Always Emily (16 page)

E
mily clawed at the fingers pressing into her lips, smothering her scream. There was a whisper in her ear, but the blood rushing to her head drowned out the muffled words. With her other hand, she reached around on the ground, feeling for anything to use as a weapon. Grabbing a loose rock, she smashed at her attacker's hand.

“Ow, Emily! That hurt!” She recognized the aggrieved whisper.

“Harry?” she asked, dropping the rock.

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

“You attacked me!” Emily struggled to get her breath back. “Did you think I wouldn't defend myself?”

“I didn't want you to cry out,” he said. Sullenly he added, “But I didn't expect you to fight like a tiger.” Harry dropped to the ground next to her. “I should have known better.”

Emily smiled to herself. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard someone moving about. More to the point, why are you here?”

Emily said, “I was following your uncle.” She pointed at Ponden Hall, where Robert Heaton's silhouette could still be seen at the library window. “My sister is missing. And he knows something, I'm sure of it.”

“How long has your sister been gone?” Harry's concern felt like a warm blanket wrapped around Emily's shoulders.

“Since this afternoon. It's not like her.” Emily bit her lip. She explained how Charlotte had left the house on a mysterious errand connected with Branwell and had never returned. Branwell had claimed not to know where Charlotte was, but Emily didn't believe him.

She recounted following Branwell to the pub where she'd seen Robert buying drinks for him. “At first I didn't know who he was. But he called Branwell ‘Brother.' ”

“Ah.” Harry's eyes brightened in the new moon. “And today is Friday.”

“What happens on Friday?”

“It's lodge night. Robert's a Freemason, didn't you know?”

Emily shook her head, her mind racing as she tried to connect Charlotte's disappearance with the secretive Masons. “I don't know anything about the Masons.”

“Nor do they want you to.” Harry went on, “My grandfather was a Mason and he had Robert join as soon as he turned twenty-one. Every Friday they went to Newall Street for the lodge meeting. I used to follow him there. If he called Branwell ‘Brother,' then your brother's a Freemason, too.”

Emily got to her feet and began to pace around on the narrow ledge. “Branwell can't be a Mason. We would know.”

“Does he have friends you don't know about? Maybe he makes odd gestures with his hands when he's talking to men in town?”

Emily nodded slowly, realizing just how odd Branwell's behavior had been lately. “And somehow he has plenty of money for drinking.”

“It sounds as if Branwell has just been initiated into the lodge. Robert must have been his sponsor—that's why he was buying the drinks.”

“You said Robert joined at twenty-one. Branwell is only eighteen.”

“Sometimes they make exceptions.”

Emily frowned. “But there's nothing special about Bran-well. He's neither wealthy nor important.”

“I remember him a little bit from when we were younger.” Harry stroked his chin thoughtfully. “He was always good company, and I envied his breadth of reading.”

“Breadth but no depth,” Emily sighed. “Branwell is all promise and no accomplishments.”

“They must have a use for him.” He glanced down at Ponden Hall. Emily's eyes followed. As they watched, Robert turned down the lamp in the library and the windows went dark. “But what does this have to do with your sister?”

“Your uncle ordered Branwell to make her mind her own business.”

“Perhaps Charlotte knows something dangerous to the Masons,” Harry suggested.

“The Masons grossly overestimate Branwell's ability to influence my sister.” Emily tapped her fist against her lips. “If Charlotte thinks she's in the right, it would be easier to turn back floodwaters than to divert her from her purpose.”

“And you say she mentioned Newall Street?”

Emily looked up and met Harry's eyes. “What if she tried to stop Branwell from joining the Masons? What if she made trouble at a meeting?”

“The Masons claim they are a fraternity dedicated to charitable works—but it's not coincidental they are all powerful men. They value their privacy and threaten death to anyone who penetrates their secrets.”

“Would they harm a woman?” Emily asked, fearing the answer.

“The Freemasons are mostly decent men,” Harry said slowly. “I'm sure they wouldn't hurt Charlotte.”

“Then why hasn't she come back?” Emily asked. She took a deep breath and steeled her resolve. “I'm going to that lodge.”

“Wait! It's too dangerous,” Harry said.

“If Charlotte is being held there, all the more reason for me to hurry.” Emily started to run down the hill.

She heard thudding footsteps behind her and she slowed as the land flattened out. “Why are you following me?”

“It's too risky to go alone,” Harry said, panting a little.

“To protect my family—I'll risk anything,” Emily declared, her voice ringing in the darkness. Then more gently, “You should understand. What wouldn't you do to save your mother?”

“I'll go with you, then.”

“I'd welcome that, but you can't come into town,” Emily pointed out. “You said it yourself; your only advantage is secrecy.”

“Then I lose my advantage.” Harry squared his shoulders. “I cannot permit you to do this alone.”

Emily reached out and touched his hand. “Harry,” she said gently. “You do realize you couldn't stop me?”

He grasped her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “If I can't stop you, then I must help you.”

Emily paused, her whole world narrowed to the soft pressure of his lips on her hand. They were alone in the dark and Harry was kissing her hand. A scene from one of her stories. Or, more likely, Charlotte's. But this heroine had more important things to do. She snatched back her hand.

“Let's go, then. Charlotte may be imprisoned or hurt or . . .” Emily's lurid imagination provided altogether too many awful fates that might have befallen her sister.

“I have to get a few things,” he said, turning toward his camp.

Emily waited impatiently. A few minutes later, he returned carrying a shielded lantern. Emily's keen eyes noticed his pistol was stuck in his waistband.

As they made their way back to town, Emily broke the silence. “I asked my father about your mother. He conducts every funeral in Haworth, but he doesn't remember burying your mother.”

“Is he sure?”

“Well, to be certain, we'd have to ask him to consult the parish records. My father doesn't allow anyone but himself to touch them. But your family is important enough that I think we can rely on his memory.”

“That's a great relief,” Harry said. They continued hurrying along the path. After a moment he continued, “After we find your sister, may I ask you for a favor?”

“Anything,” Emily said with sincerity. “But first we must find Charlotte.”

The clouds rolled back in to cover the moon and obscure their vision. As they walked down the path past the parsonage, scattered drops of rain were making the stones slick and slippery. The town was dark and even the Black Bull was shuttered and quiet.

Harry led her down a narrow alley to the tall house at the end. “This is it.” Swinging the lantern so it illuminated the cornerstone of the house, he pointed out the symbols of Freemasonry: the chisel and builder's square.

“It's a substantial house,” Emily said thoughtfully. “I somehow thought their meetings would be held in a lonely barn or a damp cave.”

“The Freemasons have money and all the property they need,” Harry said with a tinge of bitterness.

“How do we get in?” Emily asked. The front door looked unassailable, and visible to any passersby on Main Street besides. They went around to the side entrance and found the door loose on its hinges. Harry forced open the door with his shoulder. The house stayed completely silent. Holding the lantern high, Harry said, “Let me go first.”

“I think not,” Emily retorted, taking the lamp. “Charlotte is my sister.” She led the way up the stairs to a spacious antechamber with a large ornate door. She pushed the door and it opened with a loud creak that made them both jump.

“This must be where they meet,” Harry said in a hushed tone.

Emily took the lantern and shone its light on the walls. “Branwell painted this one,” she said, pointing to a portrait. “It's our sexton, John Brown.” She turned back to Harry. “Is
everyone
a Mason?” She ticked off on her fingers. “My brother, your uncle, Mr. Brown. But where is Charlotte?”
Her voice rose on the final words. Harry held up a hand. “Listen!”

Emily fell silent. There was a faint moaning sound from a decorative chest in the corner of the room. Holding fiercely to hope, Emily crossed the room to the chest. She slid the latch open and lifted the lid.

“Charlotte!” she cried.

Her sister, pale and wan, blinked at the lantern light. “Emily, is that you?”

“Yes, Charlotte. I'm here!” Emily said.

Harry gathered Charlotte up in his arms. She looked into his face and murmured, “My duke!” Then she fainted dead away.

The next thing I remember is, waking up with a
feeling as if I had had a frightful nightmare,
and seeing before me a terrible red glare,
crossed with thick black bars
. . . .
In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment
dissolved: I knew quite well
that I was in my own bed, and that
the red glare was the nursery fire
.

C
harlotte woke in a cold sweat, her chest heaving and her fingers clawing at her blankets. Trapped in a velvet coffin, she had suffocated. Or had she? She opened her eyes and found herself in her narrow bed in the tiny room she shared with Emily. She inhaled and tasted fresh air off the moors, full of rain. Never before had her tongue fully appreciated the tang of wind and freedom.

“Emily—how many times have I told you to close the window?” she mumbled, but her heart wasn't in it. There was no answer. “Emily?” Charlotte propped herself up to see her sister's bed. It was empty, the bedclothes flung about every which way.

Suddenly it all came rushing back. Charlotte had been rescued from that chest by Emily. And a handsome young man. She dimly remembered him gathering her in his strong arms, like a scene from Angria come to life!

Did it really happen? Or had she finally lost the ability to distinguish between her fictional world and real life? The thought terrified her. She clasped her hands together and prayed for clarity.

As if to answer her, the church bell began tolling. It was the first call for the congregation to come to worship. Charlotte bolted upright. Her father would never forgive her if she missed his sermon. Why hadn't Emily or Tabby wakened her? She threw back the covers, noticing for the first time she was wearing her night shift.

Reaching for her dress from the day before, she stopped and stared at her once-immaculate dress. It was covered with dust and bits of red velvet. One of the narrow sleeves was torn at the shoulder seam, and her careful embroidery on the collar was stained with perspiration. She brought the fabric to her nose and recoiled from the unmistakable scent of fear. Her hand brushed against her cheek and she winced. Her knuckles were cut and bruised from pounding on the chest lid.
Her adventure had really happened. She sighed with relief; she was not insane.

If she was not mad, then her brother and sister owed her some explanations. Since Emily was gone, she would start with Branwell. She pulled on another dress and hurried to his room. She knocked but there was no answer.

She pushed open the door. His room was one of the largest in the house, but its only window looked out on the privy. A chisel and a builder's square lay on his battered desk, additional proof that the events of the night before had not been a dream.

Branwell had tossed his coat on the back of a chair. Hesitating only for a moment, Charlotte decided her need for answers outweighed Branwell's privacy. She checked his pockets and found a piece of paper. It was covered with her father's fine script; the same word was repeated over and over.

The church bells rang again, more insistently this time. She rushed downstairs and out through the garden to the churchyard. It was raining. The way the mud sucked at her shoes made her realize it had rained every day since she returned home. Where did all the water go? She gave herself a little shake; such whimsical considerations were Emily's domain, not hers.

As she made her way past the crowded graveyard, she was relieved to see other latecomers from town and the moors beyond, drawn by the urgent chiming of the bells.

The church was full, as it always was on Sunday. The parish of Haworth was a large one and there were many devout
worshippers: rich, poor, the educated, and those whose wits were dulled by constant backbreaking labor.