Worlds of Ink and Shadow (7 page)

Branwell eyed the white cat, which was now slouching off toward the kitchen. “Read this,” he said, sitting down. With a flourish, he handed over a page of his work.

Charlotte scanned the page, squinting at her brother's appalling handwriting. The scene took place in the secret meeting rooms of the Elysium Society. At first it seemed like Branwell's usual fare—Rogue . . . S'Death . . . drinking . . . a suicide—but when she reached the end of the passage, she frowned. “What's this? A plot to murder Zamorna?”

Branwell slapped his bony hands on his bony knees, appearing pleased with himself. “That's right. And he won't die a heroic death, either. He'll die like a dog. He'll . . . he'll beg for Rogue's mercy.”

Charlotte dropped the paper in his lap with what she hoped was an air of scorn. “Is this some ridiculous attempt at blackmail? Are you trying to tell me that if I quit the invented worlds, you will kill off my favorite character?” She was tempted to take back the page and tear it into tiny pieces, but instead she shrugged. “Do what you will. The Duke of Zamorna's legacy will live on.”

“I think not,” Branwell said. Was he chortling? “In my story, it will be revealed that Zamorna is not really the Duke of Wellington's heir, as everyone thought, but the son of a poor tailor. All will come to light. It was
Zamorna
who tried to assassinate the parliament and rig the Verdopolitan horse races.”

“That's absurd. He thwarted those schemes!”

“And . . . and . . .” Branwell was obviously making up the plan as he went on. “The famous diamond bandeau he gave to Mary Henrietta?” He lifted a finger into the air. “Paste! And all the portraits he claims to have painted? Forged! Or . . . no . . . they were actually painted by Rogue! Zamorna's entire legacy will crumble to dust.”

Charlotte felt her face grow hot, though she tried to sound unconcerned. “What do you want, exactly?”

Branwell grinned, rocking back and forth in his seat. He could sometimes become overwrought in a way that Charlotte found unseemly. Under all his pomposity, there was something delicate about his nerves. Charlotte suspected this was why their father had never sent him away to school.

“One more story,” he begged, clasping his hands. “Please.”

“Stop bouncing. I'm becoming seasick on my own sofa.”

“What harm could it do? A final farewell to Verdopolis, written by us.”

He really did look absolutely beside himself. She set a hand on his knee to stop him from being so agitated. “I'm sorry, Banny,
I truly am, but I've decided. I'm giving up writing, crossing over, Verdopolis—all of it.”

Branwell's face fell. “You're serious.”

“I am.”

He sat back on the sofa, deflated. Then, as if just taking in something she'd said, he sat up again. “If you give up writing, how will you ever become an author?”

Charlotte was taken aback. She had never told him that she wanted to be an author, had never mentioned it to anyone.

“If you don't write, then you'll have to become a governess.” There was genuine concern on his face. “You'd hate that life.”

“Y-yes,” she said, unable to hide her surprise at his knowing things she had never confessed. There was little else a poor woman of her class could do to earn her way, but she had never relished the idea. If it weren't for the necessity of teaching her sisters, she would be out of the house and working as a governess now. Her secret hope had always been to write for a living instead.

“It was a childish idea,” she said. “The truth is, my writing . . . it simply isn't good enough.”

Branwell waved a hand dismissively. “Nonsense. It's quite adequate.”

“
Adequate
is not good enough for today's publishers, I'm afraid, and it's not good enough for me.”

Branwell scowled. “Well, if you're determined to wring a
compliment out of me, then you are more than adequate. You are approaching good. You are an approaching-good writer.”

She smiled. “It's no use, Banny.”

“Devil take you! I won't say more than that.”

“I'm not asking you to!”

Branwell crossed his arms and puffed out his cheeks. “The fact that you've decided not to pursue a career as an author—a decision I think is highly premature, by the way—doesn't mean you can never write again.”

Charlotte sat back on the sofa and tried to gather her words. She felt sorry now for tearing the story paper at the breakfast table without a word of warning to her brother. It had been cruel. She was turning her back on something they'd shared for a long time.

“Branwell,” she said gently, “when we write, doors appear. We can't stop that. I have simply become unwilling to pay the toll for going through. You and I pay too heavy a price for crossing over.”

They both looked to the open door leading to the hall. They rarely spoke about the price they paid to get to their worlds, and they were scrupulously careful about keeping the secret from their younger sisters.

“I don't know why you have to bring that up,” he said. He slouched in his seat and pulled the ridiculous red blanket closer around his shoulders. Branwell was always cold—either that or he thought the blanket's flamboyant color suited him.

“If I continue to write,” Charlotte said, “I don't think I'll have the strength to resist crossing over. I must give up the whole idea of authorship.”

“You're determined to make a martyr of yourself.”

“Oh, I suppose I might write essays—but absolutely nothing imaginary.” She felt her shoulders slump. “The price would have been worth it if I had become a writer, if I could have made something great and beautiful . . .” She straightened up again and took her knitting into her lap, handing her brother the ball of yarn. “But I must simply face the fact that in all our years of writing and crossing over, I have never been able to create anything better than a melodrama—and, Banny, if crossing over is only an escape, an amusement, I cannot justify it.”

Branwell didn't have an answer for this, but she didn't expect him to. For a while she sat in silence, knitting and purling, while he let out yarn as she needed it. Their aunt would say that a lady shouldn't work a stocking in a man's presence, but Charlotte didn't think Branwell counted.

“I know you love him,” her brother said.

Her fingers stopped.

“You pretend it will be easy to cast him aside, but I know you. It will be like losing a limb to leave Zamorna.”

Something tightened in her chest. “No one can love a made-up person.”

“It's obvious from your writing how you feel. I don't blame you.”

She let out a hiss of breath. “Now you've made me drop a stitch.”

“Admit it, Charlotte. If you could write Zamorna's greatest story yet, wouldn't that be worth the price?”

EMILY

I
'D LIKE TO SPEAK TO YOU.” CHARLOTTE'S VOICE
was stern.

“Certainly,” Emily replied.

“Put on your bonnet, please. We'll take some exercise.”

Emily winced. In their small house there were few places to have a private conversation, and so the siblings sometimes used long walks or invented errands as a means to be alone. Charlotte evidently wanted to have a lengthy talk.

Emily put on her bonnet and lightest cloak and waited for Charlotte in the hallway. The Brontës had finished their midday meal, and Papa had gone out again to visit parishioners. Branwell had disappeared upstairs. Anne and Aunt Branwell were sewing in the dining room.

“In Penzance one could tell the difference between summer
and winter,” Emily heard Aunt Branwell say with a long sigh. She came from the south of England and had been grumbling about the Yorkshire climate for as long as Emily could remember.

“Yes, Aunt,” Anne replied. Emily felt a little guilty for abandoning her.

Charlotte came down the stairs tying her bonnet. Usually the younger girls would be free in the afternoon to follow their own pursuits, but of course Emily had disappeared to the moor that morning and couldn't very well assert her freedom now. Charlotte ushered her toward the door.

Whatever Aunt Branwell might say, summer was at its peak in Yorkshire. The fog had finally lifted, and the patch of lawn between the parsonage and the churchyard had turned a lush green from all the wet weather. The flowers Charlotte had planted along the cemetery wall were lifting their heads to the sun.

Charlotte led Emily through the cemetery gate, striding with businesslike efficiency along the narrow path. Many of the local women had taken advantage of the break in the clouds to lay their laundry over the tombstones to dry. Charlotte shook her head at this and tut-tutted as they passed.

“If we see anyone we know, don't stare into the void like a sheep. Try to smile. We've got Papa's reputation to uphold.”

Emily bared her teeth at her sister's back. When had Charlotte become this person? It seemed to be Aunt Branwell's voice coming out of her mouth. Emily missed Charlotte Brontë, friend
and confidant. Charlotte Brontë, teacher and chaperone, she didn't like half so well.

They rounded Papa's church and came out onto Haworth's noisy main street. A horrible stench hit Emily like a blow, making her eyes sting. There were no sewers in Haworth, and many of the houses had muck middens at the back—fenced enclosures where the contents of the privies were kept until they could be removed. The one at the back of the Black Bull Tavern was particularly bad, and the price of warmer weather was an increase in the smell. Charlotte covered her nose with a handkerchief and hurried them down the steep road toward the center of town.

“Why are we going this way instead of walking the moor?” Emily asked, still blinking from the stench.

Charlotte took a moment to answer. “This is Haworth,” she said. “This is where we live. I needed to look the real world in the eye today.”

Emily lifted her skirts to avoid a mound of rubbish at the side of the road. “The moor isn't any less real than this,” she grumbled.

As they descended, Haworth became poorer. The houses were built right up against the street, and they were all begrimed with soot from the factories. These were workers' cottages mostly, built to accommodate the families of mill employees. Nearly all the inhabitants of Haworth were in the wool trade in some way or other. If they didn't work at a mill, they combed wool at home or farmed sheep—though a few cut stone in one of the nearby quarries.

Haworth is an ugly place
, Emily found herself thinking, and she gazed up longingly at the glimpse of green hills still visible above the blackened chimney pots.

“Yesterday when Branwell and I were writing,” Charlotte said, “I clearly remember closing the window, and yet when I returned from Verdopolis it was open.”
How like her to notice a detail like that
, Emily thought. She and Anne were similar in that way.

“I opened it,” Emily confessed. “And it was I who left that paper for Papa to find. I'm sorry, Charlotte. It was an accident. I thought I'd returned all the stories to the place under the floorboards.”

Charlotte nodded as if she had gathered this already. “Why didn't you simply ask to read our writings? I thought you'd lost interest in the invented worlds. At least . . . I hoped you had.”

Lost interest
, Emily thought.
Did she truly believe that?

They reached the bottom of the hill, and Charlotte led them onto a wide stone bridge, where they stopped and looked out over the parapet. In front of them was Bridgehouse Mill. The humming and clattering of power looms and spinning jacks and other machinery could be heard through its open windows, and smoke from its tall chimneys spread across the sky like a stain.

“Marvelous view,” Emily said, raising her voice a little to be heard over the machines. “I can see why you wanted to come!”

She looked down at the river below. Effluence from the dyeing process had turned the water a sickly blue color, and skeletons of
dead fish littered the banks, their odor mingling with the distinctive muttony smell of washed wool.

“Honestly, Charlotte, is this our destination?” Her frustration was getting the better of her. She was certain now that her sister had brought her here to be scolded. “You thought this was a congenial place for a conversation? It's disgusting.”

“It's life,” Charlotte said, peering up at Emily with frank directness.

There was something arresting about being looked at by Charlotte Brontë. She was very small, under five feet, and yet Emily often found her quite intimidating. Her large gray eyes seemed to pin Emily to the spot. An angel would have a gaze like that—a rather terrible angel who could see all one's sins. Emily shifted her feet, bracing to hear some uncomfortable truth about herself.

“I'm sorry,” Charlotte burst out suddenly.

Emily was taken aback.

“I'm sorry that everything I teach you, everything you learn, can only lead to one dreary profession. I wish . . . I wish I could have saved you from that.”

That's a wicked trick
, Emily thought.
Leading someone to believe they are about to be scolded only to make an apology. It leaves one quite unprepared.
“We don't blame you. Anne and I have always known we would have to be governesses.”

Charlotte nodded and turned to look down at the river, though she was so small she had to stand on her toes to see over
the parapet. “We'll be quite miserable, you know,” she said to the water.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose we shall.”

Charlotte peered at her again. “You know?”

Emily gave a short laugh. “That we shall make terrible governesses? Certainly.” Her own personality, she knew, was entirely unsuited to such work, though she could imagine Anne succeeding, if she could ever overcome her shyness.