The World Within (2 page)

Tabby glances back. “Aye, she does seem a bit dowly.”

Emily and Anne exchange looks. Tabby’s expressions amuse them no end.

“But she’s often ‘dowly’ these days and I don’t know why.” Emily kicks a stone.

“Nay, don’t scuff thi boots like that, Miss Emily — they’ve got to last thee a good while yet. As for Miss Charlotte, it’s just her age, I reckon. Nowt to fret about.”

Emily looks back again. Maybe it
is
Charlotte’s age. A few months ago she had an alarming experience — Aunt called it “the start of womanhood,” making her sister blush. Perhaps that’s what is disturbing Charlotte. Or maybe it’s what Aunt said earlier about their station in life. And that was Emily’s fault. She should never have raised the subject of fine dresses.

Suddenly contrite, Emily runs back and hops onto a rock in front of Charlotte, startling a scraggy sheep, who stares at her with its mad yellow eyes. Emily ignores the sheep and, flinging out her arms, she intones, “O Charles, God in His wisdom has seen fit to call thee to a glorious destiny. Thou wilt be great, esteemed amongst women.” Then, dropping her arms and speaking in her normal voice, she adds, “And possibly even amongst men too.”

Charlotte smiles, in spite of herself.

Emily, pleased at her sister’s response, jumps down and links arms with her, and they walk on until they catch up with Anne. Emily links arms with her as well and the three of them continue together, following Tabby, who by now is some way ahead.

“You know, you oughtn’t to joke about God, Emily,” Charlotte says after a few moments. She is serious now, looking up at Emily with a little frown wrinkling her brow.

“No, you shouldn’t,” chimes in Anne earnestly. “I think it might be considered blasphemy.”

Emily gives an impatient shake of her head. These two can be so pious sometimes, especially Anne. It isn’t as if she was saying anything dreadful about God.

Charlotte adds, “And you really shouldn’t try to provoke Aunt. Fancy quoting the Bible at her. Poor Aunt.”

“You thought it was funny,” Emily points out. “And anyway,
she
is the provoking one, making us sew for hours. And it isn’t fair. She would have hated wearing a dress like the one she’s making you wear when she was young, but she doesn’t care about our feelings.”

Anne says, “I sometimes think she does feel sorry for us.”

Emily turns to her, astonished. “Do you? She never shows any sign of it.”

“When she says good night, she has a way of looking … so …” Anne makes a sad face.

“She might feel sorry for
you
,” says Charlotte. “She likes you better than us.” She suddenly sounds accusing.

Anne turns pink and her lip starts to tremble.

Charlotte really is out of sorts today. Pulling Anne closer, Emily leaps in before her sister says anything else. “You’re probably right, Charlotte. But it isn’t Anne’s fault. Be glad it’s not you that Aunt has chosen for a bedfellow. Does she not snore, Anne, and pass wind with a sound like a trumpet?”

Anne giggles, but then she looks serious. “Do you suppose if Mama were alive, we’d have to wear hand-me-downs?”

Emily exchanges a glance with Charlotte. They have a tacit understanding between them that they don’t talk about Mama. But it’s not surprising that Anne doesn’t feel the same — she can’t remember their mother at all.

Charlotte says quietly, “Even if Mama were here, we wouldn’t have any more money. And Papa wouldn’t approve of us wearing finery. Aunt was quite right about our situation. Living as we do here in Haworth, we’ve no need of fine dresses.”

A silence falls. Emily chews her lip. This isn’t good. If she doesn’t say something, Charlotte will sink into gloom again.

“Listen.” Emily comes to a sudden halt, causing the other two to stop as well. “Think how lucky we are not to be dressed up like dolls and have to mind we don’t get marks on our gowns. Or tread daintily in our little satin slippers, the way Aunt would like us to.” Emily puts her nose in the air and takes a few mincing steps. She’s delighted when the other two laugh. “And just think — if we were the daughters of a wealthy merchant, we wouldn’t have all this.”

She gestures at the broad sweep of moorland, at the clear blue bowl of the sky. Overhead, unseen, a lark is singing his heart out. Emily, suddenly transfixed, listens with all her attention, her own heart swelling in sympathy with the joyous sound.

After a long moment, she comes back to herself and becomes aware of her sisters looking at her with bemused expressions.

She gives herself a shake. “Come on, it’s much too nice a day for moping.” She grabs their hands. “Let’s run and catch up with Tabby.”

And, with Charlotte half-protesting and Anne doing her best to keep up, she pulls them along.

Back home, breathless and windswept and on their way upstairs to wash their hands for tea, they meet Branwell in the hall. His hair is tousled, his shirt collar awry, and he has a smudge of dirt on his face.

“Where have you been?” Emily can’t keep the envy out of her voice.

“Up at Marsh Farm. Some of the boys were ratting with terriers.” Branwell’s eyes glow at the thought of it. “Fred Harper’s dog was the best. As quick as lightning. She grabbed a rat, like this, killed it with a shake of her head, and caught another before the first hit the ground.” Branwell acts out the terrier’s feat, overdoing it as usual and snarling and squealing so fiercely his face turns red. Then he bares his teeth at Anne, lunges, and pretends to bite her.

Shrinking away from him, giggling, she knocks against the hall stand, and the pewter plate with Papa’s letters on it waiting to go to the post skitters off and hits the hard stone floor with a crash, scattering envelopes in every direction.

“Oh!” Anne’s hand flies to her mouth and she freezes, looking petrified.

Emily stoops quickly to retrieve the plate. She examines it. “Don’t worry, it’s only a little bit dented. They probably won’t even notice.”

“Anyway, it’s not your fault,” says Charlotte. “It’s Branwell’s.” She frowns at him. “You are a giddy goose sometimes.”

Branwell looks the picture of injured innocence. “I was only —”

“What on earth is going on?” Aunt is standing on the first landing, glowering down at them. In her black dress and framed by the tall arched window behind her she reminds Emily of one of the four avenging angels of the apocalypse. Though the impression is somewhat spoiled by the outsized mobcap perched precariously on the top of her head.

Emily bites her lip to stop herself from giggling.

Aunt is in full spate. “How often have I told you? The hall is no place for your games. You’re too old for such silliness, but if you must behave like barbarians, then at least do it outside. All this noise is disturbing your poor father.”

“We didn’t know he’d come home,” says Charlotte. “Otherwise we’d have been quiet.”

“Well, he has. And he’s gone straight to bed.”

Emily feels a prickle of alarm. Papa in bed so early? It’s unheard of.

“I must go and see if he wants anything,” says Aunt. “When you’ve put this shambles to rights and had your tea, I suggest you occupy yourselves quietly until it’s time for prayers. Something useful, mind — not that foolish scribbling.” Wagging her finger as a final warning, she disappears upstairs again.

There’s a silence as they look at one another.

“Do you think Papa is ill?” Anne’s voice is tremulous, her eyes wide.

Her question hangs in the air until finally Charlotte says, “I don’t know.”

“I’ll go and ask Tabby. She’ll tell us.” Emily slips across the hall to the kitchen.

But Tabby, buttering bread for their tea, will only say, “There’s nowt to worry thiselves about. Thi father’s worn hisself out traipsing over to Trawden and back in the heat. He’ll be right as ninepence in the morning, tha’ll see.”

But morning comes and their father doesn’t appear, not at prayers, which Aunt leads, haltingly, or for breakfast.

“Your father is tired today,” Aunt announces. “He’ll be staying in his room for the time being. You can all carry on as usual, but you must be quiet. I don’t want your father disturbed.” She closes her lips tightly as if to forestall any further questions. But no one says a word.

Emily droops over her bowl. She was awake a long time worrying about Papa. Now she’s tired and a lump like a heavy stone has lodged itself in her chest.

This morning the parlor seems cold, despite the fire Tabby has lit for Aunt. The peat flickers sullenly in the grate as if unwilling to burst into life. And in the shadowy light, the grey walls seem to press in upon her.

Emily looks across the table at the empty space where Papa normally sits.

She can’t remember him ever missing breakfast before. He’s often out for dinner and always has his tea by himself in his study, but he makes a point of joining them for the first meal of the day.

It’s so strange without him there, his face animated, his eyes bright, as he entertains them with some tale or other of his boyhood in Ireland in the tiny village of Drumballyroney, or something he’s heard in his parish rounds. Emily likes the thrillingly gruesome ones best — stories of violence, even murder — or the funny ones.

Only yesterday he was telling them about an old woman he’d heard of who asked for two holes to be put in her coffin lid. “When they asked her why, she said it was so that if the devil came in at one, she could slip out at the other!”

Aunt protested, as she often does. “Really, Mr. Brontë, do you think that’s suitable for children’s ears?”

But Papa just laughed and winked at them.

Dear Papa. He’s like a whirlwind, bursting in on them from time to time and turning everything upside down. You never know what he’s going to say or do next. He’s so exuberant, full of energy and enthusiasm. So
alive.

Emily picks up her spoon, looks at the porridge rapidly cooling and congealing in front of her, and puts the spoon down again. She glances covertly at Aunt. She’s sipping her tea with a preoccupied air and restlessly crumbling a piece of bread on her plate. She’s not even noticed that Emily hasn’t eaten anything.

That means it must be serious. Aunt’s normally as watchful as a hawk.

As soon as they’re allowed to leave the table, Emily goes into the kitchen and empties her bowl into Tiger’s dish. “There you are, puss,” she says as the cat comes over to sniff at his breakfast. “You’ve got an extra-large helping today.”

Then she seeks out Tabby in the back kitchen.

“Papa is ill, isn’t he?”

Tabby pauses in her pan scouring and looks at Emily directly. “Aye, lass, he is.”

Emily’s heart starts to beat faster. “There was a pigeon tapping at the bedroom window this morning.” The words come out in a rush.

Tabby gives her a look. “Now don’t tha go believing that old nonsense.”

“But you said it meant that someone was going to die. Remember?”

Tabby wipes her hands on her apron. “Listen, my lamb. I said that’s what
some
folk believe, ignorant folk who don’t know any better. What ails thi papa is nobbut a chill. He got caught in that heavy shower the other day, didn’t he?” She clicks her tongue. “There’s other parsons would look to their own comfort, but tha knows thi father — he thinks only of other folk. But he’ll soon shake it off, so there’s no need to grieve. Take this food to yon birds. Thi papa wouldn’t want thee to forget them on his account.”

She lays a work-roughened hand on Emily’s cheek and it’s this gentleness that alarms Emily the most.