by Jane Eagland
Those are the best times.
Mr. Sunderland comes to the house now and gives them individual lessons. One day as he’s leaving, Papa stops him in the hall and Emily hears Papa thanking the teacher for his part in their progress.
“Branwell — he’s coming on, isn’t he?” There’s a note of pride in Papa’s voice.
“Mmm.” Mr. Sunderland sounds less than enthusiastic. “The boy has talent, but he should practice more diligently. He would do well to take a leaf out of Miss Emily’s book.”
“Emily?” Papa sounds surprised.
“Yes. She has the makings of a true musician. Good day to you, Mr. Brontë.”
Long after the door has closed on Mr. Sunderland, Emily sits transfixed on the piano stool, cheeks glowing at his unexpected words.
She can hardly believe it, but it seems that she has stumbled into something that she can do well, and apparently better even than Branwell.
She hugs the knowledge to herself like a delicious secret.
Winter begins to loosen its grip and the days begin to lengthen. But Emily still misses Charlotte and constantly worries about how her sister is getting on. Is she keeping warm? Is she getting enough to eat? Above all, is she well?
Emily doesn’t want to mention Charlotte to Papa in case he starts worrying too. There’s no point in speaking to Aunt — she was so keen for Charlotte to go to school. In the end, she confides her fears in Tabby.
“Nay, don’t fret thiself. I reckon Miss Charlotte’ll be doing fine. Those friends of thi papa, the Atkinsons, they live nearby and Miss Charlotte’s been a-visiting there, I believe. They’ll be keeping an eye on her and be letting him know soon enough if owt’s amiss.”
Emily’s not convinced. Charlotte would never tell the Atkinsons how she’s feeling. She’d just keep it all to herself.
Glass Town is never discussed now, but one day when Emily, Anne, and Branwell are sitting round the parlor table, supposedly working on stories for their miniature books, Branwell announces that he’s going to write a complete history of the Young Men — the characters originating from the twelve wooden soldiers Papa gave him when he was nine, which have been at the center of many of their stories over the years.
“I’m taking it from the very beginning, complete with statistics, maps, and battle plans. And I’m doing it on my own,” he adds with a challenging glare at Emily.
This is a blow. Ever since Charlotte left, she’s been trying without much enthusiasm to write a Glass Town story, revisiting the imaginary world they all shared before everything changed. But her ideas don’t flow as they used to and every time she tries to write she finds she scarcely produces anything. What used to be a comfort and gave her such pleasure is a struggle now. Without Charlotte and Branwell, Glass Town doesn’t feel as real as it did, and she’s been clinging to the hope that Branwell might change his mind and agree to work together again.
His declaration is the last straw. She grinds her teeth, then suddenly scrunches up the page she’s been toiling over and throws it into the fire. If she has to make it up on her own, she doesn’t want to do it anymore.
Taking another sheet of paper, she starts doodling on it, sketching horses’ heads. It’s completely wasteful — since paper’s so expensive, they normally treasure every scrap of it that they can scrounge — and she’s aware of Anne watching her, her blue eyes wide with surprise.
She doesn’t care. What’s the point of saving paper, if there’s nothing to write?
This black mood she’s sinking into has become familiar — Tabby calls it an attack of “the mopes” and it’s been happening a lot lately.
Tabby says it’s her age — that she’s growing up.
“Don’t you remember? Miss Charlotte was just the same,” Tabby remarked one evening as she saw Emily into bed.
Perhaps Tabby’s right. Emily can’t get the idea out of her mind — she’s horrified by the implications.
She’s grown at least three inches this last year. Branwell says she’s turning into a giraffe, but it’s not funny. Her skirts are way off the ground and sometimes she doesn’t know what to do with her arms and legs. From what she’s seen her sister coping with, womanhood is a horrible, messy business. The very thought of it repels her …
Emily pulls a face and gouges the nib of her quill into the paper.
“Careful,” says Anne. “You’ll make a hole in the tablecloth.”
“Children! Come and see what I’ve found.” At the sound of Papa’s voice calling them, the nasty retort Emily was about to make dies on her lips. And then there’s an unexpected sound outside the parlor door — a short, sharp bark.
“Papa!” Emily leaps up and flings open the door. And yes, it is a dog, one of a good size with a brindle coat, sniffing about in their hall with great curiosity.
As Emily and the others surge out, the dog rushes up to them, baring his teeth in a grin and wagging his tail. Emily looks at Papa hopefully. “Is he ours?”
Papa, smiling broadly, winks at them. Branwell cheers and immediately stands on his head, one of his favorite tricks, causing the dog to go mad — he dances round them, letting out a volley of barks.
“What is going on?” Aunt is standing on the landing, looking down at them, her face screwed up as if she’s sucking lemons. She presses her hand to her forehead. “What is that dog doing here, Patrick?”
Her tone is sharp enough to quell them all, even the dog, who puts his tail between his legs and whines. Emily drops to her knees to comfort him and he licks her face.
Papa looks slightly abashed. “Well, now, as it happens, this fellow’s a stray. He turned up the other day at the Braithwaites’ farm. The thing is — they don’t want him. When I was over there this afternoon, Joseph said they’ve already the two dogs and that’s enough.”
“And you’re not thinking of keeping it, surely? The house is overrun with creatures as it is, what with those injured birds the children keep bringing home and that wretched cat ruining the furniture with his claws. We certainly don’t want any more.” Aunt’s disapproval is clear in every rigid line of her body.
Emily stops breathing. She looks up at Papa, willing him with every fiber of her being not to give in.
Papa hesitates a long moment and then he says, “I am. We can give you a good home, can’t we, boy?” and he pats the dog’s head.
Emily breathes again. She gives a piercing whistle and the dog pricks up its ears.
Aunt erupts. “Emily! How many times do I have to tell you — a lady never whistles.” With a sniff and a twitch of her shawl, she turns away from them all, throwing over her shoulder as she stalks back upstairs, “I hope, at least, that that animal’s going to live in the peat house.”
They wait until they hear the door to her room shutting and then they look at one another and grin.
Anne appeals to Papa. “He won’t have to live outside, will he?”
Papa ruffles her hair. “No, but he must sleep in the back kitchen and you’d best keep him out of your aunt’s way.”
“What about Tiger?” Emily says immediately. “He won’t like sharing his sleeping quarters with a dog.”
“Well, how about moving Tiger to the kitchen? He’ll like it by the range, won’t he?”
“What kind of dog is he?” Branwell wants to know.
Papa puts his head on one side, considering. “Well, he puts me in mind of the Irish terrier we had when I was a boy, and if there’s anything of that in him, he’ll make a fine watchdog. What with him and my pistol we’ll all be safe in our beds.”
“What are we going to call him?” Emily is anxious. Names matter — just as much for animals as for people — so it’s important to choose the right one.
Papa smiles at her. “Well, now, as to that, I’ve had an idea.” He beckons them to follow him.
“I’m choosing Bosun,” announces Branwell. “Like Lord Byron’s dog.”
To Tabby’s bemusement, after shutting Tiger in the back kitchen, Papa has instr
ucted each of them to stand in a different corner of the kitchen. He’s holding the dog in the middle and when he gives the signal, they are to call with their name of choice.
Emily narrows her eyes. Typical Branwell. He fancies himself Byron. But Bosun is a good name. She wishes she’d thought of it first.
“I’m having Charlie,” says Anne peaceably. “What about you, Emily?”
“I’m still thinking.” Emily is studying the dog, noticing the lively glint in his brown eyes, the set of his long jaws. He looks as if once he’s got a hold on something, he won’t let go easily.
Papa says, “Ready?” And he lets go of the dog.
They all shout at once.
“Bosun!”
“Charlie!”
“Grasper!”
The dog, confused, looks from one to another. He makes a move toward Branwell and Emily’s heart skips a beat, but she goes on calling, keeping her voice low but insistent. “Grasper, here boy!”
The dog turns his head and meets her eye. He hesitates a moment and then with a sudden joyful bound he is licking her hand.
“Grasper it is, then,” says Papa, smiling at her. “I’ll have to see about getting him a collar.”
Looking up, Emily sees Tabby watching her from across the kitchen. Tabby gives her a little nod, as if she’s not displeased with what’s happened. Anne, bless her, seems happy for her too. Only Branwell looks upset.
She doesn’t blame him.
She wonders if he understands what she does — that from now on, whatever they may all pretend, the dog belongs to her.
Early the next morning Emily’s woken by an unfamiliar noise. Bleary-eyed and puzzled, she listens. Of course! It’s Grasper, shut up downstairs and whining and scratching at the door.
Throwing on her clothes, she goes quietly downstairs. The sky is just becoming light and no one else seems to be stirring, not even Tabby — the house is freezing. She’s glad to get into the kitchen where the fire, left banked up all night, is glowing. She stops to say hello to Tiger, who’s keeping a wary eye on the door to the back kitchen.
When she opens the door, careful not to let the tin bath that’s hanging on it clatter, Grasper jumps up at her and barks a greeting.
“Shush, there’s a good boy,” she murmurs, mindful of Tabby sleeping in her narrow room overhead.
She lets Grasper out at the back and stands watching him, her arms folded tight to stop herself shivering. After racing round a couple of times, he begins a serious investigation of the yard, sniffing at everything and cocking his leg against the privy, to Emily’s delight. “Clever boy,” she says quietly to herself.
“What’s he doing?”
Emily jumps at the sound of Anne’s voice and frowns. She’d wanted to enjoy this moment by herself.
Reluctantly she makes space for Anne beside her in the doorway.
“I heard him bark,” Anne whispers.
“Did he wake Aunt?”
Anne shakes her head. “I don’t think anyone else heard him. Or if they did, they’re not getting up.”
Emily relaxes. Better Anne than Branwell — he’d never be able to keep quiet.
A wild idea springs into her head. “Why don’t we take him up on the moor? I think he’d love it.”
Anne’s eyes widen. “You mean now? By ourselves?”
“Why not? There’ll be no one about at this hour, and anyway, he’ll protect us.”
“But it’s freezing.”
“The sun’s coming up. And we can put warm things on — oh, but you don’t want to alert Aunt. I know, you can have my thick shawl. We’ll be all right as long as we keep moving.”
“Won’t we get into frightful trouble?”
Emily shakes her head decisively. “We’ll be back in time for prayers — they won’t even know we’ve been out. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
For all her bravado, once they’re outside Emily feels rather anxious about the responsibility of bringing Grasper with them, though she’ll never admit it to Anne.
She daren’t let him loose. What if he runs off and they can’t catch him? Papa has made the dog a temporary collar from a strip of canvas, promising to get him a fine brass one as soon as he goes to Keighley. Emily has threaded a longish rope through the canvas to use as a lead, but Grasper keeps pulling on it, wanting to rush ahead.
She calls his name and she’s tremendously pleased when, after a few goes, he finally comes back to her. She makes a fuss of him and gives him a morsel of the cheese she’s secreted in her pocket. When they set off again, she keeps the rope short and he stops pulling and seems content to walk beside her.
Whoever had him before must have taught him to do this, which is a relief to know. She wonders if his old owners are missing him. Well, if they are it’s their own fault — they should have taken better care of him.
Soon they come to the edge of the common; ahead of them lies the broad sweep of the moors. They stop and Emily gazes at the landscape before them, as if she’s never seen it until now.
In a sense she hasn’t, not at daybreak anyway. In this early light everything looks different, fresh and new. She breathes in deeply, expanding her lungs and feeling the cold air course through her, invigorating every part of her.
Smoke is already rising from the chimneys of scattered farms and a crowing cockerel is answered by another farther down the valley. The grass is stiff with frost and icicles glisten in the becks, but the sun is warm on her back.
Emily breaks into a grin of happiness. She’s always enjoyed their walks, though not so much since Charlotte went away, because it’s been strange without her sister.
But this is different.
Tabby usually sticks to well-trodden, familiar paths, warning them away from the “muck,” the marshy places. She also likes to keep her eye on them, so she doesn’t like them to wander far. But today, out here alone for the very first time, and unsupervised, they can do exactly as they like, go wherever they please.
She has never felt so free.
She glances sideways at Anne. Her sister seems to have overcome her doubts and is looking about her.
Gesturing at a rocky outcrop, Emily says, “Do you remember Tabby’s story? About the elves living there and shooting arrows to harm the cows?”
“Oh yes. And we used to put bilberries on a leaf for them, didn’t we? We were sure they would take them.” Anne sounds a little wistful, as if she would still like to think the little people existed.
Emily smiles down at her. Anne is such a baby sometimes.
But Charlotte would never have agreed to this early morning adventure. Perhaps Anne isn’t nearly as timid or law-abiding as they all suppose. And it’s peaceful to be with her like this. Charlotte and Branwell are always full of ideas and arguments, but so far this morning Anne has let her alone to think her own thoughts. It’s part of the wonderful sense of space she’s had from the moment they set foot on the moor.
She looks at her little sister speculatively. It might not be so bad to have Anne for a companion. Just for now, until Charlotte comes back.
The dog stops to sniff at a clump of moor grass and Emily calls him. “Come on, Grasper. If you’re not careful, the elves will get you.”
And as they press on up the path, she begins to whistle a loud, cheery tune.
They are late for prayers and Aunt is very cross with Emily.
“What on earth possessed you to take your little sister out into the cold? You know how susceptible to asthma she is. Do you want to make her ill?”
Emily, who hadn’t given a thought to Anne’s asthma, is stricken with guilt. How could she have forgotten? The nights she’s heard Anne wheezing across the hall, fighting to get her breath; the severe attacks that bring Dr. Andrew with his leech jar; Anne’s patient endurance when the leeches fasten themselves onto her bare arms and suck until they’re fat with her blood.
Emily studies Anne. She doesn’t look ill this morning — her cheeks are pink and her eyes are bright.
&nbs
p; Putting his finger under Anne’s chin, Papa tilts her face up so he can see it properly. He smiles. “I don’t think she’s come to any harm.”
Emily breathes again.
Aunt sets off on another tack, scolding her for leading Anne into danger by going off without a chaperone, especially out onto the moors, “where anything might happen.”
Papa shakes his head. “They put me in mind of myself as a lad. I delighted in going off alone to ramble in the Mountains of Mourne. It’s in their blood, the love of nature” — he nods at Emily and Anne — “so there’s no denying it. I know.”
“But you were a boy,” Aunt protests. “It’s different for girls.”
Papa shrugs. “With the dog, they’re safe enough.”
Emily and Anne look at each other with secret delight. However much Aunt may huff and puff about it, they take this as Papa giving them permission to go out on their own if they want.
“And if you happen to find yourselves over Ponden Hall way,” adds Papa, “Mr. Heaton was saying only the other day that you’re welcome to borrow books from his library at any time.”
“His library! Have you seen it, Papa?” asks Emily.
“That I have not, but seeing as he’s so proud of it, it might be worth seeing.” There’s a twinkle in Papa’s eye as he says this. Several times he’s told them of libraries he’s been invited to admire on his parish visits, which turn out to consist of a few dog-eared volumes on a windowsill.
Emily’s not sure about this invitation. Mr. Heaton, a mill owner and a trustee of the church, is a wealthy man, so he can easily afford books. If his collection really amounts to a library, it could be wonderful to be able to borrow books from it. But what if his taste runs to volumes about manufacturing or field sports? Besides, to visit the library would mean encountering the Heaton family. She knows them from church, of course, but she wouldn’t want to have to speak to them.
On the whole, she’s inclined not to accept Mr. Heaton’s offer.
