Always Emily by Michaela MacColl Page A

two out of every four workers, you take food out of their children’s mouths! How would you feel if your own family was so threatened?”
    Heaton glared at Charlotte. “Leave my family out of this, reverend. I don’t know what your daughter has told you, but my relatives are perfectly safe without your meddling.”
    The reverend looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
    Heaton gave Charlotte a sharp look. “It’s of no matter. Rev. Brontë, the owners have every right to increase our profits however we wish. If you want me to consider the plight of the families who depend on my mills, you must stop railing against me from your pulpit!”
    â€œI’ll stop railing when I see progress.” Rev. Brontë stood up. “I have a sermon to prepare, so if you will excuse me? Charlotte, please see our guest out.” He left the room with an alacrity that just bordered on rudeness.
    Alone with Mr. Heaton, Charlotte’s mind was racing. Heaton was obviously relieved Charlotte had not told her father about Rachel, the mysterious woman on the moors. Was she his very own sister? Well, she could confirm that right now. And if he were mortified, then so be it. “Mr. Heaton, I hope your sister is well?”
    â€œSister?” The look of surprise on his face was delightful, but he soon recovered himself. “Oh, yes, you met her the other day.” There was a heavy pause. “I don’t recall telling you the nature of our relationship,” he said with a probing look. “How did you know?”
    Charlotte refused to give him the satisfaction. “One hears things,” she said, shrugging. “She is recovered from her . . . adventure?”
    â€œCompletely.”
    Well, that took the conversation precisely nowhere, she thought. “I would like to pay my respects. Where can I find her?” she asked.
    â€œShe doesn’t like strangers to visit.”
    â€œBut she and I are acquainted now,” Charlotte pressed. “I’d like to be of service to her in her illness.”
    â€œMiss Brontë . . .”
    â€œYes?” Charlotte said sweetly.
    â€œMay I speak bluntly?”
    â€œOf course.” Now she might hear some truth.
    â€œI’m grateful you didn’t mention meeting my sister to your father. It shows a discretion I didn’t know a woman was capable of, but I’ll thank you to leave it at that. My sister has had a difficult life, and I don’t want to expose her to the idle curiosity of strangers.”
    â€œMy curiosity is anything but idle,” Charlotte said. “My family has a Christian duty to care for the unfortunate.”
    â€œNot in this case,” he said. “The Heaton family takes care of its own. Do not bother my sister or any member of my household.” He stood up. “I shall take my leave now; goodbye.”
    Charlotte rose to let him out but before she put her hand on the doorknob, the door was flung open from the outside. Branwell came in.
    â€œHello, Charlotte.” Branwell saw Heaton in the doorway and stopped cold in his tracks. “You? We’re supposed to meet at Newall Street, not here.”
    Heaton drew his breath in with a hiss. Glancing at Charlotte, he said, “Good day, Miss Brontë.” Then, looking at Branwell, his right hand went to his eye and he laid his index finger at the side of his aquiline nose.
    Branwell swallowed hard. “Never mind. Good day, Heaton.” He tugged on his ear and then placed his thumb on his bottom lip. Without another word, he ran upstairs, leaving Charlotte alone with Heaton.
    Charlotte could see some sort of secret communication had just passed between Heaton and her brother. But she had the measure of this man and knew better than to ask for details. He would not tell her.
    â€œYou know my brother?” Charlotte inquired.
    â€œWe’re acquaintances,” Heaton said, as though