The World Within
Authors: Jane Eagland
For Sheila and Lindsey
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Though it is night, the sun casts an eerie light over these regions, forlorn indeed. The snow is so yielding that at every step I plunge up to my knees and can barely make any headway.
A cry from behind freezes my blood.
I turn to discover that Lieutenant Ross has sunk into the deadly white mass and cannot extricate himself. With immense difficulty I flail back to him.
“Parry,” he says, with tears in his eyes, “I am done for. You must go on without me.”
“Nonsense, my friend,” I say. “Give me your hand. We will make it to the Pole yet.”
“Emily!” Aunt’s voice, sharp as a needle. “You are daydreaming again. Attend to your work.”
Emily stabs the white calico in exasperation. She wasn’t daydreaming — in her imagination she was her hero, Parry, the great explorer, and just at the critical moment Aunt came crashing in and broke the spell.
She sighs. Lucky Parry to be able to go off journeying in the wild wastes of the Arctic, unencumbered by annoying relatives making him do things he didn’t want to do.
He
never had to sew nightshirts, for sure. Her back aches from sitting on the low stool, her fingers are cramped, and she’s desperate to stand up and move about, to walk, to run. To escape this stuffy room. To be out of doors.
She wiggles her toes inside her boots.
There’s a sudden movement at the window. Dropping her sewing, she dashes over and peers out just in time to see a flock of chaffinches disappearing over the mossy garden wall into the graveyard beyond.
Disappointed to have missed them, Emily lifts her eyes, gazing past the dark bulk of the church below her and the cluster of grey houses surrounding it that form the top of the village, across the smoke-filled valley to the distant hills. Their heather-clad slopes, glowing purple in the soft autumn light, look so inviting. Emily sighs again.
Resting her forehead against the glass, she squinnies down the lane past the Sunday school toward the bottom corner, where anyone approaching would appear between Mr. Brown the sexton’s house and the church. But there’s no sign of Branwell.
It’s not fair. Their brother will be off somewhere, up to high jinks, probably, in all that lovely sunshine, while Aunt keeps her and her sisters shut up like prisoners. Every day apart from Sunday it’s the same routine — an hour or more of sewing in Aunt’s bedroom, a tedious ordeal that seems to last forever.
“Emily!” Aunt’s voice cuts into her thoughts. “What are you doing now?”
“Looking at some birds.”
“Birds! Much good will they do you. Have you finished that hem?”
“Almost.”
“Show me.”
Reluctantly Emily takes the crumpled nightshirt over for inspection. Up close, the rose water Aunt dabs on herself fails to mask the sickly-sweet whiff of perspiration and the sharp reek of snuff.
“How has this got so grubby, Emily? You must take more care.” Aunt peers at the hem.
Awaiting her verdict, Emily stares at the familiar framed text on the wall.
The Lord is my Shepherd
, illustrated by a picture of a rather languid-looking Jesus leading a few sheep through a desert landscape with palm trees. She wonders, not for the first time, how, without a blade of grass or sprig of heather to eat, the sheep can be so unbelievably plump.
Aunt tuts. “No, no. This won’t do at all. Your stitches are much too big and irregular.” She holds the nightshirt out to Emily between her finger and thumb as if she can hardly bear to touch it. “You’ll have to unpick them and start again.” She looks closely at Emily and her expression of disapproval deepens. “Have you brushed your hair today?”
“Erm … I can’t remember.”
Aunt tuts again. “You really should take more pride in your appearance, Emily.”
“Why?” Emily stares pointedly at the long hairs on Aunt’s chin.
“Because it’s natural for a girl to want to make the best of herself. It’s … it’s womanly.”
Emily puts on an innocent look. “But I thought it says in the Bible that women shouldn’t adorn themselves with ‘broided hair’ but with good works.”
“Yes, of course it does.” Aunt looks flustered. “But that’s different. That’s about not being vain — it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t brush your hair.”
“But you said I should take more pride in my appearance. Isn’t pride the same as vanity?”
Aunt thrusts the nightshirt at her. “That’s enough, Emily. Take this and get on, do.”
As Emily takes the offending article and slouches back to her stool, she mutters, “Branwell won’t care if the stitches are big.”
“But you should.”
My stars, the old lady’s ears are sharp.
Aunt goes on, “It is the mark of a lady to take care with her work. How often do I have to tell you? Regularity and neatness —”
“— are the sign of an orderly mind.”
“Quite so.” Aunt peers at her niece, suspecting “sauce.”
Emily keeps her face straight. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Charlotte’s lip curl with amusement.
As soon as Aunt’s attention is off them, Emily winks at Anne, who is sitting on the stool next to hers. Her younger sister gives a brief, answering smile, but then she glances at Aunt and dutifully bends to her work again.
Poor Anne, she’s having the worst of it today. Darning stockings is the most hateful thing.
Slowly Emily starts unpicking stitches. If Aunt had any idea what went on in their minds, she’d be shocked.
An orderly mind
. How dull that would be.
“Charlotte, keep still. This won’t come out right if you fidget.”
Poor Charlotte. She’s been standing by the bed for ages while Aunt presses various pieces of material against her and marks the alterations. At sixteen — two years older than Emily — Charlotte’s not getting any taller, but she’s filling out, so she has to make herself a new dress. Only it isn’t new, really — it’s being concocted from an old one of Aunt’s taken apart and cut down to fit.
The pieces of fabric lie spread out on Aunt’s yellow quilt. For a wonder Aunt hasn’t reminded them today, as she so often does, that when she first came to live with them she had to send all the way to Wales for this quilt, since only wool wadding was adequate to combat the rigors of Haworth winters.
Finally, after much prodding, Aunt puts down her chalk. “That will do well, I think.”
It won’t.
Charlotte’s face is impassive, but she’s fingering the dress pieces doubtfully and Emily knows what she’s thinking. The dress is going to be a horror. Even turned inside out, you can tell the silk’s been worn. And the material’s such a dreary color, a peculiar rusty green. The heroines in Charlotte’s stories wear elegant, beautiful gowns and they’re always white.
Aunt has sat down on her stiff-backed chair, which is placed as close to the banked-up fire as she can get it. Spurred on by a sudden flare of antagonism, Emily lifts her chin. “Aunt, you know how you’re always telling us about the lovely clothes you and Mama wore when you were young?”
Aunt pauses in her knitting and laughs, a trilling, almost girlish laugh. “Oh yes, all those pretty muslins and —”
Emily pounces, looking Aunt straight in the eye. “So why do we have to wear these plain, dull dresses?”
For herself she doesn’t care at all, but she knows that Charlotte minds dreadfully. It’s so unjust.
Aunt purses her lips.
Emily is aware of her sisters tensing as they wait for Aunt to erupt. But with a small nod of her head, the old lady says mildly, “That is a fair question, Emily.”
She hesitates a moment and then says, “As you know, our papa, your grandfather, was a wealthy merchant. Penzance was a prosperous town and we moved in social circles where it was important that we dressed appropriately. Your mother and I were therefore fortunate that Papa could afford fine clothes for us. God, in His wisdom, has seen fit to place you in a different station in life. Different things are required of the daughters of a humble parson.”
She sighs and looks out of the window.
Pulling a length of thread from the reel, Emily glances at Charlotte, who looks troubled. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to ask about the dresses.
After a moment Aunt turns back and her tone becomes brisk once again. “Now, Charlotte, what are you waiting for? Pin those bodice pieces together and then baste them. Emily, how many times must I tell you? Cut the thread with scissors, not your teeth.”
They all resume their work.
With Aunt it always comes down to God in the end. As if there’s no more argument to be had.
Later, released at last and out on the moors, Emily breathes in great lungfuls of air, as if she can’t get enough of it. She wants to shout aloud with the relief of being free to move, of being away from Aunt’s watchful eye. Striding along beside Tabby and Anne, she’s enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face, the way the wind brings everything to life, making the grasses sway and sending the high white clouds scudding across the sky.
But Charlotte is lagging behind, looking miserable.
“Charlotte’s out of sorts today,” Emily observes to Tabby.
