Worlds of Ink and Shadow (4 page)

Emily moved to the birdcage in the corner of the room. “You should make a remark today, Anne.”

Anne stayed at the table, aligning cutlery and making final adjustments to a vase of wildflowers. “Oh. I don't know.”

“Try. It could be something very simple.”

Though her conversations with Emily were easy and natural, with others Anne could only manage a few stilted words—and at meals with Charlotte and Branwell bickering, and Aunt Branwell scolding, and everyone talking at once, even those few words seemed to dry up and blow away.

Emily put her fingers through the bars of the birdcage, making
tutting
noises. Rainbow and Diamond, the tame finches she
had raised, fluttered and chirped. “Tell them we saw the gytrash in the fog. That would make for wonderful conversation.”

Anne blushed at the idea. “I wouldn't have Papa think I still believe in such things.”

“Who saw a gytrash?” Tabby bustled in carrying a tray. She was a large woman of about sixty, with a wide, red face and a stomach that enveloped the cords of her apron. Tabby was the family servant, but to Anne, who had known her all her life, she was more like a member of the family.

“We did,” Emily said. “Right outside.”

Tabby set down her tray and put her hands on her hips, taking in Emily's wry smile. “That's nowt to make fun about.” She picked up a spoon and waved it at Emily to make her point, disturbing the lovely order of Anne's table.

“The Heatons at Ponden Hall were quite bothered by a spirit a few years back.” She put a finger to her chin. “Not the gytrash, though. This'un came as a headless dwarf, I believe. Or were it a burning barrel rolling down t'ill?”

Emily giggled. “If I were a thing of fog and shadow and could take any form I wanted, it would not be a barrel rolling down a hill.”

Tabby pursed her lips. “Now you mind me, young miss. These things are not t' be mocked. Old Tom sends out his minions in many forms—the white lady dragging her chain, the dusky calf, the ghost of a loved one. It's the see-er who chooses the appearance, not the spirit. Whatever you're fearing most, that's the form
it takes.” She began to take things off her tray—a cone-shaped loaf of sugar, a saltcellar, a pitcher of cream—each one landing with a thump on the table. “Is ther making a remark this morning, Anne?”

Anne looked shyly to the floor. “I'm not sure what I'd say.”

Tabby thrust the empty tray under her arm. “How's about: The porridge is 'specially good today.”

“Is it?”

“What a question. It's 'specially good every day.”

Anne was saved from arguing the grammatical sense of this by a series of bumps and scrapes from upstairs—the unmistakable sounds of Branwell moving his easels about. He must be inspired to paint today.

“Ee 'eck!” Tabby said. “Are both t' men up already? I mun get that porridge off the fire.” She smiled. “Or I'll make a lie o' your remark.”

When she was gone, Anne gave a semblance of order to the things Tabby had deposited so haphazardly onto the table, and then she joined Emily, who was standing at the window again.

“I used to long to see the gytrash,” Emily said.

“Surely not.”

Emily's hand found hers and squeezed. Her fingers were ice cold. “I would ask Charlotte to tell me the story again and again, though it always terrified me.”

“I can't imagine why you'd want to hear it,” Anne said.

Emily looked at her with a frown. “Haven't you ever wanted to be devoured?”

The chill in Emily's hand seemed to travel through Anne's blood and across her body. Of course she hadn't. “No.” She let her sister's hand go.

Just then, the little mathematician in Anne's mind looked up from his clicking abacus and blinked.

“Oh,” she said. “I got it wrong, didn't I? We didn't steal those papers to read about Zamorna, did we? It's the villain. It's Alexander Rogue you love.”

Emily made no answer, but Anne knew she was right. What she didn't know was why the idea should disturb her as much as it did. Rogue, Zamorna—they were both only fictional characters, weren't they? But in his stories, Rogue had done such cruel and terrible things. He was chaos. He was the black hound, tearing out throats on the moor. What sort of person could love that?

CHARLOTTE

C
HARLOTTE SAW IMMEDIATELY THAT PAPA
was troubled about something. Normally he spent the pre-breakfast bustle looking over his spectacles at his children with benevolent satisfaction, as if pleased, and just a little surprised, that they had made it safely through the night. Now he sat ramrod straight at the head of the table, a stony look on his face. With his flashing eyes and snow-white hair, he looked like an Old Testament prophet. Charlotte could see why some of his parishioners were afraid of him.

She set a steaming teapot on the table and sat down. Something was not quite right with her sisters, either. Emily was gazing off at nothing, while Anne made minute adjustments to the dishes and cutlery within her reach. These things in themselves weren't unusual—Charlotte sometimes wondered if Anne might
like a compass to orient the butter dish—but she could detect some tension between them. Perhaps they'd had an argument, though how one could argue with Anne, who was so mild and quiet, was a mystery to her.

Branwell and Aunt Branwell were the same as always. They sat on Papa's right and left, oblivious to his mood, chattering across the table. Or rather, Branwell chattered. Aunt Branwell only nodded in rapt attention, as if every word out of his mouth was worthy of embroidering on a sampler.

“I hope you are all aware of the honor your brother does you,” Aunt Branwell said, turning to Charlotte and the girls, “by choosing you as his models.”

Charlotte smiled tightly at this. “I had an excellent lesson planned for Anne and Emily today. I hope the ‘honor' of sitting for this portrait is worth postponing their education.”

“Why, Charlotte,” Aunt Branwell said, “I'm surprised. Your brother is an artist, and inspiration has struck. We ordinary folk must bend to his muse.”

“Do forgive me, sister,” Branwell said, a twinkle in his eye. “My muse is such a tyrant.”

Charlotte gave him a glare.

Aunt Elizabeth Branwell had come to help with the children thirteen years ago, when their mother died, and had never left. She'd been an invaluable help over the years, but now that Charlotte had been to school and seen a bit of the world, she couldn't help but notice that her aunt was a bit of an embarrassment. The
false curls she wore on either side of her head didn't match the rest of her hair, and her old-fashioned dresses were stretched too tightly across the bosom. She took snuff and made her own beer and insisted on wearing her pattens inside, claiming the stone floors of the parsonage were too cold, even in summer, and so her feet clomped and clattered everywhere she went.

“You
will
be combing your hair a little more nicely for the picture, won't you, Emily?” Aunt Branwell asked.

Emily had a way of coming up out of a daydream with a peevish look on her face, as if disgusted to discover she was in the world again. “Yes, Aunt,” she said. Charlotte was certain her sister had no idea to what she'd just agreed.

Aunt Branwell gave a frustrated hiss. “Why, you girls are very cavalier, I must say. I've never had my portrait done in oils, and I'll warrant there are few in Haworth who have. You might all be hanging in a gallery one day.” Getting no response from the Brontë sisters, she turned to Papa. “I say, your girls are very cavalier. Don't you agree, Patrick?”

Papa grunted in agreement, but he was as oblivious as Emily. He was marshaling his words. Charlotte had seen him do it often enough. Every Sunday morning before church, Papa would sit alone in the vestry for a minute or two, frowning to himself. Then he would stand before his congregation, set his pocket watch on the lectern, and speak extemporaneously for exactly one hour.
Someone is going to get a lecture over breakfast
, she realized.
Please, God, let it be Branwell.

Tabby bustled in with a tureen, took one look at Papa's face, and began to serve the oatmeal porridge with twice her usual speed. She'd been known to fuss around the table for the entire meal, listening to conversations and offering up opinions asked or unasked, but now she dashed back to the kitchen as if she'd left something burning on the stove.

When she was gone, Papa gave a small cough. It was enough for everyone, even dreamy Emily and self-absorbed Branwell, to snap to attention and sit straighter in their chairs. Usually he would say grace now, but instead he pulled a small piece of paper from his breast pocket. Charlotte's heart sank.

“I have in my possession a mysterious document,” Patrick Brontë said gravely. “And I'm curious to know what you will make of it.” He displayed the small rectangle of paper, back and front, to show that it was covered on both sides with tiny writing. “Had I happened upon it in any other context but this house, I would have assumed it a missive of the fairies, the writing is so small and cramped. To whom does this belong?”

The siblings glanced around the table at one another.

“It's mine, Papa,” Charlotte said. It
was
hers, one of her many story papers, but it should be safely under the floorboards. Had their father found the secret hiding place?

“I thought as much.”

Aunt Branwell pulled her spectacles out of an embroidered case and put them on. She took the paper from his hand. “But it's unreadable.”

“I rather wish it were,” Papa said, “but look at this line here. It clearly reads:
The Duke of Zamorna kept a mistress in seclusion, fathered numerous illegitimate children, and drove two of his wives to suicide.
”

“Good heavens!” Aunt Branwell cried, dropping the paper as if she'd been burned. Branwell reached across the table to pick it up.

“Who is this duke, may I ask?” Papa asked Charlotte. “And what has he to do with a parson's daughter? More of your stories, I expect. Look how you've made your sister blush.” He gestured to Anne, who blushed now at being singled out if she hadn't before.

Charlotte fought the urge to leap to her hero's defense. Why couldn't Papa have found a story that outlined Zamorna's bravery? His nobility?

“What do you think, Branwell?” Papa said. “What is your opinion of your sister's endeavors?”

Branwell held the paper at arm's length and squinted at it. “Shocking,” he said finally. “Tut-tut. Really, Charlotte. We must set an example for the younger ones.”

“Ha!” Emily barked a too-loud laugh, then lowered her head.

Papa ignored this. “I thought that sending you away to school had cured you of this childish habit.”

The word
childish
made Charlotte wince. She had to bite her lip to keep from protesting.

I should feel ashamed
, she thought.
Why don't I?
A proper
daughter would be mortified to have disappointed her father, yet she found herself feeling more annoyed at his interference than remorseful for her actions.

“I have tried to stop writing stories,” she said, keeping her eyes downcast. “I know it is a poor use of my energies.”

“Stories are not wicked in themselves,” her father said, more gently now. “I myself have written them, but always to instruct my flock. They have a moral lesson. What moral lesson does your dissolute duke teach us, Charlotte?”

“None at all, Papa.”

“None at all,” he repeated, looking around the table. “The purpose of art is to elevate the mind. This is why I have surrounded you children with all the books I can afford”—he lifted a hand to the walls—“why I have purchased so many of Mr. Martin's biblical engravings to better our souls. Has it been in vain?”

“I hope not, sir,” Charlotte said.

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his spectacles. Charlotte noticed that his high collar, though spotlessly clean, was beginning to show wear, and his jacket was frayed at the cuffs. Every spare penny Papa had went to his children—Charlotte's school fees, the piano for the girls, Branwell's painting materials. What was wrong with her?

“You are not ashamed,” Papa said, as if reading her mind.

Charlotte's mouth opened, then she shut it again quickly. “I assure you that I am, sir,” she said. Had she been sullen or surly? She hadn't meant to be.

“Oh, fear not. Your imitation of contrition is very convincing.” Charlotte felt the heat rise to her face. “Would you like to know why you feel less than you think you ought?”

Charlotte raised her eyes to his. “Yes. I would.”

“Because sinning frequently inures one to the shame of sinning, and you have been sinning for a long time.” He put a hand over hers and continued, not unkindly. “You are a liar. An inveterate one, I think.”

She heard Anne give a little gasp.

“Oh,” Charlotte said, tears beginning to smart behind her eyelids. She felt suddenly exposed, as if her father could see down to the very bottom of her.

“Why, Patrick, surely that is too harsh,” Aunt Branwell interjected.

“Is it too harsh?” Papa asked, not taking his eyes from his daughter's face.

“No,” Charlotte breathed.

“I don't know exactly what my children lie about,” Patrick Brontë said, “but I feel them—all the little lies of this house. They are beginning to take their toll.”

Around the table Charlotte's siblings sat frozen, as if captured in one of Branwell's portraits, guilt stamped on their features. The shame Charlotte hadn't been feeling now stabbed through her like a knife. It was true that the Brontë children had told many lies over the years. Once, they had thought themselves so clever to deceive their father, to cross to other worlds right under
his very nose without his ever knowing. Now she wondered if every falsehood wasn't a little chip from her soul—and not just her own, but from her siblings' as well. Branwell had joked about setting an example for the others, but he was right. She was the eldest. She should have set a higher standard.