The World Within

by Jane Eagland

  Emily frowns as she reads. Mary probably means she’s missing talking to Charlotte or Branwell — the letter is friendly, but there’s nothing to suggest that Mary’s thinking specifically of her.

  And then she comes to the last paragraph:

  Have courage, my dear, and don’t let the tyranny of sewing, et cetera, prevent you from following your heart’s desires.

  Give Grasper a hug from me. Farewell.

  Your friend, Mary

  Emily clasps the letter to her chest. Your friend! And that clear reference to their last conversation. Mary is thinking of her, and not just being polite.

  “What does Mary say?” asks Charlotte.

  “Oh, nothing in particular — complaining about her brothers.”

  “Poor Mistress Mary! She would do better with a wondrous brother like me,” says Branwell.

  Charlotte retaliates at once, and in the ensuing banter Mary’s letter to Emily is forgotten. Emily’s glad. She’d rather keep it to herself.

  But now she’s faced with a problem — she’ll have to send a reply. Having never written a letter to anyone, she feels daunted.

  She takes a piece of paper from her writing desk and uncorks the ink bottle. Then she chews the end of her penholder. How does one begin? Trying to use her best handwriting, she carefully inscribes:

  Dear Mary,

  Thank you for your letter …

  She stops writing and pulls a face. That is so stilted and boring. What on earth is there to say? She glances at Mary’s letter again. Of course! Mary writes if she’s talking to her, so that’s what she must do. She dips her pen into the ink again and adds:

  … which was a lovely surprise. You say you miss our quiet house. Well, it has seemed quieter without you, more’s the pity. I too miss the lively conversations you provoked …

  Better to keep it general and not let Mary know how much their talks meant to her. She doesn’t want to embarrass Mary or herself by saying too much.

  The next time Emily and Anne are out on a walk and talking about Gondal, Emily announces, “I’ve decided that Julius’s illegitimate child doesn’t drown with her mother, but is saved, and Julius acknowledges her as his own and has her brought up in a manner suitable for his daughter.”

  “I still don’t think you should give him a child out of wedlock, but if you insist, that sounds a better idea. What’s going to happen to her?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I think she’s going to play a big part in the story. Her name’s Augusta Geraldine Almeda, and she has grey eyes and black hair.”

  “Oh! Like Mary.”

  “Yes.” Emily blushes slightly. “She is rather like Mary, I suppose. She’s going to be brave and passionate and she won’t be beholden to any man, but strides about the world creating her own destiny.”

  “That could be exciting.”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  Anne looks at Emily speculatively. “You like Mary, don’t you? I noticed you wrote her a letter.”

  Emily stiffens. “I did … but only because she wrote to me, you know.” She’s reluctant to admit to Anne how much she admires Mary. Well, she doesn’t want Anne to be upset or jealous, does she? She hastens to add, “I didn’t tell her anything about Gondal, you know — that’s just between us.”

  Anne says lightly, “I wouldn’t mind if you told her. I think it’s nice that you’ve made a friend.”

  Emily stops in her tracks. “Really?” She suddenly gives Anne a big hug. “Oh, you are so good!”

  Anne laughs, looking bemused. “I don’t think so. You are funny sometimes, Emily.”

  Emily is so caught up with her latest character, Augusta, that she misses an astonishing piece of news.

  She only finds out what’s going on when Anne runs into her bedroom, where she’s busily writing. “Emily, you’ll never guess what’s happened. Papa has been to see Mr. Robinson and Branwell is to try for the Royal Academy.”

  “The Royal Academy?” Emily repeats, puzzled. She’s still in the world of Gondal, where no such place exists.

  “Yes, you know. The school of art in London.”

  “London?”

  Anne laughs at her. “Wake up, you dozy thing, and come and congratulate our remarkable brother.”

  Downstairs, under the cover of Branwell’s noisy jubilation, Emily sneaks a look at Charlotte. Her expression is inscrutable. But when it emerges that their brother will spend three years in the capital, Charlotte says, “Oh, Branwell, London!” and there’s no mistaking the envy in her voice.

  When they’re by themselves in the bedroom, Charlotte doesn’t mention her own feelings. All she says is, “It’s obviously a marvelous opportunity for Branwell, but I’m worried about him.”

  Emily doesn’t need to ask why. Alone in London, with no one to keep an eye on him, it’s all too easy to see their brother being tempted into drinking houses and who knows what else.

  “We’ll just have to hope that Branwell’s sensible.”

  From the look Charlotte gives her, she can see that her sister is no more convinced of that likelihood than she is.

  “And there’s another thing.” Charlotte frowns. “I don’t see how Papa’s going to pay for Branwell’s living expenses. I imagine everything costs more there, don’t you?”

  “Aunt will help, won’t she?”

  “I expect so, but even then, it will be a burden.”

  Emily feels a spasm of alarm. Papa’s always anxious about money. Only the other day, she heard him tell Tabby to light just one candle, now that the evenings were drawing out. This extra worry could make him ill again. But what can they do about it?

  She can’t think of anything useful to suggest.

  Charlotte sighs. “We’d better go to sleep. Good night.” She turns on her side and closes her eyes.

  Emily wishes there was something she could say. She feels so sorry for Charlotte. Once again her sister has to see Branwell having something that she would dearly love herself. But Charlotte won’t want her to mention it, and there’s no point in upsetting her.

  Feeling sad, Emily lies down in her pallet bed and sends a quiet “Good night” toward the other bed.

  Not long after this conversation, Charlotte comes into the parlor one morning, where Emily and Anne are writing. She’s holding a letter and looking thoughtful.

  “What is it?” says Emily.

  “Miss Wooler has written to offer me a position at the school. Her sister is getting married.”

  “A position?” For a moment Emily feels genuinely mystified. And then she realizes. “Oh. I see.”

  Charlotte has already squared her shoulders and adopted the familiar mask that means she’s burying her feelings.

  Emily can’t bear it. “But you don’t have to accept it, do you?”

  “I think I must. It’s fortunate that it’s come just now when Branwell is to go to the Academy. It will be a help to Papa if I am off his hands and this is a much better prospect than going as a governess to people I don’t know.”

  Emily groans to herself. Surely Charlotte isn’t going to do this and cast it in the light of a noble sacrifice for Branwell’s sake?

  But before she can say anything, Charlotte taps the letter, giving Emily a penetrating look that makes her feel as if an insect is crawling down her back.

  “What?”

  “Miss Wooler is also offering a place to one of you,” Charlotte blurts out. “As a pupil, I mean …”

  Emily freezes.

  “It’s not free, of course … I mean, she’ll reduce my salary to cover it …” Charlotte stumbles on unhappily. “But it’s a marvelous opportunity for one of you.”

  She’s looking at Emily pleadingly.

  There’s a long silence in which Emily and Charlotte stare at each other.

  Charlotte looks away first. “I have to tell Papa about this,” she mumbles. And she whisks out of the room.

  Anne puts out her hand and clasps Emily’s wrist. “I could go,” she offers.

>   Emily shakes her head. Papa and Aunt wouldn’t dream of sending “little Anne” away from home. And they’re right.

  She puts her own hand on top of Anne’s. She can feel her sister’s thin bones.

  “It will be me.”

  She means it to be reassuring, but, as she says it, her grip on Anne’s hand tightens.

  Like a distant echo, she hears the sound of an iron gate clanging shut.

  “Congratulations, Emily.” Papa is beaming. “To have this chance to be educated … and for nothing. Why, isn’t it a heaven-sent stroke of good fortune?”

  Emily mumbles, “Yes, Papa.”

  “It’s so generous of Miss Wooler. What a kind woman she is, to be sure.”

  Emily bites back what she would like to say — that the proposed arrangement is to Miss Wooler’s advantage. Another pupil won’t cost much, but she’ll be getting Charlotte’s services at a bargain rate.

  Papa puts out his hand and tilts her chin up so that she has to look him full in the face. “My dear, of all my children, you are most like me. Just as I struggled all those years ago to make something of myself, I know you’ll make the most of this opportunity to better yourself. And it will be a great relief to me to know that should anything happen to me, you’ll be able to provide for yourself. This is a blessing indeed.”

  “Yes, Papa.” And with that Emily has to flee, his words ringing in her ears: a blessing that sounded more like a curse.

  In the bedroom, on her own, she makes herself face it.

  It’s a disaster — the very last thing she would want to happen.

  What is to become of Gondal? How can she go on with it without Anne? How can she live without Grasper? And how can she leave Papa and Tabby and everyone?

  Unbidden, Mary’s words float into her head: We have a duty to act in our own interests.

  Oh, if only she could. If only she had the courage to say, “No, I don’t want to do this.”

  But at once she imagines Papa’s face, how disappointed he would be. That is the flaw in Mary’s philosophy — if you put yourself first, you can hurt other people.

  She can’t refuse this. Not when Papa’s counting on her and expecting there to be one less mouth to feed.

  Besides, somewhere inside her there’s a hard nugget of pride, a voice saying, “It would be weak to run away from this.”

  She thinks of her Gondal heroines sailing off to distant lands, of Lord Byron going to fight in Greece. That’s the kind of strength she admires. Compared to those ventures, this is nothing. She will accept this challenge.

  She writes to Mary to tell her the news. Without meaning to she must have sounded woebegone, because Mary writes back by return of post. Emily opens the letter eagerly, but she’s not altogether comforted.

  I have to admit that I didn’t enjoy school as much as Charlotte seems to have done, but there is much to be gained from it, if you can put up with its drawbacks.

  There’s no need to feel any anxiety about the teachers. They are generally tolerable apart from Miss Catherine, who is somewhat of a martinet, but even she will not trouble you if you keep to the rules. I suspect you will find that rather hard, dear Emily, but it can be done! If I managed, I’m sure you can too!

  Emily doesn’t like the sound of that at all. Rules! How will she live by rules?

  As she looks over her clothes with Aunt to see whether she has what she will need; as she listens to Charlotte’s advice on what things to take and what to leave behind; as Branwell fetches the bags from the lumber room and she begins to pack, she manages to cope by gritting her teeth and refusing to think about what is to come.

  On the last evening Papa calls her into the study and, after speaking seriously about how she must work hard and try her utmost, he looks at her with his mild, kind eyes and says, “It’s a pity that you’ll be away for your birthday, but of course we’ll all be thinking of you. You will never be far from my thoughts, my dear.”

  Emily’s resolve almost weakens.

  She wants more than anything to throw herself into his arms and cry, “Don’t send me away, Papa; don’t make me leave home.” But by holding her breath and digging her fingernails into her palms, by looking over his white head rather than at him, she manages to stop herself doing any such thing. And she even manages to say, “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you, Papa.” Her voice is paper thin.

  Papa takes off his spectacles and rubs his eyes. For a terrible moment, Emily thinks he’s going to cry. If he does, that will finish her. But then he nods to himself and says, “It is a comfort to me that at least you and Charlotte are together; yes, that is a comfort indeed.”

  But we won’t be together, she thinks. Teachers and pupils inhabit different worlds — that much she can remember from the last time she went to school. But of course she won’t say that to Papa.

  As soon as she can, she escapes from the study and goes upstairs to finish her packing.

  Charlotte, who finished her packing hours before, is already in bed, sitting up with her nightcap in her hands. Without saying a word, she watches Emily fold up the last few items and then get ready for bed. But as soon as Emily climbs into her own bed, she says, “Well.”

  “Well, indeed,” says Emily. What else is there to say?

  “You know, it won’t be as bad as you think it’s going to be.”

  Emily looks at her sister. Charlotte has no idea how bad she thinks it’s going to be. But all she says is, “No, probably not.”

  Charlotte fiddles with the strings on her nightcap. “One thing, though, Emily …” She stops.

  “What?”

  “I don’t suppose you were thinking of saying anything at Roe Head about our writing?”

  Emily gives her a look.

  “No, of course not. Good. But, well, it might be prudent to keep some of your more unusual ideas to yourself. The people there might think you’re a bit … well … odd.”

  “Mary didn’t.”

  “Not everyone’s like Mary. She’s a bit unusual herself.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t show you up.”

  Charlotte flushes. “That isn’t what I meant. You know it isn’t.”

  Emily’s not so sure. But rather than go on with this, she lies down. “Let’s go to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

  Charlotte hesitates, but then she settles down too. Soon she’s breathing deeply. But long after Charlotte has fallen asleep, Emily lies awake, staring at the night sky.

  Where will she be tomorrow night? What will she be able to see from her bedroom window?

  The stars glitter back at her, cold and distant and silent.

  The next morning Emily gets up very early, before anyone else, and takes Grasper for a walk. When they return she rests her hand on his head for a moment before shutting him in the back kitchen. After breakfast she asks Anne to feed him and when Anne looks surprised she says, “You might as well begin today.”

  She doesn’t go near the back kitchen again.

  As soon as the carriage arrives she climbs into it without a word. She can’t say good-bye or even look at everyone gathered in the lane to see them off — it takes all her willpower not to betray how desperate she feels. Giving them a half wave, she faces in the direction they are going and as they set off she doesn’t glance back.

  She’s glad that Charlotte’s quiet on the journey. Emily can guess what her sister might be feeling about going back to Roe Head as a teacher, but she can’t think of a single comforting thing to say. All she can do is sit there, gazing out at the passing scenery without seeing it, dread lying like a heavy stone in her stomach.

  When they’re nearly there, Charlotte rouses herself and begins to point out features of the area — “Look, Emily, there’s Kirklees Park … and the Calder Valley beyond” — as if she’s trying to imply: It’s beautiful here too.

  Emily looks dully out of the window. Charlotte’s wasting her time. This pleasant, gentle landscape with its trees and parkland is far too tame,
with too many signs of human occupation.

  This isn’t her world.

  As they turn off the road and pass through a pair of gates, she recognizes the school from Charlotte’s drawing — a grey stone building with bay windows set in an expanse of grass with trees and shrubberies.

  Looking at it, she feels a kind of horror. What is she doing here? What does this house have to do with her?

  They are shown into an oak-paneled parlor where Miss Wooler greets them graciously enough. The headmistress is shorter and stouter than Emily expected from Charlotte’s admiring description. And rather old to be wearing a white dress.

  They are introduced to the other teachers, Miss Wooler’s sisters, but Emily is too anxious to take in which is which. When one of them says, “Come, Miss Brontë, I’ll show you round the house,” it takes Emily a moment to realize that the teacher’s addressing her. With a backward glance at Charlotte, she’s led away.

  Her guide — is she the strict one, Miss Catherine? Or is she Miss Eliza? Whoever she is, she doesn’t talk much but goes at a brisk pace, and Emily is left with a confusing impression of staircases and rambling passageways. In one of the upstairs rooms, the teacher points out a bed by the window. “That’s yours. Put your clothes in those drawers and I’ll be back for you shortly.” And Emily is surprised to see her box there, looking out of place in these unfamiliar surroundings.

  Left alone, she sinks onto the bed and stares around her. The room is decorated in a style someone must have supposed girls would like — the wallpaper is covered with tiny sprigs of rosebuds, while the curtains are patterned with stiff garlands of unnatural-looking pink roses. There are three other beds in the room and she wonders who they belong to. And then she remembers, with a lurch of her stomach, that she will very likely be sharing hers.

  How can she possibly sleep with a stranger?