by Jane Eagland
“To look after us, I mean. Though I’m not sure that she’d want us. Or could afford to keep us.”
Emily stares at her sister. She has never thought about what it would mean practically, if Papa died. She swallows hard and then says in a small voice, “We’d have to leave the parsonage, wouldn’t we?” A shudder goes through her at the thought.
“Yes,” Charlotte says tersely. “And Papa has no money to leave us. We’d have nothing at all. But let’s not think about it. Because it won’t happen. It won’t.” Charlotte shuffles rapidly down under the bedclothes.
Suddenly it dawns on Emily that it’s not Anne whom Charlotte wants to protect from the truth — it’s herself. But she can’t blame her. She can feel it too — the box lid beginning to tremble as the monsters try to climb out. The Terrible Events pushing themselves back into her mind, insisting that she remember.
“Let’s go to sleep now,” Charlotte says firmly.
Emily turns on her side and Charlotte cuddles up to her back. This is how they like to sleep, facing the same way, curled up like spoons.
Soon Charlotte’s breathing deepens, but Emily goes on staring out of the window as she does every night, watching the light in the sky fade to darkness. When the stars begin to appear she shuts her eyes, but not to sleep.
There is something she must do, something she must face, because if she doesn’t, her fear will grow and grow and swallow her up.
To give herself courage she thinks of the heroic Parry, bold, courageous, confronting the great unknown of the northern regions. Then in the darkness of the bedroom she says the word silently to herself, feeling the shape of it in her mouth.
Death.
She knows it. She has seen it everywhere. Out there on the moors where she has found stiff lambs with their empty eye sockets; heard the screams of a vole snatched by a kestrel. Out there in the churchyard where week after week, glancing from the windows, she has seen Papa standing by the dark grave holes, into which the coffins go, many of them tiny, but a good many adult-sized too.
But it’s not just out there, keeping a safe distance. It can come inside too, in here, into the parsonage, their home. And though in their games and stories the four of them can make characters come alive again, she knows that really they are powerless against it. This is what she makes herself face now, with Charlotte sleeping next to her, concentrating on the shadowy memory buried inside her.
It comes with a sense of solemnity and hushed voices. She can remember a bed, too high for her to see the person lying there. Someone says, “Say good-bye to your mama.”
Mama. Emily can’t remember her face or her voice, but she occasionally has recollections of a sensation — of being safe, of arms tight around her.
Tonight, in this memory, there’s no such comfort. What she sees is Papa, his head bent close to the pillow, with a look on his face so strange and terrible that Emily feels as if something is squeezing her heart.
She feels it now, as she makes herself remember. She’s trembling, but she keeps hold of the feeling as long as she can, until she can’t bear it a second longer.
That’s enough.
She opens her eyes.
The rectangle of sky is there. She stares at it until her breath steadies, her heartbeat slows. She looks for the Great Bear and when she finds it she fixes her eyes on it, as if she wants to absorb its cold glitter.
“Emily, you’re woolgathering again.”
Emily comes to with a start. The forest where she’s striding through the trees vanishes and she’s back at the breakfast table in the parsonage with the others. Aunt’s beady eyes are on her.
“Eat up your porridge, now, before it goes cold.”
Obediently she ferries a laden spoonful to her mouth. She wonders how Papa is today.
It’s been ages since he took to his bed. They know what his illness is now — pleurisy. After they heard Dr. Andrew say the word, Emily rushed to look it up in Papa’s well-thumbed copy of Modern Domestic Medicine. When she read that it could be fatal, she shut the book fast.
Anne and Charlotte have been praying for Papa, but although she never discusses it, Emily hasn’t been able to do that.
She’s always accepted what Papa has taught her about God, but lately she’s found herself questioning things. For example, the idea that God is watching over everyone. Jesus said that God even takes care of every sparrow, but she finds that hard to believe. Look at the terrible things that happen, to sparrows and to people. And if God was interested in Papa’s health, why did He let him get ill in the first place? It makes no sense.
No, it’s no good relying on God or expecting Him to answer their prayers. The only solution is to do what she can herself, so she has been concentrating on focusing her willpower, saying to herself over and over again, “Papa will get better. He will.”
And then just the other day, after weeks of eating nothing more solid than toast, water, and gruel, Papa told Tabby that he had a fancy for a soft-boiled egg.
Emily’s heart leaped when Tabby passed this news on. Perhaps it was a sign that her willpower was working — that Papa might get better after all.
A sudden loud report from upstairs makes them all jump.
“Papa?” asks Branwell, leaping to his feet. “That’s the first time in weeks!”
Emily snorts. “Who else could it be? Papa’s hardly going to ask Tabby to fire his pistol, is he?” She turns eagerly to Aunt. “Is Papa getting up today?”
For an answer, Aunt puts on a “wait-and-see” expression. But the next moment they hear slow footsteps on the stairs. Anne rushes to the door, flings it open, and peeps out. “It is Papa!” she exclaims.
As their father appears in the doorway, Emily and Charlotte jump up to greet him and Branwell lets out a great cheer.
“Gently now, children,” Aunt admonishes. “Anne, let your father sit down.” For Anne is hugging Papa’s arm as if she never means to let him go. He pats her head and makes his way carefully to his chair.
Emily goes to hug him herself — it’s such a relief to have him back among them again. But as he takes the cup of tea that Aunt has poured for him, she sees that his hand is shaking.
Sitting back down, she studies him carefully. He doesn’t look as dreadful as when she last saw him — then his eyes had dark rings under them and his skin had an alarming bluish tinge. Even so, he doesn’t seem very well. His face is pale and drawn, his cheekbones are jutting out more than ever, and he seems to have shrunk — his coat looks too big for him. He’s wrapped yet another layer of white silk round his throat so now his cravat resembles a deep bandage supporting his chin.
In the space of a few weeks, Emily realizes with a small shock, Papa has turned into an old man. But he is alive.
He notices her looking and winks. “I missed the church tower this morning. Poor aim. Out of practice.” A fit of coughing seizes him and they all watch anxiously.
When it subsides, Charlotte says, “Papa, are you sure you should be out of bed?”
He nods. “It’s time enough. I can’t be languishing up there or my parishioners will think I’ve forgotten them. Now tell me, what have you all been up to?”
Life gradually returns to something like normal. Papa takes up most of his parish duties again, though he doesn’t travel as far afield, and before long he’s smoking his pipe in the evenings even though it makes him cough. Their usual routine resumes. They go back to having weekly piano lessons in Keighley with Mr. Sunderland and Papa teaches them in the mornings when he can spare the time.
But Emily can’t relax. She’s stopped being afraid that Papa might die at any moment, but she still feels anxious about him. Because things aren’t the same as they were before. Papa has changed.
He still tells them stories at breakfast, but his laughter seems forced, as if he’s making an effort to be cheery. Often he has to break off because of a coughing fit. In the middle of their lessons Emily notices his attention wandering and sometimes when she goes into the
study to fetch something or give him a message from Aunt she finds him just sitting, not doing anything at all. He rouses himself to speak to her, but she can tell that something’s wrong — he seems weary and sad and distant. As if he hasn’t quite returned to them.
Charlotte’s aware of the change in Papa too — her eyes follow him anxiously whenever he’s in the room — but she and Emily never talk about it.
The only thing Emily can do is what she always does — bury this worry along with all the others deep in the pit of her stomach. And because she’s so desperate to be included, she stops arguing with Charlotte and Branwell about the course their play should take. Accepting whatever role they give Parry, she throws herself into it, scribbling away furiously. She even tries begging a candle stump from Tabby, intending to go on with her story after they’re supposed to be asleep. Tabby refuses, of course, as Emily half-expected her to. “Tha’ll not be wasting a candle on thi nonsense. And tha needs thi sleep, my lamb.”
Emily doesn’t think so. What she needs is to write. She can’t change what might happen to Papa, or to any of them, but in the world of her stories she’s in total control — she decides everything that happens and when and how. And while she’s doing that, for the time being at least, she can forget everything outside her head and be comfortable and secure.
The safety net is still holding her.
One dark November morning Emily is passing through the hall on her way to brush the parlor carpet when she hears Aunt’s voice coming from the study, saying something that stops her in her tracks.
“It’s a pity about Emily …”
Holding her breath, Emily creeps closer to the door.
Aunt is still speaking. “… it would be ideal for her to mix with young ladies, to have some of her rough corners smoothed down.”
Emily’s heart starts to race. What is Aunt talking about? What is she planning?
“But if we can only manage it for one, I think it should be Charlotte. After all, she’s sixteen now.”
Papa sounds regretful, as if he doesn’t like whatever it is they’re talking about. What can it be?
“Very well.”
From Aunt’s tone Emily can easily visualize her tight-lipped expression — she doesn’t agree with Papa, but she is giving way. Emily has seen this before, many times.
Aunt continues, “What Miss Wooler offers sounds as if it would suit Charlotte and she seems like a sensible sort of woman.”
Who is Miss Wooler? Emily’s never heard of her.
“The fees are more than I had counted on.” Emily can imagine Papa’s face, the burdened look that comes over him when money is in question.
Her mind is racing. Could it be art lessons? Since Mr. Bradley went away, Charlotte’s often said she wishes they could have another art teacher. But would that involve other girls?
“As to that, Patrick,” continues Aunt, “you know you can count on my help.”
“Ah, Elizabeth. You have already given so much to this family. I can’t —”
“Nonsense.” Aunt’s tone is brisk. “I have little else to spend my money on. It would please me to assist in any scheme that might secure the girls’ future.”
A chill runs down Emily’s back. This isn’t about art lessons. This is something far more ominous. And then she hears the words that send her running into the kitchen.
The sight of Charlotte standing at the table calmly peeling apples pulls Emily up short. Such a tangle of feelings is burning in her chest that for a moment she can’t speak.
Charlotte looks up and her expression changes. “Whatever is the matter?”
“I’ve just overheard Papa and Aunt talking.” She swallows. “Oh, Charlotte, they’re arranging to send you away to school! Aunt wanted it to be me, but Papa says that you must go.”
Charlotte’s face turns white, her hand jerks, and the curl of peel suspended from the apple she’s holding drops into the bowl.
“Not back to —” She grips the knife like a dagger.
“No, it’s a different one. Something Head? But still … a school …”
In silence the sisters look at each other and all the horror that Emily is feeling is reflected in Charlotte’s face. But then a shutter seems to come down and Charlotte squares her shoulders. “Oh well.”
“Oh well! Is that all you can say?” Emily skitters round the table and seizes her sister by the shoulders. “You can’t go. Tell them you won’t.” She gives Charlotte a rough shake.
“Mind the knife!” Charlotte moves her hand out of the way. She looks into Emily’s eyes and her expression is unreadable.
The back door opens and they swiftly move apart. Charlotte resumes work on her apple and Emily pretends to look for something in a drawer as Tabby comes bustling in with a basket of shopping.
“Hasn’t tha done with yon apples yet, Charlotte? The dinner’ll never be ready on time.”
Tabby’s eyes flick from one to the other. She’s obviously aware that something’s going on between them, but, being Tabby, she’ll bide her time, at least for now.
Later Papa calls Charlotte into the study. It seems an age until she emerges and joins the others in the parlor, but when she does, primed by Emily, they pounce and bombard her with questions.
Charlotte remains perfectly calm. Walking over to the table, she sits down and folds her hands on the cloth in front of her, the very model of composure. Speaking in a quiet voice, she tells them that she is to go to Miss Wooler’s school, Roe Head, in Mirfield. Charlotte’s godmother, Mrs. Atkinson, has recommended it. “She told Papa that her niece is a pupil at the school. And that she’s very happy there.”
Charlotte asserts this as if daring them to contradict her, but her eyes look anxious.
“Mirfield?” says Branwell. “Isn’t that near Huddersfield?”
“Yes, it’s only about twenty miles from here.”
“Twenty miles!” To Emily this sounds as far away as the moon. “And when are you supposed to be going to this place?”
“When the new term starts, in January.”
Only two months left, then. Emily is aghast.
Branwell too is beside himself. “But what about Glass Town? You can’t just abandon it. How will we go on without you?” He tugs at his hair till it stands up like a wild coxcomb.
Charlotte’s lip quivers and her hands tighten, but then she resumes her mask. “I’ll be back in the holidays. I want to learn and this is a good opportunity.”
Emily can’t understand it. Charlotte can’t want to go to school. Not after what happened last time. She must be putting on an act. But why?
There’s only one thing to do. She’ll talk to Charlotte and make her change her mind.
That night, as soon as they’re in bed, she tackles Charlotte. “Why are you agreeing to go to this school?”
Charlotte fiddles with a button on her nightgown. “I haven’t any choice.” Her voice is flat.
“What do you mean? Of course you can choose. Papa would never make you go against your will.”
Charlotte shakes her head impatiently. “You don’t understand. Our position …” She stops, takes a deep breath, and starts again. “You know Papa isn’t well-off.”
“All the more reason not to waste money on school fees.”
“It’s not a waste, it’s … like an investment.”
Emily frowns. “An investment?”
“For the future. We have to think about the future. Especially with Papa …”
Charlotte doesn’t finish the sentence, but she doesn’t need to. Emily’s stomach tightens. But Charlotte’s wrong. They don’t have to think about the future. Not until it happens.
“Anyway,” Charlotte continues, “Branwell will be all right — he’ll make a success of himself whatever he does. But we girls can’t expect him to support us — we’ll have to support ourselves. If I work hard at this school, I’ll get the qualifications I need to be a teacher or a governess. It’s what we’ll all have to do.”
&nbs
p; Emily stares at her sister, appalled. Teaching? Is that really their only option?
“Do you want to be a teacher?”
Charlotte waves her arm dismissively. “What I want is irrelevant. It’s what has to be.”
Emily gives the blanket a fierce tug. She knows what Charlotte’s doing — she’s trying to be like Maria, their beloved elder sister. Even when she was being bullied by that hateful teacher Miss Andrews at Cowan Bridge, she would bear it patiently, declaring that what could not be avoided must be endured.
But Charlotte isn’t Maria. She shouldn’t be doing this.
She’s about to tell her so when Charlotte turns to look at her. “But, Emily, I do want to learn as much as I can. Papa does his best, but he hasn’t time to cover everything. And I think school will be good for me.”
“Good for you? Charlotte, you can’t mean that.”
“I do. As Aunt says, it’s time I got used to mixing with other girls.”
“What on earth for?”
“Oh, Emily, don’t be silly. We’ll have to go out into society sooner or later. This will be good practice.”
Emily is silenced, chilled by the very idea. They don’t need “society.” As long as the four of them have got one another and Papa and Tabby, they don’t need anyone else. But maybe Charlotte doesn’t feel the same.
Maybe she wants to meet new people.
Shaken by the thought, Emily stares at her sister. She remembers the way Charlotte separated her miniature books from theirs. This is yet another sign that she’s preparing to move away from them.
Emily bites the inside of her lip. It’s unbearable. Too much is changing. First Papa and now Charlotte. It can’t happen. She won’t let it.
She nudges Charlotte. “What if the school’s like Cowan Bridge?” she hisses.
“It won’t be.” But Charlotte’s voice wavers and Emily presses home her advantage.
“Remember that ugly purple uniform?”
“Yes!” Charlotte winces. “Of course I do! I hated everyone knowing we were charity children. But Aunt says there isn’t a uniform at Roe Head. We can wear our own clothes.”
