The World Within (31 page)

“Come,
mes enfants
,” Lydia drawls. “Let us leave Miss Brontee to commune with her muse while we lesser mortals go and eat.”

They straggle out, giggling.

Emily feels hot tears pricking her eyes. She bites hard on the inside of her lip. She won’t cry. Those monsters won’t make her cry.

She looks at the crumpled piece of paper in her hand. They don’t know anything. They’re stupid, ignorant, vile beasts. But their intrusion into her private world has ruined this story for her.

Pressing her mouth into a grim line, she tears the paper into tiny pieces. She’ll throw it down the privy. Then no one will ever be able to laugh at it again.

The next Sunday, coming back from church, Emily’s surprised when Charlotte appears at her side.

In a hurried undertone, as if she’s pretending to be a spy, Charlotte asks, “How are you?”

Emily eyes her uncertainly. What’s happened to being-a-teacher-and-not-a-sister? Is it safe to respond naturally, to tell Charlotte how much she’s missed her? She’s not sure. She chooses to play it safe and, like a pupil, replies formally, “I am well. Thank you.”

“Oh, Emily!”

This would be more affecting if Charlotte didn’t immediately look round to see if anyone has heard her using her first name, and Emily’s impulse to be spontaneous dies away. She waits to see what will follow.

Charlotte hesitates and then says, “You could try making more of an effort, you know.”

“An effort?”

“Well, for a start, you could avoid getting black marks. It’s easy enough.”

Emily raises her eyebrows. Easy enough for Charlotte, perhaps, who cares for such things, but the thing is, she doesn’t care.

“And” — Charlotte looks uncomfortable, but she plows on — “you could make an effort to speak to the others.”

“I thought you said I should keep my ideas to myself.”

“You know what I mean.” Charlotte’s tone is exasperated. “You could try to get on with the nicer ones. They’re not all like Lydia Marriot.”

Emily looks at Charlotte helplessly. She really doesn’t understand a thing. “What would be the point?”

“It might help. You might feel better.”

Emily stops dead and stares at Charlotte for a long moment. There’s so much to be said, but it’s so impossible to begin.

She says carefully, “I don’t think I would. But thank you for the suggestion.” She gestures ahead of them. “I’d better catch up with the others. Before I get another black mark.”

And she walks away quickly before Charlotte can say anything else.

One September afternoon their walk takes them to a rise with a good view of the local hills. The heather, Emily sees, with a clutch at her heart, has turned purple. In an instant she’s seized with a fierce longing to be at home — she almost doubles up with the pain of it.

It comes to her that she can write to Papa that very evening and ask him to send the carriage for her.

So simple. She feels giddy with joy.

But …

If she does that, won’t she have let Papa down? He would never say so, but she would feel it. The last thing she wants to do is add to his worries.

There’s something else to consider too — her own pride.

If she were to give in to this weakness, it would be such a humiliation, such an admission of failure. She can’t do it.

Emily sits in her place at the long table in the schoolroom.

Outside, in the mist, everything is still, lifeless. There are no birds flitting about in the trees silhouetted against the grey October sky. Here inside there’s silence apart from the drone of Harriet Lister reciting her lesson to Miss Eliza.

Even though the room is quite warm, Emily can’t stop shivering. Something’s wrong. She can’t eat or sleep and she’s cold all the time now, especially her hands and feet. The other girls, who wear dainty lace mittens, laughed when she first appeared in her bobbled woolen gloves, but she doesn’t care. It doesn’t help, though — her hands are still cold.

In front of her the history textbook lies open at the page she’s supposed to be learning. But there’s something wrong with her brain too — whenever she looks at the sentences, her mind blurs and goes foggy. She can’t even write to Mary any more, not even in her head — it’s too much effort.

She can’t understand it.

Unless this is the brain disease flaring up! A spasm of fear grips her. She’d forgotten about the rabies.

Don’t be silly, she tells herself sternly. The dog bite was far too long ago to be affecting you now. You’re tired, that’s all.

Not surprising, since she spent most of the night staring out of the window again. The view isn’t inspiring — across the garden to the road and beyond that to the silhouetted roofs of Mirfield — but sometimes it helps, especially if she can see the stars.

She closes her eyes, just for a minute or two. Actually, she feels so tired she could weep. She won’t, of course.

These days, all the time, there’s a painful tight feeling in her chest, as if somehow a heavy stone has lodged itself in her heart. It’s not unfamiliar — she felt the same after Elizabeth died. But why feel it now? No one’s died. But that’s what it feels like, like grief.

If Papa were here, he would try to comfort her as he did then by quoting from the psalm:
The Lord is nigh to the broken-hearted.

But it’s not true. God isn’t here; she’s on her own and she feels displaced, uprooted, wrenched away from everything she knows, everything she loves. She can’t get back to that stark treeless land of heath and stone that she longs for.

She whispers to herself, “My heart has lost its home, its true earth.”

“Miss Brontë.”

Emily jumps. Miss Eliza is summoning her to come and recite her lesson. She doesn’t know it, but she stands up anyway and as she does so a peculiar feeling sweeps over her. She feels hot and cold at the same time and something’s happening to her eyes — everything’s going dark at the edge of her vision. She can hear Miss Eliza’s voice in the distance. And then it fades out altogether …

With a sharp smell of ammonia the world suddenly swims into view again.

Unaccountably Emily finds herself staring at the hem of the tablecloth, beneath which she can see the sturdy polished leg of the table. What is she doing lying on the floor? Twisting her head, she sees Miss Eliza with a bottle of smelling salts clutched in her hand.

Emily tries to sit up, but her head swims and she’s glad to lie down again.

“Just stay where you are, Miss Brontë.” Miss Eliza’s tone is crisp, as if she’s exasperated by this interruption to her lesson. “Girls, stand back and give her some air. Miss Caris, will you please fetch that cushion and place it under her head, and Miss Upton, open the window.”

Julia’s face, looking rather alarmed, appears close to hers and her head is lifted and gently replaced on the soft pad.

Emily feels foolish lying there on the carpet. She’d like to get up, but somehow she hasn’t got the strength.

After a while Miss Eliza says, “Can you sit up now?”

“I’ll try.” This time she manages it, although she feels so dizzy she’d quite like to just go on sitting here. But Miss Eliza issues some more instructions and she finds herself being hauled to her feet by Lydia and Harriet, who half-carry her to an easy chair and drop her unceremoniously onto it.

The others take their places round the table. She’s half-aware of heads craning in her direction, of muffled whispers, but soon they forget about her and she lies back and shuts her eyes.

Actually, it’s quite pleasant to be sitting here by the open window, feeling the cold air on her face and letting her thoughts drift aimlessly.

At dinnertime, though Miss Eliza frowns at her request, she’s allowed to stay behind.

She’s just starting to relax into the unaccustomed peace when Charlotte appears, her face crumpled with worry.

“It’s all right,” says Emily. “I only fainted.”

Charlotte kneels down by her chair, and to Emily’s surprise her sister takes her hand. Giving her a searching look, Charlotte says gently, “It’s not all right, is it?”

At this unexpected tenderness Emily is horrified to feel her eyes pricking with tears. She blinks them away, but she knows Charlotte has seen them. “I
can
do this,” she says.

For answer, Charlotte squeezes her hand. “I’m sure you can. But …”

She stands up with that look in her eye and set of the chin that means she’s made up her mind about something and without another word she goes out of the room, leaving Emily to wonder what she means to do.