by Jane Eagland
Emily tenses. But Tabby doesn’t seem to notice her dismay. She’s too busy counting out coins from the old tea caddy. Shaking her head, she says, “It’s all very well for thi Papa to invite yon fellows to tea, but they’re like locusts. They’d eat us out of house and home if they could.”
“Can’t you ask one of the others?”
“Now tha knows Miss Anne can’t go by herself, and besides it’s far too cold out for the poor mite. And I think Maister Branwell’d best be let alone awhile.”
Tabby has heard them rowing, then. Emily opens her mouth.
“Nay, don’t make a fuss, my lass,” says Tabby firmly, pushing the money into her hand. “I know tha likes a walk.”
Emily fetches her cloak, grumbling to herself. Of course Tabby’s right and if she’d suggested a ramble on the moors, Emily would have been off like a shot. But Tabby knows how much she hates going down into the village — it’s mean of her to make her go.
Once she’s out of the front door, Emily wishes even more that she was going for a proper walk. The cold is still biting, but the skies have cleared a little and above the church tower a pale sun is doing its best to shine through the veil of cloud. As she crosses the garden, where the twisted branches of the hawthorn and the bare stems of the fruit bushes are rimed with frost, her boots make a satisfying crunch on the frozen gravel path.
Passing through the wicket gate, she enters the churchyard. The dusting of snow on the gravestones crammed together on either side of her almost softens their oppressive presence. Almost, but not entirely. Whenever Emily sees these heavy grey slabs, she can’t help thinking of Mama and Maria and Elizabeth, even though they’re not buried here, but in the church. She tries to pass through the graveyard as quickly as possible, to not let herself dwell on them, but today she has to go more cautiously on the icy flagstones. By the time she reaches the corner by the church her mood is even darker. Casting one longing look along the track that would take her to the moors, she braces herself and passes through the archway into Kirkgate, Haworth’s main street.
Luckily it’s far too early for the bells that will release a stream of workers from the mills down in the valley, so she doesn’t have to endure the brazen stares of the girls as they clatter up the cobbles in their clogs. But there are two men outside the Black Bull. Out of the corner of her eye, she’s aware of their open curiosity and though they lower their voices as she goes by she hears them.
“Parson’s lass.”
“Miss Emily.”
Emily grits her teeth. Just because Papa is the parson, and therefore a public figure, the villagers seem to think they somehow own the whole family. It’s all very well for Charlotte to say, as she did once when Emily grumbled about it, that it’s their keeping themselves to themselves that makes the cottagers even more curious. Why shouldn’t they have a right to their privacy?
As she makes her way down the steep hill, the blackened stone cottages on either side of the narrow street seem to press toward her. Despite the cold, some doors are open to give light to the handloom weavers working inside. She imagines eyes watching her from within the dark interiors, but she looks to neither right nor left. She looks straight ahead, breathing through her mouth. Even so, she can still sense it, the smell rising from the open gutter beside her feet, which is choked with household waste, unrecognizable bits of rotting carcass, and the overflow from several privies.
Repressing a shudder, she makes herself keep going. Already she’s regretting this morning’s row with Branwell. She should have handled him differently. Instead of losing her temper, she should have buttered him up, and he might have agreed to let them help him. Charlotte would have known how to get him to do what she wanted.
Too late now. To take her mind off her failure she takes refuge in her favorite ploy. She isn’t Emily going to buy sugar, but Parry, in disguise, and on a mission to bring back the vital elixir that will restore the life of the land’s most revered sage. No obstacle will hinder her, no mire so foul nor enemy so hostile that she will not triumph.
Outside the grocer’s there’s a small knot of women passing the time of day. Charlotte would have forced herself to nod, to say, “Good morning.” Emily is having none of it: As they step aside to let her pass she turns her head away. But one of the women, bolder than the rest, addresses her.
“Miss Emily, I hope thi father is keeping well.”
She has to speak. She mutters, “Yes, he is, thank you,” and makes a dive for the shop door. But there’s no refuge inside. Mrs. Grimshaw saw Charlotte going past in the cart earlier and she can barely contain her inquisitiveness. Emily fends her off as best she can while Mrs. Grimshaw fetches a sugar loaf from the shelf. But even then the shopkeeper doesn’t relinquish it, holding on to it while she asks further prying questions.
Emily’s saved at last by the arrival of another customer. Mrs. Grimshaw turns to greet the newcomer and Emily slaps the money on the counter, snatches the sugar from her persecutor’s hand, and rushes out.
Stomping furiously back up the hill, she invokes the most terrible afflictions she can think of on the odious shopkeeper. But by the time she’s reached the church, she’s calmer, and the familiar sight of the parsonage, with its serene grey stone frontage and its many small square windowpanes polished to a shine by Tabby, helps to soothe her even more.
At the front door, reluctant to leave the fresh air and go inside, she sits on the step for a moment, cradling the sugar loaf, swaddled in its blue paper, in her arms like a stiff baby. Not for the first time she thinks how lucky it is that the parsonage is built up here, isolated from its neighbors and far above the curious eyes of the villagers.
Charlotte once asked her why she minded so much being sent on errands by Tabby and all she could say was, “They know my name. The villagers.”
She knew from the way Charlotte stared at her that her sister didn’t understand, but she couldn’t find the words for it, that sense of violation she experienced, out there among all those strangers.
Emily looks out toward the southeast, in the direction that Charlotte is traveling.
Dark clouds are building again over there and she imagines Charlotte looking at them from her seat in the cart and hoping that she’ll reach the school before the weather breaks. Or perhaps she’s dreading what awaits her at her destination.
Emily hugs the sugar loaf to her chest. Five months until she sees her sister again.
The longest they have ever been apart.
It will be hard, but she won’t let the thread binding them together break. She won’t.
As the cold from the stone step makes itself felt at last, she shivers and, jumping up, she goes indoors.
Later Tabby calls her back into the kitchen in time to see the loaves come out of the oven. They’ve risen and have satisfyingly crusty tops, and they smell wonderful. Emily watches anxiously as Tabby picks one up and taps its bottom. It gives off a hollow sound and Tabby says, “Ay, that’ll do, I reckon.”
And Emily grins at her.
Making bread has helped her to get through the day, but when bedtime comes and she has to take her candle upstairs and go into the bedroom by herself, she is suddenly overcome again.
Sinking onto the bed, she surveys the silent room as if seeing it for the first time.
The blue-and-white jug with its mended handle and chipped rim standing in its matching bowl on the washstand reminds her of the squabble that caused these injuries — she and Charlotte, when they were small, disputing who should have the hot water first. Beside the washstand is the rush-seated chair where they both hang their clothes at night, despite repeated injunctions from Aunt that they should fold them up and put them away. On the floor just in front of the chair is the dark burn mark on the oilcloth where Charlotte once dropped the candle.
It strikes Emily with the force of a blow that she has never had to sleep in this room alone. First there were the four of them, Maria and Charlotte at the head of the bed and she and Elizabeth curled
up together at the foot. When the others went off to school all those years ago, she still had Sarah, their nursemaid, to keep her company.
And then, afterward and ever since, there has always been Charlotte.
Emily suddenly becomes aware that her teeth are chattering. Undressing quickly, she puts on her nightgown, but she can’t bring herself to get into bed yet. Instead she wraps herself up in a blanket and sits by the window, looking out. It’s a wild night — the wind blowing down from the moor is moaning around the house. The candle flame wavers in the draft. She strains her eyes, trying to see the faintest glimmer of a star, but the sky is utterly black.
Right now her sister will be lying with a stranger in a strange bed in an unfamiliar house far away. Emily wonders what kind of reception she had and whether she’s all right. With all her heart she hopes so.
She puts her lips to the icy glass of the window and whispers, “Good night, Charlotte.”
“Bless thee, lass, whatever is tha doing there?” Tabby’s voice makes her jump. “Get into bed now, afore tha gets chilled to the marrow.”
Emily is touched. These days, since Charlotte has been trusted to behave responsibly, they see themselves into bed. She runs across the bare floorboards and clambers under the covers.
Tabby closes the wooden shutters. “It’s fair wuthering out there tonight.” She comes over to the bed and tucks Emily in. Patting her head, she says, “See tha gets a good night’s sleep.”
And then she blows out the candle and goes downstairs and Emily is left in the dark. At once she gets up and opens the shutters again. There might be nothing to see, but still, she needs to know that the sky is there, that she’s not shut in.
Dashing back, she dives into the chilly bed. Within seconds she’s sitting up again.
It feels all wrong to be lying here alone with a gaping empty space where Charlotte ought to be. She turns over and tries facing in the opposite direction, but that doesn’t help. She can’t get comfortable on her right side and she can’t see the window.
She rolls over again. The sheets haven’t warmed up yet; the air in the bedroom is polar. She tries to summon up thoughts of Parry, but he’s not much comfort — in all his terrible ordeals, he’s never without his faithful companion Ross.
If Anne had asked to come in with her, she’d have said yes like a shot, but Anne doesn’t seem to have thought of it and Emily is too proud to ask her. Anyway, Aunt probably wouldn’t have allowed it — she wouldn’t trust Emily not to lead her pet astray.
Wrapping her arms round herself, Emily curls up into a tight ball.
“Oh, Charlotte,” she breathes into the pillow. “What am I going to do without you?”
Emily sits transfixed as Beethoven’s Appassionata Sonata thunders about her ears, Mr. Sunderland, their piano teacher, involving his whole body in the performance, the music pouring from him with a passionate intensity.
The music is so beautiful and it seems to speak directly to something deep inside her, something unutterably painful. She can hardly bear it.
Losing Charlotte is part of it, but not all — since Charlotte left, the dream she’s had so often over the years, the one about Maria and Elizabeth, keeps haunting her and it’s horrible waking up and finding herself alone. And since Charlotte went away Papa has seemed more frail and depressed than ever. She often lies awake in the early hours, her anxieties about his health multiplying uncontrollably without Charlotte there to reassure her.
Mr. Sunderland comes to the end of the piece — Branwell applauds wildly and Anne joins in more decorously. Emily is too overcome to move. The teacher turns to them, smiling, but when his eyes fall on Emily, he frowns. “Miss Emily, has something about my playing displeased you?”
Hot with embarrassment, Emily exclaims, “Oh no, not at all. It was wonderful.”
Puzzled, he stares at her and she’s driven to blurt, “I was just wishing that we had a piano at home so I could practice whenever I wanted. I do so want to play the music that you play — not that I’d ever be as good as you, of course, but —”
Mr. Sunderland holds up his hand to stop her. “As to that, I think it would be a very good idea. You have all reached a stage — yes, even you, Master Branwell — where it is clear that you have some musical talent. But you won’t make satisfactory progress unless you practice much more than you can at present. I will speak to your father about it.” He looks out of the window. “The rain has cleared. You should stay dry on your way home — but don’t dawdle. There are more showers on their way, I’m sure.”
Emily pulls on her cloak anyhow, too agitated to fasten it properly. Why on earth did she say that? Papa can’t afford a piano. It will be awful if Mr. Sunderland does speak to him — he’ll be distressed at not being able to provide something he’ll decide is important and it’ll be another burden on him.
On the way home she tells the others what’s bothering her.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” says Branwell airily, kicking a stone ahead of him up the road. He and Emily are speaking to each other again and getting on fairly well — as long as they stay off the subject of Glass Town. “You heard what Mr. Sunderland said. We are talented. We deserve a piano.”
“But it’s sure to be too expensive.”
“Aunt will buy it for us. Especially if she thinks I might become a famous pianist.” He grasps the lapels of his jacket, preening.
“I thought you were going to be a famous artist. Or a famous poet,” says Emily drily.
Branwell is unabashed. “Well, I might be either of those — I like to keep my options open.”
“A piano would be useful for preparing to be a governess,” Anne puts in.
Emily stares at them. She certainly doesn’t want to perform in public, and as for being a governess — she grimaces.
But if Branwell’s right … if Aunt will pay for a piano … if she could learn to play as well as she longs to …
A wild and desperate hope sends her running up the hill, leaving the others far behind.
Branwell is right, as he often is in matters concerning Aunt. By the time Mr. Sunderland comes to speak to Papa, Branwell has talked so much and so confidently about his musical prowess that Aunt is convinced a piano of their own is an urgent necessity. Mr. Sunderland’s advice is sought about where to look for a suitable instrument, and one exciting and unbelievable day their very own piano arrives and is installed in Papa’s study. As soon as the wagoner and his lad have departed, they all crowd in to see it, even Tabby.
Emily catches her breath at the sight of the instrument. Whereas Mr. Sunderland’s piano has a wooden front hiding the workings, theirs has a beautiful screen of maroon silk gathered into a rose; it’s small, but with its two brass candle holders and stool just about big enough for two, it’s perfect. She can’t wait till Charlotte sees it.
“Go on, then, my boy. Let’s hear it,” Papa urges. Branwell takes his seat and plays some Scarlatti from memory in a flamboyant way, waving his hands and tossing his head so that his long hair flies about, but with many wrong notes, Emily notices.
“Splendid, nephew,” says Aunt, patting Branwell on the back. “And I’m well satisfied with the piano — it has a beautiful tone. I’ll bring down the music your mother and I used to play and you can all share it, but next time you go to Keighley you may each buy a new piece.”
Emily is so overwhelmed with gratitude that she surprises Aunt and herself by planting a kiss on the old lady’s dry cheek.
The new arrival changes things, more for Emily and Anne as it turns out, as, after an initial burst of enthusiasm, Branwell goes back to playing the church organ, which he prefers.
“It’s so much grander,” he tells them.
Emily’s not surprised. It’s typical of Branwell to want to make a great noise and to show off what he can do with such a complicated instrument. But in this case, it’s all to the good — it means more time at the piano for her and Anne.
Branwell does join in when they play a
piece he’s found called The Battle of Prague, which Papa, with his fondness for all things military, enjoys listening to. He often requests a performance in the evening.
Emily plays the piano and Branwell, as narrator, shouts out the various stages of the battle between the Prussians and the Imperialists such as “Call for the cavalry!” and “The attack!” while banging a saucepan lid with a wooden spoon to represent the drums.
Tabby always comes in to hear this one, nodding her head and tapping her foot in time to the music, but Aunt says it gives her a headache and the merest hint that it might be played sends her scurrying upstairs. No one’s sorry. Without her restraining presence it’s so much more enjoyable and they can be as exuberant as they like.
Gradually, over the weeks that follow, Emily and Anne make headway with their small but precious stock of music. Squashed together on the stool, they have fun playing duets. Emily is also happy to accompany her sister’s singing, despite the fact Anne has a marked preference for solemn hymns. Though her voice isn’t very strong, it’s sweet, and often of an evening Papa will ask her to sing for him, liking the old ballads and folk songs best.
Emily’s delighted to see Papa’s worn face lighting up with pleasure as he nods his head in time to the music. If she comes safely home, Charlotte will be pleased to see Papa at ease like this, even if it’s only for a little while, and it will be lovely to have her join them in all these musical activities.
But what Emily treasures most are the times when she can get the piano to herself.
Not content to play any old how just to amuse herself, as Branwell does, she tackles each new piece methodically, working away at it until she’s mastered it, until she can play it without thinking.
When she reaches that point, she finds the music tremendously consoling — she can let out all her pent-up feelings, forgetting her anxieties about what may happen to Charlotte and Papa. Sometimes she gets so carried away she loses herself entirely.
