Always Emily (22 page)

“There's the tonic,” Emily said.

“But where's my mother?” Harry asked.

“Look, Branwell is coming back up the hill. Hide!” They ducked behind a large rock, watching Branwell begin the long trudge home.

“Now what?” Emily asked once their brother was out of view and earshot.

Charlotte watched the weather nervously. The sun was low in the sky and flashes of lightning sparked the copper-colored clouds rolling in on the horizon. It was raining to the north. It wouldn't be long before it reached Top Withins. “I think we should get Father and a constable,” she said.

“No!” Emily and Harry spoke together.

“I'm done with waiting,” Harry said. “Who knows what my uncle will do next?”

“I agree.” Emily nodded. “We need to rescue Rachel now.”

Harry started striding toward the house, Emily one step behind.

“Wait!” Charlotte raced forward to stop them. “If you won't wait for a constable, at least do this right. Don't go rushing in willy-nilly.”

“You're always too cautious,” said Emily.

Charlotte ignored her sister's tone. “Do you have a plan? What about that man we saw? He works for Robert, and he won't just let you take Rachel away.”

Harry and Emily exchanged glances, vexing Charlotte again. They're united, she thought, and I'm alone.

“Look, there he is,” Harry said. He pointed down to where the hired man had left the house carrying a wooden bucket and trudged to the largest barn.

“Now, we rescue Mother!” Harry raced down the steep path, Emily close on his heels. Charlotte trailed behind.

At the gate, the dog barked and bared his large teeth. Harry stood his ground, just, but Charlotte leapt back as Branwell had done minutes before. “What are we going to do?” she whispered.

“I'll handle this.” Emily reached into her pocket and pulled out a small sack full of bones. She began to feed the dog through the slats.

“Where . . .” Charlotte began.

“Let's just say Tabby's soup may be a bit thin tonight.” Emily grinned. “Mr. Greenwood mentioned a vicious dog, and I thought we could use an advantage.”

“He's licking your hand.” Harry stared at Emily with approval.

“He's not the only one,” Charlotte muttered.

“You two go to the door,” Emily whispered. “I'll tie the dog up behind the house.”

A moment later, Harry was knocking on the kitchen door. All houses on the moors are the same, Charlotte thought. No matter how grand the front door, entry is almost always easier at the kitchen. And so it proved. A tiny elderly woman opened the door.

With an exclamation of delight, Harry stooped down and embraced the woman in a warm hug. “Hannah!”

“Is that young Harry?” A curious mixture of disbelief and dismay crossed the old woman's features.

Harry turned to Charlotte and Emily, who had rejoined them. “Hannah was my nursemaid.” He embraced the woman again, his height dwarfing her tiny frame. “I've been searching for her.”

“Mister Harry, we thought you were dead,” Hannah said, dashing tears from her cheeks.

“I'm very much alive,” Harry assured her. “But where is Mother? Is she here? Is she well?”

“She's well enough, considering . . .” Hannah's voice trailed off.

Harry placed his hands on her shoulders. “Take me to her, Hannah!” Charlotte admired his restraint. She had rather
thought he would have pushed past the old lady and started searching.

“I'm not supposed to bring her any visitors,” Hannah said, wringing her apron.

“Visitor?” Harry cried. “I'm her
son
!”

Her face distressed, Hannah said, “I'll lose my position if I disobey the master. And who would hire an old woman like me?” Tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks, she said, “Mister Harry, don't ask it of me!”

“I don't have much time!” Harry glanced back toward the barn.

“Harry, let me.” Charlotte stepped forward so Hannah could see her. “Hannah, do you know me? I'm the Reverend Brontë's daughter.”

“Yes, miss.” Hannah's eyes darted from Harry to Charlotte. “This is my sister,” Charlotte said indicating Emily. “We're here to bring Mrs. Casson to the parsonage.”

“We don't call her that anymore,” Hannah whispered. “She's Miss Rachel now. Mister Harry, Misses Brontës—she's not well. The Master thinks her mind might be going.”

Harry's face darkened.

“All the more reason she needs her son,” Charlotte said, placing her hand on Harry's muscular forearm to restrain him.

“Let us in, you silly woman!” Emily cried.

Glaring at Emily, Charlotte put her arm around Hannah and led her away from the door into the large kitchen. The
ceilings were low and a large fireplace took up one whole side of the room.

Charlotte sat Hannah down on a bench against the wall. “Do you want to be responsible for keeping Miss Rachel and her son apart? What if it's his absence that turned her brain?”

“Oh, Miss Charlotte, I don't know what to think.” Hannah grabbed Charlotte's hand. “I practically raised that boy, but the master says terrible things about him!”

Harry moved about the spacious kitchen like a caged animal. He began searching the rooms adjacent to the kitchen. Emily perched on the back of a settee, her eyes fixed on him as though she was memorizing every detail of his distress.

Hannah's eyes also followed Harry's every movement. Charlotte had to snap her fingers in front of Hannah to get her attention. “Did you believe what Mr. Robert said?”

Hannah shook her head. “I never did.”

Charlotte squeezed Hannah's hand. “And you were right. Harry is here to help his mother. Won't you let him see her?”

“I don't know, miss!” Hannah wailed.

“Of course you do. Aren't you a decent, God-fearing woman? One of my father's parishioners? You'll do the right thing. Is she upstairs?”

Hannah was sobbing now, but in between her heaving breaths, she nodded. “She's locked in for her own protection.”

Furious, Harry was about to run up the stairs when he heard Charlotte ask, “Do you have the key?” He froze, waiting for Hannah's answer.

Hannah reached into her deep pocket and pulled out an iron key. Emily darted forward and snatched it from her hands, and she and Harry bounded up the back stairs.

“Miss Brontë,” Hannah whispered. “My master comes every day to give his sister her medicine.”

“He cares so much about her welfare, does he?” Charlotte asked drily.

“He visits as regular as winter in December.” Hannah's eyes were fixed on the clock hanging on the wall.

A sinking feeling in her stomach, Charlotte understood Hannah's warning. “When?”

“Always at sunset.”

A glance out the window told Charlotte the bad news. They had very little time.

Then her ears finally registered a distant noise that had been steadily growing louder. It was the thudding of hooves. Charlotte rushed to the door and saw Robert Heaton riding up to the house.

“Run upstairs and tell Harry his uncle is here!” Charlotte turned to Hannah. “I will deal with Mr. Heaton.”

Hannah hesitated.

“Hannah, what will happen if Mr. Heaton finds Harry with Miss Rachel?”

“I'll warn them,” Hannah said, and rushed upstairs. Charlotte straightened up and steeled herself. No matter the cost, she must purchase enough time for Emily and Harry to rescue Rachel.

Charlotte waited until Robert had tied his horse to a post near the stable. He wore tight riding breeches and a fine green riding coat. She met him on the gravel path leading from the house to the barn.

“You!” He stared at her in consternation. “What are you doing here?” He carried a riding crop he impatiently slapped against his leg.

“Good day, Mr. Heaton.”

“Answer me, Miss Brontë.” He looked down his long nose at her, his beard like an arrow piercing her breast. “Why are you trespassing on my property?”

“Surely it's not trespassing to knock on the door.” Charlotte forced herself to laugh lightly, as though she found his question the most amusing thing in the world. “I heard your sister was still unwell and I felt it was my Christian duty to pay a visit.”

“Who told you she was here?” He glanced at the house.

Barely hesitating, Charlotte decided to drive a wedge between Robert and her brother. “Why, Branwell, of course.”

Without taking his eyes from her face, he shouted over his shoulder at the wildly barking dog. “Shut up, you cur!” Glowering at Charlotte, he said, “I don't believe it!”

“Really?” Charlotte asked, conscious that every word she spoke bought Emily a little more time. “How else would I know the apothecary mixes a special tonic you administer each evening?”

Robert gaped at her and swayed a little as though she had thrown him off-balance. He shook himself and started to walk past her.

“An odd tonic, to be sure,” Charlotte went on, catching at his sleeve. “It seems to make your sister terribly confused. One might wonder if it was filled with opiates!”

“You've spoken to her?” he asked, turning around, his brows drawn together in a fierce scowl.

She tore her eyes from his face, suffused with rage, and kept a sharp watch on his clenched fists. Her next volley was sure to push him over the edge of good sense.

“Don't worry; she is in excellent hands.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “Her son is with her.” She braced herself for an explosion.

Instead he said in a flat, angry voice, “The bastard?”

“I wouldn't count on that, Mr. Heaton. Harry can prove he is legitimate.” She lifted her gaze to see the inevitable dismay on his face. “You've lost.”

Heaton snapped without warning. With a roar, he slashed at her head with his riding crop. The crop cut into her forehead and she fell to the ground. Dizzy from the blow, she lay in the gravel, watching helplessly as he burst into the house.

She clambered to her feet and touched her hand to her head. Blood seeping through her fingers, she stumbled toward the house.

And hark you, Heathcliff!
Clear you too quite from my reach and hearing.
I wouldn't murder you to-night; unless, perhaps,
I set the house on fire: but that's as my fancy goes
.

A
few minutes earlier, Harry had bounded up the uneven wooden stairs, Emily close behind. They paused at the landing, staring at the three doors. Only one was shut. Harry tried the handle; it was locked. Wordlessly, Emily handed him the key.

The door swung open to reveal a small, dark room. Even though it was not yet dusk, the curtains were drawn and a small oil lamp glowed dimly. The only furniture was a narrow bed and a rickety chair. A woman was huddled under a blanket. She peered out, blinking at whoever was invading her privacy.

“Mother!” Harry cried, rushing to embrace her. She wore a dressing gown and her feet were bare. Her red hair hung around her shoulders.

“Is that you, Harry? Has my son come back to me?” Rachel began sobbing. “I thought you were dead! I was all alone.”

“Mother, I'm here.” Emily saw the guilt on his face. He had run away to save himself—but his mother had borne the cost. “I'm going to get you out of here.”

Emily stepped into the room. Rachel recoiled. “Who is that?”

“This is my friend.” Harry tightened his arm around his mother's shoulders. “You remember Rev. Brontë's daughter, Emily?”

Rachel tilted her head and studied Emily for a moment. “Harry, she's tricking you. This isn't the reverend's daughter. She was a little girl with her nose in a book.”

Over Rachel's head, Emily met Harry's stricken gaze.

“Hello, Mrs. Casson.” Emily greeted her gently. “I used to be little, but I've grown up since then.” She tugged on Harry's arm. “We must get her away from here. Once we're in town, my father can protect her.”

Emily noticed Rachel's hair was clean, as was her person. She might be a prisoner, but Hannah took good care of her. She looked around for Rachel's shoes.

There was a thudding of steps coming up the stairs. Hannah burst into the room. “The master is here! Miss Charlotte is outside trying to delay him.”

“We're out of time,” Emily cried. “Where are her shoes, Hannah?”

“The master made me hide them after she ran away last time.” She saw Emily's horrified expression and said quickly, “I'll get them!”

“Did you hear, Emily? Uncle Robert took away her shoes. She's a prisoner.” Harry's jaw was set and his hands were forming into fists. “I'll kill him for what he's done.”

“Harry, the most important thing is to save your mother!” Emily cried.

“My mother will only be safe when my uncle is no longer a threat,” Harry said. “But you're right. First we have to get her to a safe place.” He wrapped his mother's white shawl around her shoulders.