Always Emily (9 page)

I
f Charlotte could have prolonged her homecoming, she would have. She had hidden in the shadows within the carriage the entire last quarter hour to avoid being seen. But eventually the gig pulled up in front of the gray stone parsonage, the last house in town before the moors.

Charlotte usually welcomed the sight of her home. Its symmetry was reassuring, with its center door flanked by two windows on each side and five windows above. Even the narrow front garden, facing the graveyard, was pleasantly familiar. Rising from the end of the churchyard, the church towered over all as though it was sheltering the family home within its shadow.

Charlotte spied Emily coming through the front gate. Her dress hung about her thin frame, and with a sigh Charlotte noticed that she wore only one petticoat at most. Her sister seemed even taller than usual, although that might be from the weight she had lost. Emily's fair hair was loose about her face and there was a bright color in her cheeks. She looked—Charlotte struggled to find the word—happy.

“Emily!” Charlotte cried, jumping out of the carriage to embrace her. Her reservations forgotten, suddenly Charlotte was glad to see her sister, especially looking so well.

“Charlotte!” Emily stood with her arms at her side, dismay in her eyes. No sooner had Aunt B. left than Charlotte arrived unexpectedly to ruin Emily's fun. “What are you doing home?”

“Miss Wooler thought I needed a little rest,” Charlotte equivocated.

“In the middle of the term? What about your classes?” Emily asked.

“Are you accusing me of neglecting my duties?” Charlotte shot back.

“Of course not. Charlotte, what's wrong with you?” A thought came into Emily's mind and made her go pale. “Are you ill? Have you been coughing?”

“No, nothing like that,” Charlotte said sharply. “And yourself? Are you recovered?”

Emily nodded. “Today is the first day I've been permitted out. I'm going to take full advantage,” she said. She opened the
gate and stepped out. “I'll see you at supper.” Leaving Charlotte slack-jawed with surprise, Emily ran up the path toward the moors.

“Charlotte!” Tabby stood in the front door, drying her hands on a dishtowel. As always, her pale straw-colored hair had escaped from her untidy bun and flew about her face. “We didn't know you were coming home!”

Charlotte went inside, followed by the driver carrying her small valise. She gave him a coin for his trouble.

“I'm only home for a few days, Tabby,” Charlotte explained. “Where is Father? And Aunt B.? And Branwell?”

“Well, you've just missed your aunt. She's gone.”

“Gone where? She never goes anywhere.”

Tabby grinned as though her face would break. “She's off to Scarborough with Anne.”

“Amazing,” Charlotte said, but inwardly she seethed. Everyone seemed to have adventures but her. “And Father?”

“He was called out to that Mr. Grimes who's always dying, but never dies,” Tabby said.

“What about Branwell? I thought he at least would be here.” Unspoken was the thought running at the tops of both their minds: Branwell doesn't have anywhere else to be.

Tabby's smile disappeared from her face as though she'd wiped it away with a polishing cloth. “Branwell is visiting some friends.”

“Who?”

With a shrug of her ample shoulders, Tabby said, “He's always going to a meeting or someone's house and he won't ever say anything about it.” She looked around as if to spy an eavesdropper in the flagstoned hallway. “He's drinking. Ever since he went to that fancy art school in London and returned a scant week later, he's been acting strangely. Your father's worried.”

Charlotte followed Tabby into the kitchen. Tabby opened the bin where she kept the vegetables and began to chop celery and onions. Glancing at Charlotte, she said kindly, “I'm sure everyone will be home soon for supper.”

“I saw Emily going out,” Charlotte said. “She looked healthy.” Try as she might, she could hear the bitterness in her own voice. “She's recovered miraculously quickly.”

Tabby gave Charlotte a sharp look. “Thank the Lord for that. And thank goodness you were there at school to look after her. She was ever so ill; your father was mortally afeared she was going to die. I've never seen him so fretful.”

“Of course he was,” Charlotte said.

“None of that green-eyed monster, Miss Charlotte. It doesn't suit you,” Tabby scolded. “We would have been just as distressed for you.”

“I doubt it,” Charlotte muttered, but too low for Tabby to hear over her chopping.

“Sit down, child, and stop fretting no one is here to greet you when you didn't tell them you were coming! How was your journey?”

“It was fine,” Charlotte said, settling herself on a stool. “My trip was uneventful until a few miles away from Bradford. Then the oddest thing happened.”

She described the woman who had stopped the carriage and how Mr. Robert Heaton had taken her away without so much as a word. “Tabby, you know everyone around here.”

Tabby paused in her chopping. “That I do.”

“Who was she? Mr. Heaton said she was a dependent of the family.”

Tabby paused, as if she had to gather all the details buried deep in her capacious memory. “I've never heard about any dependents. It's not a large family. But Robert Heaton had a sister once.” Tabby sighed. “Hers was a tragic story.”

Charlotte leaned forward. “Tell me.”

“She was a pretty young thing, and bright. Her father sent her to Leeds for school.” Tabby shook her head sadly. “It turned out badly.”

“What happened to her?”

“A man.” Tabby wielded the knife with an angry force that made Charlotte's eyes widen. “Isn't it always? He was the son of a shopkeeper. Not nearly good enough for the only daughter of a landowner like Mr. Heaton. He got the girl into trouble, if you know what I mean.”

“Tabby, I'm almost twenty. Of course I know what you mean.” But Charlotte felt the blush rise on her cheeks. “What did her family do?”

“What could they do with a babe on the way?” Tabby shrugged. “Mr. Heaton made them marry, of course. But with such a beginning, how could it end well?”

“They were unhappy?” Charlotte asked.

“Her husband drank and spent all the money her father settled on her. I heard she had as many bruises as you have books. When he died a few months later, everyone was happy for her. She came back to Ponden Hall to have her little boy.”

“She should have been safe at her father's house,” Charlotte said.

“Ah, but the family never let her forget her mistake. Right cruel they were to her. And the boy suffered as well.” A tear rolled down Tabby's cheek; whether from the sad story or the onion, Charlotte didn't know.

“That's not fair!” Charlotte said.

“I thought you were a grown lady—you know life is neither fair nor kind.” Tabby pushed the chopped vegetables into an iron pan and lit the stove. “It didn't help that the boy was sickly. Mr. Heaton might have forgiven her if his grandson had been a boy to be proud of.”

“What was his name?”

“Lawrence, Larry, or maybe Harry? That's right. He was called Harry.”

Charlotte knitted her brow. “And he lived at Ponden Hall?” At Tabby's nod, Charlotte said, “We used to visit the library. A most beautiful room. There was a boy there, a
little older than us, and pale like a wraith. He always stared at Emily. I never talked to him, but she did.”

“That could have been him.” Tabby looked up from the simmering vegetables. The smell filled the room and Charlotte felt her stomach rumble from hunger. Tabby went on, “Harry's uncle, Mr. Robert, the one you met today, made his life unbearable until he ran away. And that was the last anyone heard of him. So old Mr. Heaton drove off his only grandson and his son still hasn't taken a wife. And now the old man is dead in his grave.”

Charlotte leaned forward. “Robert Heaton is a bachelor?” she asked.

“Don't go setting your cap at him, young lady,” Tabby said, shaking the knife at Charlotte. “He's not a good man.”

“You're being ridiculous, Tabby,” Charlotte exclaimed. “I mistrusted him on sight.”

Tabby rolled her eyes.

“What happened to the girl?” Charlotte asked hurriedly. “I don't recall.” Tabby frowned. “I remember hearing she took her son's leaving very hard.”

Charlotte asked slowly, “Could the woman I met today been his sister? He called her Rachel. Could she have fallen so far?”

Tabby's eyes glittered with the prospect of a rich tidbit of gossip. “Maybe.”

“If it is her,” Charlotte mused, “she's afraid of her brother. Something's not right there.”

“Well, Miss Charlotte. Remember your father's first rule.”

“Don't meddle in parish affairs. I know. It's curious, though, don't you think?”

“I'd rather hear about that school of yours.”

Obediently, Charlotte told Tabby all about school, not mincing any words. Tabby laughed and laughed at Charlotte's unkind descriptions of her students. “And you are fed well at school? It's warm enough?”

Charlotte had undergone this catechism upon every return from school. “Of course. Roe Head is not like that other school.”

They were both silent, remembering how Maria and Elizabeth had suffered. The cold and damp, combined with the inadequate food, had killed them, of that Charlotte was certain. “I suppose Emily and I should consider ourselves fortunate to have survived,” she said quietly.

“The Lord only takes those he needs. You and Emily were spared because you have wonderful futures in front of you.”

But didn't her other sisters have wonderful futures, too? Charlotte wondered. She pushed away the blasphemous thought. Glancing out the kitchen window, she saw a flash of unmistakable red hair. Branwell was passing by the house without coming in. Remembering what everyone had said about his erratic behavior, she decided to find out for herself. “How much time do I have before supper?” she asked.

“At least an hour.”

“I won't be that long.” Charlotte slipped out the back door and ran with light steps around the house to let herself out
the front gate. Branwell had disappeared. He might be in the church, she thought, although she was hard-pressed to think of a reason.

Skirting the graveyard, she entered the church. It was empty at this hour; no Branwell. Well, if she couldn't visit with her live brother, she'd spend some time with her dead sisters. Charlotte's feet led her unerringly to the gravestone in the floor.

Staring down, she murmured, “Hello, Elizabeth. I'm back from school. I wanted to let you know I haven't forgotten you and Maria.”

The tall church door creaked open and Charlotte fell silent. Emily would happily talk to the dead in front of the whole congregation, but Charlotte was shyer. When footsteps headed toward her, she ducked into a pew box and crouched down. She peeked over the box and saw it was John Brown, her father's sexton for the past ten years. He lived across from the parsonage above his own workshop, digging graves, carving tombstones, and keeping the church in good order. He had a broom and was heading for the vestry when another voice stopped him in his tracks.

“John!” It was her brother's voice.

Charlotte started to get to her feet. How fortuitous! Branwell had found her.

“Worshipful Master!” Branwell called.

Worshipful Master? Charlotte stiffened. Why was Bran-well calling Mr. Brown such a ridiculous name? She experienced a sense of unease and stepped back into the shadows of the pew box.

John Brown turned around, scowled, and with a sharp motion drew his finger across his throat.

“I'm sorry. I forgot,” Branwell stammered.

John's stern face relaxed. “You're new to our ways. But remember, you are sworn to secrecy.”

“Not yet I'm not,” Branwell said. Charlotte recognized the touch of sullenness in his voice. “But I want to be.”

“Do you have the money?”

Branwell reached into his pocket and pulled out two sovereigns. A fortune for a poor man with no income. Charlotte wondered where he had gotten it. “When will it happen?” Branwell asked.

“Friday.”

Branwell's face lit up and abandoned his momentary disgruntlement. “So soon? Finally I'll be one of you!”

“If you survive the ritual,” John said with a smile.

Charlotte almost jumped up from the pew to demand what was going to happen to her little brother two days hence. After a moment's reflection, she decided she might learn more if she stayed concealed.

“Where?” Branwell asked, apparently undaunted by the danger.

“Newall Street. At six o'clock. You remember the sign I taught you?”

Branwell started to hold up his fingers in the shape of a
V
but John batted his hand down.

“Idiot! You must be discreet. The price for breaching our secrets is high.”

“Of course, of course.” Branwell was practically trembling with excitement. “Six o'clock on Friday. Newall Street. I'll be there.”

John Brown nodded solemnly and the two parted ways.

From her hiding place, Charlotte was trembling herself with fear for her feckless brother.

“Oh, Branwell, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” she whispered.

“You'd better let the dog alone,”
growled Mr. Heathcliff. . . .
“She's not accustomed to be spoiled—
not kept for a pet.”