by Jane Eagland
Emily lets out a great sigh of happiness. “Good. That’s what we’ll do, then.”
In their walks, their new shared world takes shape.
They agree that, as in all their plays, it should take the form of an island. After scouring A Grammar of General Geography, they call the new land Gondal and set it in the North Pacific. But Emily doesn’t want the old imaginary landscapes of their plays: deserts and palm trees and fantastical cities with their palaces of lapis lazuli, streets paved with precious stones, and paradisal gardens — the sort of thing that Charlotte loves. After reading Walter Scott, her mind is full of mountains and moorlands, waterfalls tumbling into deep ravines, forests and rocky shores.
She suggests this landscape to Anne for Gondal. “It’s just like here,” she says, waving her arm at the scene before them. “And it’s real.”
Anne nods enthusiastically. “It’s better if it’s real.”
Emily grins with delight. She doesn’t want magical transformations either, or genii appearing and bringing people back to life. It’s wonderful that Anne feels the same.
They decide that just as they used to do when they were all working on the Glass Town saga, they’ll divide Gondal into separate regions, with each of them taking responsibility for developing their own main characters. They’ll develop the new saga in the old way, talking about everything together and acting out various scenes and events on their walks, then writing it down at home, each working on their own bits, when they get the chance in the mornings and evenings when Papa and Aunt leave them to their own devices.
Because she loves the secrecy of it, Emily proposes that they still use the same minute print and make miniature books. “And we won’t let Branwell read them, will we? Or Charlotte.”
Anne looks worried. “Won’t we? That seems unkind.”
Emily tosses her head. “Well, they’ve been unkind to us, so it serves them right.”
To prevent Anne arguing about it, she rushes on to outline some ideas she’s had about some of her new heroes and heroines.
“I’ve thought of a chief man called Julius Brenzaida. At the start of it all he’s a student and he’s in love with Princess Rosina. She loves him, but she’s not sitting around waiting for him to notice her.”
She doesn’t want her Rosina to be like Charlotte’s heroines, who are horribly languid and never do anything. She wants her to be like Diana Vernon, spirited and self-willed and as Scott describes her: Accustomed to mind nobody’s opinion but her own.
“She encourages Julius to rebel against the college authorities and they imprison him in a dungeon under the Palace of Instruction, where he undergoes horrible tortures. But the worst part of his suffering is being separated from his beloved Rosina. What do you think?”
She waits anxiously while Anne considers her suggestion. Her sister nods. “Yes, I think that sounds intriguing.”
Emily feels like cheering. After having her contributions mocked and belittled by the others, it’s so encouraging to receive a positive reaction. And it’s so liberating to be in charge of it all. Because really she is — she’s been taking the lead and Anne seems content to follow her. The novelty of having someone look up to her adds to the delight of the whole venture.
But when Emily suggests that Julius takes on himself all the responsibility for his imprisonment, Anne shakes her head. “I don’t think he would feel that. It doesn’t ring true.”
Emily frowns. “Of course it does. It’s his actions that have caused him to suffer.”
“I think, however much he loves her, he would blame Rosina for urging him to rebel.”
“No, that’s nonsense. What do you know about love? You’re just a child.”
Anne raises her head and gives Emily a look.
After a moment Emily says, “Sorry. That sounded like Charlotte, didn’t it?”
Anne nods.
Gazing at her, Emily sees suddenly what it might be like to be Anne, to be the youngest and therefore always somehow disregarded. “You must get tired of everyone treating you like the baby of the family.”
Anne looks thoughtful and then she says, “It’s quite nice to be spoiled. But sometimes I think the rest of you don’t realize that I have my own ideas and am quite capable of forming my own judgment of things. Such as how Julius would feel.” She gives Emily a challenging look.
Emily goes to protest, then stops and considers. Finally she throws up her hands. “You’re right. He never stops loving Rosina, but he’ll blame her and he’ll tell her so. And she deserves it.”
Emily whistles to Grasper and, as they walk on, she slips her arm through Anne’s.
One afternoon, walking in a direction they’ve never taken before, they come across a remote farmhouse.
Emily has always considered the parsonage a sturdy house, constructed with the harsh winters of the Yorkshire moors in mind, but she can see that, with its narrow, deep-set windows and stout cornerstones, this house, Top Withens, was built to withstand even more extreme weather.
It needed to be, up here.
She notices that the firs and thorns at one end of the house are slanted, their growth distorted by the force of the wind that’s blowing fiercely on this autumn day.
What must it be like to live up here in the dark months of winter, cut off by deep snow? Hearing the onslaught of the gales blasting against the windows, day after day?
She tries to imagine it, peering at the house for clues. What if the inhabitants were like her Gondal people, with passions as powerful as the wind, full of bitter jealousies and resentments? How would they fare, closeted up together for months at a time, scarcely seeing another living soul? Such a situation could easily breed violence, perhaps even murder.
Excited by the possibilities, she falls into a reverie. Suddenly Anne nudges her. A face is peering at them from one of the windows. Seizing Anne’s arm, Emily turns tail and flees, but when they are a safe distance away she can’t resist glancing back, fixing the image of that isolated house and its situation in her mind.
One blustery afternoon in November Emily and Anne’s rambles bring them to the hillside above Ponden Hall.
As they gaze down at the old grey stone house, Anne says, “Remember what Papa said about Mr. Heaton’s library? Shall we go down and see if we can visit it today?”
Emily hesitates. Papa has recently seen the Heatons’ library and he reported that it was very fine. “I don’t know. I don’t want to have to see the family.”
Anne looks wistfully at the hall. “But just think — all those books. Can’t we just have a look? We won’t have to stay long.”
Emily is in an agony of indecision. The lure of the books is dreadfully tempting. Like the others, she has read and reread Papa’s small but precious stock of books until she knows them virtually by heart, and he can rarely afford a new volume. He has a subscription with the Keighley circulating library and will get books for them from time to time, but there’s only a limited selection. The thought of having a whole library to browse in for herself …
“All right, but we must try not to get trapped in a conversation.”
In the lane they stop and peer round a pillar at the house. Emily’s just screwing up her courage to go and knock at the door when it opens and a boy hails them.
“Pa says you’re to come in, if you please.”
Tying Grasper to a boot scraper, they follow the boy into the house. As they pass through the doorway, the date carved on a plaque above it catches Emily’s eye — 1801.
It’s a date that sticks in her memory, for it means a lot to Papa — the year of the union of Ireland with Great Britain.
Inside, Emily finds herself in a spacious room. She recognizes Mr. Heaton, with his ruddy face and thinning hair, from church. Clad in knee breeches and gaiters, he’s sitting by a huge fireplace in which a tremendous fire of coal and wood as well as peat is blazing away. Opposite him, with some knitting in her lap, is his wife, a round, comfortable-looking woman. The boy joins his li
ttle brothers at the table; there are open books in front of them, but they’re far more interested in their visitors.
Having five pairs of eyes gazing at her is too much for Emily. Her instinct is to turn and run, but Mr. Heaton has risen and is greeting them. “Miss Emily, isn’t it? And Miss Anne? How do you do, young ladies? I hope I see you well.”
“We are very well, thank you, Mr. Heaton.” Anne blushes furiously. “Aren’t we, Emily?”
“Yes,” says Emily stiffly. This is a mistake. They should never have come in.
She offers monosyllabic replies to Mr. Heaton’s inquiries about Papa’s health and that of the rest of the family. He addresses them all to her, but she refuses to look him in the face. She hates it when strangers peer at you as if they’ve a right to know what you’re thinking and feeling. Her eyes dart round the room.
It’s nothing like their parlor at home, but nor is it the luxurious room Emily would expect of a wealthy man like Mr. Heaton — a room with crimson and gold furnishings and crystal chandeliers such as Charlotte described in the palaces of Glass Town.
It’s more like a farmhouse. A great oak cabinet fills one end, the shelves above laden with silver jugs, enormous pewter dishes, and gleaming tankards. Overhead, legs of beef and ham dangle from hooks in the dark wooden ceiling and a rack of drying oatcakes hangs at one end of the room. Instead of a picture above the fireplace, there are some fearsome old guns.
Emily can’t believe that somewhere in this house there can be any library at all, let alone a “fine” one.
By now, an awkward silence has fallen. Anne nudges her and she forces herself to say, “Mr. Heaton, Papa said your library is very impressive.”
“Ah yes, indeed.” Mr. Heaton smiles expansively. “I would say it’s the largest hereabouts. We have a Shakespeare First Folio, you know. You’d like to see it, no doubt?”
“Oh yes, please.”
The oldest boy is out of his seat in a flash. “Let me show them, Pa.”
His father laughs. “Aha, I see one of you has made a conquest. Which of the young ladies has won your heart, William, my boy?”
Flushing scarlet, the lad studies his boots.
Emily is puzzled. What does Mr. Heaton mean? But when his father says, “Go on, then, son, show the young ladies the way,” and the boy raises his eyes to hers, she sees a look in them that she’s only ever seen in Grasper’s eyes — one of dumb devotion.
She cringes inwardly as they follow him upstairs. Silly boy, what does he think he’s doing looking at her like that? He can’t be more than twelve.
The sight of the library drives all other thoughts from her head.
Mr. Heaton wasn’t exaggerating — there are more books here than Emily has ever dreamed of. She dives at the shelves, scanning them wildly. History, biography, travel … and here are the poets: some she’s heard of — Burns and Moore — and others unfamiliar to her. She’s tempted to seize volume after volume from the shelves and fill her arms with this treasure.
Taking a deep breath, she makes herself calm down. She looks again more carefully and eventually selects just one book — Byron’s Don Juan.
Soon she’s so deeply immersed in it she’s hardly aware of the boy creeping out and leaving them to it, or of Anne turning pages occasionally.
“Well, now, Miss Emily.” Mr. Heaton’s abrupt entry into the room makes her jump. “I don’t want to spoil your entertainment, but Mrs. Heaton was wondering whether it wasn’t time for you to be getting your sister back to the parsonage. I’ll take you in the gig, if you like.”
Emily doesn’t want to leave this wonderful room. It’s like being inside a cocoon — she feels completely relaxed and safe. But glancing out of the window, she sees that dusk is falling. They had better go. But they certainly don’t need a lift.
Unfortunately Anne is already saying, “Thank you, Mr. Heaton. That’s kind of you.”
Emily gives her a look. Now they’ll have to talk to him all the way home.
Mr. Heaton says, “Before we go, is there a book you’d each like to take with you? And when you bring your sister back to return it, Miss Emily, you’re welcome to choose another.”
Emily and Anne exchange delighted glances and rapidly make their choices.
“What is it to be, then?” asks Mr. Heaton, looking at the books in Anne’s hand.
“I can’t decide between Bishop Horsley’s Sermons and Gilbert White’s The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne.”
Mr. Heaton looks at her with an expression of surprise mingled with amusement.
“What serious books for a girl of your age! But by all means, take them both. I expect your papa would like to read the Horsley. And possibly the White. You’re fond of nature, are you, Miss Anne?”
“Oh yes.”
“And you, Miss Emily?” He looks at the title and frowns. “Moore’s Life of Lord Byron? Hmm, now then, that’s not a very suitable choice for a young lady, is it? I’m not sure your father would approve. I think you should pick something else, don’t you?”
Emily clasps the book to her chest and gives him a dark look. Mr. Heaton is just like Aunt — she’s always harrying Papa for letting them read whatever they want instead of something tedious and improving, like Mrs. Edgeworth’s Moral Tales for Young People. “Papa will be quite happy for us to read this. He’s very fond of Byron’s poetry himself, and we have read a great deal of it. And Papa has said he’ll get Moore’s Life for us as soon as he can.”
Mr. Heaton looks discomfited. “Ah well, in that case … I tell you what, bring it with you and I’ll just check with your father that he’s happy about this.”
Emily scowls. Does he think she’s lying? She’s tempted to say something rude, but she bites it back. It would be a mistake to offend him and spoil her chance of visiting the library again.
Later, with Anne and Branwell, she laughs about the expression on Mr. Heaton’s face when Papa expressed his gratitude for the loan of the book. “We’ve all been wanting to read this since it came out,” he told Mr. Heaton cheerfully, and that good man looked “as if he’d choked on a prune stone,” as Branwell put it.
After they’ve described the library, Branwell is eager to see it for himself. “And he says we can borrow books whenever we like?”
“Yes. And he says we won’t be bothered. Though I’m not so sure.” Anne giggles. “The eldest boy is smitten with Emily.”
“He is not.” Emily glares at Anne.
Branwell makes retching noises. “If he is, he must be blind.”
Emily throws a cushion at him.
At bedtime, when she goes in to say good night to Anne, she tells her off. “Don’t say that kind of thing in front of Branwell — he won’t stop teasing me now. And anyway, it’s not true.”
“Sorry.” Anne is contrite. “But I do think that boy admires you. And it’s no wonder — you’re so pretty.”
Emily stares at her sister. Has she gone mad? “Pretty!” She screws up her face in disgust.
“You are,” Anne insists.
“Good night.” Emily wants to put a stop to this absurd conversation.
But, alone in her bedroom, brushing her hair, she studies her face in the looking glass: wide-spaced blue-grey eyes, a long straight nose like Papa’s, a determined set to her mouth. Does this amount to prettiness?
As she gazes at herself, a realization strikes her like an electric shock.
This is what she looks like.
It’s like meeting a stranger. For the very first time in her life, she’s seeing herself. This is how other people see her — as a being, separate from all other beings on earth, with her own unique recognizable identity.
This is who she is.
She nods to herself in the mirror: a greeting to the only Emily Jane Brontë in the world.
“Ponden Hall, tha says?” Tabby pauses in her rolling of pastry and looks at Emily inquiringly. “I can’t say as I’ve ever been inside myself. But folk say it’s a grand place.”
“He’s all reet, is Mr. Heaton.” Tabby resumes her rolling. “Not one to get above himself. And good-hearted too, though it hasn’t always served him well.”
Sensing a story, Emily draws up her chair to the table.
“If tha’s going to set there a while, tha might as well make thiself useful. Chop those carrots, why don’t tha?”
Emily picks up a knife. “Go on, Tabby. What happened to Mr. Heaton?” She’s not the slightest bit interested in the man himself, but she can’t resist Tabby’s tales.
“Well, his sister, Eliza, got herself into trouble with a fellow from Leeds, John Bakes he were called. Near broke her father’s heart, it did. Old Mr. Heaton got them married here at Haworth and paid to have the bairn made legitimate, like. But Bakes were no good. While Eliza worked herself to death in his grocer’s shop, he drank all the profits. Eliza got consumption in the end and her father fetched her and the little lad, Arthur, back to the hall, but it were too late.” Tabby shakes her head sadly. “Pass us pie funnel, lass.”
Emily passes over the small ceramic dome that Tabby uses to hold up the piecrust. “What happened to Arthur?”
“Well, now, that’s a sad thing too. Bakes insisted on taking his son back and the boy led a terrible life, by all accounts — working all hours and beaten and abused. But then Bakes died. By this time old Mr. Heaton had passed on too and our Mr. Heaton were living in the hall with his wife and young family. He felt sorry for Arthur and took him in, but it didn’t go well.”
While she’s been talking, Tabby has cut out some pastry leaves to go on the top of the pie, and she pauses to concentrate as she marks the veins with her knife. Emily’s impatient to hear the rest of the story, but she knows it’s no good trying to rush Tabby. Only when the pie’s safely in the oven and Tabby has wiped her floury hands on her apron does she settle in her chair and resume her tale.
