Always Emily (24 page)

“Look, there's the bridge up ahead. We're not too far from home.” The bridge spanned a small tributary of a river from the Crow Hill bog, looming off to the left of the road. Crow
Hill was placed higher than any other part of the moor, and several rivers emanated from it.

Suddenly the horse veered to one side and lurched to a stop. In the same instant there was a distant explosion.

“Emily!” Charlotte screamed. The frantic horse tossed its head and reared between the cart rails. The reins were ripped from Charlotte's hands. “He's going to bolt!”

Emily was already out of the cart, trying to pull the horse's head down. “Shush, quiet, boy,” she murmured. As though her touch alone could soothe him, the animal calmed. He still moved uneasily, but he was no longer poised to run.

“What was that?” Charlotte asked as Emily climbed back in. She squinted, trying to see in the growing darkness.

“I don't know. Listen, there's something else,” Emily said. She pointed above and in front of them, to the head of the narrow river where it cascaded from Crow Hill. The water, already running high, became a rushing torrent. A rumble made the ground shake. “It's all the rain! The bog has burst!”

Rocks began to fly down the riverbed. At the mouth of the river, Charlotte saw a wall of mud and stone, tipping headlong down the riverbed. Its path was perpendicular to the road they were taking. Charlotte stared, frozen, unable to comprehend that the river could turn so deadly so quickly.

“Charlotte, we have to move!” Emily cried as she jumped in the cart beside Charlotte. “It's going to take out the bridge and we'll have no way home!”

“But . . .”

“Fly!”

Infected by Emily's urgency, Charlotte commanded the horse to move. When he balked, she slapped his rump with the trailing end of the rein.

“Faster!” Emily shouted.

They were racing the tons of rock and water to the bridge. The cart rattled over the stone bridge, and seconds later the torrent hit the bridge.

Charlotte pulled up on the other side, a safe distance from the water. She and Emily turned to watch the scene. The ancient stone supports shifted and groaned. The arch of the bridge buckled under the impact. Half of it was torn away by the onslaught.

Emily stood up in the cart, facing the river. Transfixed by the sight, her mouth hung half open and she sniffed the air, breathing in deeply the scent of mud and dislodged stone.

Charlotte pulled at her arm. “Emily, sit down. It's over.”

As if being recalled from a dream, Emily blinked and gradually her eyes focused on Charlotte's face. “Yes, let's go home.” She let Charlotte pull her back down to the seat.

Charlotte urged the horse forward. Emily turned her head to watch the river as long at it was in view. “This river feeds the Ponden Mills. It'll be polluted for months,” Emily murmured. “They'll be shut down until the water drains.” She shrugged. “It serves Robert Heaton right.”

Raising her eyebrows, Charlotte said, “And what about all his workers? They don't deserve to be out of work. Emily, your ideas of revenge are too selfish.”

Charlotte waited for the inevitable tart reply, but Emily surprised her with an unexpected smile.

“Dear Charlotte, that is why I have you. You are my practicality and my conscience.”

“Humph,” Charlotte said with a sniff.

It was completely dark before they arrived in Haworth. Emily was thankful Charlotte had thought of putting a lantern on the cart. Charlotte zigged and zagged up Haworth's steep main street. The flagstones that paved the street were placed crosswise to give better traction for the horse's feet, but still the carriage tended to slip backwards if Charlotte wasn't vigilant.

“It feels so late,” Charlotte said.

Emily nodded. “But look—the pubs are filled with people. It's not as late as we think.”

“Is Rachel still asleep?” Charlotte asked.

“Laudanum is a wonderful thing,” Emily said.

“Emily! You drugged her?”

Emily shrugged. “You must admit this has been an easier journey without her sobbing and screeching all the time.”

Since that was true, Charlotte contented herself with pressing her lips together in a disapproving line.

They passed the apothecary and the stationer's. Charlotte shivered when looking down Newall Street, where the Three Graces Lodge was situated. As they crested the hill, just before the parsonage was in sight, Charlotte pulled over.

Emily asked, “What's wrong?”

Charlotte hesitated, then said, “I've the oddest feeling that danger awaits us.”

“We left all the danger behind at Top Withins,” Emily said scornfully. “We have no time for your premonitions. The sooner we drop off Rachel, the sooner we can get Harry a doctor.”

“Don't you think I know the urgency?” Charlotte asked with asperity. “But I think you should go ahead to the parsonage and make sure it's safe.”

“Heaton is unconscious at Top Withins. He couldn't have sent a message to anyone.” But Emily climbed down from the cart. “I've never seen you act like this.”

“I've felt like this once or twice before,” Charlotte said, remembering her trepidation when Emily was so ill at school. “I've learned not to ignore it.”

Emily considered Charlotte and finally nodded with decision. “I'll go look.” Without waiting for Charlotte to object, she set off. Hugging the walls of the stores on the corner, Emily edged her way to get a view of the parsonage. In moments she came running back.

“Heaton's there waiting for us!” she whispered. “Charlotte, your little feeling just saved Rachel's life!”

“He must have woken up and ridden his horse like the devil to beat us here.”

Emily agreed. “I suspect he saw the bog burst and took his horse across the moors. It's dangerous, but it can be done.”

“Should we find a constable?” Charlotte asked.

“The nearest one is in Bradford,” Emily replied.

“What about Father's other deacons?”

“We don't know who's a Freemason and who isn't,” Emily pointed out. “Anyway, why not just drive up to the gate? What can Robert do to us in front of our father's house?”

“He's been pushed very far today. He's definitely furious—maybe even a little insane.” Charlotte shook her head sharply. “I don't think we should chance it. He might be armed.” She shivered. “But there's no other way to get home.”

“Not by cart,” Emily said. “I know a way to approach the parsonage from the church side without Robert seeing. But I have to go on foot.”

“What about me and Rachel?”

“I'll lure Robert away from the gate so you can get in safely.”

“No.” Charlotte was adamant. “It's too dangerous. We'll do it together.”

Emily looked at Charlotte for a long moment. “You know, I've misjudged you. You really are quite brave.”

“While I think
you
are as reckless as ever,” Charlotte retorted, but she could feel the heat in her cheeks. It was
seldom indeed Emily paid her a compliment and now three times in one night.

“You must stay with Rachel. When it's safe, I'll hoot like an owl. They're a nocturnal bird; Robert won't even notice.”

Charlotte nodded. “All right. But be careful.”

Before Emily left, she handed Charlotte her pistol.

“I knew you had something you didn't want me to see,” Charlotte said. “You must be mad. You don't even know how to use that thing.”

Emily was uncharacteristically silent.

“When did you learn to shoot?” Charlotte accused.

“Father taught me while you were away,” Emily admitted. “The pistol is his. Give it back to him. He might need it, especially if Branwell is home.”

The awful possibility Branwell might choose Robert Heaton over his own sisters reduced Charlotte to silence. Emily slipped away into the darkness.

We've braved its ghosts often together,
and dared each other to stand among the graves
and ask them to come. But, Heathcliff, if I dare
you now, will you venture? . . . I'll not lie there by
myself; they may bury me twelve feet deep . . .
I won't rest till you are with me
.

E
mily edged along the side of the church, hidden from Robert Heaton's line of sight. Her stomach was suddenly roiling. Who was she to dare face him alone? Breathing deeply, she tried to summon the courage she had always taken for granted before. A thick fog floated down from the moor like an ancient army of wraiths. Emily imagined her dear departed sisters there, guarding her and giving her the strength to be brave.

Aware that with every second she hesitated, she risked Charlotte losing her patience and doing something foolish,
Emily scanned the graveyard she knew so well. She soundlessly clambered over the wall farthest away from the parsonage. Her long skirt caught on a sharp rock that ripped a hole in the fabric. Rather than waste time freeing herself, Emily ripped the bottom of the skirt clean away. Luckily, she didn't have too many petticoats to hinder her movement.

Standing inside the graveyard, Emily lay her hand on a gravestone and quickly lifted it in surprise. Instead of cold, damp stone, she felt wet cloth. She looked closer. Her father was in a constant battle with the town's washerwomen, who used the tombstones to dry their laundry. One of them had forgotten her sheet in this remote corner. As Emily fingered the white fabric, an idea took shape.

Sheet in hand, she clambered up the stunted tree at the graveyard's edge and tied the sheet to the lowest branch. A few more judicious knots and some rather clever draping, and the hanging sheet resembled a figure shrouded in a white robe or shawl.

After dropping to the ground, Emily took a deep breath. Then she cupped her hand to her mouth. “Rachel, be careful,” she called out in a voice loud enough to be heard at the graveyard's far reaches. “Don't trip, dear.”

She paused as though her companion had responded. In an even louder voice she pretend-replied, “Oh, no, my dear Rachel. There's no need to worry. We're almost there. You've been very brave.”

In the gloom by the gate, she saw movement and then heard purposeful footsteps in her direction. Heaton was already well inside the graveyard when Emily heard him stumble on a sunken tombstone and curse loudly. She could see his outline a stone's throw from her hiding place.

“Rachel! Is that you?” he called, his voice reason itself. “I've been so worried.” Although he spoke calmly, he quickly moved forward. He reached the tree and grabbed the sheet. “Now I've got you.” It fluttered to the ground and he realized he had been fooled. “Damnation!” he growled.

“Such language, and on sanctified ground!” Emily mocked him from behind a large stone table that also served as a gravestone. Her voice echoed about the graveyard.

She darted farther into the center of the graveyard, where the tombstones were most crowded. Flitting from one row to another, she easily avoided the stones half-buried in the ground.

“Miss Brontë? Emily, I'm guessing. Your sister is too prim to try such a stratagem.”

“You might be surprised by what Charlotte is capable of,” Emily said.

“Why don't you show yourself?” Heaton asked. Emily could hear the strain in his voice as he tried to control his temper. “Once I explain my sister's condition, you will see you have completely misunderstood the situation. Come out and we'll discuss it.” He was trying to follow her but lacked her knowledge of the terrain.

“I think not,” she said. “I've seen how you treat those who cross you.” She ducked under a table grave marker and had to stop short, wheeling her arms to keep from falling into the open grave John Brown had dug only the day before. She recovered herself and a plan formed itself in her mind.

Heaton said, “You mean my so-called nephew?” His shape moved toward her, but not quite far enough.