The World Within (33 page)

She comes to a halt, panting and dismayed. What has that place done to her?

Grasper comes back to her and licks her hand, looking at her as if he can’t understand what’s wrong either.

When she’s got her breath back, she continues, but at a walking pace this time. How can she have become so weak? She’d better try to eat whatever Tabby puts in front of her and build up her strength. And she must come out here as often as she can and walk and walk to make her legs sturdy again.

When she arrives home and goes into the kitchen with her hair blown all awry and her boots caked with mud, Tabby looks up from the pastry cases she’s filling with jam and a smile spreads over her face.

“Bless thee, lass, there’s some color in thi cheeks now.”

Within a few weeks, with Tabby’s care and plenty of fresh air and exercise, Emily is as physically well as she’s ever been. And one day she realizes, with great relief, that she’s feeling more like her old self.

She’s had a narrow escape, and she must be careful not to let it happen again. In future she’ll follow Mary’s advice and insist on doing what’s best for
her
. She’s already written to Mary to tell her she’s home again. She’ll write another letter and tell Mary what she knows now — that Mary was right.

But days pass and she doesn’t write. There’s a niggling voice inside her that won’t be quiet — it keeps saying that her retreat was cowardly, that she should have been able to stick it out.

And it’s so miserable to be back home and yet not have Anne at her side. She worries about her all the time, wondering how she’s getting on.

Her days have lost their familiar pattern too. It’s all very well for Papa to say that she doesn’t have to do any more lessons now, but can please herself about what she studies and how she spends her time — she doesn’t know what she wants to do.

She turns to the piano and day after day plays Chopin nocturnes, until Tabby is driven to say, “Can’st tha not play summat a wee bit merrier? All those doleful tunes are very lowering.”

Emily is pulled up short by this. Tabby’s right. All this sad music isn’t doing her any good. What would Anne say?
You’ll feel better if you do something helpful.
She remembers that Mary said housework was a good cure for the mopes and she decides to try making herself useful about the house. With Tabby keeping a close eye on her, she learns how to clean the knives, starch collars, and sandstone the hall passage and front steps.

Aunt isn’t pleased about this development. While she approves of Emily not wasting her time in idleness, she’s not happy that her niece is, as she puts it, demeaning herself by doing the work of a servant. She’s horrified when she comes across Emily black-leading the range. “Look at your hands!” she cries. “No lady would let her skin get so rough and dirty.”

Emily takes no notice. What’s the point of having soft, white skin? And besides, she’s found that Mary was right — if she keeps herself busy, she can keep troublesome thoughts at bay.

Also at the back of her mind the thought has been forming that, since she’s obviously not fit for earning her living out in the world, perhaps her future lies in making herself indispensable at home, especially with Tabby getting older. As long as Papa and Tabby are grateful for what she does, and they are, it doesn’t matter what Aunt thinks. Besides, there’s a bonus to housework that she didn’t expect — while her hands are busy, her head is free to think.

She’s been at home long enough for the horror of having her story exposed to ridicule to have receded. As she goes about the house, working at this and that, she tentatively tries to resurrect Gondal. Sometimes it works. Almost without her realizing it, she stops being aware of her surroundings and her people stand before her as vivid as ever they were. If she’s lucky she can lose herself in her beloved world, in the old way.

But it’s not as easy as it was. Sometimes she stops and questions herself. Is this childish nonsense? Too melodramatic? She’s not sure. And then she rebukes herself. Why is she taking any notice of a philistine like Lydia Marriot? But then it wasn’t just Lydia but Julia too, who was more sensible than any of the other girls. But then Julia did say that her story “had something,” so perhaps it wasn’t so bad …

Oh, if only Anne were here. She’d soon tell her if she was taking things too far.

She wonders about Branwell. Though he’s obviously aware that Anne and she have been writing away, so far they’ve kept the details of Gondal secret from him. But it’s not much fun having a secret on your own. She’d much rather have someone to share it with. Would Branwell be willing to help her?

One thing that holds her back from asking him is that her brother, unpredictable at the best of times, is in a strange state at the moment, very silent and withdrawn. She’s sure he’s not happy — he looks so pale and strained — but for once he’s not dramatizing his woes, but keeping them to himself. He’s stopped going to Mr. Robinson for lessons and he spends most of his time writing, possibly about Angria, but she doesn’t know because he never talks about it. She wonders what his plans are. If he has any …

No, on the whole it would be better not to ask him. Branwell’s very different from Anne. Instead of helping her, he’ll criticize her ideas and make her feel inadequate. And she can’t forget his rejection of her when Charlotte first went away to school. It still smarts.

The last thing she wants is to be hurt all over again.

Emily still has no idea what happened regarding Branwell and the Royal Academy. Since she’s been home, no one has said a word about it.

One day when she’s in the kitchen with Tabby, getting the dinner ready, she asks casually, “Did Branwell ever go to London in the end?”

Tabby sighs. “Ay, that he did.”

“But he didn’t stay?”

“After nobbut a few days he was back with his tail between his legs and some story of being set upon by thieves who robbed him of his brass.”

Emily’s astounded. She looks at Tabby, and there’s something in her face that makes Emily say, “You said ‘story.’ Don’t you think it’s true?”

Tabby sighs again. “Well, tha knows Maister Branwell and what a talent he has for spinning a yarn. I don’t know. Has he not said owt to thee?”

Emily shakes her head. She wonders if Tabby’s right. If such a dramatic event had taken place, Branwell would never stop talking about it.

But if that wasn’t what happened, then what did?

That night Branwell still hasn’t come home by the time Emily goes to bed.

She’s just blown her candle out when she hears the click of the back gate opening and a voice, unmistakably Branwell’s, roars, “
We’ll drink and we’ll never have done, boys,”
under the window.

Oh Lord, he’s drunk. And if he carries on like this he’ll wake Aunt and Papa.

Emily shoots out of bed, seizes a shawl, and, wrapping it round her shoulders, runs downstairs. There’s a red glow from the banked-up fire in the kitchen, where Tiger’s lying asleep on the mat, but the back kitchen is in darkness and it takes her a moment to find the latch on the back door. She has to fend off Grasper, who whines with excitement, obviously thinking they’re about to go for a midnight walk.

“Sh! Lie down,” she commands, finally getting the door open and letting in a blast of icy air.

Branwell is standing out in the yard, bareheaded and coatless, staring at the white snowflakes swirling round him. In the cold blue light the effect is magical, and he looks so entranced that for a moment Emily hesitates to break the spell. But this won’t do; his head and shoulders are already covered with a dusting of snow and if he stays out there much longer he’ll catch pneumonia.

She hisses, “Branwell!”

His face lights up at the sight of her. “Em! Come out! Have you ever seen anything so bewitching?” He starts to sing: “
Oh snow, how be-oo-tiful art thou …
”

For heaven’s sake.

“Branny, come in. It’s freezing,” she entreats, and then seeing that he isn’t budging she goes out and tugs on his arm. “Do come.”

He lets her pull him into the house and shut the door. As she helps him through the kitchens he leans his head on her shoulder and says in a slurred voice, “Em, what a dear you are. My liddel sister — oops — not so liddel — my tall liddel sister …”

At the kitchen door she stops and says, “Listen. You must be quiet now and go to bed.”

“Bed,” he agrees, smiling like a fool.

Though his lurching gait threatens to pull them both over, she manages to get him up the stairs and into his room, where he collapses onto his bed and almost immediately starts snoring.

Nonplussed, Emily wonders what to do. She supposes she should take off his boots. But that’s all, she tells herself. He’ll have to sleep in his clothes.

She unlaces his boots and tugs them off. She’s inclined to leave it at that, but then she relents and puts a blanket over him. Satisfied that he shouldn’t come to any harm, she tiptoes out and shuts the door.

On the landing she stops and listens, but all is quiet in the other bedrooms. Emily shivers, suddenly realizing how cold she is, and she’s glad to dive back into bed.

Branwell’s been drunk before, but never as badly as this. Is it something to do with what happened in London? Is he so unhappy?

She can’t let it go on any longer — she must try to find out what’s wrong with him.

In the morning Branwell looks ghastly, with a pallid face and bloodshot eyes. And the way he’s cradling his head in his hands suggests he’s suffering from a headache as well.

When Aunt says, “How are you this morning, Branwell? Are you quite well?” he sits up and tries to look perkier, but Emily can see that he’s putting it on.

Later she goes into the parlor, where he’s sunk in a chair with his eyes closed. “I thought I’d try for The Meeting of the Waters today. Do you want to come?”

He opens one eye. “Sh, Em, not so loud. And no thanks, I don’t want a walk.”

“But it’s a lovely morning. And have you realized how peaky you look?”

He does raise his head then and says with something like his old spirit, “Not half as pasty as you did when you came home.”

“I expect not,” says Emily mildly. “But I’m better now, though I’m not sure if I can make it all the way to the falls. That’s why it would be nice if you came.” She puts on an appealing face.