The World Within (11 page)

“Its wing is broken, I think,” whispers Anne.

“Let’s take it home and see if it will recover.”

Aunt makes a fuss, of course, but they are determined. Though Aunt gives in, she insists they keep the bird outside, and so that it won’t upset the other birds they put it in the peat house.

Every time they go in, Emily is disturbed by the way the hawk looks at her — as if it can see into her soul and is not terribly impressed by what it finds there. She feels for the bird. It must be hateful to be imprisoned in the dark.

She studies its wild, yellow-rimmed eyes — in their gleaming depths she can see the hawk’s longing to be free. She can’t stop thinking about it. Does it understand that by bringing it home and shutting it up, they are trying to save its life? Or does it simply feel trapped? Just as she sometimes longs to get away from Aunt’s scrutiny and the confinement of the house, is the hawk desperate to escape and once again have the whole wide sky to roam in?

They feed it scraps of meat begged from Tabby and then one morning when they open the door, it flies up at them. Startled, they step back and the hawk skims over their heads, circles, and then sails off toward the open moor.

They watch until it disappears and then look at each other with rueful grins.

Emily’s sorry to see the hawk go, but she’s glad it isn’t shut in anymore.

As spring turns into summer, their moorland walks become more adventurous and far-flung.

Aunt is still disapproving, but Papa, who knows the area intimately, is keen to hear where they’ve been and what they’ve seen. Since his illness he hasn’t traveled far and he obviously misses his long walks.

For Emily it becomes part of the pleasure of their expeditions to try and conjure up for Papa the mood of the moors on any given day and the way the colors vary according to the changing light and the effects of the wind.

Papa drinks it all in and wants to know every detail, but Emily can sometimes detect a wistful note in his voice that gives her pause. Does he think he won’t be able to see these things for himself one day?

She’s glad that Charlotte’s coming home soon, not just because she’s dying to see her sister, but it will be a relief to share her worries about Papa.

At last, toward the end of June, the day arrives when Charlotte is due home. She’s only got a month’s holiday, not nearly long enough, but Emily is determined to make the most of every second of it. All morning she listens out for the carriage and keeps looking out of the window, hoping to see it coming up the lane.

The minute her older sister steps through the door, Emily sweeps her off her feet in a great bear hug.

Laughing, her victim protests, “Put me down, Emily, you silly.”

Emily twirls her round before setting her down.

Charlotte looks at her in wonder. “How you’ve grown. You’re nearly as tall as Papa.”

“She’s a veritable maypole now,” says Branwell.

Emily cuffs him round the head, but only gently. She knows this is a sore point — Branwell has thick soles put on his boots and brushes his hair to make it stand up, but nothing can disguise the fact that he’s shorter than most boys of his age.

Charlotte has hugs and kisses all round, including from Tabby, who, after embracing her, holds her at arm’s length and says, “Tha’s lost all thi color, Miss Charlotte. Are they feeding thee properly at yon place?”

Charlotte laughs and waves her arm dismissively, but Tabby is clearly not satisfied. “We’ll have to get some roses back into thi cheeks, lass,” she mutters, retreating to the kitchen.

Emily studies Charlotte more closely. She does look pale. Emily’s heart judders. Charlotte’s not ill, is she? This isn’t what she dreads beginning again?

“Charlotte, are you well?”

Her sister looks surprised. “Yes, of course.”

Emily’s not convinced, but before she can say more, Grasper arrives, wagging his tail joyfully and desperate to greet the newcomer.

Emily swallows her fear and makes Grasper sit and be introduced properly — she wants Charlotte to admire him. But to her disappointment Charlotte regards him warily and only gives him the briefest of pats. Can’t she see how splendid he is?

But Charlotte has already turned away. She whirls into the parlor and stands there, as if taking it all in, her hand caressing the back of a chair.

“Nothing’s changed,” says Emily, following her in, with Branwell and Anne close on her heels. “It’s just the same as when you left.”

“I know,” says Charlotte. “And you can’t imagine how pleased I am to see it again — this dear room, our dear old furniture.”

Branwell and Emily exchange amused glances and Branwell taps the side of his head. “Methinks her sojourn in foreign parts has mazed her mind. She is much changed and not for the better.”

“No, I’m not,” says Charlotte, and Emily detects an anxious note in her voice. “I’m just the same old me too.”

But she isn’t.

Emily notices straight away that Charlotte has a different way of talking — she says words carefully, as if she’s conscious of how she’s speaking, and some words sound quite different from the way they did before.

There’s something else too. After Charlotte’s displayed with shy pride the three prizes that she’s won and the silver medal for being top of the whole school, she’s eager to tell them all about her experiences.

Roe Head, she says, is a roomy and comfortable house set in attractive gardens — she fetches a pencil sketch she’s done and they all admire it. The surrounding area is pleasant and they have plenty of walks — Miss Wooler couldn’t be kinder — the lessons are stimulating — the standard of the extras, especially French and drawing, is exceptionally high — and so on and so on.

Emily listens with folded arms: The more Charlotte says, the more suspicious she becomes. She examines her sister with narrowed eyes. What’s happened to Charlotte? She doesn’t usually gush.

Either she’s changed or she’s not telling the truth.

“Do you paint in oils?” Branwell wants to know. Since Mr. Bradley’s return to the area, their brother’s been going to his studio for lessons. He comes back smelling of linseed oil and turpentine and talking self-importantly about “impasto” and “scumbling.”

“Oh no,” says Charlotte. “Pencil and watercolor, that’s all.”

Branwell looks pleased and Emily wonders if he was worried that Charlotte might outdo him. Abruptly she asks, “What about music lessons? Are they any good?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Miss Wooler has advised me to give up the piano. I have to stoop so much to see the notes and she thinks it will permanently damage my posture.”

“No!” Emily is shocked and full of sympathy. “But, Charlotte, wait until you see our new piano. You won’t want to stop then.”

Charlotte shrugs, as though she doesn’t mind giving up playing and even having their own piano is of little interest.

Emily gapes at her. She can’t understand it at all. If something prevented her from playing the piano, she’d be devastated.

Branwell says, “Why don’t you wear spectacles, Charlotte? She should, shouldn’t she, Papa?”

Papa nods. “Yes, indeed, my dear, I really think it would be a good idea to consult Mr. Robertson while you’re home.”

“I’d rather not, Papa,” says Charlotte primly.

Branwell snorts. “That’s stupid. Why go about the world groping your way like a mole when you could see?”

Charlotte’s eyes flash and then she says, with emphasis on each word, “I. Don’t. Want. To. Wear. Spectacles.” She sets her mouth in a firm line.

Anne says quickly, “Is there much time given to religious devotion at the school?”

“Oh yes.” Charlotte sounds amused. “We go to church every Sunday, of course, but two of Miss Wooler’s sisters are married to clergymen and we see a lot of them — in fact, they’re practically on the staff. I don’t think you’d get on very well with them, Papa — they’re very keen on hellfire and damnation for everyone apart from the chosen few.”

“Among whom they number themselves, I suppose?” says Papa, with a twinkle in his eye.

“I think so!” Charlotte laughs.

Emily’s not interested in these clergymen. She wants to know something far more pressing. “What are the other girls like?”

“Oh, they’re …” Charlotte hesitates. “Well, like girls of our age are, you know.”

Emily stares at her and then glances at Anne, who looks as mystified as she feels. They don’t know any other girls of their age.

Charlotte tries again. “They’re lively … high-spirited.”

Emily is suspicious. There’s something Charlotte’s not saying. She resolves to get the truth out of her when they’re on their own.

“Have you made friends?” Aunt asks and Charlotte’s face clears.

“Oh yes, I have made two good, good friends.” And she waxes lyrical about these new bosom friends, Ellen and Mary.

Emily listens, frowning. She doesn’t like the sound of this at all … unless exaggeration is a new habit Charlotte has picked up at school.

“Mary and I have the fiercest disputes, going at it hammer and tongs and neither giving way. I find it very” — Charlotte breaks off and looks round at everyone, as if she’s suddenly become self-conscious — “exciting,” she adds in a quiet voice, blushing.

“Does she like literature?” asks Branwell abruptly and Emily can tell that he’s as disturbed as she is by this talk of new friends.

Charlotte laughs. “No, not at all. You should hear her comments about poetry. As it has no practical benefits, she can’t see the point of it.”

“Hmm.” Branwell nods, as if an unspoken question has been answered to his satisfaction.

But Emily isn’t reassured. She’s thoroughly unsettled by Charlotte’s apparent enthusiasm for this place that isn’t home and these people who are strangers.

And is she really well?

She’ll have to wait until bedtime to find out. But how delightful it will be to have Charlotte sharing her bed again. She can’t wait to talk to her properly.