The World Within (9 page)

Tabby always comes in to hear this one, nodding her head and tapping her foot in time to the music, but Aunt says it gives her a headache and the merest hint that it might be played sends her scurrying upstairs. No one’s sorry. Without her restraining presence it’s so much more enjoyable and they can be as exuberant as they like.

Gradually, over the weeks that follow, Emily and Anne make headway with their small but precious stock of music. Squashed together on the stool, they have fun playing duets. Emily is also happy to accompany her sister’s singing, despite the fact Anne has a marked preference for solemn hymns. Though her voice isn’t very strong, it’s sweet, and often of an evening Papa will ask her to sing for him, liking the old ballads and folk songs best.

Emily’s delighted to see Papa’s worn face lighting up with pleasure as he nods his head in time to the music. If she comes safely home, Charlotte will be pleased to see Papa at ease like this, even if it’s only for a little while, and it will be lovely to have her join them in all these musical activities.

But what Emily treasures most are the times when she can get the piano to herself.

Not content to play any old how just to amuse herself, as Branwell does, she tackles each new piece methodically, working away at it until she’s mastered it, until she can play it without thinking.

When she reaches that point, she finds the music tremendously consoling — she can let out all her pent-up feelings, forgetting her anxieties about what may happen to Charlotte and Papa. Sometimes she gets so carried away she loses herself entirely.

Those are the best times.

Mr. Sunderland comes to the house now and gives them individual lessons. One day as he’s leaving, Papa stops him in the hall and Emily hears Papa thanking the teacher for his part in their progress.

“Branwell — he’s coming on, isn’t he?” There’s a note of pride in Papa’s voice.

“Mmm.” Mr. Sunderland sounds less than enthusiastic. “The boy has talent, but he should practice more diligently. He would do well to take a leaf out of Miss Emily’s book.”

“Emily?” Papa sounds surprised.

“Yes. She has the makings of a true musician. Good day to you, Mr. Brontë.”

Long after the door has closed on Mr. Sunderland, Emily sits transfixed on the piano stool, cheeks glowing at his unexpected words.

She can hardly believe it, but it seems that she has stumbled into something that she can do well, and apparently better even than Branwell.

She hugs the knowledge to herself like a delicious secret.

Winter begins to loosen its grip and the days begin to lengthen. But Emily still misses Charlotte and constantly worries about how her sister is getting on. Is she keeping warm? Is she getting enough to eat? Above all, is she well?

Emily doesn’t want to mention Charlotte to Papa in case he starts worrying too. There’s no point in speaking to Aunt — she was so keen for Charlotte to go to school. In the end, she confides her fears in Tabby.

“Nay, don’t fret thiself. I reckon Miss Charlotte’ll be doing fine. Those friends of thi papa, the Atkinsons, they live nearby and Miss Charlotte’s been a-visiting there, I believe. They’ll be keeping an eye on her and be letting him know soon enough if owt’s amiss.”

Emily’s not convinced. Charlotte would never tell the Atkinsons how she’s feeling. She’d just keep it all to herself.

Glass Town is never discussed now, but one day when Emily, Anne, and Branwell are sitting round the parlor table, supposedly working on stories for their miniature books, Branwell announces that he’s going to write a complete history of the Young Men — the characters originating from the twelve wooden soldiers Papa gave him when he was nine, which have been at the center of many of their stories over the years.

“I’m taking it from the very beginning, complete with statistics, maps, and battle plans. And I’m doing it on my own,” he adds with a challenging glare at Emily.

This is a blow. Ever since Charlotte left, she’s been trying without much enthusiasm to write a Glass Town story, revisiting the imaginary world they all shared before everything changed. But her ideas don’t flow as they used to and every time she tries to write she finds she scarcely produces anything. What used to be a comfort and gave her such pleasure is a struggle now. Without Charlotte and Branwell, Glass Town doesn’t feel as real as it did, and she’s been clinging to the hope that Branwell might change his mind and agree to work together again.

His declaration is the last straw. She grinds her teeth, then suddenly scrunches up the page she’s been toiling over and throws it into the fire. If she has to make it up on her own, she doesn’t want to do it anymore.

Taking another sheet of paper, she starts doodling on it, sketching horses’ heads. It’s completely wasteful — since paper’s so expensive, they normally treasure every scrap of it that they can scrounge — and she’s aware of Anne watching her, her blue eyes wide with surprise.

She doesn’t care. What’s the point of saving paper, if there’s nothing to write?

This black mood she’s sinking into has become familiar — Tabby calls it an attack of “the mopes” and it’s been happening a lot lately.

Tabby says it’s her age — that she’s growing up.

“Don’t you remember? Miss Charlotte was just the same,” Tabby remarked one evening as she saw Emily into bed.

Perhaps Tabby’s right. Emily can’t get the idea out of her mind — she’s horrified by the implications.

She’s grown at least three inches this last year. Branwell says she’s turning into a giraffe, but it’s not funny. Her skirts are way off the ground and sometimes she doesn’t know what to do with her arms and legs. From what she’s seen her sister coping with, womanhood is a horrible, messy business. The very thought of it repels her …

Emily pulls a face and gouges the nib of her quill into the paper.

“Careful,” says Anne. “You’ll make a hole in the tablecloth.”

“Children! Come and see what I’ve found.” At the sound of Papa’s voice calling them, the nasty retort Emily was about to make dies on her lips. And then there’s an unexpected sound outside the parlor door — a short, sharp bark.

“Papa!” Emily leaps up and flings open the door. And yes, it
is
a dog, one of a good size with a brindle coat, sniffing about in their hall with great curiosity.

As Emily and the others surge out, the dog rushes up to them, baring his teeth in a grin and wagging his tail. Emily looks at Papa hopefully. “Is he ours?”

Papa, smiling broadly, winks at them. Branwell cheers and immediately stands on his head, one of his favorite tricks, causing the dog to go mad — he dances round them, letting out a volley of barks.

“What is going on?” Aunt is standing on the landing, looking down at them, her face screwed up as if she’s sucking lemons. She presses her hand to her forehead. “What is that dog doing here, Patrick?”

Her tone is sharp enough to quell them all, even the dog, who puts his tail between his legs and whines. Emily drops to her knees to comfort him and he licks her face.

Papa looks slightly abashed. “Well, now, as it happens, this fellow’s a stray. He turned up the other day at the Braithwaites’ farm. The thing is — they don’t want him. When I was over there this afternoon, Joseph said they’ve already the two dogs and that’s enough.”

“And you’re not thinking of keeping it, surely? The house is overrun with creatures as it is, what with those injured birds the children keep bringing home and that wretched cat ruining the furniture with his claws. We certainly don’t want any more.” Aunt’s disapproval is clear in every rigid line of her body.

Emily stops breathing. She looks up at Papa, willing him with every fiber of her being not to give in.

Papa hesitates a long moment and then he says, “I am. We can give you a good home, can’t we, boy?” and he pats the dog’s head.

Emily breathes again. She gives a piercing whistle and the dog pricks up its ears.

Aunt erupts. “
Emily!
How many times do I have to tell you — a lady never whistles.” With a sniff and a twitch of her shawl, she turns away from them all, throwing over her shoulder as she stalks back upstairs, “I hope, at least, that that animal’s going to live in the peat house.”

They wait until they hear the door to her room shutting and then they look at one another and grin.

Anne appeals to Papa. “He won’t have to live outside, will he?”

Papa ruffles her hair. “No, but he must sleep in the back kitchen and you’d best keep him out of your aunt’s way.”

“What about Tiger?” Emily says immediately. “He won’t like sharing his sleeping quarters with a dog.”

“Well, how about moving Tiger to the kitchen? He’ll like it by the range, won’t he?”

“What kind of dog is he?” Branwell wants to know.

Papa puts his head on one side, considering. “Well, he puts me in mind of the Irish terrier we had when I was a boy, and if there’s anything of that in him, he’ll make a fine watchdog. What with him and my pistol we’ll all be safe in our beds.”

“What are we going to call him?” Emily is anxious. Names matter — just as much for animals as for people — so it’s important to choose the right one.

Papa smiles at her. “Well, now, as to that, I’ve had an idea.” He beckons them to follow him.

“I’m choosing Bosun,” announces Branwell. “Like Lord Byron’s dog.”

To Tabby’s bemusement, after shutting Tiger in the back kitchen, Papa has instructed each of them to stand in a different corner of the kitchen. He’s holding the dog in the middle and when he gives the signal, they are to call with their name of choice.

Emily narrows her eyes. Typical Branwell. He fancies himself Byron. But Bosun is a good name. She wishes she’d thought of it first.

“I’m having Charlie,” says Anne peaceably. “What about you, Emily?”

“I’m still thinking.” Emily is studying the dog, noticing the lively glint in his brown eyes, the set of his long jaws. He looks as if once he’s got a hold on something, he won’t let go easily.

Papa says, “Ready?” And he lets go of the dog.

They all shout at once.

“Bosun!”

“Charlie!”

“Grasper!”

The dog, confused, looks from one to another. He makes a move toward Branwell and Emily’s heart skips a beat, but she goes on calling, keeping her voice low but insistent. “Grasper, here boy!”

The dog turns his head and meets her eye. He hesitates a moment and then with a sudden joyful bound he is licking her hand.

“Grasper it is, then,” says Papa, smiling at her. “I’ll have to see about getting him a collar.”

Looking up, Emily sees Tabby watching her from across the kitchen. Tabby gives her a little nod, as if she’s not displeased with what’s happened. Anne, bless her, seems happy for her too. Only Branwell looks upset.

She doesn’t blame him.

She wonders if he understands what she does — that from now on, whatever they may all pretend, the dog belongs to her.