The World Within (4 page)

That night, before she gets into bed, Emily rummages in the bottom of a drawer until she finds what she’s looking for — the wooden lion Papa gave her for her sixth birthday. It’s battered and scratched and it’s lost its tail, but its splendid curly mane is intact and when she sets it on the chest of drawers its red painted mouth still roars in a fierce challenge.

Papa knew that this would please her far more than a doll or a pretty ornament. But then Emily’s always felt that there was a special connection between them. He doesn’t mind that she’s a tomboy, outspoken at times and preferring to think things through for herself. And when Aunt complains to him that Emily’s been climbing trees or fighting Branwell or challenging something he’s said, he seems rather proud of her, if anything.

Charlotte’s lying on her side, resting her head in her hand, her face solemn, watching without saying anything. In fact, she’s barely said a word since the afternoon. Giving the lion a final pat, Emily climbs into bed and pulls the bedclothes up to her chin, creeping close to her sister. She’s wanted to talk to her all day, but now that they’ve got the chance, Charlotte rolls over, presenting her back to Emily.

“Charlotte?”

No response.

“Charles? Won’t you talk to me?”

Charlotte turns back, her voice full of fury. “You mustn’t say those things. About Mama. And the others.” There are tears in her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to say it. You know what I’m like,” Emily cries. “But it’s true.”

Charlotte blinks as if Emily has slapped her. After a moment she says, “It’s not right. Think of Anne.”

“She’s not a baby anymore.”

“Maybe not. But still, you know she’s easily upset, you shouldn’t risk alarming her by speaking of those things. It could bring on an asthma attack.”

“But if Papa dies —”

Charlotte sits up, glaring at her. “He won’t.”

“But if he does … how will we bear it?”

Charlotte is quiet a moment, thinking. Then she says carefully, “If anything happened to Papa, we’d still have Aunt.”

“Aunt?” What’s Charlotte’s talking about? Having Aunt won’t help if they lose Papa.

“To look after us, I mean. Though I’m not sure that she’d want us. Or could afford to keep us.”

Emily stares at her sister. She has never thought about what it would mean practically, if Papa died. She swallows hard and then says in a small voice, “We’d have to leave the parsonage, wouldn’t we?” A shudder goes through her at the thought.

“Yes,” Charlotte says tersely. “And Papa has no money to leave us. We’d have nothing at all. But let’s not think about it. Because it won’t happen. It
won’t
.” Charlotte shuffles rapidly down under the bedclothes.

Suddenly it dawns on Emily that it’s not Anne whom Charlotte wants to protect from the truth — it’s herself. But she can’t blame her. She can feel it too — the box lid beginning to tremble as the monsters try to climb out. The Terrible Events pushing themselves back into her mind, insisting that she remember.

“Let’s go to sleep now,” Charlotte says firmly.

Emily turns on her side and Charlotte cuddles up to her back. This is how they like to sleep, facing the same way, curled up like spoons.

Soon Charlotte’s breathing deepens, but Emily goes on staring out of the window as she does every night, watching the light in the sky fade to darkness. When the stars begin to appear she shuts her eyes, but not to sleep.

There is something she must do, something she must face, because if she doesn’t, her fear will grow and grow and swallow her up.

To give herself courage she thinks of the heroic Parry, bold, courageous, confronting the great unknown of the northern regions. Then in the darkness of the bedroom she says the word silently to herself, feeling the shape of it in her mouth.

Death.

She knows it. She has seen it everywhere. Out there on the moors where she has found stiff lambs with their empty eye sockets; heard the screams of a vole snatched by a kestrel. Out there in the churchyard where week after week, glancing from the windows, she has seen Papa standing by the dark grave holes, into which the coffins go, many of them tiny, but a good many adult-sized too.

But it’s not just out there, keeping a safe distance. It can come inside too, in here, into the parsonage, their home. And though in their games and stories the four of them can make characters come alive again, she knows that really they are powerless against it. This is what she makes herself face now, with Charlotte sleeping next to her, concentrating on the shadowy memory buried inside her.

It comes with a sense of solemnity and hushed voices. She can remember a bed, too high for her to see the person lying there. Someone says, “Say good-bye to your mama.”

Mama. Emily can’t remember her face or her voice, but she occasionally has recollections of a sensation — of being safe, of arms tight around her.

Tonight, in this memory, there’s no such comfort. What she sees is Papa, his head bent close to the pillow, with a look on his face so strange and terrible that Emily feels as if something is squeezing her heart.

She feels it now, as she makes herself remember. She’s trembling, but she keeps hold of the feeling as long as she can, until she can’t bear it a second longer.

That’s enough.

She opens her eyes.

The rectangle of sky is there. She stares at it until her breath steadies, her heartbeat slows. She looks for the Great Bear and when she finds it she fixes her eyes on it, as if she wants to absorb its cold glitter.

“Emily, you’re woolgathering again.”

Emily comes to with a start. The forest where she’s striding through the trees vanishes and she’s back at the breakfast table in the parsonage with the others. Aunt’s beady eyes are on her.

“Eat up your porridge, now, before it goes cold.”

Obediently she ferries a laden spoonful to her mouth. She wonders how Papa is today.

It’s been ages since he took to his bed. They know what his illness is now — pleurisy. After they heard Dr. Andrew say the word, Emily rushed to look it up in Papa’s well-thumbed copy of
Modern Domestic Medicine
. When she read that it could be fatal, she shut the book fast.

Anne and Charlotte have been praying for Papa, but although she never discusses it, Emily hasn’t been able to do that.

She’s always accepted what Papa has taught her about God, but lately she’s found herself questioning things. For example, the idea that God is watching over everyone. Jesus said that God even takes care of every sparrow, but she finds that hard to believe. Look at the terrible things that happen, to sparrows and to people. And if God was interested in Papa’s health, why did He let him get ill in the first place? It makes no sense.

No, it’s no good relying on God or expecting Him to answer their prayers. The only solution is to do what she can herself, so she has been concentrating on focusing her willpower, saying to herself over and over again, “Papa
will
get better. He
will
.”

And then just the other day, after weeks of eating nothing more solid than toast, water, and gruel, Papa told Tabby that he had a fancy for a soft-boiled egg.

Emily’s heart leaped when Tabby passed this news on. Perhaps it was a sign that her willpower was working — that Papa might get better after all.

A sudden loud report from upstairs makes them all jump.

“Papa?” asks Branwell, leaping to his feet. “That’s the first time in weeks!”

Emily snorts. “Who else could it be? Papa’s hardly going to ask Tabby to fire his pistol, is he?” She turns eagerly to Aunt. “Is Papa getting up today?”

For an answer, Aunt puts on a “wait-and-see” expression. But the next moment they hear slow footsteps on the stairs. Anne rushes to the door, flings it open, and peeps out. “It
is
Papa!” she exclaims.

As their father appears in the doorway, Emily and Charlotte jump up to greet him and Branwell lets out a great cheer.

“Gently now, children,” Aunt admonishes. “Anne, let your father sit down.” For Anne is hugging Papa’s arm as if she never means to let him go. He pats her head and makes his way carefully to his chair.

Emily goes to hug him herself — it’s such a relief to have him back among them again. But as he takes the cup of tea that Aunt has poured for him, she sees that his hand is shaking.

Sitting back down, she studies him carefully. He doesn’t look as dreadful as when she last saw him — then his eyes had dark rings under them and his skin had an alarming bluish tinge. Even so, he doesn’t seem very well. His face is pale and drawn, his cheekbones are jutting out more than ever, and he seems to have shrunk — his coat looks too big for him. He’s wrapped yet another layer of white silk round his throat so now his cravat resembles a deep bandage supporting his chin.

In the space of a few weeks, Emily realizes with a small shock, Papa has turned into an old man
.
But he is alive.

He notices her looking and winks. “I missed the church tower this morning. Poor aim. Out of practice.” A fit of coughing seizes him and they all watch anxiously.

When it subsides, Charlotte says, “Papa, are you sure you should be out of bed?”

He nods. “It’s time enough. I can’t be languishing up there or my parishioners will think I’ve forgotten them. Now tell me, what have you all been up to?”

Life gradually returns to something like normal. Papa takes up most of his parish duties again, though he doesn’t travel as far afield, and before long he’s smoking his pipe in the evenings even though it makes him cough. Their usual routine resumes. They go back to having weekly piano lessons in Keighley with Mr. Sunderland and Papa teaches them in the mornings when he can spare the time.

But Emily can’t relax. She’s stopped being afraid that Papa might die at any moment, but she still feels anxious about him. Because things aren’t the same as they were before. Papa has changed.

He still tells them stories at breakfast, but his laughter seems forced, as if he’s making an effort to be cheery. Often he has to break off because of a coughing fit. In the middle of their lessons Emily notices his attention wandering and sometimes when she goes into the study to fetch something or give him a message from Aunt she finds him just sitting, not doing anything at all. He rouses himself to speak to her, but she can tell that something’s wrong — he seems weary and sad and distant. As if he hasn’t quite returned to them.

Charlotte’s aware of the change in Papa too — her eyes follow him anxiously whenever he’s in the room — but she and Emily never talk about it.

The only thing Emily can do is what she always does — bury this worry along with all the others deep in the pit of her stomach. And because she’s so desperate to be included, she stops arguing with Charlotte and Branwell about the course their play should take. Accepting whatever role they give Parry, she throws herself into it, scribbling away furiously. She even tries begging a candle stump from Tabby, intending to go on with her story after they’re supposed to be asleep. Tabby refuses, of course, as Emily half-expected her to. “Tha’ll not be wasting a candle on thi nonsense. And tha needs thi sleep, my lamb.”