The World Within (41 page)

When she gets home, she marches straight into Branwell’s studio, where he’s dabbing at a canvas on his easel.

He looks up, surprised. “You’re back early.” Then he turns his attention back to the painting, saying casually, “Did you choose a puppy?”

Emily glares at him. “How could you!”

“How could I what?” His look is wide-eyed.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. How could you trick me like that? Sending me up to Stanbury to choose a puppy, when all the time you were plotting with Robert Taylor to make a fool of me.”

“But I —”

“Oh, stop acting. It’s not convincing, you know. Your friend did a better job of it, though he overdid the spooniness. Ugh!” Emily shudders at the memory of that kiss. “The pair of you should be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.”

He goes to speak, but she cuts him off. “And I don’t understand how you could have done that, Branwell … playing on my feelings about Grasper. It’s … it’s
despicable
.”

At least he has the grace to look shamefaced. Putting down his brush and palette, he wipes his hands on a rag and tries to take her hands in his, but she pulls away.

“Listen, Em, we weren’t trying to make a fool of you. And Robert wasn’t acting.”

Emily darts a withering look at him. “Oh, come on, you don’t expect me to believe that.”

“No, honestly. He wasn’t. I told you before. He’s really smitten with you, you know. Truly.”

He looks so earnest that she’s taken aback. Remembering Robert’s manner, it seems there might be some truth in what Branwell’s saying.

Falteringly, she mutters, “But he doesn’t know me.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Everything.”

Branwell sighs and scratches his head.

She can tell he hasn’t got a clue what she’s talking about. But there’s no point in trying to explain — she’s not even sure she can explain it to herself.

Branwell says, “Look. All I know is that Robert believes he’s in love with you.”

She stares at him and the truth dawns on her. In a quiet but deadly voice, she says, “So you sent me up there to oblige your friend?”

“What?” He opens his eyes wide in amazement. Or a good pretense of it. “No, Em, you’ve got it all wrong.” He takes a deep breath. “The puppy business was genuine. I was really sorry about what happened to Grasper and Robert was too. I mean, his father felt bad about it, but it was Robert’s idea to offer you a puppy. He wanted to make it up to you.”

“I see.” She narrows her eyes. “So why couldn’t I have just gone and looked at the puppies by myself? Why did he have to be there?”

There’s a silence in which Branwell shifts from foot to foot. Finally he admits, “That was my idea.”

Emily draws her breath in with a hiss.

“No, listen.” Branwell puts on a beseeching look. “I thought that if you had a chance to talk to him properly, you’d realize what a decent fellow he is. I think you’d like him, you know, if you let yourself.”

She feels completely bewildered. What on earth is he playing at? “Why do you want me to like him? He’s nothing to me.” And then she remembers what Robert said and her anger surges back again. “You told him that I returned his feelings, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but —”

“In heaven’s name, why did you do that? What were you thinking of?”

“I thought he could do with some encouragement.” He grins. “You can be pretty scary sometimes, you know.”

Speechless, Emily clenches her fists. She’d like to smack that stupid smile from his stupid face. “Do you know what, Branwell? I could hate you for this. It’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”

His face reddens and then goes pale again. “But you don’t understand. I didn’t do it for Robert’s sake, I did it for yours,” he says in aggrieved tones.

“Mine? How could it possibly benefit me?”

“Because … I thought … I thought that if you grew close to him, it would make you happy.”

Emily blinks. What’s he talking about? “But how could Robert Taylor possibly make me happy? It was bad enough before, but Grasper dying …” She stops, unable to go on.

“That’s my point.” Branwell’s agitated now. “I don’t think you know what’s best for you. I mean, a dog’s all very well, Em, but it’s not a person, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, pouring all that emotion out … after all, it’s just an animal.”

She can’t believe he just said that. Swallowing down all the bitter things she could retort, she says quietly, “Dogs are better than people. At least they don’t betray you.”

“I didn’t betray you!” he shouts. “I was trying to help you. Hang it all, if you go on like this, you’re going to end up an old maid! Is that what you want?”

She is utterly confounded. She stares at him and can’t speak — there’s something rising in her chest that threatens to choke her. She turns and scrabbles blindly for the door handle and at last she’s out of there.

In two paces she’s across the landing and in her room with the door firmly shut. She leans against it, heaving deep breaths as though she’s been running and swallowing the sobs thickening in her throat.

Why does she want to cry? She should be angry with him — a fierce burst of fury that would make her feel better — not this feeble weakness.

But somehow Branwell, clumsy stupid Branwell, has blundered his way in, past her defenses, and pierced her.

She doesn’t understand it, not really. It’s partly to do with what he said about Grasper, his words striking her with the same force as if he’d attacked her beloved companion with physical cruelty. But it’s more to do with her self, her inner self — she feels a sense of violation, as if Branwell has burst in where he has no right to be.

She presses her hand on her eyes in an attempt to blot out what’s just happened and in an instant the scene of her humiliation at the Manor House rises up.

She cringes at the memory.

She knows that people experience feelings for others based on the most superficial things … for heaven’s sake, look at the way Mary was attracted to Branwell …

But she doesn’t want to be the object of such an infatuation. It’s all so silly, and nothing to do with love. That’s what she was trying to tell Branwell.

Love is two people being as close as she was with Elizabeth, as she has been at times with Charlotte and then Anne when they shared the same vision of Gondal; it is knowing each other utterly, seeing each other’s souls and knowing that they are indissolubly linked.

Whatever that foolish young man thinks he feels for her, it isn’t love.

She sighs. She must try not to think of him. Though he offended her, he did it unwittingly, whereas Branwell …

How could he fail so badly to understand her? And just when they were getting on so well and becoming so close? When she thought that once again she’d found a soul mate to share her writing?

She can’t think about what he’s done, what he’s said, without feeling raw.

Emily stays in her room for the rest of the afternoon, and by teatime she has decided on her course of action. She doesn’t join Branwell at the kitchen table — she doesn’t want to eat anything and she can’t yet trust herself to be with him in Tabby’s presence. Later, when he’s alone in the parlor, she goes in and takes up a position just inside the door.

When Branwell looks up, she says, “There’s something I want you to know. What I feel and who I choose to care for are nothing to do with you. So there’s no need to busy yourself with plans for me or my future. Whatever happens, it will be me who decides. Do you understand?”

Branwell looks at her mutinously, as if there’s a lot he’d like to say, but after a moment he nods.

“Good.”

She spins on her heel and goes out, shutting the door quietly behind her.

The next day, when she comes in from her walk, Emily retreats to her bedroom. She doesn’t want to have to see Branwell, but she’s too restless to read.

After pacing about and staring out of the window, she’s suddenly moved to sit down with her writing desk and write a story, her first new story for ages, which turns out to be about Angelica, who, having been wronged, doesn’t rest until she has gained revenge. Emily pours her heart into describing Angelica’s feelings and takes a savage satisfaction in the bloody outcome. She’s never written anything so fast — it’s as if it’s been ripped out of her whole, leaving her shaken.

Afterward, she feels drained, but more at peace. She’s still wary of Branwell, though. For days she’ll only speak to him when she has to and even then she keeps to practical everyday matters. Luckily, Branwell seems to want to avoid her too.

Tabby notices, of course, and one day when they’re clearing the table, she says to Emily, “Hast tha had a falling out with Maister Branwell?”

Emily ducks her head, half-acknowledging that this is the case.

Tabby sighs. “Well, tha knows our lad — if tha’s looking for him to change, tha’s in for a long wait.” She pats Emily’s hand. “If tha’ll take my advice, even if it’s thee who’s been wronged, don’t bear a grudge, lass. Tha’ll only regret it in the long run.”

Afterward, Emily thinks about what Tabby said.

She hasn’t been waiting for Branwell to change — she hasn’t actually been looking for anything from him. She’s just been going on and struggling to cope with the sense of being injured.

But perhaps Branwell wasn’t being malicious — perhaps he did think he was helping her. And maybe she was expecting too much from him, wanting him to understand her inner, hidden self. Her brother is probably the last person to look to for profound insight — it’s like trying to swim in a shallow brook when really what you need is a deep pool.

The prospect of their being estranged forever seems utterly dismal.

That evening she joins him in the parlor, where he’s sitting at the table with a book. He barely acknowledges her, but after a few minutes, determined to put an end to this, she asks, “What are you reading?”

Branwell looks up, surprised. “Oh, this article in
Blackwood’s
about the National Gallery and how it could be improved. Quite interesting, actually.”

“Would you read it to me?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yes.”

He looks at her for a moment and then nods, as if accepting that this is a truce.

The next evening, he asks rather tentatively if he might read to her from his latest writing; Emily agrees and even has some comments to make about his work.

But when he says, “Do
you
want to read something?” she shakes her head. They might be talking to each other again, but this is as far as she wants it to go.

She never wants to share her inner world with him again.