Always Emily (5 page)

“
Definitely
suspicious,” Emily said delightedly. “But it's just talk, I'm sure.”

Tabby shook her head and her generous bosom quivered. “ 'Tis a fact young Master Heaton had gambling debts before his father died. And old Mr. Heaton refused to help him. Now, Master Robert has all the money, the farms, and the mills.”

“What did the constable say about the accident?” Emily asked.

“People like the Heatons have the law in their pockets,” Tabby said with narrowed eyes. “Without proof, the constable wouldn't even ask any questions.” She pushed herself up out of the chair. “Now, Miss Emily, let's get you to bed before anybody sees you in your dressing gown. What would people think?”

“That you and Aunt B. and Dr. Bennett both worry overmuch and refuse to let me go outside!” But because she loved Tabby, she let the housekeeper lead her upstairs.

“You were so thin when you came back from that awful school. Like a wraith,” Tabby said, her eyes tearing up. “So you'll stay in bed until you're healthy again. We can't lose you like . . .” Her voice trailed off as they reached Emily's bedroom.

Emily ducked under Tabby's arm and went into her tiny room. “Like Maria and Elizabeth?” As she always did when she thought of her lost sisters, she glanced at the cemetery outside the window. All these years later, she still hoped if
she watched at just the right time, she would see her sisters' spirits hovering.

“Poor girls.” Tabby nodded heavily. “All this education is bad for your health. I don't know what Miss Charlotte was thinking, letting you get so ill. That one always thinks she knows what's best with her high-and-mighty bossing.”

Emily hesitated, but then the true story escaped her lips. “Tabby, that's not fair. Charlotte tried to keep me out of trouble. And she's the one who convinced the headmistress to send me home.” Then with a grimace she added, “But her high-handedness is infuriating, isn't it?”

“She's as bad as your Aunt B.” Tabby clapped her hand over her mouth. Between her fingers, she said, “Forget I said that!” As she turned to leave, she added, “Mind you close that window.”

The bells rang outside, and Emily climbed up on the window seat to see the church entrance. She stuck her head outside the windowsill. “That was quick,” she said. She spied a small man with a shock of curly red hair. “Look, Branwell did go to the funeral. He's talking with John Brown and one of the mourners.” Brown was her father's sexton, the man who maintained the church and dug all the graves.

“Your father will be pleased,” Tabby said. “Your brother's been moping about the house like a chicken who knows the ax is coming.” Casually she looked over Emily's shoulder. “That's the heir, young Robert Heaton.”

“Do they know each other?”

Tabby shrugged. “Your brother keeps his own counsel. If the service is over, I'd best be getting tea ready.” She hurried out.

Emily lay in her bed with the door ajar. She listened to the arrivals and the sound of self-important men drinking their tea and ale. Her father's voice, always distinctive and authoritative, occasionally rose above the rest.

After a time, the front door opened and she heard some of the guests take their leave. Suddenly she was surprised to hear voices on the second floor, not far from her room.

“Our brother the Worshipful Master has asked me to be your sponsor,” a deep voice said.

“I'd be honored, sir.” It was the quick, anxious voice of her brother, Branwell.

“Perhaps we can talk privately,” the first voice said. “There are certain tasks you must perform before your initiation.”

“My room is down this passage,” Branwell said.

“What about your father's study? It would be more suitable.”

There was a long pause. Emily listened intently for the next words. Finally Branwell said, “I'm not permitted in my father's study alone. None of us are.”

With a nonchalance that seemed forced to Emily's ear, the other man said, “No matter. To your room, then.”

Emily scrambled out of bed and rushed to her door. As cautious as a cat, she lifted the latch and peered down the hall. But she was too late. Branwell had already let his mysterious
guest precede him into the room. But some small sound must have alerted her brother, for Branwell's head jerked sharply in her direction. He murmured something to his guest, then came marching down the hallway.

“Go to bed, Emily. My business is none of your concern.” He shoved her inside the room and pulled the door closed.

Leaning against her bedroom door, Emily murmured, “Branwell has a secret.”

But it was one of their chief amusements to
run away to the moors in the morning and
remain there all day, and the after punishment
grew a mere thing to laugh at
.

T
he household had long ago gone to bed but Emily paced around her bedroom, her long stride making the tiny room even smaller. The doctor had confined her to the house for a fortnight and her sentence was up tomorrow, but she felt as though she were overflowing with energy. She feared she might explode if she didn't go outside. Despite her assurances that she was completely recovered, Father and Aunt B. still forbade Emily to walk on the moors. They did not understand Emily required physical exercise, not only for her body but also for her mind.

The full moon shone directly into Emily's room through the open window and the chilly air burned her lungs. Outside
the window, the branches of the cherry tree made a pleasing pattern against the glowing orb.

When Emily was a child, she had climbed that tree more than once. Years ago, Emily and Branwell had often played Pirate King, with Emily forever in the role of the hostage doomed to walk the plank by venturing out on the tree limb. The game had ended when Emily surprised Branwell by nimbly climbing down the tree to freedom. Her tongue darted across her lips. She had eluded captivity before; why not now?

A fast-moving cloud traversing the moon seemed like a signal. Clad only in her nightdress, Emily hurriedly wrapped her shabby shawl around her shoulders. She slipped on her walking shoes without taking the time to put on her stockings and then clambered over the windowsill.

Half climbing, half falling, she made it to the ground and ran to the garden gate. Glancing back at the parsonage, she reassured herself the house was still undisturbed. Slowly she opened the gate, wincing at the loud creak.

Emily hurried along the gravel path between the parsonage garden's stone wall and the row of tall trees on the other side. The cool night air caressed her skin and the north wind felt like a familiar friend's embrace. Even in the darkness, her feet had not forgotten the way up the steep hill marking the end of the churchyard and the beginning of the moors. At the top, she reluctantly stopped, her hand pressed against a stitch in her side. It had been too long.

Her breath recaptured, Emily gasped in delight when the moon reappeared and illuminated the vast moor unfolding itself like a carpet being rolled out for her pleasure. The wind caught the fullness of her nightdress and it billowed out around her knees like the plumage of some fantastic bird. The scent of heather and bracken, mixed with a coming storm, was better for her health than all the elixirs and medicaments they had forced down her throat.

Holding her arms out wide, she hurtled down the path, away from Haworth. She had no purpose and no destination, like a tuft of cotton grass being tossed on the air currents. She laughed out loud from the sheer joy of being outside and unaccounted for. Finally she came to a favorite rock. It was shaped like an armchair, and Emily often stopped there with a book. She climbed onto it, ignoring the damp chill of the stone through her cotton nightdress.

Emily stared at the brilliant stars, clearly visible in the clean, crisp night air. Her attention was captured closer to earth when she saw a light flicker across the moor.

“Who would be out at this hour?” Eyes trained on the light, she headed across the moor once again. If her sister Charlotte were here, she would be tugging on her sleeve to lead Emily back to the safety of the beaten path. Tabby would warn Emily of the hazards of following a will-o'-the-wisp, whispering tales of travelers being led fatally astray by malicious spirits. And Father? He would worry about human
villains. Emily thought it was just as well none of them was here, because she saw only the possibility of adventure.

Without the full moon, even Emily would not have been able to navigate the boulders and bracken littering the moor like a giant's abandoned toys. As she closed in on the light, Emily saw it was a small campfire in a hollow tucked underneath the shelter of a small bluff, sparks flying into a pool of darkness beyond.

Careful to keep her steps soundless, Emily crept closer. Suddenly an enormous creature leapt in front of Emily. She cried out and stumbled back, falling heavily to the ground. The beast growled deep in its throat, louder than her beating heart.

It was a dog, a mastiff, easily outweighing Emily. His huge fangs glistened and his eyes glowed red from the fire's reflection. Trembling from head to toe, she forced herself to be perfectly still.

“Gently, boy,” Emily whispered.

Slowly she got to her knees, keeping a close eye on the animal. Careful not to make eye contact, knowing this would seem like a challenge, Emily reached out a hand, palm first. He bared his teeth and growled again.

“Shh, boy, I'm no danger to you,” Emily said in her most soothing voice. She kept her hand extended. The dog sniffed, and after a moment to consider, he licked her palm. Emily stroked his nose. He nuzzled against her, almost knocking her over with his bulk. Fondling the sagging skin around his
neck and jowls, she whispered, “Good boy, I know we'll be friends.”

The dog barked. Emily shushed him, but then, tail wagging, the dog barked louder. The noise rolled along the moors, echoing in the darkness.

“Who's there?” A man's voice called out. On the far side of the fire, Emily saw a silhouette in a long cloak.

“Show yourself!” he shouted.

Emily might have spoken up, but then she heard the unmistakable click of a cocking pistol. Without another moment's hesitation, she scrambled to her feet and fled. The dog didn't follow but set up a fusillade of barking. With no time to pick out the best path, Emily tripped and stumbled in the underbrush.

“Stop,” yelled the man.

Emily ran. The prickly gorse caught her nightdress and held her back. Emily thrashed at the sharp bushes until she could tear herself free. She saw the hill leading back to the parsonage and she pushed herself to run faster.

Her eyes fixed on the slope, she didn't see the hollow in the ground at her feet. She fell headlong, knocking the breath from her body. She listened, struggling to hear over her labored breathing.

There. Emily heard the sound of footsteps, distant enough, but still coming toward her. A thud and a muffled curse told Emily her pursuer was suffering from the whims of the moor, just as she was.

She got to her feet and mustered all her strength for the final hill. At the crest, she looked down to see the parsonage ahead, beckoning her to safety. Behind her, the stranger was just starting to race up the hill. He wasn't far behind.

Emily flung herself down the hill until she reached the parsonage gate. Her fingers fumbled as she undid the gate's latch, but at last it was open and she practically fell into the garden. She only had to shout and Father would rescue her. She peered through the gate, but saw no sign of her pursuer. Emily sucked air into her lungs and let her thudding heart realize she was safe.

A man's hand grabbed her shoulder. Emily screamed.

It's a pity he cannot kill himself with drink
.

G
et away from me!” Emily jerked away from the grip on her shoulder. “I'll call my father. He has a pistol!”

“Shhh, Emily . . . for God's sake, be quiet!” The voice at her elbow was slurred but familiar. “I know Father has a pistol.”