by Jane Eagland
She nudges Charlotte. “You could wear spectacles.”
It’s ridiculous of her sister not to. At least she’d be able to play the piano, which would be some compensation for the bullying she has to endure.
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Because I am ugly enough as it is.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re not ugly.”
“I am. Mary said so.”
Emily winces. “I thought she was your friend.”
“She is. And she’s not afraid to speak her mind. That’s one of the things I like about her. And she doesn’t laugh at me and nor does Ellen. They’re not like the others.”
Emily can see it now — the relief of having these two friends when Charlotte is forced to live among such a spiteful set of girls.
She almost warms to them … almost, but not quite.
“… and at Roe Head the cooks don’t boil the vegetables for hours like Tabby does.”
Emily grits her teeth. It is probably nicer to have vegetables that haven’t turned to a gluey mush, but she wishes Charlotte would stop going on about that blessed school. She’s only been home a week, but already she’s getting on Emily’s nerves.
She thought Charlotte’s holiday was going to be so wonderful. But her sister is forever beginning sentences with “Ellen says” and “Mary wouldn’t agree with that,” as if her friends, like ghostly presences, have come home with her and taken up residence in the house. And she can’t stop talking about Miss Wooler, the headmistress.
If Charlotte is to be believed, this lady, who dresses in white robes and wears her hair in a plaited coronet — Branwell rolls his eyes at Emily when they hear this — is the most cultivated woman in the whole of Yorkshire.
“Miss Wooler’s not just passionate about the subjects she teaches,” Charlotte now declares admiringly. “She makes a point of getting to know every one of her pupils. She —”
She breaks off as Papa looks in on them, saying, as he always does, “Don’t stay up too late, now.”
They listen to his footsteps going up the stairs, stopping on the first landing as he winds the clock, and then continuing up to his bedroom.
Outside the light is fading from the sky, so it probably is time they were going to bed.
But Charlotte says, “Why don’t we do the walking ritual?”
“What are you talking about?” Branwell asks.
“What we do at school before we go to bed.” Charlotte explains that every evening, for the period before bedtime, Miss Wooler has the girls stroll in pairs up and down the schoolroom, conversing as they go, and she takes part in this, walking with a different pupil each time and asking them about themselves.
“What!” Emily yelps. “That’s intolerable. What right has she got to pry like that? Don’t you dread your turn?”
“No, not at all.” Charlotte looks surprised. “I don’t know how she does it, but Miss Wooler has a way of drawing you out. She seems genuinely interested in what you have to say.”
Emily can’t think of anything worse. She wouldn’t want someone like the headmistress, a stranger, to know anything about her. But Charlotte, shy Charlotte, seems to enjoy revealing herself to Miss Wooler. What has she been saying? Emily certainly hopes she hasn’t been blabbing about their family.
“So, shall we try it?” Charlotte looks expectantly at them.
Emily snorts derisively. “Why would we want to do that?”
“It’s fun. You’ll see.” She seizes Branwell by the arm and urges him to get up. “You two pair up and follow us,” she orders Emily and Anne, setting off with Branwell at a stately pace.
Anne obediently offers her hand to Emily. Grudgingly, Emily links arms with her little sister and they start walking. The parlor is small, so they’re forced to go round and round the table.
Scowling, Emily directs a silent curse at Charlotte’s back. This is ridiculous. At least Papa and Aunt and Tabby are all safely in bed and can’t witness their making fools of themselves. She pulls a face at Anne, who giggles.
Charlotte frowns over her shoulder at them. “You’ve got to talk to each other.”
She turns back to Branwell and they continue hotly debating an article in Blackwood’s Magazine.
Emily sighs. Branwell was right — school has made Charlotte crazed, as Tabby would say. But since it feels stupid to walk round the table in silence, they might as well have a go. She starts talking to Anne about the Byron poem they were reading earlier, asking her sister what she most admired about it.
After a while she forgets the oddity of what they’re doing and finds herself enjoying it — it’s restful in the twilight and when Anne asks her what she thought about the poem, she discovers that the rhythm of walking seems to help her thoughts to flow.
Perhaps it’s not such a stupid idea after all. But she’ll never admit that to Charlotte.
“… and Kirklees Park is beautiful. You can’t imagine how delightful it is to roam about in the shade of the forest. And there are deer, you know.”
Emily scowls. Why does Charlotte keep talking? Why doesn’t she look at where she is and see how grand the moors are? Surely she can’t think that a park is anything like as impressive. Perhaps, without spectacles, she’s too blind to see the splendor in front of her.
Emily only feels a little bit guilty for having this mean thought.
Here they are — it’s the last day of Charlotte’s holiday, the sun is shining, and they’re on their way to a place she and Anne have named The Meeting of the Waters, their favorite spot, and all Charlotte keeps going on about is the scenery around Roe Head. To hear her you’d think it was the next best thing to paradise.
When they come to the wide stream Emily splashes across without a thought, followed by Anne, and they laugh as Grasper frisks beside them. But then Emily realizes that Charlotte isn’t with them. She looks back. Their sister is still on the bank, staring nervously at the tumbling water.
“Come on, Charlotte,” she calls. “It’s quite safe.”
But Charlotte won’t come. Sighing, Emily begins to gather some stepping-stones for her, placing them carefully in the water. Anne helps, and then, hopping across to show how easy it is, she leads Charlotte back with her.
Watching Charlotte teeter from one stone to the next, with a look on her face as if she’s enduring the most terrible ordeal, Emily has to resist the temptation to push her in. For heaven’s sake, it’s not as if it’s very deep. The worst that could happen is wet boots.
Finally they reach a point where they can overlook their destination.
“… and Miss Wooler admires the paintings of Gainsborough, but she says —”
“Look,” says Emily, gesturing dramatically and cutting Charlotte off in midflow. “Isn’t it splendid?”
In front of them the ground falls away abruptly into a deep cleft and off to the left a flow of spring water is tumbling down the hillside, frothing and sparkling in the sunshine.
But rather than admiring the falls, Charlotte is peering down past her feet. “Have we got to go down there?” she says, with a quaver in her voice. “Isn’t it rather steep?”
Emily grits her teeth. Charlotte isn’t very brave, but she wasn’t so niminy-piminy before she went to school. Putting on a patience she doesn’t feel, she says, “It is a little, but we’ll help you. You won’t come to any harm.”
She goes first, showing Charlotte where to put her feet and offering her hand at the steepest descents. Charlotte squeaks a little here and there and at one point she slips, but Emily catches her. Finally they reach the bottom.
“Here we are,” Emily announces.
“Thank goodness.” Charlotte puts her hand on her chest as if to steady her breathing. “We haven’t got to climb back up that way, have we?”
“No!” Emily can’t keep the exasperation out of her voice. They’ve only just arrived and Charlotte’s already worrying about leaving. “There’s another path we can take to get home. But Charlotte, d
o look.”
She indicates the scene before them. Here in the bottom of the gully, the spring meets a beck at a point where it’s crossed by an ancient stone bridge. The waters flow on downhill, forming brown pools edged with bright ferns and tall pink spires of foxgloves. The hillside rises all round them, cutting them off from the world so that they can enjoy the beauties of this spot in perfect seclusion, hidden from view.
Charlotte peers about vaguely.
“See those flat stones,” says Emily, pointing at some slabs overhung by a clump of birch trees. “They make ideal seats. We can sit in the shade and trail our hands in the water. It will be lovely and cool.”
“Or we could paddle,” suggests Anne, looking excited at the prospect.
But Charlotte just says, “Mm, yes,” in a halfhearted way. So they all stand around — like tailors’ dummies, thinks Emily irritably — until finally she can’t bear it any longer.
“Oh, do come and sit down, Charlotte,” she says, and she and Anne settle themselves on a wide slab. After a moment Charlotte does join them, choosing her spot carefully and sitting down gingerly. But she can’t be persuaded to put even a finger into the water.
Looking at Charlotte’s stiff posture and the rather grim expression on her face, Emily scowls. Her sister’s only agreed to come to humor them. She doesn’t really want to be there at all.
Suddenly scooping up a stone, Emily hurls it into the water. She only just misses Charlotte’s head. Charlotte looks round in confusion and Anne exclaims, “Emily!” But she doesn’t care. She had so looked forward to sharing this secret place with Charlotte, but the pleasure of the day has been spoiled and it’s all Charlotte’s fault.
Having dived in after the stone, Grasper searches about fruitlessly for a while and then pants back to them, dripping water everywhere and making Charlotte shrink away from him with a little squeal.
Abruptly, Emily stands up. She has had enough. “Shall we go back?”
Charlotte jumps up with alacrity, looking relieved, and they set off in the direction of home.
Emily stumps along behind the others.
Charlotte must have seen how important The Meeting of the Waters was to her and Anne; she could at least have pretended. But no, all she’s interested in is her new life at school. And when Emily finally broached the subject of Papa, all Charlotte could say was, “We must do our best not to worry him.” And she’d followed that up with, “You’ll make sure you behave, won’t you, Emily?”
As if she was still a child. As if she doesn’t try all the time to avoid doing anything that might upset Papa. She’s even given up arguing with Aunt in case the old lady complains to Papa.
Emily kicks a stone. She’s been dying to have Charlotte back, to have a really good talk with her about everything, and it hasn’t happened. All because Charlotte has changed. She doesn’t seem to care about the family anymore. And she certainly doesn’t care about Emily.
By now the village is in sight and Emily smiles wryly as an idea dawns on her.
She calls out to the others. “Why don’t we go home through Parker’s field for a change?”
Anne gives her a speculative look, but Charlotte says, “Yes, all right, if you like.”
They’re well into the middle of the field and Charlotte is still babbling. “… and next term we’re to begin botanical illustration and —”
She sees the cows and falters.
As if singling her out, as if they know she’s afraid of them, the lumbering beasts crowd round her, snuffing curiously and slobbering at her with their rubbery tongues. She freezes, uttering mews of terror.
Emily feels a stab of satisfaction. It serves Charlotte right.
She waits a good few minutes before she relents and shoos the cows away. Even then Charlotte seems unable to move until Emily takes her arm and makes her come.
Over her head, Emily grins wickedly at Anne. Anne shakes her head reproachfully, but Emily can see she’s repressing a smile. Good. She’s glad about it too.
The next day, immediately after Charlotte has left to go back to school for her last term, Emily goes to the piano and plunges into one of Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words. She only manages a page before breaking off and staring, unseeing, at the keys.
She shouldn’t have been so mean to Charlotte about the cows. It was a childish, petty act of revenge, the sort of thing they used to do to each other when they were younger. She’s too old for that sort of trick now. And it was pointless anyway, since it did nothing to achieve what she wants.
Emily sighs. What she wants is to have Charlotte back again as she used to be before she went away. But now her sister has gone to that school for another five months. When she comes home she’s bound to be even more different. Oh, if only everything could be as it was before Papa became ill.
Touching one or two keys lightly without pressing them down, she sighs again, and Grasper, who’s been lying with his head on her foot, raises it and gives her a quizzical look. She smiles at him ruefully.
All along, without even admitting it to herself, she’s been hoping that being at school would make Charlotte miss the old way they used to write. That she’d come home wanting to go back to it and they’d all join in together and everything would be all right again.
But Charlotte hadn’t shown any interest in writing, not even with Branwell. She’d listened to him reading from his history of the Young Men and made enthusiastic comments, but she hadn’t shown any desire to discuss new developments or write anything herself. It was as if her efforts at school had exhausted her and she just wanted to relax during the holiday.
Emily had wanted to ask Charlotte about it, but somehow she never did. And now she doesn’t know what to do.
For some time now when she’s seen Branwell scribbling away she’s felt a pang of envy. She misses that total absorption, that experience of being carried away into an imaginary world that’s so much brighter and more exciting than her dull daily life.
And she’s been rereading Rob Roy, her favorite Walter Scott novel. It’s been delightful to meet Diana Vernon, that bold and witty heroine, again and read about Frank’s journey to the Highlands, where he meets the daring outlaw, Rob Roy, who fights for justice for the oppressed. Reading the story has stirred Emily up, made her full of yearning, just like when she hears Mr. Sunderland playing the piano. She wants to do this herself. She wants to create larger-than-life characters and send them off on thrilling adventures.
She also wants that indefinable pleasure of writing — how it begins with an indistinct feeling, something vague but pressing that builds up inside you until it emerges into a sentence, something crisp and definite that didn’t exist before. It must be how God felt — “Let there be …” and there it is.
And oh, she wants the fun of collaboration, that excitement where you have an idea and the other person sees a way to develop it and that gives you more ideas — like a tree ever-branching outward and the whole thing growing much faster and more enjoyably than if you did it on your own.
Just thinking about it makes her want to do it again, and as soon as possible!
Maybe she can …
Maybe writing by herself is not the only option.
Sitting up straight, she turns back to the beginning of the music and starts playing again with passionate energy.
The next time she and Anne go out, they decide to walk to The Meeting of the Waters again. It’s such a beautiful day — in the sunshine the moor is like a bronze cloth spread out for their pleasure — and Emily wonders if her sister feels as she does — that she wants to make up for their previous visit, which was so disappointing. And it’s the perfect place to ask Anne the question that’s been fizzing inside her.
She waits until they’ve settled themselves on one of the flat stone slabs. They’ve brought books with them, but before Anne can open hers, Emily says abruptly, “You know our Glass Town play? How do you feel about it?”
Anne looks puzzled. “What do you mean?�
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“Well …” Emily hesitates, not quite sure how to put it. “You’ve been going on with it, haven’t you? But are you enjoying it?”
Anne pauses and then says, “I liked it better when we all talked about it and made things up together. Do you suppose when Charlotte comes home for good, we’ll do that again?”
“I don’t know.” Emily lifts her chin. “But do you know something? I’m tired of being ignored and told that our ideas are childish.”
“Is that why you haven’t been writing?”
Emily nods.
After a moment, Anne says, “Perhaps if we asked the others again when they’re in a better mood, they’ll let us join in properly.”
Emily looks away, watching the water splashing down the hillside and spilling over the rocks, at Grasper paddling in the shallows. Taking a deep breath, she says, “I don’t want to be part of what the others are doing anymore. I’d like to make up a new play, one that’s just ours, you and me.” She turns back to Anne. “What do you think?”
Anne’s eyes, violet blue in the sunshine, are wide with surprise and Emily holds her breath as she waits for her answer.
Her sister was so young when Maria and Elizabeth died. As far as Anne’s concerned, Charlotte has always been their leader. If she says no, Emily doesn’t know what she’ll do. Could she break away and work by herself? Could she bear to see the other three playing together and not be part of it, however unsatisfactory it’s become?
Grasper trots up to where they’re sitting and shakes himself, scattering water drops all over them. Anne laughs and pats his head. Then, still laughing, she lifts her face to Emily and says, “Yes.”
“You want to do it?”
“Yes!”
