Always Emily (8 page)

P
erfect posture abandoned, Charlotte huddled in the corner of the coach. A month ago—could it only be a month?—she had traversed the same route with Emily. Then Charlotte had had all the confidence, enough to share with Emily. Now she was hurtling across the moors toward a humiliating confession of her failure.

The coach hit a deep rut and Charlotte bounced against the side, bruising her right cheek. It wasn't enough to be sent home in disgrace; she was going to look like a boxer when she arrived.

She called out to the driver, “Go slower, please!” But the coach continued at exactly the same rate of speed, as if even the driver knew her wishes were of no account.

Charlotte had spent every minute of the last two days trying to forget the awful scene in Miss Wooler's office. But she had to face it sooner or later, preferably before she had to explain it to her family. She cringed to think of telling Emily, although Emily was the only one likely to sympathize. How had Charlotte permitted herself to sink so low that Emily was the one with whom she had the most in common?

The summons to Miss Wooler's office had been unexpected. A first-year student had interrupted Charlotte's spelling lesson. When Charlotte tried to demur, the messenger was adamant: Miss Brontë was required immediately.

As Charlotte made her way from classroom to office, she worried perhaps there was bad news from home: Could Emily have had a relapse? Perhaps Father was ill? The autumn was so bad for his sore throats and that silk scarf wasn't warm enough, no matter how many times he wound it about his neck. By the time Charlotte reached the office, she had convinced herself Father was near death and the family on the brink of financial ruin.

So Charlotte had been relieved when Miss Wooler assured her there was no news from home. “I've asked you to come for quite a different reason,” she said in a tone so severe Charlotte was instinctively on guard.

Miss Wooler opened her desk drawer and pulled out a tiny handmade book, perhaps three inches square, covered with tiny copperplate handwriting. Charlotte's heart skipped a beat.

“Where did you get that?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“Did you write this . . . this . . .” Miss Wooler asked with a grimace, unable to give the book a proper name. She picked up a large magnifying glass and held it over the book. “
The Romantic Adventures of the Queen of Angria.”

Charlotte clasped her hands tightly, a denial on her lips.

“Before you answer,” Miss Wooler said, “I should tell you this was found in your room.”

In a futile attempt to keep her self-respect, Charlotte drew herself up. “I assumed my privacy was respected at Roe Head.”

“Not when you are writing—
obscenities
.” Miss Wooler had a hard time saying the word, and when she managed it, she infused the syllables with disdain.

Charlotte gasped and recoiled. “That's not true! My Angria stories are fantasies, nothing more.”

“So there are more?” Miss Wooler pursed her lips. “No wonder you haven't been able to concentrate, if your attention is consumed by vulgarity!”

Consumed
. What an apt word, Charlotte thought. Lately she had thought of nothing else but her stories. Even getting up in the morning was difficult because the world of Roe Head was not Angria. Her obsession with her fantasy world frightened her.

Charlotte slumped in her chair. “What are you going to do?”

Miss Wooler held up Charlotte's pages by the corner as if she were afraid of contagion. “This is cause enough to dismiss you,” she said.

Charlotte gasped; this was worse than she had imagined.

“Or perhaps I should write to your father immediately,” Miss Wooler said slowly.

Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face. Father must never know. Ever since she had become the oldest child, she had kept her secrets hidden with handwriting too small for her father to decipher.

“I would if you were still my student,” Miss Wooler continued. “But you are my employee, a young woman of nineteen. I am torn between my affection for you and my duty to my students.”

Charlotte rushed around the wide desk to kneel at Miss Wooler's feet. Clutching at Miss Wooler's hands, she cried, “Please let me stay. I need this position. I was your best student. I can be your best teacher. . . . If only you'll give me another chance!”

Miss Wooler's sternness softened as she looked down at Charlotte's imploring face. “So you do want to continue here?”

“Yes!” Charlotte let the heartfelt word speak for itself.

“I think you should take some time to consider your situation. Go home for a week or so. If at the end of that time you can assure me you will never contaminate Roe Head School with this filth again, I will take you back.”

Suddenly Charlotte was brought back to the present. She heard screaming. For a moment she was afraid her imagination had taken over once again. Then she realized the frightened voice was only too real.

“Help me! Stop, please!”

The carriage jerked to a halt, sending Charlotte to the floor in a heap of skirts and hand luggage. “Driver, what happened?” Charlotte shouted. There was no answer, but she could hear the driver expostulating with a woman.

“What were you thinking, miss? You could have been killed!”

“Help me, please.” The woman's voice was ragged, as though she had been screaming for a long time.

Charlotte clambered out of the carriage to see a woman, perhaps in her late forties, dressed in the most makeshift of country dresses, pleading with the driver. Most likely she had come from the moorland track intersecting the road. Her hair was a reddish blond shot through with gray, hanging loose below her shoulders. Charlotte noted the vestiges of what must have been a remarkable prettiness in her youth. Her pale blue eyes were never still, darting from the driver's irate face to the empty track behind and then to Charlotte. Seeing another woman, she cried out in relief and clasped Charlotte's hands. The driver gratefully abandoned the hysterical woman and went to check his horse.

“Won't you help me? I'm desperate.” Her hands were soft, Charlotte noticed, unusual in a woman who looked like a
farmer's wife. But there were marks about her wrists, making Charlotte wonder if she had been restrained. “I ran away, but it won't be long before they come looking for me.”

The woman was quite tall, and Charlotte felt at a disadvantage peering up at her. She noticed that the mysterious woman's pupils were dilated, huge black pools fixed on Charlotte's face.

“What's your name?” Charlotte asked, not committing herself to anything. As a clergyman's daughter, she had often heard terrible stories of husbands beating their wives. Sympathetic as she was, her father had taught her to mind her own business. Neither the law nor the husbands welcomed interference.

“I shan't tell you lest my brute of a . . .”

“Husband?” Charlotte prompted.

“Husband? I wish 'twere my husband. At least when he was alive, I was protected. But now, I am alone.” As she spoke, her voice grew louder and shriller.

“You have no one?” Charlotte asked.

“He's taken everything from me: my son, my fortune, and now my freedom.” The woman began to sob.

“You mustn't speak so wildly,” Charlotte soothed.

“If he catches me, he'll kill me. That would solve all his problems!”

Despite her frenzied manner, Charlotte could tell the mysterious woman did not lack an education. “Madam, be reasonable. I cannot help you if I don't know your name.”

“How do I know you won't tell him where I am? Maybe you are in it with him!”

“In what? With whom?” Charlotte interrupted. “Don't be foolish. You stopped my carriage! Now tell me your name, or I'll get on with my journey and leave you behind.”

The sound of hooves on the track behind them made them all whirl around. The woman moaned and closed her eyes. A fine-looking gelding galloped up the track, carrying a man of forty years or so. The driver, who had removed himself to a convenient rock, looked up curiously from his tamping of tobacco into his pipe.

The sun was behind the rider, and at first Charlotte could only make out his silhouette. He wore a long coat draped across the horse's hindquarters and his face was in shadow. For a moment, Charlotte saw the duke of Angria, her fictional hero suddenly given weight and heft. She felt her throat close up and shyness overtake her.

As he got closer, the dream quality faded and Charlotte saw he was just a man, although his profile was rather handsome. His dark beard was pointed and gave him a distinguished air. His mouth was closed in a tight angry line and his eyes narrowed when he saw the carriage. When he was close to the crying woman, he reined in his horse. He dismounted and stood very close to her. Suddenly his manner changed and he became the picture of a concerned rescuer. “There you are, Rachel. We've been frantic with worry for you.”

“I'm sorry, Robert.” Rachel gulped back her tears.

Charlotte immediately noticed his light-blue eyes were just like the mystery woman's. They must be related, she thought. But Rachel had said she had no one.

“The nurse is waiting for you,” he said to Rachel. He glanced over at the carriage driver. “If she's done any damage, I'll pay for it.”

Charlotte drew herself up. How dare he act as if she were of no importance? “Address me, please,” Charlotte said. “I hired the carriage.”

He swung round and seemed to see Charlotte for the first time. After a hesitation, he touched his hat. He wore fine leather gloves. “I beg your pardon, miss. But this is no concern of yours.”

“She's not well,” Charlotte said. “Did you say she has a nurse?”

“I apologize if she delayed your journey,” he said brusquely. “She won't be troubling you again.”

Charlotte's eyes narrowed; his words sounded innocent enough, but his demeanor worried her.

“May I ask your name, sir?” she asked.

After an awkward pause, he said, “Robert Heaton.”

Now she had a name to go with the face, Charlotte realized she had seen him before. “Of Ponden Hall?”

He stiffened as though Charlotte had said something of greater import than his address. He reached out to lock his hand around Rachel's wrist. Rachel, so voluble before, said nothing.

“Yes,” he said. “And you are?”

“Miss Charlotte Brontë,” Charlotte replied.

“The reverend's daughter?” His eyes shifted uneasily, as though he would have preferred her to be a stranger.

“What is happening here, Mr. Heaton?” Charlotte asked. “Who is this unfortunate lady?” She gestured to Rachel.

“She's a dependent of the family. As you can doubtless see for yourself, she's not right in the head.” He gave her a wry smile. “Did she tell you she had enemies and she had to escape them? Perhaps she asked you to hide her?”

Rachel started to speak. “Robert, I didn't mean anything by it.” She suddenly closed her mouth. Charlotte saw Rachel's wrist was turning blue under his grip.

“Does she run away often?” Charlotte asked slowly.

He shook his head. “No, she has a devoted servant to look after her, but mad people can be diabolically clever.”

“She didn't sound mad to me,” Charlotte said, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

“That's her cunning,” he assured her. “An inexperienced young lady like yourself is easily fooled.”

Charlotte choked back an angry retort. Before she could recover her voice, he spoke again. “My family's affairs have intruded on your journey long enough.”

Rachel spoke before Mr. Heaton could stop her. “Robert, this lady only wanted to help me.”

“Hush,” he said, making the gentle word sound more like a threat than a reassurance.

Charlotte glanced back to the driver. He was puffing his pipe, uninterested and uninvolved. He would be of no help whatsoever. She didn't trust this Mr. Heaton, but what could she do?

“It is still several miles to Haworth, and Ponden Hall is two miles beyond town,” Charlotte said. “Perhaps I can assist you with transportation?”

“That's not necessary,” Heaton said. “I'll make sure she's safely home.”

“All the way to Ponden Hall?” Charlotte pressed.

He paused. Finally he said, “She's not staying at Ponden Hall. Thank you, Miss Brontë. I apologize for any inconvenience.” He bowed slightly and not very gently propelled Rachel toward his horse. With no apparent effort, he lifted her into the saddle and led the gelding down the path without any further word of farewell.

Seeing Charlotte was ready to leave, the driver knocked the ash out of his pipe and held the door open so she could enter the small carriage. “Did she seem mad to you?” Charlotte asked.

“Stark raving mad,” he said.

“To me she seemed frightened rather than insane.”

“Miss, you're fancying things.” He made sure she was settled. “A powerful imagination leads to nothing but trouble.” He shut the door and the carriage lurched forward.

“I did wrong to let him take her,” Charlotte muttered to herself, her eyes fixed on the backs of the strange pair moving along the track.

I have a place to repair to, which will be a
secure sanctuary from hateful reminiscences,
from unwelcome intrusion—even from
falsehood and slander
.