The World Within

by Jane Eagland

  Charlotte rouses herself and looks arch. “Oh, there I am spoiled for choice! What men do I meet? The curates, of course!”

  Emily splutters and Anne giggles. Since Mary looks mystified, Emily explains, “The curates are really boring — they invite themselves to tea and all they do is eat and argue. And they treat Tabby dreadfully, ordering her to bring them more bread or beer, as if it was their house.”

  Charlotte says, “Yes, Mary, you’ve never seen such a self-seeking, empty-headed bunch of young men.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. So you’re safe, at least for now. But really, Charlotte” — Mary drops her lightness and speaks in earnest — “you must know that there’s no guarantee that, by marrying, a woman will have a warm, close attachment.”

  Hear, hear! Emily’s glad that Mary said that. Because after all, Charlotte could just as easily find what she wants here at home, if she didn’t have such “daft” notions, as Tabby would say.

  Charlotte goes to speak, but Mary has the bit between her teeth now. “What is more certain is that a wife would have to bend her will to that of her husband and subordinate her wishes to his.”

  “But would she not want to, if she was deeply attached to him?” Charlotte protests. “Would she not be willing to die for him?”

  Emily groans and Mary snorts rudely. “Oh, Charlotte, what a romantic you are. Such nonsense.”

  Anne pipes up, “I think Charlotte’s right.” They all turn to look at her, and she shrinks back into her chair.

  “Well, I don’t want to die for anyone,” Mary declares. “And I certainly don’t want to be financially dependent.”

  Charlotte sighs. “You have a point. If only it were possible to be married and also have control of one’s own money.”

  “Well, it’s not. And that being the case, I shall never marry.” Mary emphasizes her words with a decided nod.

  Charlotte, who has been looking fondly at her friend, says quietly, “But what if you fall in love, Mary?”

  “Oh, that.” Mary waves her hand dismissively and, bending her head, she begins to play with Grasper’s ears.

  Emily thinks a lot about this conversation afterward.

  Marriage is not something she’s ever discussed with her sisters. She had no idea that Charlotte had even thought about it, let alone had visions of what it might be like. And as for Anne agreeing with Charlotte … astonishing!

  Emily tries to think of the married women she’s seen, women she’s scarcely ever taken any notice of. There are the village women, of course, thin with overwork and too often grieving at the graves of their little ones. Or the well-to-do wives who sit in the best pews at church — they seem more interested in each other’s clothing than in their spouses. None of them look as if they are glad to be married.

  And in books, it’s all about love — seeing someone and yearning for them and sometimes being lucky enough to win them. But the books always end with the wedding and never go on to describe married life. Perhaps it’s because it’s too dull to bother with.

  As usual when she has a question, Emily seeks out Tabby, the only person she knows well who’s been married, apart from Papa, and of course she can’t ask him.

  “What’s it like to be married?” Tabby scratches her head. “Well, now, that’s nigh impossible to answer, lass.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because …” Tabby’s clearly struggling. She tries again. “It’s like … tha does thi best and sometimes tha’s happy enough, and sometimes tha’s not.” She waves her hand as if that’s all she has to say on the subject. “Why’s tha asking anyways?”

  “Oh, it was just something we were talking about with Mary.”

  Tabby’s face breaks into a smile. “That lass, she’s a proper caution.”

  “Yes, she is,” Emily agrees.

  Mary is not like anyone she’s ever met. Talking to her is like standing on a hilltop with the wind blowing through you — you feel buffeted, but also invigorated, alive. And Mary doesn’t seem afraid to speak her mind, apparently not caring what anyone thinks of her.

  Emily remembers, with glee, the conversation Mary had with Aunt that morning. Aunt was proudly telling Mary how she had made her nieces sew pincushions and needle cases for the charity basket in the belief that it did them more good than the recipients of their handiwork.

  Mary gave her one of her looks and said, “How so?” and Aunt was left speechless, gaping like a fish.

  Emily smirks. She loves the fact that Mary’s outspokenness extends even to the old lady and that she’s quite prepared to argue with her instead of treating her with the deference she expects.

  Not that Emily agrees with everything Mary says, but she certainly approves of her view of marriage.

  If Emily were to bind herself to some man, she’d have to leave home and go live with him, just as Mama had to leave Penzance when she married Papa. That would be terrible. And fancy not being able to please yourself, but to have to put your husband’s wishes before your own. Why, she’d even have to give up her own name. Emily winces at the thought.

  The answer is obvious. She, like Mary, will never marry.

  On Mary’s last afternoon — a fresh March day, with the breeze sending cloud shadows scudding across the moorland — Emily finds herself walking ahead with their visitor, who seems to enjoy striding out as much as she does.

  For once Branwell hasn’t joined them, though he’s not missed any other walks during Mary’s stay, and they soon leave Charlotte and Anne behind.

  Much as she is beginning to like Mary, Emily feels shy about talking to her and, unusually, Mary doesn’t seem to have anything to say, so they walk in silence. But it’s an easy silence and Emily feels relaxed.

  After a while, feeling warm, Emily unthinkingly rolls up her sleeves.

  Mary says casually, “My word, that’s a nasty scar on your arm.”

  “Yes, a dog bit me.” At once Emily is aghast.

  What on earth made her say that? It must be because she was feeling at ease and had let her guard down.

  She doesn’t very often think about the threat of rabies now — after so many months she’s begun to believe that she’s safe. But as long as there’s the faintest chance of it flaring up, it must be kept from her family.

  How could she have been so thoughtless?

  She looks sideways at Mary. “I know this sounds mad, but would you mind not mentioning this to Charlotte? Or to the others?”

  “They don’t know?” Mary sounds surprised.

  “No, that is … they know about my scar, but not how I got it.”

  Mary looks at her closely a moment and then says, “I see. Right. Well, of course, I won’t say a word.”

  Emily chews the inside of her lip. Can she trust her?

  Mary says lightly, “At least it hasn’t put you off dogs. I can see how attached you are to Grasper.” She nods to where Grasper is investigating a clump of cotton grass.

  Emily seizes on the change of subject gratefully. “Oh yes, I am.”

  “And he’s obviously devoted to you. I like dogs and Grasper is a splendid fellow, but if it was me, I don’t think I’d cope very well with his attentiveness.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “I wouldn’t want to be so needed … I’d rather be free of such dependence.”

  Emily hesitates, but there is something so open about Mary that she is compelled to candor herself. “If it was a human being dependent on me, I would feel the same, but with Grasper, it’s different; I don’t know why.”

  She reflects for a moment and then says, “I think it’s because he’s so easy to be with. You know exactly where you are with him — he can never tell lies. And he doesn’t judge me — he doesn’t care what I look like or whether I behave ‘properly.’ He doesn’t ask anything of me at all, so it is easy to love him.”

  Suddenly embarrassed by this disclosure, she looks at Mary to see if she is laughing at her, but Mary’s face is serious and she nods as if she unders
tands what Emily is saying.

  “I can see why you value him. How refreshing not to be judged! I suspect that, like me, you suffer from the expectations your aunt has of girls. She is like my mother. They both believe that a girl should learn early to busy herself with pointless, trivial activities. It’s so unfair. My brothers have a lot more freedom to please themselves. Do you find that?”

  “Oh yes. Branwell doesn’t have to do any household chores. And he is always favored before us girls.”

  “It’s the same in our house. And when visitors come they always take more notice of the boys, whereas Martha and I are expected to sit there quietly.” She sighs heavily. “It’s a conspiracy to prepare us for a lifetime of patient passivity. Such wicked nonsense when we have the same capacity for action as men. Far too many women ruin their lives by waiting for their fortune to come to them instead of setting about making it for themselves.”

  Emily almost cheers. This heady talk accords exactly with what she believes. And it’s just what she tries to do in her writing, giving her heroines adventures in which they can create their own destinies.

  For a wild moment she’s tempted to tell Mary about Gondal, but then reason asserts itself.

  Though they’ve talked a lot, she doesn’t know Mary well enough. Charlotte has said that, though Mary loves reading, she has no interest in poetry or fanciful ideas. She probably wouldn’t understand the lure of creating imaginary worlds.

  No, she mustn’t say anything. Gondal is private, only to be shared with Anne.

  Mary is still talking. “And as for those who swallow the line that they have a duty to devote themselves to others …” She grimaces as if she’s swallowed sour milk.

  “You don’t agree with that?”

  “Good Lord, no. I believe we women have a duty to act in our own interests. We should do all we can to improve our lives and consider our own pleasure. If we don’t, we have only ourselves to blame.” She looks at Emily, her eyes glowing with passion.

  Mary’s opinion is the exact opposite of the dreary creed that Aunt’s dinned into Emily and her sisters since they were small: duty, duty always before desire.

  Emily beams at Mary. She stops walking and throws out her arms, causing Grasper to bark and jump up at her excitedly. “You are right! And Aunt is wrong! Away with lace collars and cross-stitch needlecases!”

  It feels wickedly exhilarating — like deliberately smashing Aunt’s teapot, which she’s sometimes felt like doing. She’d never be able to say these things to Anne.

  Mary chimes in. “Yes, yes! Away with embroidered tray cloths and pointless samplers!”

  “Oh!” Emily exclaims and drops her arms.

  “What is it? Have you bitten your tongue?”

  “No. It’s nothing. Let’s walk on.”

  It was Mary’s innocent mentioning of samplers that did it. Without warning the box buried deep inside her has sprung open and the monsters are here. As she walks, she clasps her hands to her chest where the pain is and bends as if she’s battling against a fierce wind.

  “Emily?” Mary’s voice is full of concern.

  She can’t tell her, she can’t …

  She looks at Mary, sees her warm grey eyes watching her.

  Could she, for once, take the risk of exposing herself to someone who is a stranger? Mary’s eyes … they’re so like Elizabeth’s. And her reaction to Emily’s disclosure about the dog bite was so sensitive — she didn’t pry or make tactless comments.

  Emily takes a deep breath. She will do this, she wants to take this risk, but she can’t look directly at Mary. If she keeps her eyes on the ground, she might be able to manage it.

  “When my sister Elizabeth died,” she begins carefully, as if she’s telling a story. Because after all, that’s what it is, a story, and she will tell it to Mary, who is listening intently. But it needs a different beginning. She starts again.

  “I loved my sister Elizabeth very much, and after she died I was very …” She pauses and then chooses a word. It’s not at all the right word, but it will do, for now. “I was very upset and a few days after the funeral, Aunt called me into her room and said, ‘You can have this.’ ”

  She looks up at Mary. “It was the sampler Elizabeth made just before she went away to school. She’d had an awful tussle with Aunt over it … she hated sewing and Aunt kept making her unpick the stitches and do it again. But she did finish it, finally.”

  Emily pauses. She lays her hand on Grasper’s head a moment before going on. “When Aunt gave it to me, I stood there holding it, looking at all those wobbly stitches and thinking of Elizabeth’s poor pricked fingers and the pointlessness of it all … and then Aunt said” — she swallows, takes a breath — “Aunt said ‘I thought the text would comfort you.’ ”

  Mary leans toward Emily. “What text was it?” Her voice is quiet for once, gentle.

  Emily closes her eyes, opens them again. She quotes, “ ‘I shall not die but live and declare the works of the Lord.’ ”

  Mary winces.

  “Yes.” Emily shakes her head. “I read it, standing there in front of Aunt, and I felt sick. Elizabeth was dead and Aunt thought this stupid piece of material with its stupid, stupid message was going to help.” She looks at Mary directly. “I threw it on the fire — right there and then, onto Aunt’s fire — and it blazed up and was gone.”

  “What did your aunt say?”

  “I don’t know. I think she was too shocked to say anything, and by the time she could speak I’d gone. I went to the nursery and lay on the bed Elizabeth had died in and I wouldn’t get up, not for ages.”

  Mary doesn’t say anything, but her grey eyes are full of sympathy. They walk on in silence, but it’s still a comfortable silence. It wasn’t a mistake to tell Mary about the sampler.

  After a while Mary observes, “I can’t imagine what it would be like if I lost my sister. Or even one of my brothers, annoying as they are sometimes. Charlotte has sometimes spoken of Maria — I can tell she meant a lot to her.”

  “Oh yes, Charlotte, and Branwell, loved Maria very much. I did too, of course, but …” Emily hesitates. “Maria was so good. I mean, she was good at everything, but also, she never did anything wrong. Aunt was always saying, to all of us, ‘Why can’t you be more like Maria?’ ”

  “That must have been tiresome.”

  “It was. It wasn’t Maria’s fault, but she was rather like a saint, so when she died it almost seemed inevitable, you know, as if she’d spent her life preparing to go to heaven. But Elizabeth was different.”

  “Not saintly?”

  Emily smiles. “No. At least, not in that way. She was … ordinary. But that made it easier to love her. And … you know, we didn’t have Mama, but Maria and Elizabeth did their best to make up for it. Maria tried to look after us all, but Elizabeth took special care of me.” She frowns, trying to find the right words, to explain. “You know, it was as if she belonged to me and I belonged to her.”

  Mary nods, as if she does know what Emily’s talking about. “You must miss her very much.”

  Emily hunches up her shoulders. Then she says, simply, “Yes.”

  And now she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, but it’s all right because they’ve reached a stream, swollen with winter rain, and they’ll have to negotiate their crossing carefully.

  Grasper splashes across at once. Emily reckons she can jump over, but perhaps the stream’s too broad for Mary. She hesitates, but then surprises herself by giving her companion a stiff bow, like a cavalier saluting his lady, and offers her hand, intending to help Mary pick her way across.

  Mary smiles and makes a curtsy in return. Then, without warning, she retreats a few paces, runs up to the stream, and leaps over, landing safely on the other bank. She stretches her arm out, inviting Emily to join her.

  Emily hangs back. She doesn’t need any help. But then something impels her to reach out and take hold of Mary’s hand as she jumps. They are only in contact for a second, but Emily
experiences a shock like a charge of electricity.

  As they walk on, she can still feel the impression on her skin — the strength of Mary’s grip, the warmth of her palm.

  That night Emily lies on her pallet bed, wide awake and feeling restless. Eventually she sits up, making the straw in the mattress rustle. A foot away from her, sharing the bed, Mary and Charlotte are fast asleep.

  Emily gazes at Mary. Tomorrow she’s leaving them. Emily has never been sorry to see a visitor go, but she’s sorry now.

  Mary’s strong, striking face, surrounded by a cloud of dark hair, is still for once. With its hollows and planes clearly defined in the moonlight, she resembles a statue carved from alabaster of some goddess or otherworldly creature.

  Catching herself thinking this, Emily’s amused. How Mary would laugh at her if she were to say such a thing to her face. Because really there’s nobody more sensible and part of this world than Mary. In that she’s very like Elizabeth.

  As the thought forms, Emily sees with a small shock of recognition that, just as she did with Elizabeth, with Mary she feels safe.

  Perhaps — her heart starts fluttering at the idea — perhaps Charlotte will invite her friend again. She’s so fond of Mary that she’s bound to. And then perhaps Mary will become her friend too.

  Emily is astonished at herself — here she is, for the first time in her life, hoping to make a friend.

  Settling down on the prickly mattress, she pulls the covers up to her chin and lies there in the dark, smiling to herself.

  Some weeks after Mary’s visit, a letter arrives for Charlotte.

  Emily, bringing it into the parlor to give to her sister, recognizes the bold, sprawling handwriting and feels a pang of envy — of course Mary will write to Charlotte, it’s only natural. But when Charlotte breaks the seal and examines the folded pages, she says, with surprise, “Mary’s enclosed a note for you, Emily.” She passes it over.

  Emily seizes the thin sheet of paper and scans it eagerly.

  … how I am missing the serenity of your parsonage, where it is possible to have a civilized conversation without being interrupted! My brothers are all at home just now, turning the house into a veritable bear pit with their falling out and squabbling …