The World Within (8 page)

Emily looks out toward the southeast, in the direction that Charlotte is traveling.

Dark clouds are building again over there and she imagines Charlotte looking at them from her seat in the cart and hoping that she’ll reach the school before the weather breaks. Or perhaps she’s dreading what awaits her at her destination.

Emily hugs the sugar loaf to her chest. Five months until she sees her sister again.

The longest they have ever been apart.

It will be hard, but she won’t let the thread binding them together break. She
won’t
.

As the cold from the stone step makes itself felt at last, she shivers and, jumping up, she goes indoors.

Later Tabby calls her back into the kitchen in time to see the loaves come out of the oven. They’ve risen and have satisfyingly crusty tops, and they smell wonderful. Emily watches anxiously as Tabby picks one up and taps its bottom. It gives off a hollow sound and Tabby says, “Ay, that’ll do, I reckon.”

And Emily grins at her.

Making bread has helped her to get through the day, but when bedtime comes and she has to take her candle upstairs and go into the bedroom by herself, she is suddenly overcome again.

Sinking onto the bed, she surveys the silent room as if seeing it for the first time.

The blue-and-white jug with its mended handle and chipped rim standing in its matching bowl on the washstand reminds her of the squabble that caused these injuries — she and Charlotte, when they were small, disputing who should have the hot water first. Beside the washstand is the rush-seated chair where they both hang their clothes at night, despite repeated injunctions from Aunt that they should fold them up and put them away. On the floor just in front of the chair is the dark burn mark on the oilcloth where Charlotte once dropped the candle.

It strikes Emily with the force of a blow that she has never had to sleep in this room alone. First there were the four of them, Maria and Charlotte at the head of the bed and she and Elizabeth curled up together at the foot. When the others went off to school all those years ago, she still had Sarah, their nursemaid, to keep her company.

And then, afterward and ever since, there has always been Charlotte.

Emily suddenly becomes aware that her teeth are chattering. Undressing quickly, she puts on her nightgown, but she can’t bring herself to get into bed yet. Instead she wraps herself up in a blanket and sits by the window, looking out. It’s a wild night — the wind blowing down from the moor is moaning around the house. The candle flame wavers in the draft. She strains her eyes, trying to see the faintest glimmer of a star, but the sky is utterly black.

Right now her sister will be lying with a stranger in a strange bed in an unfamiliar house far away. Emily wonders what kind of reception she had and whether she’s all right. With all her heart she hopes so.

She puts her lips to the icy glass of the window and whispers, “Good night, Charlotte.”

“Bless thee, lass, whatever is tha doing there?” Tabby’s voice makes her jump. “Get into bed now, afore tha gets chilled to the marrow.”

Emily is touched. These days, since Charlotte has been trusted to behave responsibly, they see themselves into bed. She runs across the bare floorboards and clambers under the covers.

Tabby closes the wooden shutters. “It’s fair wuthering out there tonight.” She comes over to the bed and tucks Emily in. Patting her head, she says, “See tha gets a good night’s sleep.”

And then she blows out the candle and goes downstairs and Emily is left in the dark. At once she gets up and opens the shutters again. There might be nothing to see, but still, she needs to know that the sky is there, that she’s not shut in.

Dashing back, she dives into the chilly bed. Within seconds she’s sitting up again.

It feels all wrong to be lying here alone with a gaping empty space where Charlotte ought to be. She turns over and tries facing in the opposite direction, but that doesn’t help. She can’t get comfortable on her right side and she can’t see the window.

She rolls over again. The sheets haven’t warmed up yet; the air in the bedroom is polar. She tries to summon up thoughts of Parry, but he’s not much comfort — in all his terrible ordeals, he’s never without his faithful companion Ross.

If Anne had asked to come in with her, she’d have said yes like a shot, but Anne doesn’t seem to have thought of it and Emily is too proud to ask her. Anyway, Aunt probably wouldn’t have allowed it — she wouldn’t trust Emily not to lead her pet astray.

Wrapping her arms round herself, Emily curls up into a tight ball.

“Oh, Charlotte,” she breathes into the pillow. “What am I going to do without you?”

Emily sits transfixed as Beethoven’s
Appassionata
Sonata thunders about her ears, Mr. Sunderland, their piano teacher, involving his whole body in the performance, the music pouring from him with a passionate intensity.

The music is so beautiful and it seems to speak directly to something deep inside her, something unutterably painful. She can hardly bear it.

Losing Charlotte is part of it, but not all — since Charlotte left, the dream she’s had so often over the years, the one about Maria and Elizabeth, keeps haunting her and it’s horrible waking up and finding herself alone. And since Charlotte went away Papa has seemed more frail and depressed than ever. She often lies awake in the early hours, her anxieties about his health multiplying uncontrollably without Charlotte there to reassure her.

Mr. Sunderland comes to the end of the piece — Branwell applauds wildly and Anne joins in more decorously. Emily is too overcome to move. The teacher turns to them, smiling, but when his eyes fall on Emily, he frowns. “Miss Emily, has something about my playing displeased you?”

Hot with embarrassment, Emily exclaims, “Oh no, not at all. It was wonderful.”

Puzzled, he stares at her and she’s driven to blurt, “I was just wishing that we had a piano at home so I could practice whenever I wanted. I do so want to play the music that you play — not that I’d ever be as good as you, of course, but —”

Mr. Sunderland holds up his hand to stop her. “As to that, I think it would be a very good idea. You have all reached a stage — yes, even you, Master Branwell — where it is clear that you have some musical talent. But you won’t make satisfactory progress unless you practice much more than you can at present. I will speak to your father about it.” He looks out of the window. “The rain has cleared. You should stay dry on your way home — but don’t dawdle. There are more showers on their way, I’m sure.”

Emily pulls on her cloak anyhow, too agitated to fasten it properly. Why on earth did she say that? Papa can’t afford a piano. It will be awful if Mr. Sunderland does speak to him — he’ll be distressed at not being able to provide something he’ll decide is important and it’ll be another burden on him.

On the way home she tells the others what’s bothering her.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” says Branwell airily, kicking a stone ahead of him up the road. He and Emily are speaking to each other again and getting on fairly well — as long as they stay off the subject of Glass Town. “You heard what Mr. Sunderland said. We are talented. We deserve a piano.”

“But it’s sure to be too expensive.”

“Aunt will buy it for us. Especially if she thinks I might become a famous pianist.” He grasps the lapels of his jacket, preening.

“I thought you were going to be a famous artist. Or a famous poet,” says Emily drily.

Branwell is unabashed. “Well, I might be either of those — I like to keep my options open.”

“A piano would be useful for preparing to be a governess,” Anne puts in.

Emily stares at them. She certainly doesn’t want to perform in public, and as for being a governess — she grimaces.

But if Branwell’s right … if Aunt will pay for a piano … if she could learn to play as well as she longs to …

A wild and desperate hope sends her running up the hill, leaving the others far behind.

Branwell
is
right, as he often is in matters concerning Aunt. By the time Mr. Sunderland comes to speak to Papa, Branwell has talked so much and so confidently about his musical prowess that Aunt is convinced a piano of their own is an urgent necessity. Mr. Sunderland’s advice is sought about where to look for a suitable instrument, and one exciting and unbelievable day their very own piano arrives and is installed in Papa’s study. As soon as the wagoner and his lad have departed, they all crowd in to see it, even Tabby.

Emily catches her breath at the sight of the instrument. Whereas Mr. Sunderland’s piano has a wooden front hiding the workings, theirs has a beautiful screen of maroon silk gathered into a rose; it’s small, but with its two brass candle holders and stool just about big enough for two, it’s perfect. She can’t wait till Charlotte sees it.

“Go on, then, my boy. Let’s hear it,” Papa urges. Branwell takes his seat and plays some Scarlatti from memory in a flamboyant way, waving his hands and tossing his head so that his long hair flies about, but with many wrong notes, Emily notices.

“Splendid, nephew,” says Aunt, patting Branwell on the back. “And I’m well satisfied with the piano — it has a beautiful tone. I’ll bring down the music your mother and I used to play and you can all share it, but next time you go to Keighley you may each buy a new piece.”

Emily is so overwhelmed with gratitude that she surprises Aunt and herself by planting a kiss on the old lady’s dry cheek.

The new arrival changes things, more for Emily and Anne as it turns out, as, after an initial burst of enthusiasm, Branwell goes back to playing the church organ, which he prefers.

“It’s so much grander,” he tells them.

Emily’s not surprised. It’s typical of Branwell to want to make a great noise and to show off what he can do with such a complicated instrument. But in this case, it’s all to the good — it means more time at the piano for her and Anne.

Branwell does join in when they play a piece he’s found called
The Battle of Prague
, which Papa, with his fondness for all things military, enjoys listening to. He often requests a performance in the evening.

Emily plays the piano and Branwell, as narrator, shouts out the various stages of the battle between the Prussians and the Imperialists such as
“Call for the cavalry!”
and
“The attack!”
while banging a saucepan lid with a wooden spoon to represent the drums.