The World Within (37 page)

In the lengthening silence, Emily blurts out awkwardly, “Is there something you
would
like to do?”

Mary looks at her and grins. “Indeed. I mean to earn my own living and be beholden to no one.”

Emily sighs inwardly. This wretched subject again — earning one’s own living.

Why is everyone so obsessed with it?

Mary has picked up a wooden spoon and is twirling it between her hands. “But I wouldn’t like to be doing what Charlotte does.” She pulls a face. “Certainly not under the terms she’s agreed to. She told me that after paying Anne’s fees and putting something by for their clothes, she’s nothing left.”

This is news to Emily. It makes Charlotte’s self-sacrifice even more pointless and awful. She fixes Mary with her eyes. “Oh, would you speak to her about it? And get her to see how stupid it is? Because she won’t listen to me. She’s afflicted with this ridiculous sense of duty and she’s going to make herself ill if she carries on.”

Mary puts down the spoon and lays a hand on Emily’s arm. “I’ll try. But you know Charlotte. Once she’s set her mind on something …” She sighs. “Oh, let’s hope, my dear, that we don’t have to be teachers or bonnet makers.”

Emily’s amused by Mary’s vehemence. Of course
she
has no intention of being any such thing. Remembering the conversation they had last time Mary was here, she says mischievously, “You don’t fancy a life of trimming bonnets with hand-worked roses, then?”

“No, indeed.” Mary laughs. “I want to travel if I can and see as much of this world as possible … and I hope I might find a better means of earning my livelihood in another country, where they don’t have such narrow ideas of what women are capable of.”

Suddenly it’s not so funny. Mary means to go far away? Emily didn’t know. Perhaps they could still go on writing to each other? But then, Mary didn’t reply to her last letter. She’s screwing up her courage to mention it when Mary stretches and says, “Anyway, whatever happens, I will not stay at home.” Her mouth twists with distaste as she says the word.

Emily almost gasps. Tentatively she says, “Why not? What’s wrong with home?”

“Oh, I couldn’t bear it. To be trapped in the same daily routine, to see the same small group of people all the time …” She shudders. “I know myself too well. Without variety and a wider circle of social contacts, I should never survive. Anyway” — jumping to her feet, she gives Emily one of her dazzling smiles — “I’d better leave you to your bread making or your dough might not rise.”

She bounces out of the kitchen, leaving Emily staring after her.

Something inside her has shriveled. She thought that she and Mary were so alike and had similar ideas about things. But she was wrong. To her, home means … oh, everything. She can’t put it into words and, even if she could, she can see now that Mary would never understand.

By the next morning Emily’s recovered somewhat. After all, just because she and Mary don’t agree about everything, it doesn’t mean they can’t be friends. She’s looking forward to more conversations, especially if they manage to have another walk together, just the two of them.

But over the next day or two it becomes obvious that this isn’t likely to happen, and it’s all because of Branwell. Whatever they’re doing, whether they stay in or go out, he insists on being with them.

At first Emily doesn’t think anything of it — she’s just waiting for him to go away and leave them to it. But he doesn’t. And it gradually dawns on Emily that it’s Mary who’s keeping him there.

She’d noticed on Mary’s last visit that Branwell seemed to like their guest’s company; now she can see that he’s definitely interested in her. It’s frustrating — it means there’s no chance for any of the rest of them to take Mary off for a private chat.

As Emily hangs back, scowling and watching Branwell lavish attention on Mary, it dawns on her that Mary herself doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she’s positively encouraging him, making a point of sitting next to him at mealtimes and walking with him when they go out.

With a sickening jolt she sees that Mary might be becoming fond of Branwell. Surely not! Mary’s just being polite, that’s all.

But she can’t deceive herself for long. Mary isn’t polite — she behaves as she wants and says what she feels. She begins to watch Mary carefully. Everything about her behavior suggests that she’s only interested in Branwell; her eyes are always on him.

Emily is astonished. Mary seemed such a strong, self-reliant person — someone she could really admire — and now it appears she’s just like other women Emily’s read about, letting themselves become infatuated and behaving foolishly.

After a while Emily can’t bear it any longer. She takes herself off to the kitchen and starts peeling the potatoes for dinner, relieved that Tabby’s still out shopping so she won’t have to talk.

She’d been so looking forward to this visit, to seeing more of Mary and getting to know her better, and now
this
had to happen.

Oh, this love! If that’s even what it is. Emily pulls a face and stabs her knife into a potato. It won’t do you any good, Mary.

She’s fond of her brother, of course, but she’s amazed that Mary has fixed on him. He’s so unsuitable for her. He’s not likely to be careful of Mary’s feelings, and she’s bound to end up dissatisfied and unhappy.

What a nuisance Branwell is. Why couldn’t he have left Mary alone? Savagely Emily chops the potatoes in half. But then she pauses, and putting down the knife, she presses her hands against her chest, against her heart.

She can’t really blame Branwell. Mary knows her own mind. And it’s obvious to Emily now why Mary didn’t answer her letter. Apart from that one time in the kitchen, not once has Mary sought her out, not once has she tried to have a personal conversation with Emily.

Emily lets her hands fall.

She can’t avoid the truth any longer — Mary isn’t really interested in her at all.

When Mary leaves them, Emily tells herself she’s glad she doesn’t have to see Mary making a fool of herself over Branwell anymore.

But deep down, she feels wretched.

Mary’s not the only one to behave idiotically. She herself has been a fool too, believing there was more to their relationship than there was. She let herself get carried away by the idea of who she thought Mary was, when really, she hardly knew her. On the basis of a few conversations and letters she had let herself believe that she and Mary were alike, no, more than that, were soul mates. In reality, they didn’t have all that much in common. Look at how Mary flirted with Branwell. Even more distressing, look at what she feels about home!

Emily winces. She doesn’t just feel wounded, she feels annoyed with herself for being such an idiot. And she shouldn’t have gone so far — revealed so much of herself to Mary. She feels ashamed, as if she’s violated what is most precious to her — her inner private self.

Ruefully she rubs her scar. When the dog bit her, she coped by herself.

This has been a useful lesson, she thinks grimly. She won’t fall into that trap again. Never again will she put her trust in someone she doesn’t know.

After the diversion of Mary’s visit, Charlotte and Anne lapse back into gloom too. And then they have to go back to school.

Emily feels terribly sorry for both of them. Charlotte’s so unhappy, and as for Anne, well, she talked to Papa and it seemed to help a bit, but Emily’s not convinced that she won’t succumb to the same doubts once she’s back at Roe Head, at the mercy of those frightful clergymen. What if she agonizes so much over this she becomes ill?

Emily can’t help feeling guilty. It’s as if both her sisters are going into battle while she stays safe at home.

“But it’s no good,” she tells herself. “I can’t do it. I’ve tried and I’ve failed.”

This dismal thought does little to raise her spirits. Altogether this last month has been horrible. She feels just as miserable as she did when Anne went off to Roe Head last term, no, worse, because her hope of a friendship with Mary has died and her treasured collaboration with Anne on Gondal has ended.

But she resolves that this time she won’t mope: It doesn’t achieve anything. Instead, she grits her teeth and does her best to comfort herself with Grasper’s company; she starts to learn a new and challenging sonata by Beethoven; and she attacks the housework with vigor, launching into the spring-cleaning even though it’s only January and causing Tabby to declare, “Bless the lass, she’s been spirited away by the fairy folk and they’ve left a whirlwind in her stead!”

Even though the thought of Mary makes her feel sad, Emily hasn’t forgotten the electrifying effect of Mary’s comments about Balzac and her desire to see if she can attempt something more real in her own writing. She keeps putting it off, not wanting to reawaken the memory of that awful scene with Anne, but one afternoon, feeling at a loose end, she thinks she might just have a look at an old Gondal story.

If she finds it upsetting, she can always stop.

Within minutes, she’s pulling a face. There’s romance by the cartload, but insight into the human heart? The adventure proceeds at such a pace that the characters scarcely have time to breathe, let alone feel. Maybe Julia Caris was right — it is rather exaggerated. And she can see now that she was so eager to get the tale told that she’s not given enough thought to the way she was telling it. In places her language is far too elaborate. What an idiot! Just showing off that she knows all these clever words. And then sometimes the style’s so clumsy that she’s not even saying what she meant to.

With a snort of disgust Emily tosses the story aside. Call herself a writer! She’d be better sticking to making bread — at least her loaves are nothing to be ashamed of.

She stands up and paces about the room.

Does this mean that she’d better give up the attempt? But if she enjoys doing it, what does it matter how
good
her stories are? It’s not as if she has any desire to be published. She’s not like Charlotte and Branwell, wanting “to be forever known,” as Charlotte puts it.

But it does matter. It matters to her. She wants her stories to be the best she can make them.

Sitting down, she picks up the story and looks at it again. Yes, she can see now. She needs to slow it down, not everywhere, but here, for instance, and here. At these points she needs to show in more depth what the characters are feeling. And she needs to write more plainly, more directly, and think more carefully about choosing words that say exactly what she means. Yes, that’s it.