Always Emily (6 page)

Emily's voice shook until she got it under control. “Branwell? Why were you chasing me?”

“What?” Her brother slumped against the stone wall. The moonlight lit up his red hair like a beacon. “Em, what are you doing here? Were you waiting up for me?” Pushing himself away from the wall, he threw his arms around her. “I knew you still cared.”

Now the danger was past, her legs could hardly support her. She looked down on Branwell's head, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. “Oh, Branwell, you're drunk again.”

Branwell blinked behind his spectacles. “I'm not drunk.” He scowled suspiciously. “Were you following me?”

“I just needed some air.” Before Emily could finish her explanation, Branwell's mouth started working and his eyes bulged. Without any further warning, he vomited all over her shoes.

“Branwell! That's dreadful!” Emily shoved him away from her. He stumbled over to the wall, fell to his knees, and lost the rest of his stomach contents. She shook off her shoes and brushed the disgusting chunks from her nightdress. Her mouth twisted to avoid vomiting, too.

She stood over him, pinching her nostrils at the stench. “What am I going to do with you?” she scolded. “It's the middle of the night. I've half a mind to wake Father and let him deal with you.”

“Em, don't let him see me like this,” Branwell pleaded.

“Where have you been?”

He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I was with some friends at the snug.”

The snug was the private room at the Black Bull Tavern, just down the hill. Branwell was too often to be found there. In recent years, disappointment and drink had dulled the brilliance of the bold twelve-year-old pirate who had been
Emily's nemesis and playmate. Self-pity had worn away all his promise.

“And . . .” Emily's voice trailed off expectantly.

“Then we went to a boxing match.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Emily knew his telltale signs of guilt.

“Was there gambling at the match?” she asked, dreading the answer.

Shamefaced, he nodded. “I lost the money Father gave me.”

Emily caught her breath. “But he gave you two whole pounds!”

“I can count, little sister.” Branwell wouldn't meet her eyes.

Emily thought of how many books she could buy with so much money and shook her head.

“I don't need your disapproval, too,” Branwell said. “I get more than enough from Father and Charlotte. But you're different—you accept me as I am.” Even in a whisper, she could hear the charm in his coaxing. “Be a love and let me in the house,” he said. “All the doors are locked.”

“What's to stop me from finding my own way in and leaving you out in the cold?” Emily retorted.

“Nothing,” Branwell said. “Just as there's nothing to prevent me from telling Father I found you outside at this hour.”

Emily had to clap her hands over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “Branwell, you're the one who's drunk and sick and will have to explain your gambling losses. My crimes are minor in comparison.”

Branwell took off his spectacles and cleaned them with the bottom of his shirt that had escaped his trousers. “We both know I won't be punished. But Father would keep you from the moors for months.”

Emily scowled. Branwell was right. If Father knew Emily had disobeyed him, he would keep her inside indefinitely.

“Just a minute.” She went back to her tree. Looking up at the window to her room, it seemed impossibly high although she knew she'd done it before. If only she were not so tired.

Pushing away her fatigue, she began to climb. In an instant, she was dragging herself over the windowsill into her bedroom. She hurried downstairs to draw back the long iron bolt and lift the latch.

Branwell was waiting outside the door. He staggered inside. “I'm hungry,” he said. “And thirsty.”

“There's a pitcher of fresh water in the larder, and Tabby made you a plate since you missed dinner.”

“Aren't you going to serve me?” he asked querulously.

“Why would I?”

“Because I am the son of the house and you're just a girl.”

“Save that for the unfortunate woman you marry. You're not my lord and master.” Now she was within the closeness of the house, Emily felt exhaustion creeping into her limbs. “I'm going to bed.”

“You've a cold heart to abandon me after the night I've had,” he whined.

“I'm tired,” Emily said. She glanced to the clock on the stair landing, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in the window. “It's past midnight.”

“Give your brother an arm,” Branwell pleaded. “Help me get to bed.”

She crinkled her nose. “I think not. You reek of spirits, tobacco, and worse.” Making sure the front door was firmly shut and locked, she turned to go upstairs.

“You needn't be so high and mighty,” he accused, deliberately blocking her way.

Placing a palm flat against his chest, Emily pushed him easily against the wall. “Don't try to bully me. I trounced you when we were children and I still can.”

“That you can, dear sister.” It was one of Branwell's many grievances that of all Rev. Brontë's children, only Emily had inherited their father's height. And Tabby thought Emily might grow still taller, if only she would eat more.

Branwell slid down the wall until he was sitting, miserable, on the cold stone floor. In the darkness, Emily heard him sob. “What kind of man am I?”

“Whatever kind of man you choose to be,” Emily said, not unkindly. “If you like, I'll try imagining who you should be.”

“I'm not a character in one of your stories,” Branwell said scornfully.

“No, my heroes behave much worse,” Emily said with a crooked grin. “Good night.” Without a backward glance, she ran up the stairs on silent feet.

“Em, at least give me a candle!” Branwell's despairing whisper dogged her heels up the stairs.

Emily didn't stop. If only she could stay awake a little longer, she longed to write. Her adventures tonight were good enough for her next story. She just had to make sure her father never read it.

I surveyed the weapon inquisitively.
A hideous notion struck me: how powerful
I should be possessing such an instrument!

T
he sound of glass breaking entered Emily's dream and tugged her back to consciousness. It seemed like only minutes since she had laid her head on her pillow. She heard her father shouting but she couldn't make out the words. Fully awake now, she held her breath so she could listen. The sky outside her window was completely black; the moon was gone but dawn had not yet arrived.

Suddenly a pistol shot startled Emily upright. The noise made even the sturdy parsonage shake.

“What was that noise?” Her aunt's frightened voice filled the house. “Patrick! Branwell!”

Emily scrambled out of bed, nearly falling to the floor in her haste. She rushed into the hallway. Her aunt was waving a candle wildly. Her pale face, looking oddly naked without its false fringe of hair, wore a terrified expression. “Thank goodness you are safe, Emily. Where is your father? Where's your brother?”

Placing her arm around her aunt's shoulders, Emily said, “I'm sure everyone is fine.” But Emily's heart tightened with fear. “Father! Where are you?”

“Emily!” Her father called from downstairs. “Are you all right?”

“Stay here, Aunt B.,” Emily said. Without waiting for her aunt's response, she charged down the stairs. The house was dark, but she could make out her father's tall figure in the doorway to his study.

“Father!” Emily cried. “Did you fire that shot?”

“Yes,” he said, and his breathing was ragged as though he had been running. He moved into his office and found the lamp on his desk. Emily could see his hand tremble as he lit the wick. “I was asleep when I heard the sound of breaking glass in my office,” he went on. “So I came downstairs to investigate.”

“You shouldn't have come down alone,” Emily said. “You might have been killed.”

“I saw a figure reaching in to unlatch the window.” Her father pointed to the shattered windowpane. “I warned him I was armed . . . then I fired!” Rev. Brontë sank into his chair and
put his head in his hands. “I don't know if I hit him or not, but he didn't get into the house.”

The horror on Emily's face was reflected on his. Her father's eyesight was impaired by milky white cataracts that grew thicker every year. What if he had killed a man? They could lose everything. She ran out into the hall and threw open the front door.

“Emily! Don't go outside!” her father called.

Emily paused to ensure the garden was deserted. Then she hurried to the flowerbed in front of her father's study. She squinted at the ground covered with green moss, afraid of what she might see.

Nothing. No one was there, dead or even wounded. Emily put her hand to the sill and let herself breathe. “Father,” she called into the study through the broken window. “You missed! There's nothing here,” she said, her voice full of relief. The moss did not take any footprints, so there was nothing to be learned from the ground.

“Thank God,” he said.

She went back inside and took her father's lamp off the desk to better examine the windowsill. She touched her finger to some spatters on the wood. They were fresh and bloody. She started to tell her father, then thought better of it. It was most likely the burglar had cut his hand when he broke the glass, but perhaps her father had only slightly missed.

She held up the lamp to the wall near the window. A bullet hole in the window sash bore witness to the reverend's lack of marksmanship.

She turned to her father. “Did you see who it was?”

He shook his head. “It was too dark.” Recovering his composure, Rev. Brontë said, “I always told your aunt it was a sensible precaution to have a pistol in the house.” Emily ducked her head to hide her smile at his smug tone.

Emily's hand went to her lips. “Aunt B.! I left her upstairs.”

“Branwell is taking care of her, no doubt,” her father said.

Emily had plenty of doubt that Branwell could take care of himself, least of all anyone else. “I'll go see,” she offered. She ran upstairs and found Aunt B. in Branwell's room, staring at Emily's unconscious brother sprawled half on and half off his bed, wearing only his trousers. His snoring was loud enough to drown out almost anything except a pistol shot.

“Is your father all right?” Aunt B. asked, her quavering voice full of anxiety.

Emily nodded.

“Thank goodness.” Her voice lost the worry and became censorious as she pointed at Branwell. “He's been indulging again, hasn't he?”

Emily shrugged. “Ask him yourself when he wakes.” She led Aunt B. by the elbow to the landing.

Rev. Brontë was waiting for them, his lantern throwing elongated shadows on the wall. “Where is your brother?” he asked quietly, as though he feared the answer.

Before Emily could frame an answer, her aunt interrupted. “Patrick, the boy is inebriated!”

“Emily?” he asked. She nodded reluctantly.

“God does not give us burdens we cannot bear,” he murmured. Placing the lamp on the hall table, he put his hands on Aunt B.'s shoulders. “Now you must go back to bed. The excitement is over.” He gently pushed her toward her room. Over his shoulder, he said, “Emily, you, too. We'll talk in the morning.”

Emily obediently returned to her own room and climbed back into bed. She tried to put her thoughts in order. Who would try to break into the parsonage? And why? Try as she might, she could think of nothing worth stealing. She did have a clue she could use to identify the intruder: He had cut himself. She would be on the lookout for any bandaged hands or forearms.

Suddenly her eyes flew open. Could the attempted break-in have something to do with her misadventure on the moor? Was that mysterious man wrapping up a bleeding cut at this very moment? Should she tell her father? But how could she, when her father had forbidden her to go out?

As she drifted into sleep, she spared a thought for Branwell. If he wasn't careful he was going to break their father's heart.

When morning finally came, the reverend did not fire his usual pistol shot. Emily only awoke when she heard Tabby's voice in her aunt's room next door. Tabby's room was on the opposite side of the house and could only be reached from the garden. A sound sleeper, she must have slept through the hubbub. No doubt Aunt B. was telling Tabby everything.

Emily stretched her long arms over her head, frowning at the scratches from the brambles on the moor. Suddenly she
realized evidence of her nighttime wandering was everywhere. She had to conceal it from Tabby. She shoved the dirt-stained nightdress and vomit-stained shoes behind her tiny wardrobe just in time. A knock on the door and Tabby entered.

“Good morning, Tabby,” Emily said breathlessly.