Always Emily (26 page)

Glaring at her brother, Charlotte said, “I wouldn't think of leaving her alone, Tabby.”

Charlotte went to the window and looked toward the graveyard. She could see her father's tall figure standing next to Emily and Keeper. Sexton Brown and his son were bringing a body out of an open grave. It was Robert Heaton! Chuckling, she reminded herself not to be surprised at anything if Emily was involved.

She returned to Rachel and checked she was still asleep. Branwell lifted his pale eyes to Charlotte and finally spoke. “Did Heaton really strike you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said simply.

“Why?”

“Does it matter?”

He put his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his thick red hair. “Of course not.” His eyes filled with tears. “Was he really just using me?”

Charlotte hesitated, torn between punishing Branwell further and giving him comfort. She finally decided to do what Emily would do and tell the unvarnished truth.

“You were his pawn in his plot to cheat Rachel out of her father's inheritance. If Emily and I had not intervened, an innocent woman would have been committed to an asylum and robbed of her legacy. And you would have tarnished Father's life's work.”

Branwell began to sob. Charlotte resisted her impulse to go to him. After a long moment of self-pity, he turned his head so he could look directly at her. “What will happen to me now?”

Charlotte was swept by a wave of complex feelings. Anger that Branwell's first thought was still of himself. But also ineffable sadness that the boy who had shown so much promise was reduced to this coward sniveling at the table. He stared at her, waiting for an answer. At last she said, “It depends on Rachel. Did you know what the tonic was for?”

“He told me she had nerves and suffered from delusions that people were trying to hurt her.”

“No delusion,” Charlotte said. “It was true. He was her enemy.”

“Charlotte, you must believe me. I didn't know.”

Charlotte wished she could believe him with a whole heart. “She might not press charges against you. And thanks to Emily and me, you never had a chance to alter Father's records.”

“You know about that, too?”

“We know everything.”

“But I didn't do it,” Branwell said. He heaved a sigh of relief. “In fact, there's no proof I did anything at all.”

At that moment, there was a fusillade of knocks at the door. They heard Emily's voice calling, “Open up!” The commands were interjected with deep barks from Keeper.

Tabby bustled down the hall to open the door, her pale complexion flushed. “Emily! First Charlotte comes in with that woman, drunk by the look of her! Then your father stormed outside with his pistol. Now you—covered with mud. What on earth is happening tonight?”

Branwell got up. “I can't face her, too,” he said, and scurried up the stairs.

Without a word, Emily pushed past Tabby and went into the drawing room, not noticing Branwell's hasty departure.

“Emily!” Charlotte exclaimed, embracing her with wide-open arms. “Thank goodness you are safe. I sent Father to rescue you.”

“I didn't need rescuing,” Emily said. “However, Mr. Brown was badly in need of his guidance. Somehow Heaton fell into an open grave and broke his ankle.”

Her hand to her mouth, Charlotte laughed, “What a shame!”

A wicked smile on her face, Emily said, “Yes, isn't it? He's in terrible pain.”

Charlotte clapped her hands softly. “Well done, Emily!”

“I'm very tired now.” Emily sank down on the stairs and closed her eyes. Charlotte sat down next to Emily and put an arm around her. With a grateful sigh, Emily lay her head on Charlotte's shoulder.

“Did you send a doctor to Harry?” Emily asked sleepily.

“Yes, it was the first thing I did once I got Rachel inside. Tabby sent the scullery maid to tell him to go directly to Top Withins,” Charlotte said. “I only hope he's in time.”

“As do I,” Emily agreed.

After several moments of unprecedented unity between the sisters, Charlotte broke the silence. “Emily, what on earth happened to your petticoat?”

Emily's laughter echoed throughout the house.

You see, Mr. Lockwood, it was easy enough
to win Mrs. Heathcliff's heart.
But now, I'm glad you did not try
.

Two weeks later

E
mily's story poured from her fingers, filling page after page of foolscap paper. In her fictional world, the parsonage walls had dissolved and the north wind tossed her hair about, making her eyes water with its force.

Suddenly a loud knocking intruded as though a giant's fist had pounded the bog, bouncing her characters off their feet. Frantic, Emily grasped at the thread of her story, trying to pull herself back into the tale, but the pounding continued.

“Will someone answer the door?” she shouted. There was no response. Another knock. Muttering an oath, she shoved the
papers away across the square dining room table and stalked to the front door. She pulled it open, ready to treat whoever had disturbed her writing with the disdain they deserved.

“Harry!” Her irritation dissolved. The loose bandages about his face and hands dismayed her, but she was glad to see his eyes were clear and lucid. “It's good to see you finally. Charlotte and I tried to visit you, but we were turned away every time.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. His voice was raspy as if from long disuse. “I wasn't ready for visitors, even if their name was Brontë.”

She opened the door wide and stepped back, careful not to crowd him. How could she put him at ease? What would Charlotte do?

“Come in. You've never been to the parsonage before, have you? Here's the parlor. Won't you sit down while I get us some tea?” Her inconsequential talk of hospitality was foreign to their usual conversation, but she prattled on to give him time to find his footing.

When she returned with a tray from the kitchen, she half expected him to have fled. But he was standing by the fireplace, staring down at the carpet.

“This carpet has a very odd pattern of use,” he said. “It's worn only on the edges.”

Emily laughed, and the light sound seemed to put him further at ease. “In the winter, we sisters promenade around the room, arm in arm, reading from our stories or poems.” She poured him a cup of tea. “Sugar or milk?”

“Two sugars, please,” he said. “Your brother was never part of your writing?”

“Not since we were children. Now he writes in the privacy of his own room and refuses to share with us.”

Harry's blue eyes darted around the room and glanced up the stairs. She understood what he hesitated to ask. “Branwell is gone. Father sent him off to Bradford to study painting. I think he'll remain there until after the trial.”

“Trial.” Harry pronounced the word with a finality that chilled the room.

Emily slowly stirred the sugar in the tea. “My father says your uncle is sure to be convicted of kidnapping, fraud, and injuring Charlotte. His Freemason friends have all deserted him, as have the other mill owners. He'll go to prison.” She handed Harry the teacup, which he accepted with bandaged hands. She looked down at them for a long moment, then raised her eyes to his.

“The doctor says I'm lucky.” Harry's voice was bitter. “I will regain full use of my fingers.”

“That's good, isn't it?” Emily asked.

“Of course, but he can't say the same for my face.” Before Emily could say anything, he put the cup down and unwound the bandages, his hands clumsy. The skin around his eyes was clear, but his cheeks to his chin were covered with raw patches of skin and unhealed blisters.

“Oh, Harry,” Emily breathed. She reached toward him and he recoiled. Slowly, as though she were approaching one of her
wild animals, Emily showed him she was only going to stroke his hair. He closed his eyes and let her hand soothe him. After a few moments, he pulled away slightly, but enough so that she knew to stop.

“I'm hideous,” he whispered.

“Not to me,” she said.

He shook his head and turned his back to her. She sipped her tea and waited for him to speak. Finally Harry said, “I'm here to say goodbye.”

“Why?” Emily asked, staring down at the tea leaves floating in her cup.

“My mother has such terrible memories of Yorkshire, she wants to get well away,” he explained. “I don't know if she can ever return to Ponden Hall.”

“But . . .”

“It's done, Emily.”

Emily blinked away an unexpected tear. “That's understandable, I suppose.”

His clear eyes narrowed. “Really? Because I think you would confront your fears, not run from them.”

“Perhaps,” Emily said. “But then I'm not afraid of much.”

“I know.” With an echo of his old romantic bravado, Harry said, “You're extraordinary.”

Emily stood up and began rearranging Aunt B.'s bric-à-brac on the mantel. Compliments always made her uncomfortable. She heard a noise in the hall, but didn't turn to look. Emily knew full well who was listening.

“I'm not so brave,” Harry went on, oblivious to possible eavesdroppers. “I can't stand to see the pity on people's faces. Emily, when you greeted me at the door, you didn't look away. You're the first person to really look at me since the fire.”

“In time . . .” Emily started to say.

“In time, the burns will heal. But my face will always be horrible.”

“Not to me,” Emily said again.

“I know, and I thank you for it.” He looked at her for a long moment, as though trying to memorize every detail of her face. “If it weren't so presumptuous, I would love you for it.”

Emily's hand jerked, and the tea sloshed out of her cup. She took out her handkerchief and mopped it up, taking a moment for them both to regain their composure. “That's a ridiculous reason to love someone.”

“Can you give me a better reason?” he asked.

“Because you can't live without her.”

He sighed. “Even before I was burned, you made it clear you could live without me.”

“Harry . . .”

“Don't,” he said. “I couldn't bear it if you lied to me. It would crush me if you pretended to love me only because I've been injured.”

Slowly she said, “I would never do that.”

A bark of laughter escaped his mouth, and if it was perilously close to a sob, neither of them made any reference to it.

“Where are you going?” Emily asked.

“I've rented a house in northern Scotland.”

“That's very far,” Emily replied.

“Far enough to discourage
any
visitors.”

“I wish things were different,” Emily said. She glanced down at her ink-stained fingers. “Perhaps if I were more traditional . . .”

“If you were the type of girl who wanted marriage and children and a household, you would not be my lovely, impetuous Emily.” He caught her hands in his bandaged palms. “I'm so grateful for all your help,” he said. “Without you and your sister, I would have nothing.”

Emily stared at their hands, entwined together. After a few moments he released her.

“I'm glad I kissed you that day, Emily.”

Emily smiled a crooked smile. “I believe I kissed
you
.”

“So you did.” He rewrapped his face with the bandages to protect the tender skin. “A memory I will cherish.” He turned and walked away.

“Harry!” Emily said. He stopped. She ran to him and held out her arms. He hesitated and she stepped closer. Harry closed his eyes and let her embrace him. She held him gently for a long time.

Harry had tears in his eyes when he moved away. “Please give my regards to Charlotte.”

“She will be sorry not to say goodbye to you in person.”

“I don't want her to see me like this.” He started for the door. “Farewell, Emily.”

“Goodbye, dear Harry.”

The echo of the front door closing hadn't faded before Charlotte walked into the parlor. Emily stood in the center of the room, staring into space. Charlotte, arms folded, waited until Emily noticed her presence.

“I hope you were able to hear everything from the hall,” Emily said drily.

Charlotte didn't bother to deny it. “How can you let him go?”

Emily stared at her sister. “You heard him. He decided to leave.” Her voice lacked her usual confidence.

“You could have changed his mind if you wanted to,” Charlotte said. “But now that he's ugly, he's not good enough for you?”

Charlotte meant to be cruel, but Emily wondered if her sister was more right than she knew. Harry had not only lost his good looks but his confidence and bravado. Harry assumed he was no longer worthy of love, and the assumption almost made it true.

“You think I should have tried to convince him to stay?” Emily asked. “But I would never marry him. Or anyone for that matter.”