She said she was ill; at which I hardly wondered. I informed Mr. Heathcliff and he replied,—Well, let her be until after the funeral; and go up now and then to get her what is needful;
and, as soon as she seems better, tell me.
Chapter Four
Emily paced about the square parlor of the parsonage like a wild animal exploring the limits of her cage. “I’m feeling much better, Aunt B.,” she said for the fourth time. “It can’t hurt me to go outside. Just for a little time.”
Aunt B. finished draping her silk black shawl across her round shoulders. She adjusted her old-fashioned cap to display her false hairpiece of auburn curls across her forehead. She was dressed for a funeral next door at the Old Church, although privately Emily didn’t think her outfit differed all that much from the dark clothes her aunt usually wore in the house.
“No, Emily dear. The doctor said you are to rest for several more days.”
“I’ve been resting since I got home. It’s been ten days!” Emily protested. She ran her fingers through her hair; thank goodness the detested curls were growing out.
“And the doctor said a fortnight.” Aunt B. pulled on her gloves. “There’s the church bell. Your father is starting the service punctually.”
“When isn’t he punctual?” Emily asked. She glanced out the window. “There are still people coming. Whose funeral warrants such a good turnout?”
“Hush, Emily, don’t be common. It’s one of your father’s deacons. I can’t recall which. But since you are ill and Charlotte and Anne are away, your father especially asked me to attend to represent the family.”
“What about Branwell?” Emily asked, a hint of spite in the question. Branwell had not been notable lately for honoring his familial obligations.
“He promised to be there as well.” Aunt B. went to the front door. “Now, my dear, make sure you rest. Because the deceased was a deacon, your father will invite the other deacons here for tea. Would you like to dress properly and act as your father’s hostess?”
Emily, in her dressing gown, took a step backward. “Heavens, no! Aunt B., how could you think it of me?”
With satisfaction, Aunt B. said, “Then go to bed.” Suddenly, she bellowed, “Tabby! Tabby!”
The family housekeeper came into the room. A stout Yorkshirewoman with pale skin and a broad face, Tabby had worked for the Brontë family for more than a decade. “Yes, ma’am?” she asked with a scowl.
“Make sure Emily doesn’t leave the house. Is the tea ready? Don’t be too generous with the cream. The deacons are the ones who vote on the reverend’s salary, and we don’t want them to think we are profligate. Add some ale, too. After this funeral, some will ask for spirits.”
“I’ll need the keys,” Tabby said sourly.
Emily hid a smile behind her hand. This particular battle had raged since the day Tabby arrived. Aunt B. didn’t trust a mere servant with the cellar keys, and Tabby deeply resented Aunt B.’s lack of confidence. Aunt B. hesitated, then took a key ring from her skirt pocket.
“See that you give the keys to Emily when you are finished,” she warned.
“Of course, ma’am,” Tabby said. Then in a whisper just out of Aunt B.’s limited range of hearing, she added, “If I’m not too drunk to remember.”
