The World Within (27 page)

“When my sister Elizabeth died,” she begins carefully, as if she’s telling a story. Because after all, that’s what it is, a story, and she will tell it to Mary, who is listening intently. But it needs a different beginning. She starts again.

“I loved my sister Elizabeth very much, and after she died I was very …” She pauses and then chooses a word. It’s not at all the right word, but it will do, for now. “I was very upset and a few days after the funeral, Aunt called me into her room and said, ‘You can have this.’ ”

She looks up at Mary. “It was the sampler Elizabeth made just before she went away to school. She’d had an awful tussle with Aunt over it … she hated sewing and Aunt kept making her unpick the stitches and do it again. But she did finish it, finally.”

Emily pauses. She lays her hand on Grasper’s head a moment before going on. “When Aunt gave it to me, I stood there holding it, looking at all those wobbly stitches and thinking of Elizabeth’s poor pricked fingers and the pointlessness of it all … and then Aunt said” — she swallows, takes a breath — “Aunt said ‘I thought the text would comfort you.’ ”

Mary leans toward Emily. “What text was it?” Her voice is quiet for once, gentle.

Emily closes her eyes, opens them again. She quotes, “ ‘I shall not die but live and declare the works of the Lord.’ ”

Mary winces.

“Yes.” Emily shakes her head. “I read it, standing there in front of Aunt, and I felt sick. Elizabeth was dead and Aunt thought this stupid piece of material with its stupid, stupid message was going to help.” She looks at Mary directly. “I threw it on the fire — right there and then, onto Aunt’s fire — and it blazed up and was gone.”

“What did your aunt say?”

“I don’t know. I think she was too shocked to say anything, and by the time she could speak I’d gone. I went to the nursery and lay on the bed Elizabeth had died in and I wouldn’t get up, not for ages.”

Mary doesn’t say anything, but her grey eyes are full of sympathy. They walk on in silence, but it’s still a comfortable silence. It wasn’t a mistake to tell Mary about the sampler.

After a while Mary observes, “I can’t imagine what it would be like if I lost my sister. Or even one of my brothers, annoying as they are sometimes. Charlotte has sometimes spoken of Maria — I can tell she meant a lot to her.”

“Oh yes, Charlotte, and Branwell, loved Maria very much. I did too, of course, but …” Emily hesitates. “Maria was so good. I mean, she was good at everything, but also, she never did anything wrong. Aunt was always saying, to all of us, ‘Why can’t you be more like Maria?’ ”

“That must have been tiresome.”

“It was. It wasn’t Maria’s fault, but she was rather like a saint, so when she died it almost seemed inevitable, you know, as if she’d spent her life preparing to go to heaven. But Elizabeth was different.”

“Not saintly?”

Emily smiles. “No. At least, not in that way. She was … ordinary. But that made it easier to love her. And … you know, we didn’t have Mama, but Maria and Elizabeth did their best to make up for it. Maria tried to look after us all, but Elizabeth took special care of me.” She frowns, trying to find the right words, to
explain
. “You know, it was as if she belonged to me and I belonged to her.”

Mary nods, as if she does know what Emily’s talking about. “You must miss her very much.”

Emily hunches up her shoulders. Then she says, simply, “Yes.”

And now she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, but it’s all right because they’ve reached a stream, swollen with winter rain, and they’ll have to negotiate their crossing carefully.

Grasper splashes across at once. Emily reckons she can jump over, but perhaps the stream’s too broad for Mary. She hesitates, but then surprises herself by giving her companion a stiff bow, like a cavalier saluting his lady, and offers her hand, intending to help Mary pick her way across.

Mary smiles and makes a curtsy in return. Then, without warning, she retreats a few paces, runs up to the stream, and leaps over, landing safely on the other bank. She stretches her arm out, inviting Emily to join her.

Emily hangs back. She doesn’t need any help. But then something impels her to reach out and take hold of Mary’s hand as she jumps. They are only in contact for a second, but Emily experiences a shock like a charge of electricity.

As they walk on, she can still feel the impression on her skin — the strength of Mary’s grip, the warmth of her palm.

That night Emily lies on her pallet bed, wide awake and feeling restless. Eventually she sits up, making the straw in the mattress rustle. A foot away from her, sharing the bed, Mary and Charlotte are fast asleep.

Emily gazes at Mary. Tomorrow she’s leaving them. Emily has never been sorry to see a visitor go, but she’s sorry now.

Mary’s strong, striking face, surrounded by a cloud of dark hair, is still for once. With its hollows and planes clearly defined in the moonlight, she resembles a statue carved from alabaster of some goddess or otherworldly creature.

Catching herself thinking this, Emily’s amused. How Mary would laugh at her if she were to say such a thing to her face. Because really there’s nobody more sensible and part of this world than Mary. In that she’s very like Elizabeth.

As the thought forms, Emily sees with a small shock of recognition that, just as she did with Elizabeth, with Mary she feels safe.

Perhaps — her heart starts fluttering at the idea — perhaps Charlotte will invite her friend again. She’s so fond of Mary that she’s bound to. And then perhaps Mary will become
her
friend too.

Emily is astonished at herself — here she is, for the first time in her life, hoping to make a friend.

Settling down on the prickly mattress, she pulls the covers up to her chin and lies there in the dark, smiling to herself.

Some weeks after Mary’s visit, a letter arrives for Charlotte.

Emily, bringing it into the parlor to give to her sister, recognizes the bold, sprawling handwriting and feels a pang of envy — of course Mary will write to Charlotte, it’s only natural. But when Charlotte breaks the seal and examines the folded pages, she says, with surprise, “Mary’s enclosed a note for you, Emily.” She passes it over.

Emily seizes the thin sheet of paper and scans it eagerly.

… how I am missing the serenity of your parsonage, where it is possible to have a civilized conversation without being interrupted! My brothers are all at home just now, turning the house into a veritable bear pit with their falling out and squabbling …

Emily frowns as she reads. Mary probably means she’s missing talking to Charlotte or Branwell — the letter is friendly, but there’s nothing to suggest that Mary’s thinking specifically of her.

And then she comes to the last paragraph:

Have courage, my dear, and don’t let the tyranny of sewing, et cetera, prevent you from following your heart’s desires.

Give Grasper a hug from me. Farewell.

Your friend, Mary

Emily clasps the letter to her chest.
Your friend!
And that clear reference to their last conversation. Mary
is
thinking of her, and not just being polite.

“What does Mary say?” asks Charlotte.

“Oh, nothing in particular — complaining about her brothers.”

“Poor Mistress Mary! She would do better with a wondrous brother like me,” says Branwell.

Charlotte retaliates at once, and in the ensuing banter Mary’s letter to Emily is forgotten. Emily’s glad. She’d rather keep it to herself.

But now she’s faced with a problem — she’ll have to send a reply. Having never written a letter to anyone, she feels daunted.

She takes a piece of paper from her writing desk and uncorks the ink bottle. Then she chews the end of her penholder. How does one begin? Trying to use her best handwriting, she carefully inscribes:

Dear Mary,

Thank you for your letter …

She stops writing and pulls a face. That is so stilted and boring. What on earth is there to say? She glances at Mary’s letter again. Of course! Mary writes if she’s talking to her, so that’s what she must do. She dips her pen into the ink again and adds:

… which was a lovely surprise. You say you miss our quiet house. Well, it has seemed quieter without you, more’s the pity. I too miss the lively conversations you provoked …

Better to keep it general and not let Mary know how much their talks meant to her. She doesn’t want to embarrass Mary or herself by saying too much.

The next time Emily and Anne are out on a walk and talking about Gondal, Emily announces, “I’ve decided that Julius’s illegitimate child doesn’t drown with her mother, but is saved, and Julius acknowledges her as his own and has her brought up in a manner suitable for his daughter.”

“I still don’t think you should give him a child out of wedlock, but if you insist, that sounds a better idea. What’s going to happen to her?”

“I don’t know yet. But I think she’s going to play a big part in the story. Her name’s Augusta Geraldine Almeda, and she has grey eyes and black hair.”

“Oh! Like Mary.”

“Yes.” Emily blushes slightly. “She is rather like Mary, I suppose. She’s going to be brave and passionate and she won’t be beholden to any man, but strides about the world creating her own destiny.”

“That could be exciting.”

“Yes. I think so.”

Anne looks at Emily speculatively. “You like Mary, don’t you? I noticed you wrote her a letter.”

Emily stiffens. “I did … but only because she wrote to me, you know.” She’s reluctant to admit to Anne how much she admires Mary. Well, she doesn’t want Anne to be upset or jealous, does she? She hastens to add, “I didn’t tell her anything about Gondal, you know — that’s just between us.”

Anne says lightly, “I wouldn’t mind if you told her. I think it’s nice that you’ve made a friend.”

Emily stops in her tracks. “Really?” She suddenly gives Anne a big hug. “Oh, you are so
good
!”

Anne laughs, looking bemused. “I don’t think so. You are funny sometimes, Emily.”

Emily is so caught up with her latest character, Augusta, that she misses an astonishing piece of news.