by Jane Eagland
“Arthur were a sullen lad, by all accounts. Least that’s what Hannah the housekeeper told me. She said she couldn’t abide his look sometimes — if he were crossed, his black eyes glittered as if the devil hisself lurked in them.”
Emily is enthralled. The image of those eyes conjures for her the whole boy — a dark, gypsy-looking lad with tousled black hair. She doesn’t ever remember seeing him.
“Did he never come to church with the Heatons?”
Tabby shakes her head. “He wouldn’t. According to Hannah, the lad said his father claimed to be God-fearing even as he were thrashing him and that had turned the lad against religion. As far as Hannah were concerned, Arthur were a godless heathen and she could find no good in him. She didn’t trust him with little maister William — you’ll have met him, I warrant? The Heatons’ eldest lad?”
“Yes.” Emily answers abruptly — she doesn’t want to think about that boy and the way he looked at her.
“Well, at the time I’m speaking of he were nobbut five year old and Hannah would find bruises on him that couldn’t be explained. Mrs. Heaton weren’t happy about the situation, but Mr. Heaton would keep making allowances for Arthur. Things went on uneasily for a time, but matters came to a head when they discovered the lad up to tricks even Mr. Heaton found unforgivable.”
Tabby stops, and to urge her to keep going, Emily leans forward in her chair. But Tabby has paused to check the progress of her pie in the oven; satisfied, she resettles herself and carries on.
“Mr. Heaton were holding a meeting of church trustees in his library when little William bursts in. He were red in the face and laughing and he began to curse and blaspheme his head off. His father were shocked and embarrassed and no doubt the worthy gentlemen were horrified by these antics.
“Mr. Heaton caught up his son and carried him from the room and ’twere then he discovered that the bairn were drunk, would you believe? Very soon the little lad were as sick as a dog but after a spell in bed, anon he recovered and no harm done.
“It turns out Arthur had put him up to it. Mr. Heaton were all for giving the lad a good talking-to, but Mrs. Heaton wouldn’t rest until her husband agreed to send him away. The maister were in the middle of sorting out an apprenticeship for the lad with a cabinetmaker back in Leeds, when it seems Arthur took matters into his own hands. One night he disappeared and he’s not been seen round these parts since.”
“Does no one know what became of him?”
Tabby shakes her head. “Hannah says there’s not been a word these last six year. There’s rumors that he went to be a soldier or ran away to sea, but they’re just tales, I reckon,” Tabby says, getting to her feet. “More like he’s come to a bad end somewhere. Now, Miss Emily, if tha’s finished those carrots, will you skift out of here and let me alone, for I’ve a pile of ironing to get done.”
That afternoon, when Emily and Anne are discussing the Gondal saga, Emily says, “I’ve been wondering about a new character. What do you think of the idea that, when Julius is fighting to take the kingdom of Almedore, he comes across a boy, a dark orphan, half-wild and neglected, and he decides to adopt him as his own son.”
“Hmm, interesting.” Anne nods her head. “Have you thought of a name for him?”
“I’m not sure. What do you think about Alfonso? And now that Julius is Emperor of Angora, he’ll be Alfonso Angora. And when he grows up, he’s going to turn against Julius and make him regret his kindness.”
“Why would he do that? It seems very ungrateful.”
Emily pauses to watch a kestrel hovering, holding itself remarkably still, despite the breeze. The next moment it plummets, falling out of the sky like a stone and disappearing into the heather.
She turns to Anne. “I don’t know yet. We’ll have to think about it, won’t we?”
After tea, the three of them continue with The Life of Lord Byron, which they’d begun the evening before. After they’ve each taken a turn to read aloud, they pause to talk about it.
“Byron sounds just like you, Branwell,” Emily comments.
“Indeed, ‘a mind too inquisitive to be imprisoned within limits,’ ” Branwell quotes, puffing out his chest.
“I was thinking more of his idleness and his temper.” Emily’s tone is wry.
Branwell scowls at her.
Anne giggles. “Yes, fancy him tearing his smock when he was small, just because he was cross with his nurse.”
“Better than tearing someone else’s clothes. Don’t you remember? You tore Charlotte’s apron when she wouldn’t let you have The Arabian Nights.”
“I was only little,” says Branwell.
“You were seven. Much older than Byron and quite old enough to know better.”
Branwell smirks, not in the least repentant.
“I feel sorry for him,” says Anne.
“For Branwell?”
“No, for Byron. When he was young, at any rate. The doctors were cruel, torturing his poor clubfoot like that. And his mother sounds like a dreadful woman — doting one moment and then raging at him the next. No wonder he grew up to be wicked.”
“Is that what you think? That he was wicked?”
“Well, yes. Don’t you?”
“I don’t know.” Emily hesitates. “He seems quite vulnerable to me. You know, how he threw himself into sports like fencing and boxing, as if to prove to everyone that his maimed foot didn’t matter.”
“Yes! He’s a boxer, just like me!” Branwell swaggers about the room, throwing punches. “And I’m going to be a famous poet too!”
Emily pointedly ignores him. She’s still thinking about Byron. It wasn’t his fault if he was attracted to women who happened to be married, was it? He was obviously a passionate person. Look how he fell in love with Mary Chaworth when he was only fifteen. And how hurt he must have been when he overheard her say, “Do you think I could care anything for that lame boy?”
No wonder he ran away.
She gives Branwell a sideways glance. Does he have his eye on someone? Maybe one of the girls he sees at church? And then she looks at her brother’s freckled face and inky fingers and laughs to herself.
Branwell as a pining lover? Preposterous!
Byron must have been quite different. She can see now how much of himself he put into his poetry, how his heroes — Conrad, Manfred, Cain, those dark, defiant men with their inner loneliness and sorrow, who have committed dreadful deeds and yet feel no remorse — are all, to some extent, self-portraits.
If only she could be like them. Not that she wants to commit dreadful deeds, of course, but how fine it would be to do as you pleased and express your deepest feelings freely and fearlessly, and not have to be hemmed in by petty restrictions.
Emily sighs. And then brightens. Her own life might be quite ordinary, but she can live out her dreams through her Gondal people. They can be whatever she chooses — courageous outlaws and rebels, passionate lovers … just like Byron’s characters.
She can’t wait now to get back to Ponden Hall and see what other inspiring books are to be found there. But in three weeks’ time Charlotte will be back home for good, and she’s bound to want to visit the library. It will be much better to go to the hall with her. If anyone tries to speak to them, Charlotte can deal with them — after all, at school she’s had plenty of practice in making conversation.
“I suppose you’ve learned everything they can teach you,” says Emily as she walks round the parlor table with Charlotte on her first evening home from school.
In Charlotte’s honor Tabby has been allowed to lay a good fire and, with the shutters closed tight against the cold December night, the parlor is warm and cozy.
Charlotte blushes. “Don’t be silly. I don’t expect Aunt can afford any more fees.”
Emily wonders what her sister is really thinking — whether she’s really happy to have come home. But she’s not going to ask her.
When she knew Charlotte was coming home for good, she made a decision — she�
��s not going to fret about her sister anymore. If Charlotte wants to restore their old intimacy it’s up to her to make the first move. And if Charlotte wants to go back to writing about Glass Town with all of them joining in together, then she’s going to be disappointed. Emily’s very happy working with Anne and she wants to keep Gondal to themselves.
But she can’t help wondering what difference the past five months will have made to her older sister. And what will it be like to have her living with them again?
“So …” Charlotte grips her book tightly, looking self-conscious. “You first, Emily. What is rhubarb?”
Emily raises an eyebrow. “Come on, Charlotte, you know I know what rhubarb is.”
Charlotte purses her lips. “Go on, answer the question.”
Emily sighs. “All right. Rhubarb is a plant with pink stems that are delicious when cooked with sugar, especially in pies. Oh, and if you eat too much, it makes you run to the privy a lot.”
Anne giggles and twin spots of color appear in Charlotte’s cheeks.
Emily almost feels sorry for her. This was a bad idea of Papa’s — that once the Christmas holiday was over and they took up their lessons again, Charlotte should teach her and Anne. It’s all very well him saying it’s good practice for Charlotte for when she has to be a governess and it’s better for them because he’s so often called away on parish business. It isn’t — it’s boring.
Papa’s lessons are much more fun. Emily would much rather study what she’s interested in instead of following the dreary textbooks, and Papa’s always so easily diverted into telling stories.
“Emily, please.”
Hearing the pleading in Charlotte’s voice, she relents. In a monotone she rapidly recites, “ ‘Rhubarb is the root of a tree growing in Turkey, in Asia, and Arabia Felix; used for medicinal purposes.’ ”
“Correct. Now, Anne —”
“But honestly, Charles, what is the point?” Emily is serious now. “Why do we have to learn the answer word for word, like parrots? Why can’t we just say it in our own words?”
“Because …” Charlotte casts about for an answer. “Erm …”
“Because you need to know whether your pupils have learned it properly?” Anne offers.
“Yes, that’s it.” Charlotte shoots her a grateful look.
“But it’s so mindless. And anyway, why does anybody have to learn all this stuff? What’s it for?”
Charlotte stares at her for a long minute. “I don’t know,” she admits finally.
“You see.” Emily’s triumphant. “It’s pointless. Come on, Charles, haven’t we done enough for today?” She puts on a beseeching look, and after a moment’s hesitation Charlotte shuts the book.
“All right. What shall we do instead?”
“We’ve got writing to do, haven’t we?” Emily turns to Anne, who nods.
“Oh?” Charlotte sounds surprised. “Something for Glass Town?”
“No,” says Emily flatly.
Charlotte’s face falls.
Emily is unrepentant. Too often in the past Charlotte’s done this to her — shutting her out from what she and Branwell were doing.
Now the tables are turned, and Charlotte will have to get used to it.
As soon as Charlotte hears about the library at Ponden Hall, as Emily predicted, she’s eager to go and see it. But even with Charlotte’s protection, once it comes to it Emily’s daunted at the thought of having to face the Heaton family again. She almost doesn’t go, but then at the last minute, when Anne and Charlotte are putting their cloaks on, she rushes to join them — the thought of all those books is too tempting. And, as luck would have it, the servant is happy to show them to the library and they don’t have to talk to anyone at all.
Charlotte’s enthusiastic about the library and as winter gives way to spring they begin to visit it regularly. But, though Charlotte reads as much as ever, Emily notices that she doesn’t seem to do nearly as much writing as she used to, spending a great deal of her time drawing instead.
To Emily’s amusement Charlotte persuades Anne to model for her, covering her head and shoulders in a tablecloth cunningly arranged to look like fine drapery. Anne’s quite pleased with the end result, though, as Branwell isn’t slow to point out, the artist has made Anne’s neck look about twice as long as it really is.
But then Charlotte asks Emily to sit for her. Emily thinks she’s joking at first, but when she realizes Charlotte’s serious, she says firmly, “No. And it’s no good asking me again, because I won’t.” The very idea! How can Charlotte possibly think she’d want to dress up like an idiot and sit still all that time?
Charlotte’s forced to return to copying portraits of society beauties, lovingly reproducing every tiny detail of their curls, their elaborate headdresses, and their jewelry. She gives these fine ladies the names of her Glass Town heroines, but seems less interested in writing about them.
Emily wonders about this. She’s determined not to ask, but eventually curiosity gets the better of her and she says to Charlotte, “You seem keen on drawing at the moment.”
“Yes. I enjoyed it so much at school that I want to keep on with it.”
“Do you like it more than writing?”
“No!” Charlotte turns to look at her. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, you don’t seem to be doing as much at the moment.”
Charlotte gazes at Emily. She seems to be making up her mind about something. Then she says, “You’re not to say anything to anyone.”
“I won’t.” Emily is mystified. Whatever’s coming?
Charlotte bends her head closer and says quietly, “I want to try and be an artist.”
“An artist?”
“Yes. I want to earn my living painting miniature portraits.”
Emily’s mouth drops open.
“Don’t look so surprised.” Charlotte looks hurt. “I suppose you think I’m not good enough.”
“No … I mean … I …” Emily flounders and then gathers herself. “I thought you were going to be a governess.”
Charlotte pulls a face. “I don’t think I’m suited to it. Look how hopeless I am with you and Anne. And, do you know something? I’ve realized I don’t like children. When I visited the Atkinsons, the children there were dreadful — completely spoiled and uncontrollable. I’d hate to have to teach them.”
“I see.” Emily looks at her sister doubtfully. They’ve all taken it for granted that Branwell might become a professional artist, but it’s never entered her head that Charlotte might want to be one too.
Charlotte seizes her arm. “I know it sounds mad, but I’ve thought about it and it’s what I really want to do. Being at school has made me realize that there’s a whole world out there of cultured people who spend their lives immersed in painting and poetry and music and … I want to be part of it.”
Emily’s stomach clenches. This is what she feared — Charlotte wanting to move away from the family. And don’t most artists live in London? If Charlotte lives far away in the capital, they’ll never see her.
But it may not happen. Charlotte’s talented, of course, but could she really earn her living as a painter?
Abruptly she asks, “Are there many women artists?” She means any.
“Of course.” Charlotte laughs as if she’s being stupid and Emily flinches. “Miss Wooler has a fine collection of prints by women.”
Oh, Miss Wooler. If she’s behind this, no wonder Charlotte’s so keen. Clearly her sister has lost none of her admiration for that wretched woman with her white dresses and daft notions.
“Shouldn’t you speak to Papa about it?” With any luck he won’t like the idea and that’ll put a stop to it.
“I will, but not yet. I want to practice as much as I can and then —” Charlotte stops and looks round to make sure they’re still on their own. Then she comes close and says quietly, “I want to enter some drawings for the Art Society’s summer exhibition. If they’re accepted, then I’ll speak to Papa
. But mind, till then, you mustn’t tell anyone. And I don’t want anyone else to know about my plans until after the exhibition.”
“Not even Branwell?”
“Especially not Branwell.”
Emily can’t stop thinking about their conversation.
Fancy Charlotte confiding in her — her, and not Branwell! But perhaps it’s not so surprising. She can’t imagine what Branwell’s reaction will be when he finds out — anything from scorn of Charlotte’s abilities to alarm at no longer being the only artist in the making in the family. Whatever it is, he won’t hold back.
But anyway, Branwell isn’t important.
What matters is that Charlotte chose her.
It’s what she’s been waiting for. It’s just like the old days when the two of them used to make up plays in bed that they didn’t tell the others about.
But as for Charlotte’s plan — she doesn’t like that at all. Why can’t Charlotte be content to stay at home, to go on as they always have? Why must she want to be something in the world?
A horrible thought strikes her. What if Anne has ambitions she doesn’t know about? What if she wants to go away too?
As soon as there’s a chance, she asks Anne, making it sound casual. “Have you ever thought there’s something you’d like to do?”
Straight away Anne says, “I’d like to travel and see more of the world. I’d love to see the sea, wouldn’t you?”
Emily shrugs. “I’ve never thought about it. What I really mean is, have you an idea of what you would like to be? You know, if anything were possible?”
Anne frowns, thinking. And then she says, “I would like to be a better person.”
Emily snorts. “Don’t be silly. You’re the goodest person I know. I don’t see how you can be improved upon.”
Amused, Anne shakes her head. “That’s not true and you know it.” Then she says quietly, “I often fall short of what I ought to be.”
Emily doesn’t say anything. When Anne talks like this, she never knows what to say. She’s sure they don’t have the same ideas about religion. For her sister, it’s all about duty and leading a virtuous life — Aunt’s influence rather than Papa’s. But she’d never want to hurt Anne’s feelings by arguing with her.
