The World Within

by Jane Eagland

  “I couldn’t. It’s such childish claptrap.”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad.” Julia Caris’s voice. “It is rather melodramatic, I grant you, but I think she has something.”

  “I’ll say she has! A bad case of brain fever is my diagnosis. I mean, why write in such tiny print that you can hardly read? And listen to this. ‘At the approach of the ghastly specter, Alfonso —’ ”

  Galvanized at last, Emily bursts into the room and snatches the paper from Lydia’s hand. “How dare you! How dare you go into my drawer and take this. It’s private.”

  Lydia doesn’t turn a hair. “If it’s so private, you shouldn’t wave it around at night when people can see you. We thought it was a love letter, didn’t we, Harriet? But alas, nothing so interesting.”

  Speechless with fury, Emily can only glare at them.

  Julia has the grace to look embarrassed, but the others are obviously amused.

  “Come, mes enfants,” Lydia drawls. “Let us leave Miss Brontee to commune with her muse while we lesser mortals go and eat.”

  They straggle out, giggling.

  Emily feels hot tears pricking her eyes. She bites hard on the inside of her lip. She won’t cry. Those monsters won’t make her cry.

  She looks at the crumpled piece of paper in her hand. They don’t know anything. They’re stupid, ignorant, vile beasts. But their intrusion into her private world has ruined this story for her.

  Pressing her mouth into a grim line, she tears the paper into tiny pieces. She’ll throw it down the privy. Then no one will ever be able to laugh at it again.

  The next Sunday, coming back from church, Emily’s surprised when Charlotte appears at her side.

  In a hurried undertone, as if she’s pretending to be a spy, Charlotte asks, “How are you?”

  Emily eyes her uncertainly. What’s happened to being-a-teacher-and-not-a-sister? Is it safe to respond naturally, to tell Charlotte how much she’s missed her? She’s not sure. She chooses to play it safe and, like a pupil, replies formally, “I am well. Thank you.”

  “Oh, Emily!”

  This would be more affecting if Charlotte didn’t immediately look round to see if anyone has heard her using her first name, and Emily’s impulse to be spontaneous dies away. She waits to see what will follow.

  Charlotte hesitates and then says, “You could try making more of an effort, you know.”

  “An effort?”

  “Well, for a start, you could avoid getting black marks. It’s easy enough.”

  Emily raises her eyebrows. Easy enough for Charlotte, perhaps, who cares for such things, but the thing is, she doesn’t care.

  “And” — Charlotte looks uncomfortable, but she plows on — “you could make an effort to speak to the others.”

  “I thought you said I should keep my ideas to myself.”

  “You know what I mean.” Charlotte’s tone is exasperated. “You could try to get on with the nicer ones. They’re not all like Lydia Marriot.”

  Emily looks at Charlotte helplessly. She really doesn’t understand a thing. “What would be the point?”

  “It might help. You might feel better.”

  Emily stops dead and stares at Charlotte for a long moment. There’s so much to be said, but it’s so impossible to begin.

  She says carefully, “I don’t think I would. But thank you for the suggestion.” She gestures ahead of them. “I’d better catch up with the others. Before I get another black mark.”

  And she walks away quickly before Charlotte can say anything else.

  One September afternoon their walk takes them to a rise with a good view of the local hills. The heather, Emily sees, with a clutch at her heart, has turned purple. In an instant she’s seized with a fierce longing to be at home — she almost doubles up with the pain of it.

  It comes to her that she can write to Papa that very evening and ask him to send the carriage for her.

  So simple. She feels giddy with joy.

  But …

  If she does that, won’t she have let Papa down? He would never say so, but she would feel it. The last thing she wants to do is add to his worries.

  There’s something else to consider too — her own pride.

  If she were to give in to this weakness, it would be such a humiliation, such an admission of failure. She can’t do it.

  Emily sits in her place at the long table in the schoolroom.

  Outside, in the mist, everything is still, lifeless. There are no birds flitting about in the trees silhouetted against the grey October sky. Here inside there’s silence apart from the drone of Harriet Lister reciting her lesson to Miss Eliza.

  Even though the room is quite warm, Emily can’t stop shivering. Something’s wrong. She can’t eat or sleep and she’s cold all the time now, especially her hands and feet. The other girls, who wear dainty lace mittens, laughed when she first appeared in her bobbled woolen gloves, but she doesn’t care. It doesn’t help, though — her hands are still cold.

  In front of her the history textbook lies open at the page she’s supposed to be learning. But there’s something wrong with her brain too — whenever she looks at the sentences, her mind blurs and goes foggy. She can’t even write to Mary any more, not even in her head — it’s too much effort.

  She can’t understand it.

  Unless this is the brain disease flaring up! A spasm of fear grips her. She’d forgotten about the rabies.

  Don’t be silly, she tells herself sternly. The dog bite was far too long ago to be affecting you now. You’re tired, that’s all.

  Not surprising, since she spent most of the night staring out of the window again. The view isn’t inspiring — across the garden to the road and beyond that to the silhouetted roofs of Mirfield — but sometimes it helps, especially if she can see the stars.

  She closes her eyes, just for a minute or two. Actually, she feels so tired she could weep. She won’t, of course.

  These days, all the time, there’s a painful tight feeling in her chest, as if somehow a heavy stone has lodged itself in her heart. It’s not unfamiliar — she felt the same after Elizabeth died. But why feel it now? No one’s died. But that’s what it feels like, like grief.

  If Papa were here, he would try to comfort her as he did then by quoting from the psalm: The Lord is nigh to the broken-hearted.

  But it’s not true. God isn’t here; she’s on her own and she feels displaced, uprooted, wrenched away from everything she knows, everything she loves. She can’t get back to that stark treeless land of heath and stone that she longs for.

  She whispers to herself, “My heart has lost its home, its true earth.”

  “Miss Brontë.”

  Emily jumps. Miss Eliza is summoning her to come and recite her lesson. She doesn’t know it, but she stands up anyway and as she does so a peculiar feeling sweeps over her. She feels hot and cold at the same time and something’s happening to her eyes — everything’s going dark at the edge of her vision. She can hear Miss Eliza’s voice in the distance. And then it fades out altogether …

  With a sharp smell of ammonia the world suddenly swims into view again.

  Unaccountably Emily finds herself staring at the hem of the tablecloth, beneath which she can see the sturdy polished leg of the table. What is she doing lying on the floor? Twisting her head, she sees Miss Eliza with a bottle of smelling salts clutched in her hand.

  Emily tries to sit up, but her head swims and she’s glad to lie down again.

  “Just stay where you are, Miss Brontë.” Miss Eliza’s tone is crisp, as if she’s exasperated by this interruption to her lesson. “Girls, stand back and give her some air. Miss Caris, will you please fetch that cushion and place it under her head, and Miss Upton, open the window.”

  Julia’s face, looking rather alarmed, appears close to hers and her head is lifted and gently replaced on the soft pad.

  Emily feels foolish lying there on the carpet. She’d like to get up, but somehow she hasn’t got the s
trength.

  After a while Miss Eliza says, “Can you sit up now?”

  “I’ll try.” This time she manages it, although she feels so dizzy she’d quite like to just go on sitting here. But Miss Eliza issues some more instructions and she finds herself being hauled to her feet by Lydia and Harriet, who half-carry her to an easy chair and drop her unceremoniously onto it.

  The others take their places round the table. She’s half-aware of heads craning in her direction, of muffled whispers, but soon they forget about her and she lies back and shuts her eyes.

  Actually, it’s quite pleasant to be sitting here by the open window, feeling the cold air on her face and letting her thoughts drift aimlessly.

  At dinnertime, though Miss Eliza frowns at her request, she’s allowed to stay behind.

  She’s just starting to relax into the unaccustomed peace when Charlotte appears, her face crumpled with worry.

  “It’s all right,” says Emily. “I only fainted.”

  Charlotte kneels down by her chair, and to Emily’s surprise her sister takes her hand. Giving her a searching look, Charlotte says gently, “It’s not all right, is it?”

  At this unexpected tenderness Emily is horrified to feel her eyes pricking with tears. She blinks them away, but she knows Charlotte has seen them. “I can do this,” she says.

  For answer, Charlotte squeezes her hand. “I’m sure you can. But …”

  She stands up with that look in her eye and set of the chin that means she’s made up her mind about something and without another word she goes out of the room, leaving Emily to wonder what she means to do.

  Two days later, Emily finds out. In the middle of a French lesson with Miss Catherine she’s summoned to Miss Wooler’s parlor.

  Asking her to sit down, the headmistress regards her with such a sorrowful look that Emily’s heart turns over. Something terrible has happened at home.

  Papa … please don’t let it be Papa.

  “Miss Brontë, your sister has persuaded me, much against my will I must add, to write to your father.”

  Emily breathes again. Not bad news. But then her hackles rise. Has Charlotte, Miss Goody Two-shoes, asked Miss Wooler to write to Papa to complain of her behavior in an effort to make her care about getting black marks? How dare she?

  The headmistress is still talking. “As I said to Charlotte, I think that, given time, these things sort themselves out, and I believe her reaction is rather extreme to what is after all nothing more than homesickness, but she was insistent. So,” Miss Wooler taps the piece of paper lying in front of her, “your father writes that he is sending the carriage for you tomorrow.”

  Emily’s heart convulses so violently that for a moment she thinks it has stopped beating.

  “Do you mean,” she says faintly, “that I am going home?”

  “Why, yes,” says Miss Wooler, looking puzzled. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  She’s saying something about being sorry to lose Emily and the quality of a brain such as hers, but Emily stops listening.

  All she can hear is a voice inside her singing in a spirit of joyous release.

  And then she remembers that Charlotte has accomplished this for her. Her sister has understood her after all, and has not only given her what she needs, but in a clever way that she can accept. For this is not her doing. She has not begged Miss Wooler to send her home; Papa has ordered her to come back.

  What else can she do but obey?

  When Miss Wooler finally releases her, she flies back to the schoolroom and, rushing past the long table, ignoring the astonished looks of the other girls and Miss Catherine’s sour grimace, she goes over to Charlotte, who is sitting with the two little Cook girls, and seizes her hand.

  “Thank you,” she says simply, giving Charlotte’s hand a vigorous shake. “Thank you so much.”

  Charlotte, looking a little embarrassed, glances at her pupils, who are agog at this startling interruption, but then she looks Emily full in the face and, her mouth curved in a little smile, she nods in acknowledgment.

  Then Emily spins away and is sailing out of the room when Miss Catherine’s voice pulls her up short. “Où allez-vous, Mademoiselle Brontë?”

  And Emily turns and announces in a loud voice to the whole room, “I’m going to pack.”

  The minute Emily steps through the front door Grasper hurls himself at her, barking joyfully as she stoops to meet him. It’s so good to clasp his solid body in her arms, to bury her face in his rough coat and smell his doggy smell.

  “Emily, my dear.” There is Papa in the study doorway, patiently waiting to greet her. Emily’s heart misses a beat. She’s only been away three months, but in that short time, he’s aged — he looks more gaunt and frail than ever.

  She hugs him tight for a long time. When, eventually, she lets him go, he has a good look at her, and his face changes and she sees fear in his eyes. He should be worrying about himself, not her.

  “Papa, there’s no need for alarm. I’m not ill.”

  “But my dear, you look so thin and pale. Are you sure nothing ails you?”

  “No, Papa, truly.” How can she begin to explain what the trouble was?

  Luckily, she’s saved from having to try because Anne appears and flings her arms round her. Emily squeezes her sister hard, as if she never wants to let go. Over Anne’s head she sees a beaming Tabby, Aunt, looking frosty, and — “Branwell! What are you doing here? I thought you were in London?”

  Her brother gives her a sheepish look. “Change of plan, old thing,” he mutters.

  Emily catches the tail end of a glance passing between Papa and Aunt. Something’s going on, clearly, and she and Charlotte have been kept in the dark.

  Her brother was due to go to London and present himself at the Royal Academy. By now he should have embarked on his new life as an art student. She gives Branwell a quizzical look, but he won’t meet her eyes.

  Later she must find out what’s happened. Now she just wants to revel in being at home again.

  As soon as she’s flung off her cloak and bonnet, she strides into the kitchen. Grasper follows at her heels, as if he’s afraid to let her out of his sight, and she keeps her hand on his head, reassured by that familiar sensation.

  Yes, it’s true, she’s really here.

  She stands there, taking it all in — the scrubbed table, the copper kettle suspended over the fire, the rocking chair with its faded patchwork cushion, oh, and Tiger asleep there! — and then she notices Tabby frowning at her.

  “Eh, lass, I don’t know what tha’s been doing to thiself. Tha’s no thicker than a lath. What have they been feeding thee on at yon school?”

  “I’m all right, Tabby, really.” Emily scoops Tiger up and pushes her face into his fur. “Hello, puss. Have you missed me?”

  Tabby is not to be deflected. “Tha looks famished and that’s the truth of it. And as for thi face — why, tha looks like a ghost come from the grave. Tha’ll put that cat down and sit and eat some oatcake before tha does owt else.”

  And Emily does just that.

  The portion of oatcake isn’t very big, but by the time she’s halfway through it, she feels as full as if she’s eaten an enormous meal. Tabby doesn’t let her go, though, until she’s finished the last crumb.

  She’s longing to talk to Anne. She can’t tell her about the girls finding her story — it’s too humiliating and it’s made her feel uncomfortable about Gondal. But Anne will help her get over it. Once they get back into their old way of talking, it will all be right again.

  Before she can find her sister, Papa calls her into the study. Oh, there is the piano, its lid open, waiting for her!

  She forces herself to attend to Papa. She’s puzzled when he begins to question her minutely about the regime at Roe Head: what the food’s like, the provision for exercise, hours of study, and so on.

  Why does all this matter now? Unless he’s worried about Charlotte. But there’s no need.

  “Papa, I think
Roe Head is a very good school. I’m afraid it didn’t suit me, but then I don’t think any school would — the difficulty lay with me, not the school.”

  Papa’s face clears. “That puts my mind at rest. Your sister will be glad to hear it.”

  “Charlotte?” Emily feels as though she’s missed something.

  “No, it’s Anne I’m speaking of. Miss Wooler has kindly offered to keep your place for her. Naturally your aunt and I are anxious for her — after all, she’s never ventured from home before — so I wanted to speak to you before I agreed to it.”

  Emily’s breath catches in her throat. They can’t mean to do it! To send Anne to that dreadful place! “What does Anne say?” she asks bleakly. She has a good idea what the answer will be.

  “She seems set on going.” Papa sighs. “I am quite surprised to find that our little Anne has so much determination.”

  Emily is not at all surprised. But as soon as Papa releases her, she rushes to find her sister. She can’t do this. It’s madness.

  Anne listens quietly while Emily enumerates all the reasons she can think of why it’s not a good idea for Anne to take her place, beginning with the tedium of the lessons and ending with the stupidity of the other girls. “And,” she adds, “they are not nice. They’re wealthy, spoiled misses for the most part. You won’t fit in.”

  “I don’t suppose I will. But are you sure none of them are nice? Did you talk to them much?” Her wide eyes look innocent as she asks the question, but Emily isn’t fooled. Her sister knows her too well.

  “Of course I didn’t,” she mutters. Should she tell Anne about the story? No, she can’t. At the very thought of it, her gorge rises and she feels as if she’s going to be sick.

  “Well, then.” Anne gives Emily a direct look. “I’m sorry it hasn’t worked out for you, but it might go better for me. You see, I’m tired of being ‘little Anne’ and being the baby of the family, whom no one expects very much from. You three have had a chance to make your way in the world —”

  “I didn’t get very far,” says Emily drily. “And nor has Branwell, by the looks of it.”