The World Within

by Jane Eagland

  Remembering the way that Mary behaved with Branwell, surely it would be tedious to be someone’s beloved object, to have them following you around all the time, hanging off your every word, never leaving you alone. It would be suffocating.

  Unless her lover was someone extraordinary, someone with a proud, passionate soul who felt things deeply and understood her need for freedom. In other words, someone like one of her Gondal characters.

  But such people only existed in books. In real life you were saddled with someone like Robert Taylor, someone about as exciting as a dishcloth.

  With a sigh she leaves the studio, closing the door on his smiling painted face.

  Eventually the portrait is finished, the carrier takes it off to Stanbury, where the Taylor family are reportedly “very satisfied” with it, according to Branwell, and Emily doesn’t give Robert Taylor another thought. She occasionally catches sight of him at church gazing in her direction, but she simply turns her head away.

  The chilly spring turns into a miserable summer — day after day of rain — but one afternoon it eases off and a watery sun comes out. It’s a good opportunity to return a book to the library at Ponden Hall.

  Just as Emily’s leaving the house with Grasper, Papa catches her.

  “Will you take this note to Mr. Taylor? It’s about the church rate meeting, so I’d like you to wait for his reply, if you don’t mind.”

  She can easily make a detour to the Taylors’ farm on her way home and with luck she won’t have to speak to Mr. Taylor. Then she remembers, with a frown, that that foolish young man, Robert Taylor, might be there.

  But she only has to hand the note to a servant and wait on the doorstep. She’s not likely to bump into him. Smiling at Papa, she takes the note.

  It’s quite late by the time she reaches the Manor House. The servant who opens the door tells her that “the maister” is in the barn, if she just wants to step across and speak to him. The woman points to the large stone building adjoining the house.

  Skirting the puddles, Emily crosses the muck-bespattered yard and hovers uncertainly on the threshold of the barn. When her eyes have adjusted to the gloom, she spies Mr. Taylor at the far end talking to one of his hands. They seem to be discussing a cow that, penned in by straw bales, is lowing mournfully.

  Emily hesitates; she doesn’t want to interrupt them. But just then Grasper catches sight of the cow and gives a sharp bark.

  Mr. Taylor looks round and, seeing her, comes forward. “Miss Emily! What can I do for you?”

  Silently, Emily proffers the note.

  “From your father, is it? Now let me see.”

  As he reads the missive, Emily gives him a covert glance. He’s not as tall as his son, but he has the same wavy brown hair, although his is greying at the temples, and the same round face, albeit with a ruddier complexion.

  “This needs an answer, but it won’t take a minute. Will you come into the house while I write it? It looks as if it might rain again.”

  Emily shakes her head and then, remembering that Mr. Taylor has the power to affect Papa’s income, she adds, more politely, “No, thank you. I’d rather stay out here.”

  “As you wish. Go through the barn if you like and have a look round. You’ll find my horses stabled out at the back there, if you’re interested.”

  Emily’s eyes widen. Of course she’s interested. “Should I tie up my dog?”

  “There’s no need. Shep and Nell are chained up in the side yard and my Jessie’s in the house — she’s due to whelp soon.”

  He goes off and Emily follows Grasper into the barn, glad to see that the farmhand has gone as well. Grasper thrusts his nose at the cow and growls.

  “No, Grasper. Leave it,” Emily orders, shooing him out the rear door.

  She spends a few minutes with the cow, which licks her with its big, slobbery tongue, and then she wanders out into the yard.

  After the shadowiness of the barn, even the weak sunshine seems bright. There’s no sign of Grasper, but the horses — a chestnut and a grey — are peering over their stable doors. She goes over and strokes their necks, letting them nuzzle her and breathing in their warm, malty smell.

  She’s laughing because the grey is trying to nibble her sleeve when she hears quick footsteps behind her and Mr. Taylor appears at her side.

  “I’m sorry I took so long. My wife seemed to feel the need of my opinion on some brocades, though I couldn’t for the life of me see much difference between ’em.”

  He laughs and Emily smiles politely. She’s hoping he won’t keep her talking for long because she has no idea what to say to him, but to her relief he hands her the note, saying, “Tell your father I’d be glad to see him any time he cares to drop by.”

  Emily nods and calls Grasper, but he doesn’t reappear.

  “He might be in the end stable.” Mr. Taylor nods at an open door. “I’ll look in the washhouse, though I can’t think he’d find anything interesting in there.”

  Emily looks in at the door of the empty stable and there’s Grasper in the corner, head down, intently eating something.

  “What have you got there, Grasper?” she asks, approaching him.

  The bloody mangled remains are barely identifiable, but then she sees the long tail. “Oh, a rat!”

  “What’s that? A rat, you say?” Mr. Taylor comes up behind her.

  “Yes, he must have caught it. Papa thought he’d be a good ratter, but I’ve never seen him do it before.” Emily feels quite proud. It looks as if it was a big rat, and as far as she can see Grasper is unscathed.

  “Mm, well, I hope he did catch it.” Mr. Taylor’s cheery geniality has disappeared and he looks worried.

  “What do you mean?” asks Emily.

  Mr. Taylor attempts a rather strained smile. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure it will be all right.”

  Emily’s not been back home five minutes when Tabby, who’s been listening to her account of her visit to the farm, interrupts her, drawing her attention to Grasper.

  “By heck, yon lad’s got a thirst on him.”

  Grasper, having emptied his water bowl, is licking at it desperately.

  “Do you want some more?” Emily fills his bowl again and Grasper laps away.

  “Has he been running all over?” asks Tabby, watching him.

  “Not more than usual. He … Oh, Tabby, look!” Emily breaks off in alarm as Grasper’s back legs give way.

  He tries to get up, but he can’t — and then he begins to retch, his sides heaving, saliva dripping from his mouth.

  Emily rushes over to him and, throwing herself down onto the floor, she cradles his head. “There, there, Grasper, it’s all right, boy.” She looks up at Tabby, her eyes wide. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Tabby shakes her head. “I don’t know, lass. Mebbe it’s summat he ate?”

  “But he hasn’t — oh!” Emily’s hand flies to her mouth. “The rat! He was eating a rat in Mr. Taylor’s stable.”

  They both turn to look at Grasper, who now manages to get up and stagger a few steps. He’s shivering and then he suddenly squats and Emily watches, horrified, as he releases a stream of bloody diarrhea onto the stone floor before collapsing again.

  Emily gives Tabby an agonized look.

  Tabby’s face is grim. “I’ll fetch maister. Happen he’ll know what to do.”

  Left alone in the kitchen, Emily goes on stroking Grasper and murmuring endearments in his ear, as if by the sheer force of her love she can will him to recover.

  But he just lies there in her arms with his eyes half-closed and every now and then a spasm shakes him.

  Emily’s relieved when Papa comes. Surely it will be all right now.

  While Tabby hovers in the background, her father squats down and studies Grasper, who doesn’t seem aware of his presence, not even when he touches Grasper’s ears.

  “Hmm. They’re cold,” Papa murmurs to himself, as if he half-expected it.

  “Do you know what’s wrong,
Papa?”

  Papa’s face is grave as he gazes at her. “I fear it looks as if he’s been poisoned.”

  “Poisoned? You mean, the rat …?”

  Papa nods. “It seems very likely.”

  “What can we do?”

  Her father lays his hand on her head and the look he gives her makes her heart turn over. “Nothing, my love.”

  “What do you mean? Surely there’s something we can do!”

  But Papa shakes his head.

  Emily swallows hard. “How long has he got?”

  “Not long.”

  She doesn’t utter a sound.

  Turning back to Grasper, she caresses his rough coat, his dear, dear head, and then she just holds him. Her throat and chest are tight, but she remains dry-eyed as she sits there, watching, holding, as Grasper’s eyes glaze over and he slips into unconsciousness.

  After a while, Papa touches her arm. “Emily? He’s gone.”

  She gives the briefest of nods, but still she goes on holding him, and it’s a long time before she’ll allow Papa to lift him out of her arms and take him away.

  “This’ll cheer you up, Em.”

  “What is it?” says Emily wearily, putting down the book she’s been trying and failing to read. Several weeks have passed since Grasper died, but she’s still in a low state. Since she lost her dearest friend, she has no interest in anything. But there’s no ignoring Branwell when he’s in this mood — bouncing into the parlor and pushing his eager face into hers. It’s better to respond and hope he’ll go away soon.

  “Mr. Taylor —”

  “Don’t.” Emily covers her ears. “I don’t want to hear anything about that man.”

  “No, listen.” Branwell pulls her hands away. “You’ll like this, honestly. He caught me after church this morning and said I was to tell you that his Jessie has had her pups and you’re welcome to have one, if you like.”

  Emily screws up her face. “I don’t want a pup.”

  “But it’s a good idea, isn’t it? To help you get over …”

  “It’s too soon.” She turns her head away, caught by a fresh wave of loss. She would rather experience the physical pain of the dog bite again than suffer this — and it just goes on and on.

  “Em?” Branwell is still here, looking at her hopefully.

  Exasperated, she sucks air in through her teeth. He’s impossible. But then she relents — after all, he’s only trying to help.

  “Look,” she says, “one day I might be able to think about having another dog, but I couldn’t have one of Mr. Taylor’s, not after what happened.”

  “But it wasn’t his fault.”

  Emily gives him a stony look. “He said it was all right for Grasper to run about the yard.”

  “Maybe it had slipped his mind that the groom had put down the poison. He can’t possibly remember every detail about what goes on at the farm.”

  “Why are you so keen to defend him?”

  “Because it was an accident, Em. Robert says —”

  “What has this to do with him?” She can’t keep the irritation out of her voice.

  He hesitates. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. The point is, Mr. Taylor feels sorry for what happened and he wants to make it up to you. Can’t you do the poor fellow a favor and accept his offer?” Branwell’s face is shining with earnestness.

  Emily clenches her teeth. “Why should I do Mr. Taylor a favor?”

  Branwell tugs at his hair in exasperation. “Hang it, Em! I’m only saying all this because I think a puppy would make you feel better.”

  Emily doesn’t deign to respond.

  Sighing, Branwell gets up and goes to the door, where he delivers a parting shot. “At least think about it.”

  Despite herself, Emily does. She can’t help it. The house is so dismal without Grasper.

  She tries to console herself with Tiger, encouraging him to sit on her lap and spoiling him with scraps, but it’s no good. The cat, like all cats, is independent and once he’s eaten his treat, he’s ready to go off on his own business.

  Grasper was quite different — he really seemed to seek out her company. She misses the weight of his head on her foot when she’s playing the piano. She misses his warm body pressed against hers when she lies on the rug reading and the way he’d push his nose into her book when he was bored. And there’s such a gaping void at her side when she goes out walking.

  Of course, she’ll never feel the same about another dog, but it might be worth a look. Still, she hesitates. It seems disloyal to be thinking about a puppy so soon.

  But a few days later she says to Branwell, “Next time you see Mr. Taylor, tell him I’d like to have a look at the pups.”

  The thought of the puppies has proved irresistible. She adds hastily, “Just a look, mind. I’ve not decided definitely to have one. And you realize, of course, that I’m not doing this to oblige Mr. Taylor.”

  “No, of course not.” Branwell nods gravely. “I understand completely. I’ll pass the message on.”

  He duly reports back that Emily is welcome to go to the farm the next afternoon to see the puppies.

  “I won’t have to meet Mr. Taylor, will I?”

  “Oh no, I made sure of that.” There’s a gleam in Branwell’s eye that suddenly makes Emily suspicious. Is he up to something?

  She almost changes her mind about going. But if Mr. Taylor appears, she’ll just march straight out of there without saying a word.

  The farm servant who opens the door says, “You’re expected, miss. Come in.”

  Emily enters the house warily — she’d imagined she’d be directed to the barn. “Is your master at home?”

  “No, miss. He’s taken missis to Halifax to buy some stuff for new dresses.”

  Emily relaxes. “I’ve come to see the puppies.”

  “Yes, miss, I know. They’re in here.” The woman shows her into what is obviously the family’s sitting room. Emily doesn’t waste any time looking around — she’s spotted the mother sheepdog and her litter in a large box next to the fireplace.

  Throwing off her bonnet, she crouches down in front of them, entranced.

  The puppies are wide awake and full of life, tumbling over one another and fighting. In a corner two of them are tussling over an old glove, playing at tug-of-war, and she can’t help smiling at their antics.

  She notices that the mother is watching her suspiciously, so she puts her hand out and lets the dog sniff her fingers. When the slow thump of the dog’s tail signals that she’s been accepted, she lets her hand dangle in the box. Within seconds one of the pups starts chewing at it, its little teeth as sharp as needles.

  “Ow, you little rascal.” Emily scoops up the squirming bundle. “Let me have a good look at you.”

  Like its mother and siblings, the puppy is black with white markings, but its eye patches aren’t symmetrical, which gives it a comical look.

  “Aren’t you a funny one!” she exclaims, but then she almost drops the pup as a voice at her shoulder says, “He’s jolly, isn’t he?”

  She spins round. Robert Taylor is standing there, smiling down at her. She thrusts the puppy back in the box and scrambles to her feet.

  “Forgive me if I startled you. You were so absorbed I didn’t want to intrude.” The young man puts out his hand as if to shake hers, but Emily doesn’t take it.

  How long has he been watching her? And how dare he? She feels exposed, vulnerable. And she can’t think of a single thing to say.

  “Miss Emily, I’m so sorry about what happened to your dog. Branwell tells me you were very fond of it.”

  They’ve been talking about her. Branwell really is the limit.

  Her eyes flick toward the door, but the young man is rattling on. “I lost my dog last year. It was to be expected — old age, you know — but even so I miss her. I can imagine how upset you must be feeling about yours. I’m glad you’re going to have one of these little ones. It’s the least we can do.”

  Emily finds her voice a
t last. “But I’m not … that is … I haven’t decided yet.”

  Robert Taylor gestures toward the puppies. “Please. Carry on, and take your time.”

  Oh Lord, he’s misunderstood. Why doesn’t he go away and leave her alone?

  But he doesn’t. Instead, he squats by the box and gestures for her to join him.

  Emily finds herself sinking onto her knees beside him. What is she doing? She should just get up and leave, now.

  But he’s off again. “Now, I know you fancied that odd-looking fellow, but have you seen this little girl here? She’s very pretty, and has a more placid temperament, I’d say.” He holds out one of the pups for her inspection. “Wouldn’t she suit you better? She’d make a lovely pet.”

  Mutely, Emily shakes her head. A pet! That’s the last thing she would want.

  “All right, the boy it is. He’s yours.” He puts the puppy in her arms. But instead of drawing back, he stays where he is, stroking the puppy’s head.

  This is terrible. He’s so close to her she can smell the soapy scent of his skin. But she’s trapped and can’t get up without making a spectacle of herself or squashing the puppy.

  Mesmerized, she watches his hand move back and forth across the puppy’s head, noticing how clean his nails are as his fingers come perilously close to hers.

  And then his hand stops moving, he lifts his head, and, looking right into her eyes, he says quietly, “Miss Emily, you can’t imagine how happy you’ve made me by coming to see me today.”

  Emily widens her eyes. “But —” That’s all she manages to say, because suddenly he kisses her on the lips. Frozen with shock, she lets it happen, inwardly recoiling from the warm moistness of his mouth pressed against hers.

  She’s brought back to her senses by the puppy suddenly whimpering and wriggling. She jerks her head back and, by shuffling away from him, she manages to scramble up.

  “How dare you?”

  He blinks at her, stupefied, and then he looks embarrassed and rises awkwardly to his feet.

  “I — I’m sorry. You’re so absolutely lovely, I forgot myself.”

  Emily screws up her face. What nonsense is this?