by Jane Eagland
As spring advances and the weather improves, Emily and Anne take every opportunity to slip away together with Grasper, either very early in the morning, taking care to be back in time for prayers, or after tea when Aunt is safely out of the way in her room and the mild evenings lure them farther afield.
Emily is enormously grateful to Grasper for this unexpected change in her life.
For a while now she’s been finding some aspects of their daily routine stultifying — always the same chores to be done, meals to be eaten at the appointed time, and the deadly hours of sewing. She likes to blame Aunt for the rigid schedule, though, to be fair, she knows that Papa, for all his sense of fun and adventure, prefers a quiet and regular life, and since his illness this has been even more true. If Emily and Branwell start one of their arguments, at once Aunt emerges from her room to shush them.
Even when they are left to their own devices, which happens a lot, especially in the mornings or the evenings when Papa has parish work to attend to, Branwell and Charlotte (before she went away) have always been in charge, deciding what they would do.
Grasper’s arrival has given her the freedom to roam the moors, and out here, she realizes, she feels more able to be herself. Without Aunt forever badgering her to be ladylike or Tabby warning her to mind herself, she can stride up rocky knolls, leap across becks, and whistle to her heart’s content.
She loves Grasper for giving her this and, as she gets to know him better, she begins to love him for himself as well. He’s always so good-humored and has such a zest for life. And he seems to relish being out of doors as much as she does. Now that she’s confident about letting him off the lead, she enjoys watching him chase after birds or snuffing about eagerly in the heather, and when she calls him he always comes running back with his tail wagging and a great grin on his face, as if he’s really pleased to see her.
It warms her heart to know that she is loved so simply and completely.
On their expeditions, Emily also gets to know Anne, learning things about her sister that she never knew.
For instance, she discovers that Anne is very observant. Whereas Charlotte admires distant vistas and sweeping views, Anne notices what is close at hand and might be overlooked. It’s Anne who spots the first primroses growing in the shelter of an overhanging bank. It’s Anne who suddenly stoops and stands up again, triumphantly waving a pheasant’s long tail feather. And it’s Anne who one evening comes to an abrupt halt and lays a restraining hand on Emily’s arm.
Without a word she creeps off into the heather, removing her shawl as she goes. She crouches down and Emily can’t see what she’s doing, but very soon she returns carrying something carefully in both hands.
“Oh,” Emily breathes. “A kestrel.”
Wrapped up in Anne’s shawl, it stares at them with unblinking eyes.
Emily admires its gleaming beak — a perfect cruel curve.
“Its wing is broken, I think,” whispers Anne.
“Let’s take it home and see if it will recover.”
Aunt makes a fuss, of course, but they are determined. Though Aunt gives in, she insists they keep the bird outside, and so that it won’t upset the other birds they put it in the peat house.
Every time they go in, Emily is disturbed by the way the hawk looks at her — as if it can see into her soul and is not terribly impressed by what it finds there. She feels for the bird. It must be hateful to be imprisoned in the dark.
She studies its wild, yellow-rimmed eyes — in their gleaming depths she can see the hawk’s longing to be free. She can’t stop thinking about it. Does it understand that by bringing it home and shutting it up, they are trying to save its life? Or does it simply feel trapped? Just as she sometimes longs to get away from Aunt’s scrutiny and the confinement of the house, is the hawk desperate to escape and once again have the whole wide sky to roam in?
They feed it scraps of meat begged from Tabby and then one morning when they open the door, it flies up at them. Startled, they step back and the hawk skims over their heads, circles, and then sails off toward the open moor.
They watch until it disappears and then look at each other with rueful grins.
Emily’s sorry to see the hawk go, but she’s glad it isn’t shut in anymore.
As spring turns into summer, their moorland walks become more adventurous and far-flung.
Aunt is still disapproving, but Papa, who knows the area intimately, is keen to hear where they’ve been and what they’ve seen. Since his illness he hasn’t traveled far and he obviously misses his long walks.
For Emily it becomes part of the pleasure of their expeditions to try and conjure up for Papa the mood of the moors on any given day and the way the colors vary according to the changing light and the effects of the wind.
Papa drinks it all in and wants to know every detail, but Emily can sometimes detect a wistful note in his voice that gives her pause. Does he think he won’t be able to see these things for himself one day?
She’s glad that Charlotte’s coming home soon, not just because she’s dying to see her sister, but it will be a relief to share her worries about Papa.
At last, toward the end of June, the day arrives when Charlotte is due home. She’s only got a month’s holiday, not nearly long enough, but Emily is determined to make the most of every second of it. All morning she listens out for the carriage and keeps looking out of the window, hoping to see it coming up the lane.
The minute her older sister steps through the door, Emily sweeps her off her feet in a great bear hug.
Laughing, her victim protests, “Put me down, Emily, you silly.”
Emily twirls her round before setting her down.
Charlotte looks at her in wonder. “How you’ve grown. You’re nearly as tall as Papa.”
“She’s a veritable maypole now,” says Branwell.
Emily cuffs him round the head, but only gently. She knows this is a sore point — Branwell has thick soles put on his boots and brushes his hair to make it stand up, but nothing can disguise the fact that he’s shorter than most boys of his age.
Charlotte has hugs and kisses all round, including from Tabby, who, after embracing her, holds her at arm’s length and says, “Tha’s lost all thi color, Miss Charlotte. Are they feeding thee properly at yon place?”
Charlotte laughs and waves her arm dismissively, but Tabby is clearly not satisfied. “We’ll have to get some roses back into thi cheeks, lass,” she mutters, retreating to the kitchen.
Emily studies Charlotte more closely. She does look pale. Emily’s heart judders. Charlotte’s not ill, is she? This isn’t what she dreads beginning again?
“Charlotte, are you well?”
Her sister looks surprised. “Yes, of course.”
Emily’s not convinced, but before she can say more, Grasper arrives, wagging his tail joyfully and desperate to greet the newcomer.
Emily swallows her fear and makes Grasper sit and be introduced properly — she wants Charlotte to admire him. But to her disappointment Charlotte regards him warily and only gives him the briefest of pats. Can’t she see how splendid he is?
But Charlotte has already turned away. She whirls into the parlor and stands there, as if taking it all in, her hand caressing the back of a chair.
“Nothing’s changed,” says Emily, following her in, with Branwell and Anne close on her heels. “It’s just the same as when you left.”
“I know,” says Charlotte. “And you can’t imagine how pleased I am to see it again — this dear room, our dear old furniture.”
Branwell and Emily exchange amused glances and Branwell taps the side of his head. “Methinks her sojourn in foreign parts has mazed her mind. She is much changed and not for the better.”
“No, I’m not,” says Charlotte, and Emily detects an anxious note in her voice. “I’m just the same old me too.”
But she isn’t.
Emily notices straight away that Charlotte has a different way of talking — she say
s words carefully, as if she’s conscious of how she’s speaking, and some words sound quite different from the way they did before.
There’s something else too. After Charlotte’s displayed with shy pride the three prizes that she’s won and the silver medal for being top of the whole school, she’s eager to tell them all about her experiences.
Roe Head, she says, is a roomy and comfortable house set in attractive gardens — she fetches a pencil sketch she’s done and they all admire it. The surrounding area is pleasant and they have plenty of walks — Miss Wooler couldn’t be kinder — the lessons are stimulating — the standard of the extras, especially French and drawing, is exceptionally high — and so on and so on.
Emily listens with folded arms: The more Charlotte says, the more suspicious she becomes. She examines her sister with narrowed eyes. What’s happened to Charlotte? She doesn’t usually gush.
Either she’s changed or she’s not telling the truth.
“Do you paint in oils?” Branwell wants to know. Since Mr. Bradley’s return to the area, their brother’s been going to his studio for lessons. He comes back smelling of linseed oil and turpentine and talking self-importantly about “impasto” and “scumbling.”
“Oh no,” says Charlotte. “Pencil and watercolor, that’s all.”
Branwell looks pleased and Emily wonders if he was worried that Charlotte might outdo him. Abruptly she asks, “What about music lessons? Are they any good?”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Miss Wooler has advised me to give up the piano. I have to stoop so much to see the notes and she thinks it will permanently damage my posture.”
“No!” Emily is shocked and full of sympathy. “But, Charlotte, wait until you see our new piano. You won’t want to stop then.”
Charlotte shrugs, as though she doesn’t mind giving up playing and even having their own piano is of little interest.
Emily gapes at her. She can’t understand it at all. If something prevented her from playing the piano, she’d be devastated.
Branwell says, “Why don’t you wear spectacles, Charlotte? She should, shouldn’t she, Papa?”
Papa nods. “Yes, indeed, my dear, I really think it would be a good idea to consult Mr. Robertson while you’re home.”
“I’d rather not, Papa,” says Charlotte primly.
Branwell snorts. “That’s stupid. Why go about the world groping your way like a mole when you could see?”
Charlotte’s eyes flash and then she says, with emphasis on each word, “I. Don’t. Want. To. Wear. Spectacles.” She sets her mouth in a firm line.
Anne says quickly, “Is there much time given to religious devotion at the school?”
“Oh yes.” Charlotte sounds amused. “We go to church every Sunday, of course, but two of Miss Wooler’s sisters are married to clergymen and we see a lot of them — in fact, they’re practically on the staff. I don’t think you’d get on very well with them, Papa — they’re very keen on hellfire and damnation for everyone apart from the chosen few.”
“Among whom they number themselves, I suppose?” says Papa, with a twinkle in his eye.
“I think so!” Charlotte laughs.
Emily’s not interested in these clergymen. She wants to know something far more pressing. “What are the other girls like?”
“Oh, they’re …” Charlotte hesitates. “Well, like girls of our age are, you know.”
Emily stares at her and then glances at Anne, who looks as mystified as she feels. They don’t know any other girls of their age.
Charlotte tries again. “They’re lively … high-spirited.”
Emily is suspicious. There’s something Charlotte’s not saying. She resolves to get the truth out of her when they’re on their own.
“Have you made friends?” Aunt asks and Charlotte’s face clears.
“Oh yes, I have made two good, good friends.” And she waxes lyrical about these new bosom friends, Ellen and Mary.
Emily listens, frowning. She doesn’t like the sound of this at all … unless exaggeration is a new habit Charlotte has picked up at school.
“Mary and I have the fiercest disputes, going at it hammer and tongs and neither giving way. I find it very” — Charlotte breaks off and looks round at everyone, as if she’s suddenly become self-conscious — “exciting,” she adds in a quiet voice, blushing.
“Does she like literature?” asks Branwell abruptly and Emily can tell that he’s as disturbed as she is by this talk of new friends.
Charlotte laughs. “No, not at all. You should hear her comments about poetry. As it has no practical benefits, she can’t see the point of it.”
“Hmm.” Branwell nods, as if an unspoken question has been answered to his satisfaction.
But Emily isn’t reassured. She’s thoroughly unsettled by Charlotte’s apparent enthusiasm for this place that isn’t home and these people who are strangers.
And is she really well?
She’ll have to wait until bedtime to find out. But how delightful it will be to have Charlotte sharing her bed again. She can’t wait to talk to her properly.
As soon as they are tucked up in bed together, Emily wriggles as close to Charlotte as she can get. “Oh, Charles, it’s so good to have you back. I’ve missed you so much.”
Charlotte smiles at her. “I’ve missed you too, mine bonnie,” she says, using one of Tabby’s expressions.
“Have you? Have you really?”
“Of course.”
“And are you really quite well?”
“Yes! I told you. Honestly, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Charlotte seems to be telling the truth. Emily allows herself to relax.
Her sister continues, “But Papa …” She turns an anxious face to Emily. “He doesn’t seem to have recovered as much as I would have expected in the time I’ve been away.”
Emily doesn’t know what to say. She’d like to pour out all her fears about Papa, but it doesn’t seem fair to burden Charlotte the minute she’s returned. She settles for saying, “At least he hasn’t got any worse,” and then she deliberately changes the subject.
“But tell me about Roe Head. Is it really as pleasant as you say?”
“Oh yes. It’s nothing like Cowan Bridge. We didn’t need to worry at all.”
Emily scans Charlotte’s face. Again, she doesn’t seem to be hiding the truth.
“So who do you share a bed with?”
“Ellen.”
Emily’s not pleased to hear this, not after all the glowing things Charlotte has said about this new friend.
“What’s she really like?”
“I told you. She’s a gentle girl, very generous and —”
Emily snorts and Charlotte looks nonplussed. “What’s the matter?”
“You make her sound so perfect. As if she’s not a human being at all.”
“You’re right. And she isn’t perfect, of course. I don’t think” — Charlotte hesitates but then goes on — “I don’t think Ellen has much imagination. Do you know, I can’t bear to hear her read aloud.” Charlotte laughs guiltily.
Emily feels a secret stab of satisfaction. Her sister’s not completely besotted with this Ellen, then.
“But,” and now Charlotte is completely serious, “she has been so kind to me, Emily. You wouldn’t believe it.”
Something in her voice causes Emily to wonder — she remembers what Charlotte said earlier. “And the other girls? Are they as nice?”
Charlotte doesn’t answer.
After a while Emily puts her hand on her sister’s arm. “Charles?”
Charlotte sighs. “They don’t mean anything. And it’s probably my fault for being too sensitive.”
Emily, envisaging horrors, whispers, “What do they do?”
“They don’t really do anything … but I hear them talking about me and laughing.”
“Laughing?”
Reluctantly Charlotte says, “When I arrived, they thought it was terribly funny that I knew so lit
tle that Miss Wooler was going to put me in the bottom of the junior class —”
“But that’s ridiculous. Papa has taught us such a lot of things.”
Charlotte says drily, “It turns out they aren’t the right sorts of things.”
“Right for what?”
“For being a governess. Things like grammar. Geography.”
“But you’ve won those prizes … and that medal.”
“Yes, well …”
Emily sees all at once how terribly hard Charlotte must have worked to fight her way from the bottom of the school to the top. No wonder she looks tired.
“So then don’t the girls admire you for achieving so much?”
Charlotte shrugs. “I don’t think they care much about study. Of course, most of them have wealthy fathers so they’re not going to have to earn their living and they don’t seem to understand why I work so hard. They find me amusing.”
“Oh, Charlotte, they don’t.”
“They do, I’m afraid. They laugh at the way I speak and the fact that I can’t see properly so I can’t catch a ball and they imitate the way I hold the book close to my nose and, oh, lots of things …”
To Emily, the humiliations Charlotte speaks of so calmly sound terrible. It’s obvious what she must do. “Never mind. You’re home now. And once you tell Papa the truth about it —”
“Papa mustn’t know.” Charlotte glares at Emily. “You’re not to say anything.”
“But the girls —”
Charlotte shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter about the other girls.”
“But —”
“Emily! Listen to me.” She looks Emily in the eye. “What do you think it would do to Papa if I said I wanted to give up? He’s counting on my being able to be a governess, to support myself if I should need to. I can’t let him down. And anyway” — she takes Emily’s hand and squeezes it — “there are lots of things about the school that are excellent and I like it, truly I do. So, you see, it’s no good going on about it. I’m going back and that’s that.”
Emily is silenced. Just for a moment there, her heart had lifted with a marvelous hope — Charlotte would stay at home; she’d have her back for good; everything would be back to normal. But now … she sighs. She doesn’t believe that Charlotte can really like the school, but she has a point about Papa. They must do all they can to avoid adding to his worries and risking his getting ill again.
