The World Within (34 page)

She’s already walked nearly as far without any difficulty, but Branwell doesn’t know that. She’s counting on his spirit of chivalry, and it seems to work: With a sigh, he pulls himself out of the chair.

“I’d better come, I suppose, but I hope you don’t think I’m going to carry you home if you collapse.”

“I won’t.”

It’s a bright, cold morning and fortunately the snow isn’t too deep, so they can walk fairly easily. But Emily’s pleasure at being out in the white perfection of the landscape under a blue, blue sky is tempered by her concern for Branwell and an awkwardness about talking to him. It’s strange to be alone with him. When she thinks about it, in her whole life she’s hardly ever spent time with him without one or both of her sisters present.

Perhaps Branwell’s thinking the same, because he breaks the silence by saying, “I expect Charlotte and Anne would rather be here with us than drudging away at that school, don’t you think?” and they fall to speculating about how the absentees are getting on.

Suddenly Branwell says, “What was it really like for you there, Em?”

Emily’s taken aback. She doesn’t know if she can tell him — it feels too private. But if she wants to coax out of him what really happened in London, it’s only fair that she shares at least part of the truth with him. So she tells him some of her experiences, concentrating on the more obvious things — the regimentation, the tedium of the lessons, her persecution by the other girls. Not mentioning, of course, the incident involving her story.

To her surprise, he listens with a perfectly serious face and doesn’t make any mocking comments at all.

When she’s finished, he says, “If you ask me, it sounds bloody awful.”

“It was,” Emily says feelingly. And then, because she can’t think of any subtle way to approach the question, she asks it directly. “What happened to you in London?”

Branwell groans. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve had enough sermonizing on the subject from Aunt and Father.”

Emily slips her arm through his. “I’m hardly going to judge you, am I? Considering what a success I made of Roe Head.”

Branwell comes to a halt and stares up at her. “Is that how you see it? That you failed?”

“Yes,” she says simply, meeting his gaze.

“I see.” There is a long silence and then Branwell adds, bitterly, “Well, that makes two of us, then.”

Emily doesn’t say anything but squeezes his arm and they resume their walk. Branwell, deep in thought, is silent, but then he looks up at her and blurts out, “I made a complete hash of it, Em.”

She makes a sympathetic face and waits for more.

He sighs. “I don’t know, I found London … well, it wasn’t anything like I expected it to be. There were so many people, you can’t imagine; they crowded the pavements, constantly on the move — it made my head spin. And, do you know” — he looks at her as if he’s making a confession — “instead of being grand, magnificent, the city was … well, dirty … and squalid and noisy.”

Emily isn’t surprised to hear this. It’s how she imagined the capital to be, whereas she’s always suspected that Branwell and Charlotte thought of it as being just like Glass Town, with all its dream-like splendor.

Branwell continues, “I had no idea how big it was. I mean, we’ve been to Leeds and that seems big enough … but London! I’d studied the maps and thought I knew my way about, but I found it totally confusing — I had the devil of a job to find my hotel.”

He stops walking and stoops to fondle Grasper, hiding his face from her. “You know, Em, it made me feel” — he shakes his head — “as if I was a complete nobody.”

He suddenly looks very young and vulnerable, crouching there, and she’s tempted to stroke his head. She doesn’t, though — he’d only shy away, and she doesn’t want him to withdraw from her, not after he’s confided so much, come so close.

She does feel for him. For all his life, everyone has spoken to him, of him, in a way that’s led him to think of himself as special. London seems to have delivered a terrible shock to his pride.

She says, gently, “But what about the Academy? What did they say about your paintings?”

He stands up, looking abject, his pallor making his freckles stand out. “I never got there, Em.”

“What?” She stares at him, shocked.

He shrugs, then indicates with a gesture that they should carry on walking, and this time he takes her arm.

“On the very first day I went to the National Gallery — you know, I’ve always wanted to see all those wonderful masterpieces. But when I did” — he shakes his head — “I thought, What a fool I am. These are works of genius. What I’ve done are just worthless daubs.”

“But Branny, those paintings in the gallery are by artists at the height of their powers. You can’t expect to achieve that straightaway — you’re just starting out. But you might one day.”

“Hah!” Branwell emits a hollow laugh. “That’s a nice theory, Em, but it won’t wash. I still hadn’t quite given up when I went to the British Museum, because Robinson said I needed some sketches of classical statues for my submission portfolio.” He blows the air out of his cheeks. “There was another chap there, sketching away, and we got talking. It turns out he was a student at the Academy, and he showed me some of his drawings. They were brilliant, Em, totally brilliant. I couldn’t for the life of me reveal my paltry efforts — I just slunk away. And that was it. I knew I couldn’t show my face at the Academy — they’d have laughed me to scorn.”

“And that’s when you came home?”

“Not right away. I was a fool, Em, a wretched fool. I couldn’t face telling them at home that I’d funked it, so I went and found the Castle Tavern, you know, the one I told you about, where the innkeeper, Tom Spring, used to be a prizefighter. It was full of sporting types, fellows who know how to have a good time.”

“Is that where your money went?”

“Yes, well, there and … other places.” Branwell looks sheepish.

Emily gives him a look and he says, “Oh, if you must know, yes, I lost a lot betting at a cockpit. I know it was stupid,” he adds hastily as Emily opens her mouth. “You’ve no need to tell me, but once I’d started, I couldn’t seem to stop. I kept going back until the money ran out. Then there was nothing else to do but come home.”

“Oh, Branny.” Emily can see, all too easily, how all this came about. Her brother is so … malleable. Is that the word? He makes her think of a candle flame wavering at every draft … bright, vital, but with nothing solid at its center. “Does Papa know what really happened?”

“He got it out of me eventually. Em, it was awful. It would have been better if he was angry. He was just … you know … disappointed. Aunt, of course, has been very snippy about it. They’ve both taken the line that it’s better to forget it ever happened, say no more about it, you know, that sort of thing. But it’s easier said than done. I can’t forget it, that’s for sure.”

Emily squeezes his arm again.

“It hasn’t helped that, when I got back, Father knew that I’d been running up a slate at the Bull. I don’t know how he found out. I wouldn’t have thought John Brown would have blabbed.”

“Perhaps Mr. Sugden thought that with you going away, he wasn’t going to see his money.”

“Oh, I’d have paid him in the end,” says Branwell airily, with something of his old spirit. “But the devil of it is that Father keeps trying to get me to promise not to go there again. I mean, what’s a fellow to do? I’ve got to have some amusement. And besides, it’s an expression of my artistic nature. Byron was a great tippler, you know.”

Emily holds her tongue. On this subject she doesn’t feel any sympathy, but there’s no point in saying anything — he won’t take any notice of her and she doesn’t want to alienate him just when they’re getting closer.

He looks up at her and says with a slightly embarrassed air, “By the way, thanks for last night. You’re a brick.”

Emily accepts this compliment with a brief nod. But then she says, “Don’t think I’m going to keep putting you to bed, though, if you get into such a state again.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Branwell says earnestly. “I can promise you that.”

After a pause, Emily says, “So what are you going to do with yourself now? I mean, now you’re not going to be an artist?”

Branwell gives her a grin and with a flash of his old manner says, “I’ll be a writer, of course. I’ve always thought that was more my style than the daubing.”

The conversation about London stays with Emily.

She realizes that it’s changed the way she feels about Branwell. She no longer resents all the advantages he’s been given over the years, the favoritism shown toward him by Aunt. It must be hard to bear all that pressure.

She sees now that she’s lucky. Of course, Aunt would prefer that she were proper and ladylike; the old lady would be overjoyed if she suddenly developed a passion for dainty, embroidered handwork, but she can easily shrug all that off. It’s not the same as being expected to succeed at everything she does. Poor Branwell — maybe being a boy isn’t so wonderful after all.

Some days later Branwell comes to find her.

“Did you know that James Hogg has died?”

“Oh no.” Emily is sorry to hear the news. The writer is a great favorite with them all, and they’ve enjoyed his contributions to
Blackwood’s Magazine
.

She’s surprised that Branwell seems more excited than upset, but he soon explains why. “I’ve written to the editor of
Blackwood’s
. There’s a good chance that they’ll take me on as his replacement. What do you think?” He thrusts the letter in front of her nose.

Emily reads it, wincing inwardly. “Do you think it’s a good idea to sound quite so — well — sure of yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“This, for instance.” She points to a sentence:
I know myself so far as to beleive in my own originality.

Branwell opens his eyes wide. “But it’s true. Don’t you think I have originality?”

“Yes, but — oh, never mind. Are you sure that’s how you spell ‘believe’?”

“Hah.” He snatches the letter from her. “What do you know about it? Your spelling’s terrible.”

He’s right about that, so she doesn’t argue, but contents herself with wishing him good luck.

“Thanks, Em.” He winks. “Here’s to the start of my career as a professional writer!”

Emily’s glad to see him so cheerful again, though she’s not sure that his optimism is well-founded. She’s pleased and touched that he’s confiding in her, though. Perhaps now that they’re getting on so well, it would be all right to show him some of her writing? But she’s still not sure. In any case it will soon be the Christmas holidays and Anne will be back. It will be so much better to work with her rather than risk involving Branwell.

She’s looking forward to seeing both her sisters. Perhaps, at last, she’ll be able to have a proper conversation with Charlotte, and as for Anne — she can’t wait to talk to her about all her ideas for Gondal.