Free Always Emily by Michaela MacColl

him!”
    â€œIn what? With whom?” Charlotte interrupted. “Don’t be foolish. You stopped my carriage! Now tell me your name, or I’ll get on with my journey and leave you behind.”
    The sound of hooves on the track behind them made them all whirl around. The woman moaned and closed her eyes. A fine-looking gelding galloped up the track, carrying a man of forty years or so. The driver, who had removed himself to a convenient rock, looked up curiously from his tamping of tobacco into his pipe.
    The sun was behind the rider, and at first Charlotte could only make out his silhouette. He wore a long coat draped across the horse’s hindquarters and his face was in shadow. For a moment, Charlotte saw the duke of Angria, her fictional hero suddenly given weight and heft. She felt her throat close up and shyness overtake her.
    As he got closer, the dream quality faded and Charlotte saw he was just a man, although his profile was rather handsome. His dark beard was pointed and gave him a distinguished air. His mouth was closed in a tight angry line and his eyes narrowed when he saw the carriage. When he was close to the crying woman, he reined in his horse. He dismounted and stood very close to her. Suddenly his manner changed and he became the picture of a concerned rescuer. “There you are, Rachel. We’ve been frantic with worry for you.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Robert.” Rachel gulped back her tears.
    Charlotte immediately noticed his light-blue eyes were just like the mystery woman’s. They must be related, she thought. But Rachel had said she had no one.
    â€œThe nurse is waiting for you,” he said to Rachel. He glanced over at the carriage driver. “If she’s done any damage, I’ll pay for it.”
    Charlotte drew herself up. How dare he act as if she were of no importance? “Address me, please,” Charlotte said. “I hired the carriage.”
    He swung round and seemed to see Charlotte for the first time. After a hesitation, he touched his hat. He wore fine leather gloves. “I beg your pardon, miss. But this is no concern of yours.”
    â€œShe’s not well,” Charlotte said. “Did you say she has a nurse?”
    â€œI apologize if she delayed your journey,” he said brusquely. “She won’t be troubling you again.”
    Charlotte’s eyes narrowed; his words sounded innocent enough, but his demeanor worried her.
    â€œMay I ask your name, sir?” she asked.
    After an awkward pause, he said, “Robert Heaton.”
    Now she had a name to go with the face, Charlotte realized she had seen him before. “Of Ponden Hall?”
    He stiffened as though Charlotte had said something of greater import than his address. He reached out to lock his hand around Rachel’s wrist. Rachel, so voluble before, said nothing.
    â€œYes,” he said. “And you are?”
    â€œMiss Charlotte Brontë,” Charlotte replied.
    â€œThe reverend’s daughter?” His eyes shifted uneasily, as though he would have preferred her to be a stranger.
    â€œWhat is happening here, Mr. Heaton?” Charlotte asked. “Who is this unfortunate lady?” She gestured to Rachel.
    â€œShe’s a dependent of the family. As you can doubtless see for yourself, she’s not right in the head.” He gave her a wry smile. “Did she tell you she had enemies and she had to escape them? Perhaps she asked you to hide her?”
    Rachel started to speak. “Robert, I didn’t mean anything by it.” She suddenly closed her mouth. Charlotte saw Rachel’s wrist was turning blue under his grip.
    â€œDoes she run away often?” Charlotte asked slowly.
    He shook his head. “No, she has a devoted servant to look after her, but mad people can be diabolically clever.”
    â€œShe didn’t sound mad to me,” Charlotte said, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.
    â€œThat’s her