were well ahead of Charlotte. The moor was open and empty, so she had no trouble keeping them in sight. Which of course meant if he chanced to look back, Branwell could see them, too. But he never did. It was a point in his favor, Charlotte decided. If he knew he was hurting a defenseless woman, he would be more cautious.

Branwell cut across a wild meadow, his feet getting sucked into the bog. Even the wildflowers hung their heads, they were so drenched. Without hesitation, Harry and Emily followed him into the muck. Many paces back, Charlotte sighed and resigned herself to stepping in water up to her ankles.

Half an hour later, Branwell reached Charlotte's favorite waterfall. It wasn't a great cascade but a series of stone steps, which lowered the water in a soothing murmur.

Although the Brontë siblings had tarried here on many a summer afternoon, Branwell's step did not falter. He crossed the stone bridge and started the steep climb on the other side. Trailing at a safe distance, Emily, Harry, and Charlotte trekked up the hill. Charlotte had rarely explored this part of the moor. But as she matched her mental map with the terrain, she was certain they were walking toward Top Withins. It was a lonely spot, a perfect place to hide a secret.

The sweat trickled down her arms and she could feel the moisture pooling under her bodice. Her sensible boots were beginning to rub at the heels. Then Branwell picked up his already rapid pace; the end of his journey was doubtless in sight.

Briefly silhouetted against the dark sky, Branwell paused at the apex of the moorland path, then plunged down the other side. A few minutes later Harry and Emily reached the crest of the hill and waited for Charlotte to reach them. Charlotte pushed away her fatigue.

“I don't know why you insisted on coming if you couldn't keep up with us,” Emily said unkindly.

Charlotte was too breathless to answer immediately. Emily paced impatiently, waiting for Charlotte to regain her breath. Charlotte noticed Emily was keeping her right hand in the pocket of her skirt. Before she could ask why, Harry offered Charlotte a sip of water from a flask.

“Are we at Top Withins?” Charlotte finally gasped.

“We think so,” Harry said. “Your brother is trying to attract someone's attention.”

Creeping over the crest of the hill, Charlotte looked down at the farm. The main house was tucked into the side of the hill, but there were half a dozen outbuildings. A fence surrounded the house, and a huge, hungry-looking dog stalked its surround. A few trees sheltered the house, but they were deformed and stunted by the constant wind. The air was so thick and still, even the birds were silenced.

“How desolate,” Charlotte murmured, thinking the thick dark clouds suited the lonely farm.

“An excellent place to hide someone,” Emily said.

Harry's face was stern. “If my mother is there, I'll find her.”

Below, Branwell shouted for someone to come out. His small figure with its shock of red hair seemed slightly ridiculous as he approached the fence again and again. Every time, the dog barked viciously, throwing its body at the wooden slats. Much to Emily's amusement, Branwell leapt backward each time it happened.

“Emily, don't laugh,” Charlotte scolded. “Not everyone can be fearless around fierce beasts.”

Harry gazed at Emily appreciatively. “It takes a special kind of person to befriend a vicious dog,” he said.

Charlotte closed her eyes briefly. Harry was completely besotted. Why was it always Emily? Why did no one prize Charlotte's qualities of prudence, responsibility, and virtue?

Below, Branwell's shouts finally received a response. A man came out of a barn. Charlotte recognized the type, a typical dour Yorkshire farmer who would have no patience with idle chitchat. Sure enough, he brushed off Branwell's attempts to start a conversation, taking the parcel Branwell offered and leaving him at the gate.