Always Emily (7 page)

“Good morning! Is that all you can say, Miss Emily? When according to your aunt we all might have been killed in our beds?” Tabby said, depositing a ewer filled with warm water on the small table.

“The burglar didn't even come into the house, Tabby. We were never in danger.”

“I can't believe I didn't wake,” Tabby sniffed. “Well, it's after six o'clock. Your father is already moving about in his room, so I'll have to wait until after prayers to hear more.”

“I'll be there in a moment,” Emily assured her. No sooner had Tabby closed the door than Emily was washing quickly with a rough facecloth dipped in the warm water, making sure to get the dirt from under her fingernails. In the same rapid manner, she dressed, shoved her feet into house slippers, and raced down the hall for morning prayers in her father's bedroom.

Her father was on his knees, his thick white hair slicked down on his skull like a cap of snow. Emily took her place between Tabby and Aunt B. Branwell was conspicuously absent, but Rev. Brontë didn't remark on his dereliction.

“Amen.”

Emily's eyes, dutifully closed during her father's lengthy prayer, flew open on the final word. Rev. Brontë closed the Bible and stood up without effort despite his sixty-odd years. His habit of walking miles each day was serving his aging body well; he was fitter than many men half his age.

As if with one mind, Emily and Tabby each took one of Aunt B.'s arms and helped her to her feet.

“Well said, Patrick,” Aunt B. said in her raspy whisper. “I will miss your sermons while I'm away.”

Emily looked at her aunt sharply, but her surprise was nothing to Rev. Brontë's. “You're going away? What do you mean?” he asked.

“Aunt, you never go away,” Emily said.

“After last night's fright, I've decided to join Anne in Scarborough. The sea air will do me good.”

Emily thought gleefully of the freedom she would have without Aunt B.'s watchful eye upon her. Tabby looked alert, like a cat that has spied a plump mouse.

“For how long?” The reverend's voice was incredulous and perhaps the least bit hopeful. Aunt B. had arrived ten years ago when her sister, the children's mother, was ill. After her sister's death, Aunt B. had stayed on to help raise the children, and never left.

“A few weeks. Hopefully by then, all this fuss will have died down,” Aunt B. said.

“When do you plan to go?” Emily asked.

“Tomorrow.” Aunt B. raised a palm. “Now, before you say it is too soon, let me tell you I couldn't sleep last night and I'm already packed.” She added, “I've only to write to my friend Mrs. Leicester in Scarborough, and put a few things in my valise.” She returned to her bedroom, her wooden shoes making a familiar clopping sound on the flagstone floor.

Downstairs at the table, Emily and the reverend waited for Tabby to serve their breakfast. Glancing about to ensure no one could overhear, he quietly asked Emily, “How late was Branwell out last night?”

“He came home before I went to bed, Father.” Her nose wrinkled at the memory. Before he could ask for particulars, she elaborated. “He was very merry, but tired.” Emily congratulated herself for walking a delicate line between her loyalty to her brother and telling her father the truth, all without revealing she had been outside herself.

“No doubt he had been drinking with some of his new friends. I've always believed giving my children complete freedom was the right thing to do—but Branwell's behavior is worrisome.” Rev. Brontë's worried eyes sought reassurance from his daughter.

“I'm certain he will be sorry to have missed the excitement last night. And morning prayers,” Emily said noncommittally. Under her breath, she added, “Again.”

Rev. Brontë sighed. Tabby bustled in with a tray.

“Tabby, please prepare a glass of sugar water with twelve drops of ammonia in it. Leave it by Branwell's bed.”

Emily made a face. “That sounds vile, Father.”

“My copy of
Modern Domestic Medicine
says it will help a headache from overindulging.”

Tabby scowled. “That book is full of nonsense.”

“Nevertheless I would like you to do as I ask,” Rev. Brontë ordered.

Tabby sniffed, but said nothing. A moment later she had placed steaming mugs of tea and bowls of rich porridge in front of them. She gave Emily a jar of her special marmalade. Emily opened the jar and scooped several spoonfuls into her porridge.

“Greedy child,” Tabby scowled.

Emily didn't take offence. Tabby pretended to scold Emily but was delighted when Emily gobbled down the jam. It was her personal ambition to fatten Emily up. Indeed, since her return from school, Emily had plumped up like a bullfrog's throat. “I can't help it. It's delicious.” Emily said as she energetically stirred the sticky marmalade into the porridge.

“Just so long as you don't feed it to that dog of yours.” The oft-repeated scold slipped out of Tabby's mouth before she could stop herself. Tabby dropped the ladle to the table and clapped her hands across her mouth. “Emily, I'm so sorry. I forgot.”

Emily's eyes filled with tears, but she hastened to reassure Tabby. “I forget, too.” Grasper, her beloved dog, had died from a surfeit of cake a few days before Emily's return. Rev. Brontë had not known dogs couldn't eat chocolate.

Her father hurried to change the subject. “Tabby, send for the glazier to fix the window today, please.”

“Of course, reverend.”

After Tabby left, Emily asked, “Will you send for the constable?”

He nodded. “But I doubt he'll be able to learn anything about last night. He's been no help whatsoever with the other odd happenings. Did Tabby tell you a rock was thrown through our front window?”

“Anne wrote to me about it,” Emily said. “Do you think your burglar has something do with that?”

Rev. Brontë shrugged. “I've received some threats in the mail because of my support for the millworkers. Perhaps he was going to vandalize my office? Maybe he thought there might be something valuable in the study,” he said doubtfully. “Little did he know there's naught but parish records and my correspondence.”

“Who would bother stealing those musty papers?” Emily asked.

“They are important, but not worth anything,” her father answered. “But Rev. Smythe in Bradford had a burglar too and his register of marriages was stolen. Strange things are afoot on the moor these days.”

There was a silence while they ate their breakfast. When the reverend pushed away his empty plate, he asked, “What are you going to do this morning?”

Emily shrugged. “After my chores, I'll take a long ramble, I suppose.”

Rev. Brontë frowned, and Emily hurried to remind him that the doctor's prescription of two weeks' rest was complete.

“It's not that, Emily; I'm concerned about you walking on the moors alone,” he said. “After last night . . .”

“I'm perfectly safe, Father.” Remembering her headlong flight the night before, she could feel the heat on her cheeks. “I thought I would go as far as Ponden Hall and back. That's only four miles.”

“I'd rather you avoided the Heaton lands altogether. There's been uncharitable talk about Mr. Heaton's death.”

Emily nodded. “Tabby told me. But why should that affect my walk?”

“I've heard about a strange man lurking near Ponden Hall. I was talking with young Robert Heaton at his father's funeral.” He stopped to shake his head sadly. “He was barely civil to me, I'm afraid, even though I was burying his father. He's leading the mill owners against the workers. He practically threatened me if I didn't stop writing my editorials.”

“And the stranger—” Emily prompted. She had already heard about her father's political problems in the parish.

“Heaton complained about a man often lurking about the farm. When Heaton rides out to confront him—he's gone.”

The stranger must be the man who chased her the night before. Emily leaned in, her elbows on the table. “How fascinating. I wonder what he wants?”

“If it
is
a man,” Tabby said darkly. She had been listening from the door. Rev. Brontë opened his mouth to remonstrate, then closed it again.

“Tabby, do you think it's a woman?” Emily asked. From her own memory, she didn't think it could have been, but her imagination ran away with the idea. “She might have been a noble lady who was seduced by old Mr. Heaton. She startled him while he was riding and that's how he died. She's so guilt-stricken she has to haunt his estate.”

“My clever Emily, how do you think of these things?” Rev. Brontë smiled indulgently. “But Mr. Heaton said his trespasser was a man.”

Tabby, as though she was just waiting for the opportunity, slid back a chair and settled herself at the table. “Neither man nor woman, I'll wager. Not even human! Grace, the housekeeper at Ponden, told me a huge dog roams the estate at night.”

“So?” Emily asked, recalling the mastiff's rough tongue on her palm.

“Miss Emily, it's a ghost dog, with red glowing eyes and fangs dripping blood!”

The reverend struggled to keep a straight face. “Don't be absurd, Tabby!”

Tabby shook her head with eyes narrowed in warning of some disastrous presentiment. “Laugh if you like, but I'll wager you my next apple pie the stranger and the dog are one and the same. It's a
gytrash
! That's why Mr. Heaton cannot find the man. He transforms into the dog whenever Mr. Heaton comes near.”

At the mention of the mythological monster, the reverend nearly choked on his toast. “Tabby—I forbid you to talk any more of monsters. There is enough superstition and blasphemy out there without inviting them into the parsonage.”

Emily was silent as she reviewed the events of the night before. The man and the dog were definitely two separate creatures.

“Emily, whatever is out there is real. If you must walk alone, I think we should get another dog. One of my parishioners has some terrier puppies. I will ask if we can buy one.”

“Father, one doesn't just purchase a life's companion like a sack of sugar.” Emily shook her head with decision. “I'll find a new dog.”

Rev. Brontë and Tabby exchanged worried glances. Emily's stray animals tended to be unpredictable. Her last dog had been rescued from a wild dogfight in front of the church. Emily had given Tabby the fright of her life when she waded into the fray of sharp teeth and flying fur and emerged dragging Grasper by the scruff of his neck. From that day forward,
he had been Emily's devoted companion and bared his teeth at everyone else.

“Until you do, perhaps you should carry this.” He reached into his wide coat pocket and laid a heavy pistol on the table with a thump. Emily and Tabby stared as it spun round and round. Tabby yelped when it stopped, pointing directly at her. “Tabby, the weapon is only a precaution against anyone with a grudge. It came in very handy last night.”

“Father, I don't know how to shoot,” Emily said, eyeing the pistol. “But I'm willing to learn.” If she were armed then she needn't be afraid of anyone she met on the moors.

He continued, “I will teach you. Someone else in the family should be able to handle a gun, just in case.” He touched the corner of his eye and Emily knew he was referring to his clouded vision.

“What about Branwell?” she asked.

“He's an indifferent shot at best,” Rev. Brontë said. Emily watched him sympathetically, knowing how desperately he wanted Branwell to be a son he could depend upon. “We'll start this afternoon. You needn't mention this to Charlotte,” he said without meeting Emily's eyes.

Emily and Tabby exchanged knowing glances. Prudent Charlotte would never approve of Emily firing a gun.

“It shall be between us,” she promised.

He stood up and went to the hook where he kept his long white scarf. He wound it carefully around his neck until he resembled an Elizabethan lady with an enormous ruff. The
reverend was particular about his throat and swore by his scarf to keep illness at bay. “After my morning visits I'll set up the target.”

Emily's eyes glittered with anticipation. “I'll have the ammunition ready.”

Had he been a handsome, heroic-looking
young gentleman, I should not have dared to stand
thus questioning him against his will,
and offering my services unasked
.