The World Within

by Jane Eagland

  Emily winces. She doesn’t just feel wounded, she feels annoyed with herself for being such an idiot. And she shouldn’t have gone so far — revealed so much of herself to Mary. She feels ashamed, as if she’s violated what is most precious to her — her inner private self.

  Ruefully she rubs her scar. When the dog bit her, she coped by herself.

  This has been a useful lesson, she thinks grimly. She won’t fall into that trap again. Never again will she put her trust in someone she doesn’t know.

  After the diversion of Mary’s visit, Charlotte and Anne lapse back into gloom too. And then they have to go back to school.

  Emily feels terribly sorry for both of them. Charlotte’s so unhappy, and as for Anne, well, she talked to Papa and it seemed to help a bit, but Emily’s not convinced that she won’t succumb to the same doubts once she’s back at Roe Head, at the mercy of those frightful clergymen. What if she agonizes so much over this she becomes ill?

  Emily can’t help feeling guilty. It’s as if both her sisters are going into battle while she stays safe at home.

  “But it’s no good,” she tells herself. “I can’t do it. I’ve tried and I’ve failed.”

  This dismal thought does little to raise her spirits. Altogether this last month has been horrible. She feels just as miserable as she did when Anne went off to Roe Head last term, no, worse, because her hope of a friendship with Mary has died and her treasured collaboration with Anne on Gondal has ended.

  But she resolves that this time she won’t mope: It doesn’t achieve anything. Instead, she grits her teeth and does her best to comfort herself with Grasper’s company; she starts to learn a new and challenging sonata by Beethoven; and she attacks the housework with vigor, launching into the spring-cleaning even though it’s only January and causing Tabby to declare, “Bless the lass, she’s been spirited away by the fairy folk and they’ve left a whirlwind in her stead!”

  Even though the thought of Mary makes her feel sad, Emily hasn’t forgotten the electrifying effect of Mary’s comments about Balzac and her desire to see if she can attempt something more real in her own writing. She keeps putting it off, not wanting to reawaken the memory of that awful scene with Anne, but one afternoon, feeling at a loose end, she thinks she might just have a look at an old Gondal story.

  If she finds it upsetting, she can always stop.

  Within minutes, she’s pulling a face. There’s romance by the cartload, but insight into the human heart? The adventure proceeds at such a pace that the characters scarcely have time to breathe, let alone feel. Maybe Julia Caris was right — it is rather exaggerated. And she can see now that she was so eager to get the tale told that she’s not given enough thought to the way she was telling it. In places her language is far too elaborate. What an idiot! Just showing off that she knows all these clever words. And then sometimes the style’s so clumsy that she’s not even saying what she meant to.

  With a snort of disgust Emily tosses the story aside. Call herself a writer! She’d be better sticking to making bread — at least her loaves are nothing to be ashamed of.

  She stands up and paces about the room.

  Does this mean that she’d better give up the attempt? But if she enjoys doing it, what does it matter how good her stories are? It’s not as if she has any desire to be published. She’s not like Charlotte and Branwell, wanting “to be forever known,” as Charlotte puts it.

  But it does matter. It matters to her. She wants her stories to be the best she can make them.

  Sitting down, she picks up the story and looks at it again. Yes, she can see now. She needs to slow it down, not everywhere, but here, for instance, and here. At these points she needs to show in more depth what the characters are feeling. And she needs to write more plainly, more directly, and think more carefully about choosing words that say exactly what she means. Yes, that’s it.

  Throwing back the lid of her writing desk, she fetches out a sheet of paper. Such a familiar action and yet how long it’s been since she last did this! She can feel her pulse racing in anticipation.

  Taking a deep breath, she dips her pen into the ink, and begins a new version of the story.

  Within minutes she’s absorbed and she only realizes it’s time for tea when Branwell comes to fetch her.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I’ve been calling you for ages. What are you doing?”

  Called back from far away, Emily lifts her head and gives him a dazed look.

  “Nothing. Just writing.”

  “Just writing,” that is, rewriting, becomes a new, engrossing interest. It’s not the same as creating new stories — it doesn’t engage her deeper self in the same way — but, without Anne, she doesn’t feel like doing that anyway. Reworking old material doesn’t salve her heartache, but it helps — while she’s doing it, she can’t think about anything else.

  It drives Emily back to the library at Ponden Hall in search of books, not her old favorites, but new books that she reads in a new way — instead of just letting herself be carried away by the story, she’s alert to what the writers are doing and how they’re doing it, and then she tries to apply what she’s discovered to her own writing.

  She spends as much time as possible on it, scribbling away on a corner of the kitchen table while Tabby bustles round her, or sitting in her bedroom by the window so she can see the moors when she looks up. After tea, she takes her work into the parlor and joins Branwell at the table.

  One evening after they’ve both been writing for some time, Branwell throws down his pen with a sigh of satisfaction. “Listen to this, Em!” he exclaims and he proceeds to read her a stirring passage in which his hero, Alexander Rogue, now the Earl of Northangerland, declares his love for his wife, saying he would rather spend an hour in her arms than an eternity in heaven.

  He reads well, his eyes flashing and his voice trembling with passion.

  Emily finds it thrilling. “Branny, that’s marvelous,” she says when he’s finished, and she means it. Used to his depictions of wars and endless political wrangling, she had no idea he was capable of writing like this. She feels a glow of pleasure that at long last he’s shared this with her.

  She can’t help being envious, though. How is it that Branwell can write about feelings so easily? But then again, she’s not so sure about his style — it’s very ornate in places, definitely showing off.

  “It’s not bad, is it?” He grins at her.

  On an impulse, she says, “Can I read you something?”

  “Of course.”

  She flicks back a few pages in her notebook, looking for a particular passage. It’s a scene from a story she’s been reworking in which Fernando, leaving his home for Gondal, bids farewell to his sweetheart, who is also his foster sister, and she’s tried hard to bring out the complexity of his emotions. As she reads it her voice trembles slightly.

  “Do you think I’ve got him right?” she asks. “Is that how a man would feel?”

  She braces herself as she waits for his reaction. Has she made a mistake in sharing this with him? Is he going to humiliate her again?

  But to her amazement, Branwell says, “I’d say you’ve got him to a T. By gosh, Em, you’ve come on a bit since those little tales you used to write.”

  Heat rushes to Emily’s cheeks. She feels absurdly pleased at his unexpected praise.

  “Read me some more.” Branwell’s tone is peremptory.

  “Really?”

  He nods, leaning forward in anticipation.

  Somewhat self-conscious at first, Emily reads on, but soon she is caught up in the tale and forgets her audience.

  “Stop!”

  Emily blinks in surprise.

  “I don’t think that’s right. Fernando wouldn’t kill himself.”

  “He would. That’s exactly what he’d do.”

  And they are off, arguing fast and furiously.

  They’re still at it when Papa looks in on his way to bed to say good night. As soon as he’s gone, Branwell gat
hers his papers, saying it’s time he was off — to the inn, she guesses.

  Left alone, Emily feels suddenly bereft.

  This is the time for their nightly walk round the table, she, Anne, and Charlotte. If only Branwell had stayed in, she might have persuaded him to join her. It was so much fun to be working together again.

  One morning a few weeks later Branwell seems particularly gloomy, and Emily fears he’s received a rejection from the editor of Blackwood’s Magazine. Casually she asks, “Have you heard anything from Mr. Blackwood?”

  “No, and I don’t understand why. I’m surprised people like him can’t see genius when it’s under their noses.” Branwell heaves a deep sigh. “Father thinks I’d be better concentrating on the painting than expecting anything to come of the writing. And he thinks it’s time I was earning some money …”

  “He said that?” Emily is surprised. Though Papa seems happy for Charlotte to earn her living, no one has ever suggested that Branwell should be doing the same.

  “Not in so many words, no. He suggested I should paint some portraits — local dignitaries and so on. He thought it would be good practice for me and then he said he couldn’t quite see his way to financing the Europe tour just yet, so putting two and two together, I think it was a hint that I should stir myself.” He blows the air out of his cheeks. “It’s not a bad idea, I suppose, since I’m not getting anywhere with the writing at present.”

  He doesn’t sound very keen and Emily can’t blame him. Painting portraits doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.

  She regrets it for herself too. What if his painting puts an end to their writing conversations? Branwell’s far more dogmatic than Anne, of course, and he always believes he’s right, which can be exasperating. And it irritates her that he doesn’t seem to care if his writing’s slapdash. Though she’s suggested that he might try to improve pieces, he never does — whatever pours out is left, unedited.

  But sometimes working with him is nearly as good as working with Anne and he’s even helped her to come up with ideas that could turn into new stories, because his suggestions make her realize she wants to do just the opposite.

  Emily smiles to herself, thinking of how he complains that her female characters have too much to say for themselves. Little does he know that comments like, “Your Augusta is more like a man,” only serve to confirm that Augusta is just as she wishes her to be.

  The first sitter to present himself at the front door of the parsonage, looking rather awkward, is John Brown, the sexton. As Emily takes him upstairs she wonders whether Branwell has persuaded his friend to have his portrait painted to hoodwink Papa, but Branwell later assures her that it’s a proper commission, paid for by the Freemasons.

  John Brown is followed in due course by other sitters, and while Emily is glad that Branwell seems to be having some success, she’s annoyed that he seems to expect her to play the part of a maid, answering the door and showing up the visitors while he grandly waits in his studio.

  One afternoon the doorbell rings while they’re both in the parlor and Branwell immediately rushes from the room, saying, “I expect that’s for me. Open the door, will you, Em?”

  She calls after his retreating back, “I will not. I’m not your servant, you know.” After a few minutes she hears the front door open and close and smiles to herself. Branwell has been forced to give in.

  The next moment she hears a cough and a voice says, “Excuse me.” Startled, she looks up to see a young man standing in the doorway.

  Emily is taken aback. Before she can gather her wits and send him upstairs, he’s in the room.

  “I beg your pardon. Your servant let me in — she said she had to get back to her stewpan and that I was to wait in here.”

  Silently cursing Tabby, Emily stares coldly at the visitor. She was in the middle of revising a critical passage — Augusta is faced with the choice between revealing the existence of her illegitimate child or killing it. Emily was struggling to convey the anguish of Augusta’s inner conflict and the intrusion of this young man has broken the spell.

  He doesn’t seem put off in the slightest by his chilly reception, instead saying, “Might I introduce myself? I’m Robert Taylor.”

  She knows him by sight from church — his father is a trustee and an acquaintance of Papa’s — but she’s never spoken to him. She doesn’t intend to start now. Countless tea parties with the curates have taught her that not replying is the quickest way of preventing further unwelcome attentions. But Robert Taylor seems impervious to this tactic.

  Advancing to the table, he continues, “And you, I believe, are Miss Emily? I’m sorry I’ve interrupted you — writing to your sisters, are you?” He nods at the papers scattered in front of her.

  She immediately sweeps them together. In doing so one of the pages falls to the floor and the visitor moves to pick it up. “I can get it,” Emily snaps and, plucking up the sheet of paper, she dashes it down on the pile and puts her arms over it protectively.

  She’s affronted. How dare he speak about her writing? It’s private. And how does he know Charlotte and Anne are away from home? Branwell’s obviously been tittle-tattling. She wonders briefly whether Robert Taylor is one of Branwell’s cronies from the Black Bull. If he’s one of the young men encouraging Branwell to drink far more than is good for him, then she dislikes him even more.

  She’s certainly not going to ask him to sit down, but nor will she demean herself by showing him upstairs. Branwell must come and fetch him. “You are expected, I take it?” she asks. If not, she can send him packing.

  “Oh yes. Your brother is going to paint me.”

  Emily doesn’t comment. What’s keeping Branwell? She doesn’t like the way this young man keeps looking at her.

  At last she hears Branwell running down the stairs. Thank heavens for that.

  Her brother hastens in, full of apologies. “Taylor, my dear fellow. I’m sorry you’ve been left down here.” He glowers at Emily.

  “Not at all. I have been delighted to make the acquaintance of your charming sister.”

  Emily gives Robert Taylor a Medusan glare. If only she could turn him to stone.

  But he’s smiling broadly at her. “I said to your brother here, I hope he’s going to cast me in a flattering light. If he creates a true likeness of my ugly face, it’ll frighten anyone who looks at it.”

  What a vain fellow. He obviously doesn’t believe a word of what he’s saying, but if he’s expecting her to contradict him, he’ll be disappointed. Why on earth doesn’t Branwell take him away? She frowns at her brother, who finally takes the hint.

  “Come on, Taylor. We’d better get started.” Branwell takes his friend’s arm.

  “Very glad to meet you at last, Miss Emily.”

  She acknowledges this with a stiff nod. And praise be, the two of them are finally going.

  Out in the hallway, Robert Taylor says something that makes Branwell laugh.

  Emily grits her teeth. They’d better not be talking about her.

  When Branwell comes down for tea, late and with his hands stained with paint, Emily says, “I’m not opening the door for that young man when he comes for his sittings. You must let him in yourself.”

  Branwell laughs. “I don’t know why you’ve taken against him. He’s a perfectly pleasant fellow.”

  Emily doesn’t deign to respond.

  “Anyway, he’s taken a shine to you.”

  “How could he? He doesn’t know anything about me.”

  “Well, he’s seen you often enough at church and been admiring you from a distance, so I now hear.”

  Emily snorts.

  “As for not knowing anything about you, I think he’s worked you out pretty well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He says you’ve got fiery eyes. And he seems to find that rather appealing, for some strange reason. I said he was right — you are a firebrand, but that he didn’t have to live with you and he wouldn’t find your temper so appea
ling if he did.”

  Emily throws a bread roll at Branwell’s head, but he just ducks and laughs.

  Grasper, whose eyes have never left the table, immediately wolfs down the unexpected treat. When he’s done, Emily calls him over and he snoozles his nose into her face. Fondling his head and not looking at Branwell, she says, “I’d rather the two of you didn’t talk about me.”

  Branwell shrugs. “I’ve no desire to discuss you — can’t think of anything more boring. Don’t!” he adds as she picks up another roll. “You’ll give the poor dog indigestion. But I can’t help it if Taylor wants to talk about you, can I?” And he gives her an angelic smile.

  When Robert Taylor comes for further sittings, Emily makes sure she keeps out of his way. She can hear the two of them talking and laughing upstairs and if she finds this too disturbing she takes herself out for a walk.

  One afternoon on her way to her bedroom she notices that the studio door is ajar. Branwell’s not about and, suddenly curious to see how he’s been getting on, she slips in.

  The room, which still smells slightly of the malt and grain that used to be stored there, is in a fine old state of disorder, with half-finished canvases stacked anyhow against the wall, dried-up brushes sitting in jars, and splashes of paint on the floor. The easel is over by the window and she goes across to look.

  She has to admit that her brother has caught his friend’s likeness rather well. Robert Taylor does look pleasant enough, with his wavy brown hair and open expression, but it’s a bland, rather ordinary-looking face. There’s nothing about it to hold the onlooker’s attention or suggest that this person would be interesting to know.

  She remembers what he’s supposed to have said about her and she grimaces.

  Silly nonsense.

  Then she pauses. Supposing that it was true? Supposing he did admire her? Emily Jane, beloved object of someone’s affections …

  She shakes her head with a wry laugh.