Always Emily by Michaela MacColl

received a body blow. “Of course,” she answered. “I meant, if you wait in the parlor, I will fetch him for you.” Without waiting to see if he obeyed her suggestion, she stalked away.
    In front of her father’s room, she closed her eyes and banged her forehead against the door. How could she have been so foolish as to believe the most eligible bachelor in Haworth was coming to visit her? On second thought, Mr. Robert Heaton definitely had a malevolent air. No doubt every awful story Tabby had told about him was the gospel truth.
    The door suddenly opened and she fell into her father’s arms. He held her at arm’s length and stared down at her face.“I thought I heard a knock,” he said. “Charlotte, are you feeling well? You look flushed.”
    She shook her head, “I’m fine, Father. Mr. Heaton is in the parlor.”
    His bushy white eyebrows rose high on his head. “Heaton? So now he delivers his ultimatums in person?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Father?”
    â€œI haven’t seen him since his father’s funeral, but we’ve been battling in the newspaper about the shameful way he is treating his workers at the mill. He threatened to have me dismissed for my radical politics.”
    â€œThat’s absurd,” Charlotte said, abandoning her personal humiliation. Underneath her righteous anger, Charlotte felt a frisson of fear: If her father was vulnerable, then the family was at risk. “You are doing your Christian duty. How dare he try to bully you!”
    â€œWith a champion like you, my darling Charlotte, I need fear nothing,” her father said indulgently. “Have him come in and I’ll find out what mischief he’s making now.”
    Charlotte hesitated. “Father, would you mind terribly meeting him in the parlor?”
    Rev. Brontë raised his bushy eyebrows. “I usually conduct parish business in here; you know that.”
    â€œJust this once?” she implored. “There was a slight misunderstanding when he arrived and . . .”
    A twinkle in his clouded eyes, the reverend kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Tabby always says a change is asgood as a rest. But somehow I don’t think there will be anything restful about Mr. Heaton’s conversation.”
    â€œShould I join you, Father?” Charlotte offered.
    â€œThe discussion may get heated,” he warned.
    â€œAgainst the two of us, he doesn’t stand a chance,” Charlotte assured him.
    Rev. Brontë pulled out two chairs from the dining room table and arranged them for himself and Charlotte in front of their guest, who sat on the sofa. The way Heaton kept shifting in his seat made Charlotte suspect he found the sofa as scratchy as she did. He hadn’t removed his gloves; he apparently didn’t intend to stay for long.
    â€œMr. Heaton, what can I do for you?” Rev. Brontë asked.
    Heaton glanced from Charlotte’s face to her father’s and back again. “Perhaps our business is better discussed privately?”
    â€œIs it about the grievances of your workers or is it a personal matter?” Rev. Brontë asked.
    Charlotte started. It had not occurred to her Heaton might be there to discuss Rachel.
    â€œOf course I’m here about my bullheaded employees,” Heaton snapped. “I want your blasted—excuse me, Miss Brontë—your letters to the newspapers to stop. Or, better yet, abandon your position and come round to the owners’ side. After all, without our mills, the workers have no employment at all.”
    Sticking his finger in his ear and twisting as though his ears were blocked, the reverend said, “I hope I will always domy duty as a priest and as a human being. Your treatment of the working men who depend on you is abominable.” His voice took on the edge Charlotte associated with his preaching. “When you bring in these new machines that replace