The World Within (18 page)

Charlotte doesn’t look convinced. “Ellen will think it odd that we don’t have curtains.”

“You could tell her why,” Anne says quietly.

“You don’t think it makes Papa seem eccentric?”

“It seems perfectly reasonable to be afraid of fire,” Emily exclaims. “Especially if you’ve seen the suffering and horrible deaths that result from it, as Papa has.”

“I suppose so.” Charlotte lapses into thought and then sighs.

“Now what?”

“I was just thinking, I hope Papa doesn’t use his spittoon while she’s here. It’s not a very genteel habit. And if he tells any of his stories, I hope they’re suitable.”

Emily snaps her book shut. “If you’re so ashamed of us, why not write and tell Ellen not to come?” If only Charlotte would!

“Of course she must come. And I’m not ashamed.” But Charlotte’s face is reddening.

“I think you are. And I think it’s despicable.”

Charlotte’s head shoots up and her eyes flash.

But before she can say anything, Anne intervenes. “I think you’re worrying too much, Charlotte. After all, she’s coming to see you, not to inspect the house or judge us. And if she’s as nice as you say she is, she’ll accept us as we are.”

Charlotte gazes at her for a moment and then says, “You’re probably right.” She chews at her finger and then says to Emily, “But you’ll behave, won’t you?”

Emily gives her an innocent look. “What do you mean?”

Charlotte purses her lips. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“You’re not familiar with Penzance? Ah, it’s well worth a visit. The climate is so balmy that we had palm trees in the garden and camellias flowering in February.”

Branwell and Emily roll their eyes at each other.

In honor of Ellen’s arrival, they are using the silver milk jug and sugar basin and, as well as bread and butter, there’s a pink ham and Tabby has made cheesecakes. Papa has joined them for tea, passing dainties to Ellen with grave courtesy, but it’s Aunt, wearing her best cap, which is even bigger and more ridiculous looking than her everyday ones, who holds the floor.

She’s taking the opportunity of a fresh audience to trot out the reminiscences of her younger days the rest of them have heard far too many times before. “… and for dancing we wore such lovely gowns. One I remember — the underdress was cream silk and over it was gauze woven with pink and blue silk threads …”

Emily glances at Ellen. She’s listening with a polite smile on her face and no indication of the boredom she must be feeling. Or perhaps she isn’t. When she admired Aunt’s ghastly teapot with its cheery message,
To me to live is Christ, to die is Gain
, she sounded perfectly sincere.

At least she doesn’t stare, as if she’s trying to work you out or find fault with you. But why does Charlotte like her so much? She seems to be … well, nice, but not in the least bit interesting.

In fact, and Emily grins to herself at the thought, she’s rather like a milk pudding — sweet and bland.

Tea over, Aunt fumbles in the folds of her black silk dress and produces a small silver box. Out of the corner of her eye, Emily sees Charlotte stiffen. They both know what’s coming.

Opening the box, Aunt offers it to Ellen, who shrinks back in alarm. Aunt laughs girlishly. “Only teasing, my dear.”

She takes a pinch of snuff and with a deft turn of her wrist carries it to her nose. There’s a pause in which Emily steels herself and then Aunt gives a mighty sneeze. She completes the ritual by blowing her nose on a multicolored handkerchief. A look of shock and disgust flashes across Ellen’s face, even though it’s quickly masked.

Emily knows how she feels. The skin above Aunt’s mouth is permanently brown and her handkerchiefs are the color of a peat bog. It’s a puzzle that Aunt, who’s so particular and has such a lot to say about cleanliness and godliness, indulges in such a revolting habit. But wouldn’t it be good if Ellen is so put off by it that she cuts her visit short?

Emily checks to see how Charlotte’s bearing up. She can’t help feeling a little sorry for her. Her sister is gazing at Aunt in an agony of embarrassment. Aunt hasn’t realized the effect of the sneeze: The curls peeking from her cap have slipped and, now askew, are clearly revealed to be false.

Emily can’t help smirking and Branwell stifles a snigger, but Ellen remains perfectly straight-faced.

She’s been well trained in polite behavior, then. But perhaps it simply means that she doesn’t have a sense of humor.

While Ellen’s staying with them, since they’re not allowed to write, in the evenings they fall back on their other favorite occupation and take turns reading aloud. Emily’s not surprised when Charlotte insists on choosing the reading matter, sticking to safe poets like Milton and Wordsworth or picking out the more serious articles from
Blackwood’s Magazine.

Heaven forbid that pious Ellen should be exposed to anything shocking, such as the evil Byron!

By the third evening, Emily, lying on the rug with Grasper, observes, from Ellen’s fidgeting and stifled yawns, that she isn’t relishing the entertainment.

Charlotte’s obviously noticed too, as several times with a worried frown she glances over at Ellen drooping on the sofa. Eventually she breaks off from her reading. “That’s enough of that, don’t you think?”

Ellen sits up at once, a look of relief on her face.

A slightly uncomfortable silence falls, which is eventually broken by Ellen.

“Do you always spend your evenings alone like this?”

Charlotte says, “After nine o’clock, yes. But before he goes to bed Papa sometimes sits with us, if he’s free. Aunt too, occasionally, in the summer, but in the winter she prefers the comfort of her own room.”

Ellen looks slightly embarrassed. “I meant, do you never have visitors? Or pay social calls?”

Charlotte smiles a tight little smile. “We are not so fortunate as you, Ellen, in having a wide circle of friends and relatives living close by. In truth, we know hardly anyone in Haworth.”

“What stuff and nonsense!” Branwell bursts out. He turns to Ellen. “I know a whole set of fine fellows from round and about, but my sisters are too stuck-up to mix with the hoi polloi.”

Anne exclaims in protest and Charlotte reddens with annoyance. “That’s not fair, Branwell, you know it isn’t. It’s easy for you because you’re a boy. We girls are constrained by social etiquette, the need for introductions and so forth, and since Aunt never leaves the house except to go to church and Papa is too busy for social calls, we receive no invitations.”

“What a pity.” Ellen clearly finds their situation horrifying.

“I don’t think so,” says Emily abruptly. “We’re quite happy without
visitors
.” To her satisfaction, Ellen blushes.

Charlotte frowns at Emily and says, “But even if we wanted them, I don’t think it would make any difference if Aunt were the most sociable creature in the world. We are not rich enough to be of interest to the good gentlefolk round here. And I believe they think we are odd creatures because we read so much.”

“I see.” Ellen looks uncomfortable, as if she wishes she had never broached the subject.

Another silence falls.

Anne says shyly, “Shall we do something else? What would you like to do, Ellen?”

Ellen brightens.

“Why don’t we play some games?”

“Games?” echoes Charlotte, sounding as if Ellen has suggested that they swallow a dose of rat poison.

Emily has no interest in games either, at least not the sort of games she thinks Ellen means.

She can still remember the one time when she was small and was invited along with her sisters to tea at one of the grand houses. There were other children there and games were organized, supposedly to amuse them all, but they were so ridiculous she and her sisters didn’t want to join in. They didn’t have any idea what to do anyway, so they just stood there feeling stupid while the other children stared at them.

Of course, their own games are different — she loves their imaginary plays and the word games Papa has shown them, riddles, conundrums, anagrams, and the like.

She was delighted when she discovered, all by herself, that two of her favorite words were linked — that HEART could be turned into EARTH.

She doubts that Ellen would enjoy such puzzles, but this might be the chance she’s been waiting for — to show Charlotte that her friend is rather a simpleton. “That sounds like a good idea,” she says cheerily, ignoring Charlotte’s frown. “What shall we play?”

Ellen gathers them round the table and they watch, bemused, as she rolls a short length of wool into a small ball.

“The idea is, we all try to blow it off the table and the person it falls by has to pay a forfeit. It’s very funny!”

Emily can’t believe it. This is supposed to be amusing? Ellen really is a complete ninny.

She glances at Charlotte and is pained by her sister’s expression — Charlotte looks puzzled, but so eager to understand and anxious to please.

Can’t Charlotte see she’s worth twenty Ellens?

After Branwell’s paid the first forfeit and imitated a donkey with his usual dash, braying loudly and throwing himself onto the floor and kicking up his legs in a wild fashion, Emily’s determined to make their guest lose — she blows ferociously and the little ball flies into Ellen’s lap.

Bright-eyed, Ellen cries, “What forfeit must I pay, Emily?”

“Put yourself through the keyhole.”

“Emily!” Charlotte warns.

Ellen’s face has fallen. “Oh. I see.” She clearly doesn’t. “Is it a joke?”

“No.” Emily regards her steadily. “It’s simple.” She stands up and, taking a piece of paper from the side table, she tears off a strip. On it she writes YOURSELF, holds it up to show everybody, then rolls it up and pushes it through the keyhole.

“Oh, it’s a trick.” Ellen laughs uncertainly and Charlotte says quickly, “Very funny, Emily. We’ll do something else now, shall we?”

“Why not?” says Emily. And before anyone else has a chance to speak she adds, “How about Conundrums?”

“What’s that?” asks Ellen, and now there’s a definite note of anxiety in her voice.

Branwell says reassuringly, “It’s not difficult. I’ll go first and you’ll soon see how it works. Right, Emily, where did Charles the First’s executioner dine and what did he eat?”

Emily ponders a moment. “Oh, I know. He took a chop at the King’s Head.”

“Correct.”

“It’s rather clever.” Ellen looks worried.

“Isn’t it?” says Emily. “My turn now. Ellen, why are bankrupts more to be pitied than idiots?” She smiles inwardly. Surely this will be beyond their visitor.

“Oh!” Ellen exclaims as if she’s bitten her tongue. She turns red, says, “Excuse me,” and rushes out of the room.

In the silence, Emily says, “What was all that about?”

Charlotte looks grim. “I’m not sure, but it could be something to do with the fact that our friend Mary’s father is bankrupt. Honestly, Emily, you are the limit.” And she sweeps out.

Branwell gives Emily an ironic look. “Well done.”

“How was I to know about Mary’s father? And it’s only a game.”

“I think Ellen must be very sensitive,” says Anne. “Perhaps you’d better apologize.”

“I suppose so.” Emily pulls a face. All this fuss about nothing.