Emily's Ghost by Denise Giardina

Author:Denise Giardina
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 2009-08-01T16:00:00+00:00

A special delivery post wagon arrived with a crate for the parsonage. Weightman was in Appleby after his return from Wales, and invited to hunt with the father of Agnes Walton. A farewell engagement, Weightman explained in the letter that accompanied the crate. “We part on good terms. He respects me even as he has given me up as a future son-in-law.”

The crate stood encased in ice, which the driver assured had been replenished at regular intervals. A brace of wild birds—grouse, duck, and partridges, all still in their feathers—lay spread upon the frozen shards. Beneath the ice was a large salmon. All shot or taken by his own hand in the past day, Weightman assured them.

“Law!” Tabby cried, her hand to her breast, “how busy our lad has been!”

“Mr. Weightman is a veritable slaughterhouse,” Charlotte said before she turned away.

Emily began to laugh. “Are you ready to pluck, Tabby? And should we serve the fish tonight before it goes off?”

The rest of the day was spent preserving the fowl in confit—it was already determined that Weightman’s homecoming would be celebrated with the very ducks he had provided.

But next day a man in a black suit and tall black hat banged upon the parsonage door. When Emily opened it she disliked him at once for his small eyes which darted here and there, sizing up everything he saw, both Emily and the interior of the hallway. Although she usually stood back and threw open the door, assuming the visitor wished to see her father and was in some need, she stood firm.

“Constable Massey with the Metropolitan Police,” the man said. “I must speak with the Reverend Patrick Brontë.”

“Is anything wrong?” Emily asked. She wondered if Branwell was in trouble at his new job.

The man looked Emily up and down with a bold eye that seemed to undress her and then dismiss her. He said, “When did a chit like you start asking the questions? Now go and tell your master I haven’t got all day.”

Emily realized that the man—taking in her loose shift, her untidy hair, and the smudges upon her hands and face from cleaning the parlor fireplace—assumed he was talking to a servant. She took her time answering.

“The Reverend Brontë,” she said in her strongest Yorkshire accent, “is working on his sermon. I hope you will not disturb him.”

“Sermons can wait until Sundays,” the man said.

“Excuse me,” Emily said, and shut the door in his face.

She went at once to her father and explained the situation. They knew the sermon must be interrupted and the man dealt with, so Patrick put down his pen and fixed upon his nose the spectacles that aided his failing sight.

The man had begun to pound once more on the door. When Emily opened it, he said, “Careful lass,” an edge to his voice, “or I shall have you sacked,” and gave her a poisonous look as he passed. She was careful to pull the parlor door only partially closed. Patrick had grown hard not only of sight but of hearing; Emily hoped that would force the visitor to speak up.

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