by Jane Eagland
Branwell gives Emily an ironic look. “Well done.”
“How was I to know about Mary’s father? And it’s only a game.”
“I think Ellen must be very sensitive,” says Anne. “Perhaps you’d better apologize.”
“I suppose so.” Emily pulls a face. All this fuss about nothing.
“Anyway, what’s the answer?” Branwell wants to know.
“What?”
“Why are bankrupts more to be pitied?”
Emily smirks. “Because bankrupts are broken while idiots are only cracked.”
“Hah, good one, Em.”
Ellen seems embarrassed by Emily’s muttered apology. “No, it was my fault. I misheard you — I thought you said why are bankrupts like idiots. I’m such a noodle.”
Charlotte is less forgiving — when Ellen’s out of earshot, she rounds on Emily.
“What on earth were you thinking of? It’s a mercy Ellen’s so good-natured, or you might have damaged our friendship. Behave properly and be nice to her, or if that’s too much to ask, at least be polite!”
Before Emily can say anything in her own defense, Charlotte stomps off.
Emily sighs. Instead of loosening Charlotte’s attachment to Ellen, all she’s managed to do is make Charlotte angry with her and protective of her friend.
Well done, Emily, indeed.
The fortnight Ellen is with them seems to last forever.
Emily is deprived of playing the piano alone, and she doesn’t get a single chance to talk to Anne about Gondal. As the days pass, she desperately misses the experience of being immersed in their imaginary world. She manages to hide her feelings and “be nice” to Ellen, though she sometimes wonders why she’s bothering, since Charlotte continues to be cool toward her.
It doesn’t help that everyone else seems to be enjoying Ellen’s company, and by the time her holiday is drawing to an end she seems to have almost become one of the family; even Tabby, who is normally hard to impress, is won over, Emily notes gloomily.
In particular, Ellen seems to have charmed Aunt, who, embarrassingly, frequently praises Ellen’s “beautiful manners” in her hearing. To their astonishment, Aunt suggests that as a treat for their visitor on her last day the young people should go on an excursion, which she will pay for.
After much debate they settle on Bolton Abbey as their destination. At first Emily’s happy to go along with the scheme — the place is somewhere she wouldn’t mind seeing. But then Ellen suggests that, instead of coming to Haworth to collect her, her brothers could meet them at Bolton Abbey and they could all spend some time together before she was taken home.
“We could have breakfast at the Devonshire Arms!” Ellen beams at everyone.
“What a brilliant idea.” Branwell grins enthusiastically.
Emily shoots a desperate look at Charlotte, but after a moment Charlotte says, in rather subdued tones, “That will be very pleasant, I’m sure.”
Later Emily catches her alone. “Why did you agree to Ellen’s idea?”
“What else could I do? It will be fearfully expensive, I know, but —”
“Never mind the expense. It wasn’t too bad when it was just Ellen, but now we’ve got to meet her family. And eat in a public place!”
Charlotte blinks at this last complaint, but says crisply, “Her brothers are very nice. I’m sure you’ll like them when you meet them.”
Emily stares wildly at Charlotte. Why doesn’t she understand? Other people, people who aren’t family, expect you to behave in a certain way. If you don’t, they give you that look — mostly disapproving, occasionally amused, but always judging you, criticizing you. She just wants to not be noticed.
Desperately she flings out, “Well, I won’t see them, because I’m not going now.”
Charlotte narrows her eyes. “Ellen will think it so peculiar if you don’t come. It will spoil her last day.”
“But —”
“No buts. You’re coming.”
Aware of Charlotte’s eyes on her, Emily passes the journey to Bolton Abbey in silence, but inwardly she’s seething.
It’s bad enough having to be part of this charade, but Branwell could have let her have a go at driving. For someone who thinks he’s such an expert, he’s behaving absurdly. With the velvet collar of his coat turned up and his shirt wristbands protruding from his sleeves, he’s flourishing the whip in an extravagant fashion and crying “Gee up!” and “Halloo!” in a loud voice. It’s completely unnecessary since, whatever he does, the horses plod steadily on at their own pace.
The only good thing about the day is that they’re going to Bolton Abbey.
She loves Turner’s painting of the place — a favorite of Papa’s that he has hanging over his desk. She has spent hours gazing at it, admiring the delicacy of the ruined priory set against the majestic crags of Barden Fell, the whole scene bathed in a silvery light. She wants to see what it’s really like, especially as it might be a landscape she and Anne could borrow for Gondal.
But first there’s the ordeal of breakfast.
At the door of the Devonshire Arms Branwell makes a great show of stopping the carriage, shouting “Whoa,” and heaving on the reins, though the horses have already come to a standstill of their own accord.
The two ostlers lounging outside the stables make no effort to stir themselves, but mutter something to each other and laugh. Only when Branwell shouts “Hey!” does one finally saunter up and say, “Yes, sir?” in sneering tones.
At that moment a light carriage dashes into the inn yard, drawn by a pair of gleaming chestnut horses. Ellen waves and calls out before scrambling down to greet her brothers.
As the other ostler darts forward to attend to the newcomer, Branwell goes red and Charlotte tightens her lips.
Emily can’t understand their embarrassment. So they’re poorer than Ellen’s family. What of it? What does it matter what these stablemen or anyone else thinks of them?
Once they’re inside the inn and settled at a table, Emily, shielded by the menu, gives Ellen’s brothers a covert glance. They’re older than she expected. One has a moustache and the other hasn’t, but she doesn’t know which is which.
Having satisfied her curiosity, she keeps her gaze down. The last thing she wants is for one of them to catch her eye, to start that probing inquisition.
But here is the waiter to take their order and it’s her turn and she must speak, so casting her eyes wildly at the menu, she sees at last, gratefully, the one familiar dish.
“I’ll have porridge.”
She’s aware of a slight stir on the other side of the table.
“Porridge, Miss Emily? That’s a little spartan, isn’t it? Can you not be tempted to something more exciting? I believe their deviled kidneys are particularly fine.” The voice is amused and, glancing up, she sees one of Ellen’s brothers, the one without the moustache, watching her.
Is it Henry, the older of the two, or George? She doesn’t care.
She punches out, “Porridge,” and closes her mouth. Whatever they say to her, she won’t speak again.
Luckily, as their breakfasts arrive and they all tuck in, the conversation flows on merrily without her. She only half-listens — she’s wishing Grasper were here to sample the porridge, which comes with sugar and cream.
She notices that if there’s a lull in the talk, Branwell’s eager to fill it, though an edge has crept into his lively humor.
She thinks she knows why.
Compared to Ellen’s brothers, he seems like a boy, and maybe he feels it too. But it would be better if he stayed quiet rather than showing off by spouting poetry and quoting bits of Greek and Latin. As his voice gets shriller, it tends to crack more, and she sees the brothers exchanging amused glances.
At last, they’re all finished. There’s an awkward moment when Henry insists on paying for everything. Emily can see that for all her anxiety about the cost, Charlotte doesn’t like this at all.
Emily doesn’t see why Charlo
tte should be so bothered — after all, this was Ellen’s idea. For herself she’s relieved to escape from the table, from that stuffy room, and to head along the lane toward their goal. But as they reach the path leading down to the priory, she comes to an abrupt halt.
The grassy slope in front of them is dotted with people. Strolling in pairs and small groups, laughing and talking, they seem only interested in their own chatter; hardly anyone is taking notice of the ancient monument. Foolishly, she’d imagined them having the place to themselves, of seeing the priory in all its haunting solitary beauty, just as in Turner’s picture.
Instinctively she moves closer to Anne.
Her sister glances up at her. “Horribly crowded, isn’t it?”
Emily nods, soothed a little. At least one person here today shares her feelings.
She goes with the others to stare at the ruins and stands there patiently while Henry gives a long-winded account of the history of the place; they walk along the riverbank and she puts on an appropriate expression whenever anyone points out some fresh beauty — an ancient oak tree or the tumbling waters of the Strid. But all the time she’s longing for the moment when they can start for home.
She stares into the shadowy depths of the water. If only, right now, she could be a fish, hiding in the cool silence at the bottom of the river.
They reach a ford where Henry and George stop to help “the ladies” across.
Ignoring George’s proffered hand, Emily strides through the shallows, careless of the splashes dampening her skirts. She stops on the other side to wait for Anne, but it’s Ellen who joins her first, assisted by Branwell, who clearly doesn’t want to be outdone in a display of gallantry.
Ellen immediately links her arm through Emily’s and suggests they walk on. She smiles up at Emily and says confidingly, “I was hoping for a chance to speak to you before I go. There’s something I particularly wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” At once Emily is on her guard. What could Ellen possibly have to say to her?
“It’s Charlotte.”
“Charlotte?” Emily can’t imagine what might be coming.
“I wanted to know your opinion of Charlotte’s plan.”
A cold feeling begins to creep up Emily’s spine. “Her plan?”
“Yes, her hope of becoming an artist.”
Emily stops walking. After a moment’s struggle, she manages to say, “You know about that?”
“Oh yes,” says Ellen blithely, apparently unaware of the effect of her disclosure. “And the thing is, I’m no judge of such matters — a complete dunce when it comes to art” — she laughs — “but you are clearly gifted, so —”
“What makes you say that?”
Ellen recoils a little at Emily’s sharp tone. “Um … well …” She hesitates and then admits in a rush, “Charlotte showed me some of your drawings. I hope you don’t mind. The one of Grasper is lovely.”
Emily is speechless.
Ellen plunges on, “I think Charlotte is very talented, of course, but I just wondered what her chances of success are. It would be so distressing for her, if it doesn’t work out. You’re the obvious person to ask … knowing about art and caring so much for Charlotte …” She trails off.
Emily tries to pull herself together. This is not Ellen’s fault. “I’m flattered you think I know something about the subject … and I appreciate your concern for my sister …” She knows she sounds stilted, but it’s the best she can do. “The truth is, Ellen, I don’t know. All we can do, I suppose, is hope for the best.”
Ellen will never guess, of course, that the best as far as she’s concerned is that Charlotte doesn’t succeed.
Ellen nods. “Yes, that’s what we must do.” At that moment George comes up to join them and Emily drops behind.
She walks on in a daze. She hardly knows which is worse — Charlotte showing Ellen her private drawings or revealing to their visitor what was supposed to be a secret shared only by them. How could Charlotte have treated Ellen, a stranger, as if she was one of the family? What was she thinking of?
She’s hardly aware of Henry announcing that it’s time they were heading home, of the Nusseys departing amid general farewells that she takes no part in.
As they get underway themselves, Charlotte relaxes back into her seat. “Well, I think that went well, despite everything, don’t you?”
Branwell and Anne agree eagerly, but Emily doesn’t say anything, not then nor for the whole of the long journey home. As soon as they get back, she goes to the piano and hammers out a Bach fugue. It helps, but only a little.
It’s bedtime before she and Charlotte are alone. They undress in silence, but, once Charlotte is in her nightgown, she comes over and touches Emily’s arm. “What’s the matter? Did someone say something to upset you?”
Emily concentrates on doing up her buttons. “You could say that.”
Charlotte frowns. “Who was it?”
Emily faces her. “It was you.”
“Me? What do you mean?” Her sister’s eyes are wide with astonishment.
“You told Ellen about wanting to be an artist.”
Charlotte is clearly perplexed. “Yes?”
Emily shrugs. “Well, then.”
“I don’t understand. That’s what’s upset you?”
“I’m not upset. I’m angry.”
“But why?”
If Charlotte doesn’t even know what she’s done, then that makes it worse. “You said I wasn’t to tell anyone. I thought it was a secret.”
“It is, at home.”
Emily gives Charlotte a long hard stare. Charlotte opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it again.
“I’m not allowed even to tell Branwell, but Ellen can know.”
Charlotte shrugs, then, turning away, she unfastens her braids. “I’ll tell the others eventually. I just don’t want to do it yet.” She starts brushing out the kinks in her hair with long smooth strokes.
Emily is left standing there. She wants to fight about this, but Charlotte won’t. Frustrated, she bounces onto the bed, causing the springs to squeak in protest.
“And you showed Ellen my drawings. Without asking me.”
The brush stops. Charlotte looks sideways at Emily. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Well, I do.”
“I’m sorry.”
Is she? Is she really sorry? Emily doubts it. She climbs under the covers, her own hair unbrushed, and turns away from Charlotte. She thought Charlotte sharing her secret with her meant that they were close again, that they understood each other, that things were back to normal. Now she sees it meant nothing, nothing at all.
Charlotte slides into bed and the mattress rustles as she turns over to take up their accustomed sleeping position. Emily can feel her sister’s breath on her neck, the pressure of her body against her back.
She endures it for a moment or two and then she slips out of bed and into the pallet bed, still in place from Ellen’s visit.
“What are you doing?” asks Charlotte sleepily.
“It’s too hot to be together,” says Emily. “I prefer to be on my own now.”
One July morning, not long after Ellen’s visit, Papa asks Emily to take a note to John Brown. It’s only a step to the barn across the lane, where she can hear the sexton at work, but Emily’s glad of a chance for some fresh air as it’s such a hot day. And luckily Mr. Brown is so absorbed in engraving a new headstone that he doesn’t engage her in conversation.
On her way back, she lingers at the parsonage gate, hoping for the slightest breeze from the moor, but the air is thick and still. She’s trying to think about Gondal, to be ready for talking about it with Anne, but Charlotte’s treachery keeps rising up and blotting out other thoughts. She can’t forgive her sister and she can’t stop feeling aggrieved about what’s happened.
That morning at breakfast, at last Charlotte shyly told the family of her hope of having her work chosen for the Art Society’s summer exhibition. Afte
r some initial surprise, Papa was encouraging, and said that he and Branwell would take the drawings to Leeds for Charlotte.
Thinking about it now, Emily tells herself that she doesn’t care if Charlotte becomes an artist and goes away — it won’t make any difference to her at all.
Lifting her head, she sees a sheepdog coming down the lane toward her. It has distinctive markings — an almost completely white face with a black patch over one eye — but she doesn’t recognize it.
As it approaches and she gets a better look at it, all thoughts of Charlotte fly out of her head. Poor thing! Its tongue’s hanging out and it’s panting rapidly, its thin sides heaving. It must be dying of thirst.
Running into the back kitchen, Emily fills Grasper’s bowl with water and carries it out. The dog’s biting at a stone near the gate, trying to eat it. Perhaps it’s starving too.
“Don’t eat that! I’ll get you some food in a minute. Here you are.” She puts down the bowl of water. The dog looks at her. It has a cowed, anxious expression and as it approaches the bowl cautiously, she sees that it’s trembling.
“Poor boy. Have you been ill-treated?” She puts out her hand to pat it, to reassure it, and the dog lunges forward and sinks its jaws into her arm. Emily exclaims and tries to pull her arm away, but the dog hangs on. She has to beat at its head to make it let go.
“Sorry, sorry.” Emily feels terrible for hitting it. Clutching her throbbing arm, she backs away. She’s still hoping that the dog will drink, but it seems paralyzed and just stands there with its mouth open. And then she sees something that sends a chill up her spine — foam dripping from the dog’s lower jaw and pooling in the dust.
Inching backward, Emily feels for the gate and, slipping inside, she shuts it tight. Peering over it, she’s relieved to see the dog lolloping back up the lane. At least it’s heading for the open moor and not toward the town.
But the dog is not her main concern.
Rolling up her sleeve, she examines her arm. There are deep puncture marks and the dog’s fangs have lacerated the skin — blood is oozing from between the jagged edges of the wound.
