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.”
With a little wave, Aunt B. opened the door and was gone.
“That woman!” Tabby exclaimed. “How dare she act like I’m a closet drunkard? It’s just as well she hardly comes out of her room anymore. Otherwise, it would be her or me!”
“We’d choose you and your apple tarts anytime, dear Tabby,” Emily said. She went to the window to watch Aunt B. join the late arrivals and enter the church.
Since Aunt B. lived almost entirely in her room, Emily spent much more time with Tabby in her warm kitchen smelling of delicious food and parish gossip. Emily had become a fair cook herself, often propping up a novel to read while she stirred a stew or kneaded the bread.
“Tabby, who is Father burying?” Emily asked, certain the housekeeper would know the answer.
“Old Mr. Heaton, the master of Ponden Hall,” Tabby answered promptly.
Ponden Hall was a manor not two miles from the parsonage, due west across the moors. “I remember Ponden Hall,” Emily exclaimed. “Mr. Heaton used to let us visit the library once a week. It was beautiful, with leather-bound books from floor to ceiling and a wonderful armchair just in front of the fire.” She paused. “Why did we stop going? I can’t remember.”
“Your father and Mr. Heaton had a bit of a falling-out,” Tabby said, wiping the dining table with her rag. “After that, the Reverend discouraged you from going.”
“There was a boy there . . . about Charlotte’s age.” The memory of a pale face with piercing blue eyes came into her mind. “He wasn’t strong. I always found him in the library. Sometimes even if he wasn’t there, he suddenly appeared like a character in a pantomime! It was uncanny.”
Tabby snorted, her habitual response to Emily’s flights of fancy. “No doubt you had your nose buried so deep in a book you didn’t hear him coming.”
“No doubt.” Emily tilted her head as though to peer into the past. “I wonder what happened to him. He vanished not long before we stopped going to Ponden Hall.” Out the window, she saw the last of the parishioners entering the church.
“I wager the service will be short,” Tabby muttered. “No one will say a kind word about old Mr. Heaton, except your father.”
Emily looked alert. “Truly? Then perhaps the tea might be more interesting than I thought. Perhaps I should get dressed?”
Tabby shook her head. “The gossip you’re likely to hear isn’t suitable.”
“Tell me!” Emily plopped herself down on the scratchy horsehair sofa. “First, how did he die?”
Tabby went to the hall and glanced up and down, even though the house was empty. Then she scurried back and sat down knee to knee with Emily. “That’s the question. They say he fell off his horse.”
“If that’s what they say aloud,” Emily said, “then what are they whispering?”
“Old Mr. Heaton was a fiend on horseback. He rode everywhere and had nary an accident his whole life. He only has the one son, Master Robert, and they’ve never gotten along. Like chalk and cheese, those two. Mr. Heaton liked things they way they were while his son wanted to make the mills and the farms more modern. Words were exchanged, I hear. Then the two men went out riding and only one came back!”
“Definitely suspicious,” Emily said delightedly. “But it’s just talk, I’m sure.”
Tabby shook her head and her generous bosom quivered. “’Tis a fact young Master Heaton had gambling debts before his father died. And old Mr. Heaton refused to help him. Now, Master Robert has all the money, the farms, and the mills.”
“What did the constable say about the accident?” Emily asked.
“People like the Heatons have the law in their pockets,” Tabby said with narrowed eyes. “Without proof, the constable wouldn’t even ask any questions.” She pushed herself up out of the chair. “Now, Miss Emily, let’s get you to bed before anybody sees you in your dressing gown. What would people think?”
“That you and Aunt B. and Dr. Bennett both worry overmuch who refuse to let me go outside!” But because she loved Tabby, she let the housekeeper lead her upstairs.
“You were so thin when you came back from that awful school. Like a wraith,” Tabby said, her eyes tearing up. “So you’ll stay in bed until you’re healthy again. We can’t lose you like . . . ” Her voice trailed off as they reached Emily’s bedroom.
Emily ducked under Tabby’s arm and went into her tiny room. “Like Maria and Elizabeth?” As she always did when she thought of her lost sisters, she glanced at the cemetery outside the window. All these years later, she still hoped if she watched at just the right time, she would see her sisters’ spirits hovering.
“Poor girls.” Tabby nodded heavily. “All this education is bad for your health. I don’t know what Miss Charlotte was thinking, letting you get so ill. That one always thinks she knows what’s best with her high-and-mighty bossing.”
Emily hesitated but then the true story escaped her lips. “Tabby, that’s not fair. Charlotte tried to keep me out of trouble. And she’s the one who convinced the headmistress to send me home.” Then with a grimace she added, “But her high-handedness is infuriating, isn’t it?”
“She’s as bad as your Aunt B.” Tabby clapped her hand over her mouth. Between her fingers, she said, “Forget I said that!” As she turned to leave, she added, “Mind you close that window.”
The bells rang outside, and Emily climbed up on the window seat to see the church entrance. She stuck her head outside the windowsill. “That was quick,” she said. She spied a small man with a shock of curly red hair. “Look, Branwell did go to the funeral. He’s talking with John Brown and one of the mourners.” Brown was her father’s sexton, the man who maintained the church and dug all the graves.
“Your father will be pleased,” Tabby said. “Your brother’s been moping about the house like a chicken who knows the ax is coming.” Casually she looked over Emily’s shoulder. “That’s the heir, young Robert Heaton.”
“Do they know each other?”
Tabby shrugged. “Your brother keeps his own counsel. If the service is over, I’d best be getting tea ready.” She hurried out.
Emily lay in her bed with the door ajar. She listened to the arrivals and the sound of self-important men drinking their tea and ale. Her father’s voice, always distinctive and authoritative, occasionally rose above the rest.
After a time, the front door opened and she heard some of the guests take their leave. Suddenly she was surprised to hear voices on the second floor, not far from her room.
“Our brother the Worshipful Master has asked me to be your sponsor,” a deep voice said.
“I’d be honored, sir.” It was the quick, anxious voice of her brother, Branwell.
“Perhaps we can talk privately,” the first voice said. “There are certain tasks you must perform before your initiation.”
“My room is down this passage,” Branwell said.
“What about your father’s study? It would be more suitable.”
There was a long pause. Emily listened intently for the next words. Finally Branwell said, “I’m not permitted in my father’s study alone. None of us are.”
With a nonchalance that seemed forced to Emily’s ear, the other man said, “No matter. To your room, then.”
Emily scrambled out of bed and rushed to her door. As cautious as a cat, she lifted the latch and peered outside. But she was too late. Branwell had already let his mysterious guest precede him into the room. But some small sound must have alerted her brother, for Branwell’s head jerked sharply in her direction. He murmured something to his guest, then came marching down the hallway.
“Go to bed, Emily. My business is none of your concern.” He shoved her inside the room and pulled the door closed.
Leaning against her bedroom door, Emily murmured, “Branwell has a secret.”