Always Emily

by Michaela MacColl

  How few would believe that from sources purely

  imaginary such happiness could be derived.

  Charlotte closed her eyes and imagined the next scene in her story.

  The queen wore a velvet dress of emerald green, setting off her golden tresses. A breeze lifted her standard and the bold silk snapped in the wind. She rode at the head of an enormous army, but her duty meant nothing to her. The duke was coming.

  A neigh drew her eyes to the top of the small hill, under the ancient oak tree. The duke of Zamorna appeared, seated expertly on his horse of war. She caught her breath and urged her own mare forward. Her breath grew faster and shallower. Her body felt disconnected from the earth and she knew if he only asked it, she could fly away. But his face was impassive, his nostrils flaring, and his supple lips pressed tightly together. Had he forgiven her?

  “Your Grace,” she whispered.

  In a swift, agile movement, he dismounted. Without a word, he held out his arms. Heedless of her royal dignity, she fell into his embrace. The beating of his heart dominated her own.

  “So this is heaven,” she thought. Or said aloud. It mattered not anymore.

  His voice rough with passion, he said, “Dear heart. . . .”

  “Miss Brontë?” A hand touched Charlotte’s arm.

  Charlotte started. Her breath came quick and short. For a moment, she was suspended between two worlds: Angria, the imagined land of handsome dukes and passionate queens, and the tedium of her life at Roe Head School. She had to blink to see the classroom clearly. Her students, half a dozen young ladies ranging from the age of eleven to sixteen, stared at her curiously. Angria retreated back into her imagination with the inexorability of the tide.

  “Miss Brontë? I asked you twice to check my answers.” The simpering girl in front of her was typical of all her students: middle class, of limited intellect, and utterly dull. This student was always the first to finish her work—an assignment Charlotte had carefully planned with the hope of occupying the girls for the remainder of the class.

  “Give it to me, Miss Lister,” Charlotte said, recovering herself. Holding the paper to her nose, the only way Charlotte’s weak eyes could make out the cramped handwriting, she scanned the composition. The girls exchanged glances and tittered as they always did. “Sit down and rewrite the conclusion. Haste is wasteful if you cannot write to good effect.”

  With a sullen expression on her face, Miss Lister tilted her head and asked loudly, “Miss Brontë, are you feeling ill? You look flushed.”

  “Don’t be impertinent,” Charlotte retorted. “I assure you I am perfectly well.” She caught a glimpse of the clock. Half an hour remained before tea. She pulled out her grading ledger and inserted a clean piece of paper over her neat columns of her students’ scores.

  Tilting the ledger so her students couldn’t see what she was doing, she dipped her pen in the ink and began to write. The story flowed onto the paper as easily as rain falling to the earth. Only when she reached the moment when the duke declared his love did her hand falter. Desperately, she tried to imagine what he would have said if he had not been interrupted. Oh, the tiresome Miss Lister! Because of her ill-timed interference, Charlotte might never be able to re-create that moment of passionate bliss.

  The clock struck four o’clock and with relief she dismissed the class with a clap of her hands.

  As soon as they were gone, Charlotte retreated upstairs to her tiny dormitory room. As a teacher, she had the small luxury of sharing neither her room nor a bed, a fact Emily still resented. But this precious solitude was the only thing making Roe Head bearable.

  Sitting at the rickety table that served as her desk, she pulled out her story and tried to write the ending again. But the romance was gone. Instead of the heat of the duke’s embrace, Charlotte felt a cold emptiness. The loss was overwhelming. She pushed the paper aside and massaged her skull with her fingers, loosening her dark hair from her tight bun.

  “What am I going to do?” she whispered. Writing about the duke brought an unseemly warmth to her cheeks and an ache deep inside herself. Her writing, her infernal internal world, was a temptation she should not, must not succumb to. She must put aside the duke and return to her duty. Her future was not to be a great literary light. She was doomed to teach other people’s children until she grew old and withered. “But must I sit from day to day, chained to this dreary life, missing any chance for love and adventure?”

  Tap, tap.

  Charlotte tried to ignore the hesitant knock on the door.

  Tap, tap.

  “Who is it?” Charlotte called out, not concealing her irritation.

  The door opened slowly and one of the younger students warily poked her head inside. “Miss Brontë, you are wanted by Miss Wooler.” The student’s eyes widened as she took in Charlotte’s disheveled appearance.

  Miss Wooler was the headmistress at Roe Head. Charlotte quickly shoved her papers inside her folder. She stood up, smoothed her hair, and adjusted her skirts. “What does she want?”

  The girl shook her head. “I don’t know, Miss Brontë.” She hesitated, then said in a hushed tone, “I think something might have happened to your sister.”

  In an instant, Charlotte forgot Angria and pushed past the student to run down the hall to Miss Wooler’s office. She didn’t breathe; she only ran. Who knew what might have happened to Emily? Lovely, reckless Emily, who thought she was invulnerable. “Let her be alive,” Charlotte chanted under her breath.

  When she arrived at Miss Wooler’s door she knocked and entered in the same moment. “Miss Wooler, what’s wrong? Is Emily all right?”

  Sitting behind her wide desk, Miss Wooler narrowed her eyes at Charlotte’s precipitous entrance. Charlotte glanced about frantically, exhaling in relief when her eyes lit upon Emily standing in a pool of light from the south-facing window. No matter what Emily had done, Charlotte reminded herself, her sister was alive.

  Emily looked much the worse for wear. There were twigs and broken leaves trapped in her curls. A glance at Emily’s hands revealed scratches and cuts.

  Emily met her sister’s gaze without a word. Charlotte’s panic and concern warmed Emily in a way she found unexpected. But as Charlotte took in the situation, Miss Wooler’s forbidding expression, and Emily’s defiant stance, Emily saw the anxiety drain from her sister’s face to be replaced by a mixture of impatience and exasperation. A look she had seen only too often.

  “Miss Brontë, please come in,” Miss Wooler said, a touch of sarcasm in her voice. “And Emily, step forward where I can see you.”

  Even seated, Miss Wooler was an imposing woman. Her massive desk suited her personality and her position. She wore her usual white wool gown, but unusually she was scowling. Charlotte thought the headmistress resembled a medieval abbess about to mete out judgment on an erring novice. And Emily? An impenitent through and through.

  “Emily decided to leave Roe Head . . .” Miss Wooler began. “By way of a large oak tree.”

  Charlotte’s mouth formed in an O but she couldn’t manage to speak.

  “The French mistress discovered her just as Emily was climbing out of the window. She tried to stop her, but Emily fell.”

  “From the second floor?” Charlotte asked, aghast. “You foolish girl!”

  “It was her interference that made me fall,” Emily interjected.

  Charlotte edged closer to the desk. “Miss Wooler, I’m so sorry. She won’t do it again.”

  “Thank you kindly for your concern, dear Charlotte,” Emily said. She deliberately moved away from her sister. Why couldn’t Charlotte take Emily’s side, just once?

  Miss Wooler contemplated both girls. Charlotte was tiny, not more than five feet, while Emily towered over her at almost half a foot taller. Charlotte stared into Miss Wooler’s face, but was so shortsighted the headmistress didn’t believe Charlotte could really see her clearly. Emily, on the other hand, looked down and away—a characteristic that in Miss Wooler’s experience
meant she was untrustworthy.

  Miss Wooler’s voice had iron in it. “Emily, you terrified Madame Librac. She thought you had fallen to your death.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of climbing down a tree,” Emily retorted. Then she turned to Charlotte. “Tell her, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte ignored her.

  “But why?” Miss Wooler asked, genuinely puzzled. “What could possibly warrant your running away?”

  To Emily, Miss Wooler’s direct question merited an honest answer. “I want to go home,” Emily said, her eyes on her scuffed shoes.

  “Oh, Emily!” Charlotte’s voice was barely louder than an accusatory whisper. “You promised.”

  “I said I would try,” Emily said. “But I don’t like it here.”

  “Ah. You are homesick.” Miss Wooler was on surer ground now. “That is a natural part of going to school. You will be stronger for having conquered it.”

  Charlotte willed Emily to keep quiet, knowing all the while that keeping Emily from speaking her mind was like asking the wind not to blow across Haworth Moor.

  “What if I’m not interested in conquering my homesickness, Miss Wooler?” Emily asked coolly.

  “But Father wants you here,” Charlotte interjected.

  Keeping her eyes on Miss Wooler, who Emily knew ultimately would make the decision, Emily said, “Father wouldn’t want me to stay here if he knew how unhappy I was.” She stepped closer to Miss Wooler’s desk and looked her straight in the eye. “I can’t write here. I have no space to think. I don’t fit here.”

  “Has anyone been unkind to you?” Miss Wooler asked. This was another problem she knew how to manage.

  Emily looked blank. With a flash of irritated understanding, Charlotte realized Emily wouldn’t even notice any unkindness.

  After a moment, Emily said, “Miss Wooler, wouldn’t you rather have a student who chooses to be here?”

  “Students do not dictate their desires to me,” Miss Wooler answered. “In most cases, if a student did what you have done, I would send her home. But if I did that in this situation, I would be rewarding your bad behavior.”

  Charlotte shot Emily a triumphant glance. Miss Wooler was expressing Charlotte’s sentiments exactly.

  “I am not accustomed to failure.” Miss Wooler went on. “You will stay and prosper. I will see to it personally.”

  “But . . .” Emily said.

  Miss Wooler raised her hand to ward off any more argument. To Charlotte’s surprise, Emily held her tongue. Miss Wooler said, “Emily, report to the infirmary and have those scratches seen to.”

  With a frustrated sigh, Emily stalked out of the room. Charlotte began to follow Emily, eager to scold her. Miss Wooler’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

  “Miss Brontë, a word, please.”

  Charlotte turned slowly, marshaling her arguments on behalf of Emily. “Miss Wooler, I assure you Emily will adjust. I, too, had difficulties when I arrived—but I became very happy here. She will, too.”

  “I did not call you back to speak about your sister.” Miss Wooler’s voice changed; suddenly she was no longer talking to a student but to an employee. “I wanted to talk about you.”

  Charlotte felt as though her stays in her bodice had been tightened, strangling her breath. “Me?” Her voice emerged as a squawk.

  “You,” Miss Wooler confirmed. “I hear . . . from several sources . . . you are not performing your duties to an adequate standard.”

  “Is this because I scolded Miss Lister? Her essay was not well written. I would have been remiss not to tell her so.” Charlotte promised herself Miss Lister would soon see how strict Charlotte’s standards could be.

  “Miss Lister?” Miss Wooler picked up her pen and jotted down a few words on a piece of paper. “I’ve not spoken to her . . . yet. But some of the other teachers have expressed concern. They’re worried the transition from student to teacher has proven too great a challenge. You seem distracted and unhappy.”

  Charlotte’s hands twisted together, her fingers interlocking. “Miss Wooler, your informants are wrong. I am fine.” Her chest felt tight and it was hard to breathe. “I love teaching, and I’m very grateful for the opportunity you have given me here.” Miss Wooler watched her carefully. With a touch of desperation, Charlotte added, “I’ve been worried about Emily. She has been a source of great concern.”

  Miss Wooler clasped her hands and rested her chin on her fingers. “I want you to succeed, my dear. And not just for your sake, but for Emily’s. I’ve never seen a girl in more need of discipline and rigorous study as she.” As if she were thinking aloud, Miss Wooler said, “I know you and Emily have had an irregular upbringing. When I invited you to teach here, I did so despite my reservations about your father’s political activities.”

  “Father?” Charlotte was astonished. “He’s the reverend of Haworth and a learned and distinguished man of Cambridge.”

  “But also a Radical. I read his essays in the newspaper, railing against the Poor Laws and challenging the mill owners’ right to conduct business as they see fit. Some of my students come from families who own mills. And their parents are concerned about your father’s opinions.”

  “My father tells the truth even when it’s not to his benefit,” Charlotte said simply. “He’s very brave.”

  “I see the apple did not fall far from the tree,” Miss Wooler said. Charlotte’s face warmed at the implied compliment. “Your sister Emily doesn’t lack the courage of her convictions either. I’ve never seen a girl with so little concern for consequences.”

  Emily. Always Emily. In a flat voice, Charlotte said, “Yes. Father and Emily are very similar.”

  “But I digress,” Miss Wooler said. “We were discussing your performance.” She put her hands down flat on the desk and pushed herself to a standing position. Charlotte trembled as Miss Wooler came round to her side of the desk.

  Charlotte waited, hardly daring to breathe. She could not, must not lose this position.

  “As I said,” Miss Wooler said, “I want you to succeed. It would be inconvenient to replace you. But if you cannot manage your teaching duties, I’ll have to do without your services. And since your sister’s tuition is part of your salary, Emily will have to go, too.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Charlotte muttered and made her exit. In the hall, she leant against the door and tried to quell the shaking in her body.

  Her nature proved here

  too strong for her fortitude.

  Charlotte avoided Emily for a fortnight, trying instead to be the best teacher Miss Wooler had ever employed. To the extent she had considered Emily, she’d been relieved Emily had not caused any more trouble. But this evening, Charlotte had been summoned to the infirmary. Emily had fallen into a feverish sleep and could not be roused.

  Emily writhed and moaned on the narrow sickbed. Charlotte placed her hand on Emily’s forehead. The skin was hot, yet her face had a deathlike pallor that terrified Charlotte. She dipped a cloth in a basin of water, wrung it out, and lay it on Emily’s brow.

  The door swung open and Miss Wooler peeked inside. “How is she?” she asked.

  Charlotte rushed to grasp Miss Wooler’s hands. “She’s burning up,” she whispered.

  Miss Wooler glided to Emily’s bed and stared down at her. Her face was kind, but there was a hardness there, too. “We mustn’t be precipitous. I’m sure it’s just a mild fever.” The only light in the room came from two candles on a table near Emily’s bed; Miss Wooler’s eyes reflected the twin flickering flames.

  “I’m afraid she is truly ill. Emily never does anything by halves. We must call for a physician,” Charlotte insisted. “Or send her home to be cared for by our family doctor.”

  The headmistress hesitated. “Are you certain she is really sick? Could this be a stratagem to go home?”

  Charlotte froze. She hadn’t considered that. Not even Emily would sink so low . . . would she?

  She reached out and took Emily’s hand. Her
sister’s skin, dry as parchment, perversely gave her courage to stand up to her employer. “Miss Wooler, what an outrageous accusation!” Charlotte answered, struggling to put assurance into her voice. “Even if Emily would fake her illness, do you believe I would connive at such a plan?”

  Miss Wooler, her lips pursed, watched Charlotte’s face. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said.

  “But even if she is not deliberately pretending, I’ve known unhappy students—not many, but a few—who were so unhappy they made themselves sick. They were looking for attention.”

  “Trust me, Emily is the last person to show off.” Charlotte shook her head. “She cares nothing for the opinions of others, not even her family.”

  “How singular,” Miss Wooler said with raised eyebrows. “But can we rule out a malady of the mind?” Her voice dropped to a whisper and her eyes darted to the door as if she feared eavesdroppers.

  “Emily’s illness may have started in her mind,” Charlotte said firmly, “but she is physically ill now.”

  The wavering light cast a series of fantastic shadows on the whitewashed walls as Miss Wooler paced around the room. “If this is simply homesickness, sending her back would be doing her a great disservice; she might never leave home again.”

  Charlotte took a deep breath. It was time to use her strongest and most painful argument. “Please, Miss Wooler. I’ve lost two sisters already. I cannot lose another.”

  Miss Wooler stopped pacing. “How did they die?”

  “Ten years ago they contracted consumption . . . while away at school.”

  Miss Wooler paled, no doubt considering the effect an outbreak of consumption would have on the reputation of her precious school. What parent would send their daughter to a school where she was likely to waste away of graveyard fever? “She doesn’t have any of the symptoms . . . does she?”

  “The disease attacks in so many different ways,” Charlotte said. “I’ve seen it often in Haworth. I think we should call the doctor, just to be sure.”