The World Within (20 page)

Emily is speechless.

Ellen plunges on, “I think Charlotte is very talented, of course, but I just wondered what her chances of success are. It would be so distressing for her, if it doesn’t work out. You’re the obvious person to ask … knowing about art and caring so much for Charlotte …” She trails off.

Emily tries to pull herself together. This is not Ellen’s fault. “I’m flattered you think I know something about the subject … and I appreciate your concern for my sister …” She knows she sounds stilted, but it’s the best she can do. “The truth is, Ellen, I don’t know. All we can do, I suppose, is hope for the best.”

Ellen will never guess, of course, that the best as far as she’s concerned is that Charlotte doesn’t succeed.

Ellen nods. “Yes, that’s what we must do.” At that moment George comes up to join them and Emily drops behind.

She walks on in a daze. She hardly knows which is worse — Charlotte showing Ellen
her
private drawings or revealing to their visitor what was supposed to be a secret shared only by them. How could Charlotte have treated Ellen, a stranger, as if she was one of the family? What was she thinking of?

She’s hardly aware of Henry announcing that it’s time they were heading home, of the Nusseys departing amid general farewells that she takes no part in.

As they get underway themselves, Charlotte relaxes back into her seat. “Well, I think that went well, despite everything, don’t you?”

Branwell and Anne agree eagerly, but Emily doesn’t say anything, not then nor for the whole of the long journey home. As soon as they get back, she goes to the piano and hammers out a Bach fugue. It helps, but only a little.

It’s bedtime before she and Charlotte are alone. They undress in silence, but, once Charlotte is in her nightgown, she comes over and touches Emily’s arm. “What’s the matter? Did someone say something to upset you?”

Emily concentrates on doing up her buttons. “You could say that.”

Charlotte frowns. “Who was it?”

Emily faces her. “It was you.”

“Me? What do you mean?” Her sister’s eyes are wide with astonishment.

“You told Ellen about wanting to be an artist.”

Charlotte is clearly perplexed. “Yes?”

Emily shrugs. “Well, then.”

“I don’t understand. That’s what’s upset you?”

“I’m not upset. I’m angry.”

“But why?”

If Charlotte doesn’t even know what she’s done, then that makes it worse. “You said I wasn’t to tell anyone. I thought it was a secret.”

“It is, at home.”

Emily gives Charlotte a long hard stare. Charlotte opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it again.

“I’m not allowed even to tell Branwell, but Ellen can know.”

Charlotte shrugs, then, turning away, she unfastens her braids. “I’ll tell the others eventually. I just don’t want to do it yet.” She starts brushing out the kinks in her hair with long smooth strokes.

Emily is left standing there. She wants to fight about this, but Charlotte won’t. Frustrated, she bounces onto the bed, causing the springs to squeak in protest.

“And you showed Ellen my drawings. Without asking me.”

The brush stops. Charlotte looks sideways at Emily. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Well, I do.”

“I’m sorry.”

Is she? Is she really sorry? Emily doubts it. She climbs under the covers, her own hair unbrushed, and turns away from Charlotte. She thought Charlotte sharing her secret with her meant that they were close again, that they understood each other, that things were back to normal. Now she sees it meant nothing, nothing at all.

Charlotte slides into bed and the mattress rustles as she turns over to take up their accustomed sleeping position. Emily can feel her sister’s breath on her neck, the pressure of her body against her back.

She endures it for a moment or two and then she slips out of bed and into the pallet bed, still in place from Ellen’s visit.

“What are you doing?” asks Charlotte sleepily.

“It’s too hot to be together,” says Emily. “I prefer to be on my own now.”

One July morning, not long after Ellen’s visit, Papa asks Emily to take a note to John Brown. It’s only a step to the barn across the lane, where she can hear the sexton at work, but Emily’s glad of a chance for some fresh air as it’s such a hot day. And luckily Mr. Brown is so absorbed in engraving a new headstone that he doesn’t engage her in conversation.

On her way back, she lingers at the parsonage gate, hoping for the slightest breeze from the moor, but the air is thick and still. She’s trying to think about Gondal, to be ready for talking about it with Anne, but Charlotte’s treachery keeps rising up and blotting out other thoughts. She can’t forgive her sister and she can’t stop feeling aggrieved about what’s happened.

That morning at breakfast, at last Charlotte shyly told the family of her hope of having her work chosen for the Art Society’s summer exhibition. After some initial surprise, Papa was encouraging, and said that he and Branwell would take the drawings to Leeds for Charlotte.

Thinking about it now, Emily tells herself that she doesn’t care if Charlotte becomes an artist and goes away — it won’t make any difference to her at all.

Lifting her head, she sees a sheepdog coming down the lane toward her. It has distinctive markings — an almost completely white face with a black patch over one eye — but she doesn’t recognize it.

As it approaches and she gets a better look at it, all thoughts of Charlotte fly out of her head. Poor thing! Its tongue’s hanging out and it’s panting rapidly, its thin sides heaving. It must be dying of thirst.

Running into the back kitchen, Emily fills Grasper’s bowl with water and carries it out. The dog’s biting at a stone near the gate, trying to eat it. Perhaps it’s starving too.

“Don’t eat that! I’ll get you some food in a minute. Here you are.” She puts down the bowl of water. The dog looks at her. It has a cowed, anxious expression and as it approaches the bowl cautiously, she sees that it’s trembling.

“Poor boy. Have you been ill-treated?” She puts out her hand to pat it, to reassure it, and the dog lunges forward and sinks its jaws into her arm. Emily exclaims and tries to pull her arm away, but the dog hangs on. She has to beat at its head to make it let go.

“Sorry, sorry.” Emily feels terrible for hitting it. Clutching her throbbing arm, she backs away. She’s still hoping that the dog will drink, but it seems paralyzed and just stands there with its mouth open. And then she sees something that sends a chill up her spine — foam dripping from the dog’s lower jaw and pooling in the dust.

Inching backward, Emily feels for the gate and, slipping inside, she shuts it tight. Peering over it, she’s relieved to see the dog lolloping back up the lane. At least it’s heading for the open moor and not toward the town.

But the dog is not her main concern.

Rolling up her sleeve, she examines her arm. There are deep puncture marks and the dog’s fangs have lacerated the skin — blood is oozing from between the jagged edges of the wound.

Stupid, stupid Emily. How often has Papa warned her about touching strange dogs? And that story he told about the farmer who was bitten by a rabid dog …

She shivers.

As she’s looking at her torn arm, her vision begins to blur. Immediately she claps her hand back over the injury. This is no time to faint. Think … think! What did Papa say the farmer should have done?

Taking a steadying breath or two, she runs back into the house. There’s no one in the kitchen, but there on the stove are two irons Tabby has left to heat up.

Snatching up a cloth, she seizes one of the irons and claps it on her injury. There’s a sizzling sound and a smell like charcoal as the hot metal bites into her flesh. The pain is terrible — she has to grit her teeth to stop herself from crying out. But it must be done; she must cauterize the wound to stop any infection from spreading.

When she can’t bear it any longer, she carefully replaces the iron exactly where it was and rolls down her sleeve. Then she lets out her breath. All she can think of is reaching the bedroom without being seen, but as she moves toward the door, she staggers and has to sit down.

As luck would have it, at that moment Tabby comes into the kitchen, grumbling to herself. “That Mr. Greenwood certainly likes his coffee. Here I am with all that ironing to do and I’ve to make another pot. It’s not as if —” She breaks off at the sight of Emily. “Ee, lass, whatever is the matter? Tha looks as if tha’s seen a boggart.”

“It’s the heat, I think. I forgot to take my bonnet and it’s sweltering out there.” Surreptitiously Emily moves her arm to conceal her bloodstained cuff under the table.

Tabby gives her a sharp look. “Tha’s not usually done in by it.” She sniffs the air suspiciously. “What’s tha been up to?”

“Nothing. I’ll be all right in a minute. Could you get me a drink?”

Shaking her head, Tabby fetches a glass of lemonade and Emily gulps it down, glad of its cold sweetness on her tongue.

Her arm feels as if it’s on fire and she’s terrified of what that means, of what she might have brought upon herself so unthinkingly. She longs to tell Tabby what’s happened, to have Tabby comfort her and look after her as she’s always done in the past whenever Emily was upset or hurt.

But this time it’s different. She has done this to herself and until she knows what the consequences are to be, she can’t tell Tabby. She can’t tell
anyone.

Gripping the edge of the table, she makes herself stand up, but she can’t help swaying and Tabby regards her with concern. “Tha’s not at all reet, my lamb. Mebbe tha should have a lie-down?”

Emily forces herself to say lightly, “No, I’m all right. I’ll just have a wash — that’ll cool me down.”

The minute Emily reaches the bedroom she rummages in the chest of drawers for something to bind her arm.

She finds a worn muslin pillowcase and manages to tear a strip from it with her teeth. She should probably put something on the wound, some ointment maybe, but she doesn’t know what, so she just wraps the bandage round it and ties it as best she can — a fiddly thing to do one-handed. She’s not made a good job of it, but all she can do is hope for the best.

She hides the ruined cuff at the back of her drawer — she can put it on the fire later — and then scrubs at her sleeve where some of the blood has seeped into it. Luckily it doesn’t show much on the dull brown material. Then she finds the deepest cuffs she possesses and puts them on.

She’s just about presentable when Charlotte appears in the doorway, looking worried.

“Tabby said you might have a touch of sunstroke.”

She can hear the sympathy in her sister’s voice and it almost undoes her.

She could admit the truth to Charlotte, couldn’t she? It would be such a relief to have someone to share this with …

But she only hesitates for a moment. No, she can’t tell Charlotte. After what happened with Ellen she no longer trusts her sister. What if she tells Charlotte and she blabs it to the rest of the family? No, this is all her own fault and she must deal with it by herself.

She steels herself and replies coolly, “I’m all right. I’m coming down now.” Then she makes herself walk steadily past Charlotte and down the stairs, doing her best to appear normal.