Emily's Ghost Read online

  “You did not thank Mr. Stafford for the coal when you oversaw the most recent distribution in Haworth,” Charlotte pointed out.

  “I thanked those who dug the coal,” Weightman said, his voice neutral, “and Mr. Stafford did not perform that work.” Emily glanced at Weightman, for his response interested her. But then he continued. “The need is ongoing and your father asked if I would take over the visits to Bradford since his age discourages him from traveling. Mr. Stafford has since invited me home to dinner and I made Miss Margaret Stafford’s acquaintance.”

  Anne had been listening with her eyes down. Now she said—with what to Emily’s practiced ear seemed disappointment but determination—“I’m sure Miss Stafford felt honored to make yours.”

  Weightman shook his head. “My situation is no more appealing to Miss Stafford than to Miss Walton.”

  “So, Mr. Weightman, you are in a quandary,” Emily said. “You are acquainted with two young ladies who no doubt find you charming, and yet do not approve your ‘situation.’ By that I assume they do not approve of Haworth. How then does a young man proceed?”

  “Proceed?”

  “You must choose,” Emily asserted. “One of the young ladies, or your situation.”

  “Why do you assume they find me charming?” Weightman asked.

  “Because,” Emily replied, “when you speak of your regard for either one, you are inordinately pleased with yourself. And I beg you,” she added, “do not change the subject. You are avoiding my question.”

  “You watch me closely, Miss Emily,” Weightman teased. “Do you make me the object of your study?”

  Emily replied, “Only for the purpose of studying you scientifically.”

  Weightman threw back his head and laughed. “It is a relief, Miss Emily, to learn your purpose so clearly. It is not, if I may venture to be so bold, in keeping with your character to ask such questions otherwise. It would sound as if you were flirting.”

  Emily was shocked and offended. “Good God no!” she exclaimed. “I would not know where to begin. I am honest, and flirting is dishonesty.”

  “Ah,” Weightman said.

  Charlotte was chagrined for her sister’s sake. But she merely said, though her voice gave away some of her feeling, “You must not heed Emily, Mr. Weightman, when she is in one of her moods.”

  Emily rolled her eyes and said nothing further. Anne had dropped Weightman’s arm and taken Emily’s, as though in defense. The party reached the head of the beck, and Anne was tiring. The dogs watched to catch a signal and retrace their steps. Emily whistled for Keeper. Charlotte quailed at this unladylike display. Mr. Weightman, she assumed, would long since have noted the oddness of Emily Brontë, and Charlotte hoped no blame would be assigned to her. But Emily, it seemed, was not done with pursuing Mr. Weightman’s attention.

  “You have still not answered my question,” she said. “How shall you choose between Haworth and the young ladies, or even between the young ladies themselves? February approaches. Shall you send a valentine to both Miss Walton and your new young lady in Bradford?”

  “Miss Walton or Miss Stafford? You raise an interesting point.” Charlotte thought Weightman spoke as though she and Anne were not present. “I might send a valentine to each of them. Neither would be the wiser, for they do not know of one another’s existence. And yet, I think not. It does not seem right, or sincere.”

  “That is commendable,” Anne said timidly, “for it would also be unkind.”

  “It would be,” Weightman agreed. “And since I cannot be what either wishes me to be, a valentine cannot mean what they would hope. In that case, I shall send one to neither young lady. Perhaps it has happened that one of you has received a valentine that raised your hopes needlessly. If so, you will know what I mean.”

  “Oh,” said Emily, “none of us has received a valentine.”

  Charlotte would have preferred Weightman to believe that the Brontë sisters, Charlotte especially, had been inundated with valentines. But she bit her tongue.

  “It seems to me,” Emily was saying, “that you are fond of your young ladies, but not in love with either of them. Although perhaps you do not yet know Miss Stafford well enough to tell how strong the attachment might be. Perhaps the lack of passion is on your young ladies’ side as well. You doubt their commitment to follow you here. That, I do not understand. Were I in love, I would move heaven and earth to be with that man.”

  “I believe you would,” said Weightman.

  “I wonder,” Charlotte ventured, hoping to divert the conversation, “if you are not a bit stubborn, Mr. Weightman. It does your cause no good to reside here. If you mean to remain in Haworth for some reason, you should set your sights in the neighborhood if you are to have any hopes at all.” Though do not set your sights upon Anne, she thought.

  “Do not be surprised, Miss Brontë, at my resolve to stay,” Weightman replied. “Do you not believe in a call?”

  “A call?” Charlotte looked puzzled for a moment, and then said, “Do you mean a religious call?”

  “I do. I believe God brought me to Haworth, and God intends me to stay until he deems otherwise. And if God wishes, he shall provide me with a wife.”

  “It is a most admirable attitude,” Anne said.

  Charlotte sighed. Anne was truly taken in. She gave Emily’s arm a shake to make certain she noticed, but Emily seemed lost in thought. Charlotte knew her sister well enough to realize this could mean either Emily paid the closest attention, or Emily was lost in her imaginary world and was not paying attention at all.

  Then Emily said, “Robbie is tiring. The cold affects his bones, I think, and we have come a long way.”

  The dog was indeed lagging behind, plodding doggedly, Charlotte thought (and forgave herself the pun), along the frozen moor path, his tongue hanging out despite the cold. Still it was frustrating to think that Emily’s attention was on neither Mr. Weightman nor her writing, but an animal.

  Weightman stopped and waited for Robbie to catch up. Then he stooped, scooped up the dog, and began to carry him. Robbie rested his head gratefully against Weightman’s arm.

  “We have half a mile to go,” Charlotte observed. “Is he not too heavy?”

  “I daresay he weighs less than three stone,” Weightman responded. “If I tire I shall set him down again.”

  Charlotte was left grumpy to find she envied a dog. Perhaps if I sprained my ankle, she thought.

  “Concerning our previous conversation, Mr. Weightman,” she interjected, determined to maintain her presence verbally if not otherwise, “I wonder if you must only do good by causing a hardship for your young ladies and burying yourself in this godforsaken place? Could you not relinquish your scheme of living here as a sort of missionary and do just as well for the poor by residing elsewhere?”

  Weightman did not answer. Charlotte continued, for she saw such advocacy as serving her own cause. If Weightman could be convinced to look elsewhere, he would be happier, and if she were so fortunate as to attach herself to him, she would be fortunate as well.

  “Suppose you were the incumbent of a large church in Bradford or Halifax, or even further south,” she continued. “London perhaps. You could use your considerable influence to awaken people to the suffering here, and cause them to contribute great sums with which to do good.”

  “I think not,” Weightman said.

  “Do you disagree with my premise entirely?” Charlotte protested. “It is practicable. And sensible.”

  Weightman paused to shift Robbie more comfortably in his arms.

  “It may be practicable for many clergymen. They are valuable. But my call is different.”

  “And it is an absolutely clear one?” Charlotte said.

  “It is clear to me.”

  Charlotte was at a loss. She said little the rest of the way home. At the parsonage they all took a sustaining cup of tea before the kitchen hearth. Then Weightman left to cross the lane to the Sunday school building. Anne retired upsta
irs for a nap, and Charlotte and Emily picked up books with which to pass the remains of the afternoon.

  But Emily kept an eye to the window, to judge the waning of the light. When she guessed it close to the time when Weightman would be forced to abandon his desk, she put down her book, murmured something about going to feed the chickens and geese, threw on her cloak, and went outside with Keeper.

  To her relief Weightman had not yet left his desk. The dog Robbie was stretched across the floor before the cold hearth. He raised his head when Emily and Keeper entered, thumped his tail three times on the floor, and rose painfully to greet his fellow dog. Weightman looked up, surprised.

  “Miss Emily,” he said.

  “Do I come at an awkward time?” she said. “Are you in the middle of a thought?”

  “No, no,” he said, putting down his quill. “I have finished my sermon and was looking it over for any last changes. A writer, you may guess, cannot catch everything on one draft.”

  Emily smiled, for she did indeed know, but merely said, “Would I delay you if we spoke? You are not off to visit some ill parishioner?”

  “I finished all my parish visits before we took our walk,” Weightman replied. He stood and drew up a chair. “I fear you shall shock your sister if she learns you have paid me a visit alone.”

  Emily knew that he meant Charlotte, not Anne. “Oh bother,” she said, and sat down.

  Weightman laughed. He took his own chair, leaned back, and regarded her with interest. “It is a convention you judge useless,” he observed, no hint of criticism in his voice, “much like walking the moors in the middle of the night.”

  “It is,” she said. “I will not trim my sails for convention.”

  He nodded. “At least not when you see no reason.”

  “But there is a reason to confront you,” Emily said. “You have not been straightforward with us, Mr. Weightman.”

  The smile left his face and he looked both surprised and puzzled. “Oh,” he said. “But how? I pride myself on honesty, Miss Emily, and wonder how I have offended.”

  “I did not say you were dishonest,” Emily replied. “I mean you have not been forthcoming.”

  “About—?”

  “About why you are here. And what happened before you came here.”

  “Before I came here?”

  “You spoke of it the first time you met the family, in the parlor. You talked of living among the miners of Tyneside and teaching their children. Only you did not say why you left there, and you quickly changed the subject. Nor have you ever returned to it.”

  “Ah.”

  Emily watched his face a moment to judge how he responded. It was not easy to tell. He had a countenance that seemed open enough, and yet she thought him quite capable of hiding his emotions. She also thought that just as she searched his face, he studied hers.

  She asked, “What is your text for this Sunday?”

  He paused a moment as though trying to decide whether to follow this new direction of hers. Then he picked up the Bible that lay atop his desk and turned to the place he had marked.

  “Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians,” Weightman said. He read, “But if there be no resurrection of the dead, then is Christ not risen; And if Christ be not risen, then is our preaching vain, and your faith is also vain. For if the dead rise not, then is Christ not raised; And if Christ be not raised, your faith is vain.”

  “And is he raised?” Emily said.

  Weightman closed the volume and leaned back, relaxing once again. “Yes,” he said. “The first fruit, as Scripture says. I would not be a clergyman else.”

  “Then,” Emily said, “given your certainty in that matter, what will you not speak about?”

  For a long time he sat watching her and did not answer. The shadows in the room fell partly across his face. Then he said, “You remember that I taught the children of Tyneside. What you may not realize is that many of the children, the boys, also went into the mines. They had to, if their families were to survive. There was an explosion at Wallsend Colliery. Eighteen June, 1835. I shall not forget the date as long as I live. One hundred and two miners were killed.” Weightman stopped and took a deep breath, and then continued. “Seventy-five of them were boys. Most of them my boys, who sat to me to learn their letters and sums after a long shift underground. The youngest was eight years old.”

  “Dear God,” Emily said. “What could so young a boy do in a mine?”

  “He was a trapper. He opened and closed the trapdoor, so the mine could be ventilated and so the mule carts could pass through.” Weightman paused. “Robbie Roseby. Poor child, I think of him every time I say this dog’s name. Only the night before, he had mastered his ‘sixes’ in the multiplication table.”

  Weightman stood as though he felt the need to pace. “I lost every boy in my school,” he said. “I should have stayed for the sake of the girls, I suppose. I did for a time, to minister to them best I could. They had lost their fathers and brothers, after all. But I didn’t have the strength. I went to Durham, to study for ordination. And then I came here.” He pulled his chair closer to Emily, sat down, and leaned forward, clasping his hands. “Do you see? I lose them here as well. Just last week one of my best young Sunday school scholars died. I held her hand, and prayed with her mother and father, and when she passed on, I closed her eyes, and then I buried her. But I haven’t lost them all. Not all at once. For some of them there is time.”

  “Time for what?” Emily wondered.

  “Proper sanitation, for a start,” Weightman said. “I keep writing to London, urging someone to come look into our situation. The water supply is contaminated. Not just in Gauger’s Croft or Ginnel, but yours and mine as well. Look at the privies, and look where the wells stand. They are close. Then there is the question of better medical care. Our surgeon, Mr. Wheelhouse, is overworked, and we have no physician. The mill workers are unemployed half the time, and they starve and freeze. Good God! What couldn’t be done to better their lot?”

  “But one man cannot do it,” Emily said.

  “Of course not.”

  “There must be a movement to set things right!” Emily had heard her father speak of such matters, though he was naturally cautious. Charlotte showed no interest; Anne expressed sadness but wondered what to do. Emily wondered as well. But she also took note when voices were raised in protest. She was partial to revolutionaries, an especial admirer of the Americans of George Washington’s generation. Some of her most vehement arguments with Charlotte and Branwell had been over the activities of the Chartists, and their father’s unlikely alliance with them in their childhood.

  But her thoughts on the matter were interrupted. For Weightman said, “Now I have a question for you. Why are you studying me scientifically?”

  “Why—”

  Emily was taken by surprise. She watched Weightman as closely as he did her, and then decided. She said, “I write, and I wish to know more about men. I do not know many men, to ask them how they think. Only my father. And Branwell, but he is often”—she paused—“useless.”

  Weightman nodded and said nothing.

  Emily waited in the quiet, and then added, “I write poetry. And stories. I do not speak of my writing, except to Anne.”

  “Then I shall keep your secret,” he said.

  “I shall never mention it again,” Emily added, unnerved at having confided so much. She thought she could have been no more vulnerable if she had stripped naked.

  Weightman nodded again and said nothing. The light was fading fast. Emily stood to hide a fit of trembling. “I must go,” she said, and disappeared before the words were out of her mouth. She left so suddenly that even Keeper was taken by surprise, and lumbered to his feet to follow.

  Emily was so unsettled she went off to walk with Keeper, despite the earlier ramble of the day. She was angry with herself. Her confession had been out of character. Perhaps it was a pastor’s gift, she reflected, to counsel people in distress and coax—perhaps
even trick—them into revealing the depths of their souls in order to bring solace. As quickly as her anger flared, it dissipated. But her mind played over a nightmare fantasy—William Weightman in someone’s parlor, the Sugdens’ perhaps, a saucer of tea upon his knee, proclaiming, Do you know the oddest thing: the vicar’s gangly daughter, the middle one, the odd one, composes verse and some sort of stories she will not talk about. Is that not priceless?

  She shook her head to dispel the scene. She trusted her own judgment, and she had judged William Weightman worthy. He would not betray her.

  Emily went home. Her father’s door was shut. Charlotte was preparing to climb into bed with Aunt Branwell.

  “Where have you been?” she asked through the open door.

  “Walking,” Emily replied, and went into her own small room. Anne was already in bed, but raised her head as Emily threw off her dress and pulled on her nightgown. Emily’s room was not much more than a cubbyhole at the front of the house, wedged between the bedrooms of her father and aunt. There was no fireplace. The sisters snuggled together in the narrow bed for warmth.

  Emily had planned to tell Anne about her visit to Weightman’s study, and about the clergyman’s terrible experience on Tyneside. She was used to confiding in Anne as with no one else, not even her father. But even as she opened her mouth to speak, she changed her mind. She should be no more forthcoming about Weightman than he would be about her. So she sighed, squeezed Anne around the waist, and fell asleep.

  On Valentine’s Day, Patrick Brontë returned from his daily stroll to the post office in possession of a mystery. In addition to the usual clutch of circulars and church correspondence, he brought with him three letters of identical pink paper folded and stamped with red sealing wax, each addressed to one of his daughters. He handed them over, a puzzled look on his face.

  “I would not have been surprised someday to find one of my girls had a secret admirer on Valentine’s Day,” he said. “But all three at once?”

  The sisters wondered who the sender might be, and enjoyed prolonging the suspense by delaying to break the seals. Aunt Branwell came downstairs to learn about the commotion, and Tabby appeared from the kitchen, swiping her soapy hands against her apron, to examine the pink stationery and declare, “Valentines, are they? And who from, do ye think?” Then she answered her own question after clapping a wet hand over her open mouth. “Mr. Weightman, I’ll warrant!”