Always Emily (13 page)

Branwell grabbed her wrist. “I'm warning you, Charlotte, don't meddle.” His whisper was full of menace. “You are playing with forces you do not understand.” He shoved her against the wall and stormed up the back stairs to his room.

“You're the second person this week warning me not to meddle,” Charlotte muttered as she stared after his retreating figure. “But neither of you can keep me from finding out what I want to know.” She pulled her shawl off its hook and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Emily stood in the kitchen doorway, holding the cloth to her arm.

“Newall Street,” Charlotte answered.

“What's on Newall Street?”

Ignoring Emily's question, Charlotte asked, “How long has Branwell been so strange and nervous?”

“When
hasn't
Branwell been excitable?” Emily shrugged. “I don't pay much attention.”

“You never do, do you?” Charlotte spat the words. “The whole family could be on the road to damnation and you wouldn't deign to notice.” She turned to go out the front door.

“Charlotte, that was uncalled for!” Emily was more confused than angry by Charlotte's outburst.

Charlotte took a deep breath. “You're right, Em. I apologize. Now will you please lie down and rest?” With a hint of a smile she added, “Or will you refuse simply because I suggested it?”

“I'm not as contrary as that,” Emily said with a sniff. “I'll consider resting.”

“Thank you.”

Outside on the front steps, Charlotte peered at the sky. Thick, dark clouds were rolling down from the moors and the first drops of rain were splattering the gravestones in front of the parsonage.

Charlotte hurried down the lane and turned onto Main Street. The church was perched at the top of a steep hill, paved with uneven stones. She picked her way carefully across the gutter running with human waste and dirty water. She rarely ventured into town because the smell was so awful. Thankfully the parsonage had a private privy and its own well, but the rest of the town shared sanitary facilities. Her father, who was always writing to the authorities about better sanitation, had told her once that twenty-four families on one street shared a single privy.

She passed the Black Bull Tavern. The door to the pub opened and a man, smelling of stale beer and sawdust, came stumbling out, nearly knocking her down. She pushed him away and continued farther down the hill to where Main Street intersected Newall Street. The town's only stationer was on the corner. It was just past four o'clock and it was still open.

She pushed open the door, setting a little bell to tinkling. The shopkeeper who emerged from the back was a little man, not much taller than Charlotte. His bald skull had a huge
purple birthmark on it like an ink stain. Emily always said it was appropriate for a stationer.

“Hello, Mr. Greenwood.”

“Miss Brontë,” he said. He tended not to look his customers in the face, preferring to stare at the scratched wood counter. “I heard you were back from school.”

“I've been back for a few days,” Charlotte said.

“Isn't it the middle of the term?” he asked.

“Yes,” Charlotte said curtly. Did everyone know the school schedule?

“What can I get you?” He began to fiddle with a carefully stacked pyramid of ink bottles. “I must say, I hope you don't need more writing paper already. Last time I had to walk to Keighley to supply Miss Emily's requirements.”

“That's six miles there and back!” Charlotte raised her eyebrows. Then she realized the import of what he had said. Emily was writing well enough to run out of paper.

“Miss Emily is such a good customer, I'm happy to go the extra mile.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“I'm sure she appreciates that,” Charlotte said dryly. More likely, she thought to herself, Emily hasn't given it a second thought.

“I saw your sister on the moors a few days ago,” Mr. Greenwood said. “Her expression was . . . exalted!”

Charlotte sighed. It was always Emily. “Mr. Greenwood, I need a penknife. I left mine at school.”

“Of course.” He brought one out. “I'll charge your account?”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said, and then arrived at her true reason for coming. “Do you see your neighbors on Newall Street often? What are they like?”

He glanced toward the window. “There's only one. And it's a private club. They don't welcome strangers.”

“Isn't there some sort of gathering here on Friday evenings?” Charlotte remembered every detail John Brown had told Branwell.

Mr. Greenwood's hand jerked, knocking over the stack of ink bottles. “I don't know anything about those.”

“Your shop is right next door,” she persisted. “You must know something.”

Greenwood looked directly at Charlotte. “Miss Brontë, you shouldn't be asking questions about them.”

Charlotte started. “About whom?”

But try as she might, Charlotte couldn't get any further information out of him. He practically pushed her out of the store. She could hear the lock turning, then she saw the blinds being pulled down.

Her resolve strengthened by the stationer's reticence, Charlotte walked to the only other house on the street. A steep staircase led to a white door. Charlotte noticed the doorknob and knocker were well polished.

After a moment's hesitation, she lifted the knocker. No one answered. She pushed against the door and found it was locked.

Glancing about the alley, she climbed down the stairs and found another entrance on the side leading to the
basement of the building. That door was also latched. Charlotte was tempted to give up and go home. But then the thought occurred: What would Emily do?

Charlotte took a closer look at the door. It was loose in its frame, secured only with a hook and eye. She took her new knife and slid it between the door and the jamb, lifting the hook out of its eye. Branwell had taught her that trick. Wouldn't he be surprised she had used it to unearth his secrets? Perhaps when he found out how clever she had been, he would admit her back into his confidence.

She slipped into the tiny storeroom and then carefully closed the door behind her, replacing the hook. “Hello?” she called out. “Is anyone there?” Silence.

She climbed a set of rickety stairs, lit only by a dingy skylight high above her head. It led to a red door with a gold filigree design depicting stonecutters' tools.

She pushed open the door, wincing at the loud creak, and stepped into a long room spanning the length of the building.

Charlotte had never seen a room like it. A table, not unlike an altar, flanked by globes and decorated with strange symbols like pyramids and eyes picked out in gold or stone, stood at the far edge. Heavy floor-length velvet curtains hung at the windows. The paneling was dark, and there were portraits hanging on the walls.

She examined them carefully, recognizing men from her father's parish. They were all men of substance. The very
first painting was a flattering portrait of John Brown. He was portrayed facing down a storm, unafraid. The painter's style looked familiar, and she wasn't surprised to see her brother's signature in the corner.

What was Branwell's involvement in this secret room? What would Father say?

A large, ornate trunk was in the corner. She tried to lift the lid. At first she thought it was locked, but then she noticed the latch on the front. It was the kind that would lock when the lid was shut, but to open it all she had to do was move a tab.

Feeling like someone about to discover something shocking—a treasure or a corpse—she opened the trunk. It was full of a dozen or so white aprons. She rummaged through them; they had an odd, skinlike feel that made her shiver. Lambskin, she decided. Next she found a dark blue length of rope, tied into a wide noose, with decorative tasseled ends. Putting that aside, she lifted out a blindfold. Then a compass with a sharp needle such as a sailor would use to anchor the compass to a ship railing. Next, she found a pair of men's cotton pants, the kind her brother might wear to sleep in. She picked this up with her fingertips. They were clean, at least. Lastly she found a length of velvet of the same color and weight as the curtains. What an odd assortment of items!

There was a roll of thunder outside and she drew aside the heavy curtain to check on the weather. Robert Heaton was turning the corner into the alley. She pulled back from
the window just in time to avoid being seen. She looked at the watch hanging on a chain around her neck. It was only five o'clock—they were early!

Hurriedly she opened the red door to make her escape, but quickly closed it again when she heard voices in the basement.

She didn't have much time. The trunk was her only option. She examined it carefully. From the inside, she would not be able to open it. She grabbed one of the chisels lying about the room and wedged it near the hinge, climbed inside, and closed the lid over her head. The chisel prevented it from shutting all the way. She had about an inch to see and hear through, and to breathe. It would have to be enough.

No sooner had she secreted herself at the very bottom of the trunk under the fabric than she heard voices outside the room. The door creaked open. Charlotte made herself as still as she could and tried to quiet her pounding heart.

My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound
filled my ears, which I deemed the rushing of
wings; something seemed near me; I was oppressed,
suffocated: endurance broke down; I rushed to the
door and shook the lock in desperate effort
.

C
harlotte listened intently, but she couldn't make out anything but indistinct voices in the next room. Buried under the folds of cloth, the air became hot and stale. From her heels to the top of her head, there was scarcely an inch of clearance. It was altogether too reminiscent of a custom-made coffin.

A thin bar of light was visible where the lid was propped open and she kept her eyes fixed on it. The creak of the door opening made her start.

“Get the aprons,” a raspy voice said. The speaker came toward her, his hobnailed boots echoing in the empty room. “And don't forget there's an initiation today.”

Hurriedly, Charlotte tried to burrow even deeper under the velvet drapery. She had no idea if she were visible. Suddenly a second voice was at the chair at the end of the chest by Charlotte's head.

He threw open the chest and Charlotte tried to make herself as flat as possible. An overwhelming scent of garlic emanated from him in waves as his hands reached in and pulled out the aprons heaped on top of her. The lightening of weight wasn't a relief but a reminder of how vulnerable she was.

The raspy voice said, “Do you have the compass and the rope?”

Charlotte willed herself not to flinch as his hands searched around the chest. “Here they are,” the other voice said. With a snigger, he added, “I've got the pants, too.” The chest lid slammed down, but didn't lock because of her forethought to place a chisel in the hinge.

Charlotte breathed again. Cautiously, she peeked out to see the curtains had been drawn and the sliver of light became brighter as candelabras were lit. A thick, sweet smell of incense penetrated her hiding place. She pinched her nose closed to keep from sneezing.

There was a long silence, then after a few minutes, the room filled with men speaking in hushed tones. Not unlike church, Charlotte thought irreverently. Two men moved to the corner where her hiding place was, as though they wanted to speak privately.

“So, Brother, is the Initiate ready?” Charlotte knew that voice from a thousand encounters; it was John Brown. So Charlotte had been right to suspect that odd conversation between Branwell and Brown a few days earlier.

“Yes, Worshipful Master.” Although the title was deferential, Charlotte thought the tone was not. Whoever was speaking did not perceive himself to be inferior to Brown, Worshipful Master or not. Charlotte was practically certain the speaker was none other than the prideful Robert Heaton. “I've catechized him thoroughly. He will be fine during the ceremony.”

“We are moving too quickly with this one,” Brown said. “I've known him most of his life, and he's never been constant to anything for more than a few months.”

“Master, only he can do what I need to be done,” Heaton insisted.

“I don't like the Three Graces Lodge being involved in your family's business.”

“With the Initiate's help we can right an old mistake,” Heaton replied. “And the lodge will profit handsomely. Think of the alms the lodge can distribute with my generosity.”

Reluctance in his voice, Brown said, “Then let us begin.”

What followed next felt like a dream to Charlotte. She heard John Brown—or, as he was ridiculously called, the Worshipful Master—call the meeting to order. Then Heaton announced there was an Initiate petitioning for entry into the Three Graces Masonic Lodge.