The World Within (38 page)

Throwing back the lid of her writing desk, she fetches out a sheet of paper. Such a familiar action and yet how long it’s been since she last did this! She can feel her pulse racing in anticipation.

Taking a deep breath, she dips her pen into the ink, and begins a new version of the story.

Within minutes she’s absorbed and she only realizes it’s time for tea when Branwell comes to fetch her.

“Didn’t you hear me? I’ve been calling you for ages. What are you doing?”

Called back from far away, Emily lifts her head and gives him a dazed look.

“Nothing. Just writing.”

“Just writing,” that is, rewriting, becomes a new, engrossing interest. It’s not the same as creating new stories — it doesn’t engage her deeper self in the same way — but, without Anne, she doesn’t feel like doing that anyway. Reworking old material doesn’t salve her heartache, but it helps — while she’s doing it, she can’t think about anything else.

It drives Emily back to the library at Ponden Hall in search of books, not her old favorites, but new books that she reads in a new way — instead of just letting herself be carried away by the story, she’s alert to what the writers are doing and how they’re doing it, and then she tries to apply what she’s discovered to her own writing.

She spends as much time as possible on it, scribbling away on a corner of the kitchen table while Tabby bustles round her, or sitting in her bedroom by the window so she can see the moors when she looks up. After tea, she takes her work into the parlor and joins Branwell at the table.

One evening after they’ve both been writing for some time, Branwell throws down his pen with a sigh of satisfaction. “Listen to this, Em!” he exclaims and he proceeds to read her a stirring passage in which his hero, Alexander Rogue, now the Earl of Northangerland, declares his love for his wife, saying he would rather spend an hour in her arms than an eternity in heaven.

He reads well, his eyes flashing and his voice trembling with passion.

Emily finds it thrilling. “Branny, that’s marvelous,” she says when he’s finished, and she means it. Used to his depictions of wars and endless political wrangling, she had no idea he was capable of writing like this. She feels a glow of pleasure that at long last he’s shared this with her.

She can’t help being envious, though. How is it that Branwell can write about feelings so easily? But then again, she’s not so sure about his style — it’s very ornate in places, definitely showing off.

“It’s not bad, is it?” He grins at her.

On an impulse, she says, “Can I read you something?”

“Of course.”

She flicks back a few pages in her notebook, looking for a particular passage. It’s a scene from a story she’s been reworking in which Fernando, leaving his home for Gondal, bids farewell to his sweetheart, who is also his foster sister, and she’s tried hard to bring out the complexity of his emotions. As she reads it her voice trembles slightly.

“Do you think I’ve got him right?” she asks. “Is that how a man would feel?”

She braces herself as she waits for his reaction. Has she made a mistake in sharing this with him? Is he going to humiliate her again?

But to her amazement, Branwell says, “I’d say you’ve got him to a T. By gosh, Em, you’ve come on a bit since those little tales you used to write.”

Heat rushes to Emily’s cheeks. She feels absurdly pleased at his unexpected praise.

“Read me some more.” Branwell’s tone is peremptory.

“Really?”

He nods, leaning forward in anticipation.

Somewhat self-conscious at first, Emily reads on, but soon she is caught up in the tale and forgets her audience.

“Stop!”

Emily blinks in surprise.

“I don’t think that’s right. Fernando wouldn’t kill himself.”

“He would. That’s exactly what he’d do.”

And they are off, arguing fast and furiously.

They’re still at it when Papa looks in on his way to bed to say good night. As soon as he’s gone, Branwell gathers his papers, saying it’s time he was off — to the inn, she guesses.

Left alone, Emily feels suddenly bereft.

This is the time for their nightly walk round the table, she, Anne, and Charlotte. If only Branwell had stayed in, she might have persuaded him to join her. It was so much fun to be working together again.

One morning a few weeks later Branwell seems particularly gloomy, and Emily fears he’s received a rejection from the editor of
Blackwood’s Magazine.
Casually she asks, “Have you heard anything from Mr. Blackwood?”

“No, and I don’t understand why. I’m surprised people like him can’t see genius when it’s under their noses.” Branwell heaves a deep sigh. “Father thinks I’d be better concentrating on the painting than expecting anything to come of the writing. And he thinks it’s time I was earning some money …”

“He said that?” Emily is surprised. Though Papa seems happy for Charlotte to earn her living, no one has ever suggested that Branwell should be doing the same.

“Not in so many words, no. He suggested I should paint some portraits — local dignitaries and so on. He thought it would be good practice for me and then he said he couldn’t quite see his way to financing the Europe tour just yet, so putting two and two together, I think it was a hint that I should stir myself.” He blows the air out of his cheeks. “It’s not a bad idea, I suppose, since I’m not getting anywhere with the writing at present.”

He doesn’t sound very keen and Emily can’t blame him. Painting portraits doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.

She regrets it for herself too. What if his painting puts an end to their writing conversations? Branwell’s far more dogmatic than Anne, of course, and he always believes he’s right, which can be exasperating. And it irritates her that he doesn’t seem to care if his writing’s slapdash. Though she’s suggested that he might try to improve pieces, he never does — whatever pours out is left, unedited.

But sometimes working with him is nearly as good as working with Anne and he’s even helped her to come up with ideas that could turn into new stories, because his suggestions make her realize she wants to do just the opposite.

Emily smiles to herself, thinking of how he complains that her female characters have too much to say for themselves. Little does he know that comments like, “Your Augusta is more like a man,” only serve to confirm that Augusta is just as she wishes her to be.

The first sitter to present himself at the front door of the parsonage, looking rather awkward, is John Brown, the sexton. As Emily takes him upstairs she wonders whether Branwell has persuaded his friend to have his portrait painted to hoodwink Papa, but Branwell later assures her that it’s a proper commission, paid for by the Freemasons.

John Brown is followed in due course by other sitters, and while Emily is glad that Branwell seems to be having some success, she’s annoyed that he seems to expect her to play the part of a maid, answering the door and showing up the visitors while he grandly waits in his studio.

One afternoon the doorbell rings while they’re both in the parlor and Branwell immediately rushes from the room, saying, “I expect that’s for me. Open the door, will you, Em?”

She calls after his retreating back, “I will not. I’m not your servant, you know.” After a few minutes she hears the front door open and close and smiles to herself. Branwell has been forced to give in.

The next moment she hears a cough and a voice says, “Excuse me.” Startled, she looks up to see a young man standing in the doorway.

Emily is taken aback. Before she can gather her wits and send him upstairs, he’s in the room.

“I beg your pardon. Your servant let me in — she said she had to get back to her stewpan and that I was to wait in here.”

Silently cursing Tabby, Emily stares coldly at the visitor. She was in the middle of revising a critical passage — Augusta is faced with the choice between revealing the existence of her illegitimate child or killing it. Emily was struggling to convey the anguish of Augusta’s inner conflict and the intrusion of this young man has broken the spell.

He doesn’t seem put off in the slightest by his chilly reception, instead saying, “Might I introduce myself? I’m Robert Taylor.”

She knows him by sight from church — his father is a trustee and an acquaintance of Papa’s — but she’s never spoken to him. She doesn’t intend to start now. Countless tea parties with the curates have taught her that not replying is the quickest way of preventing further unwelcome attentions. But Robert Taylor seems impervious to this tactic.

Advancing to the table, he continues, “And you, I believe, are Miss Emily? I’m sorry I’ve interrupted you — writing to your sisters, are you?” He nods at the papers scattered in front of her.

She immediately sweeps them together. In doing so one of the pages falls to the floor and the visitor moves to pick it up. “I can get it,” Emily snaps and, plucking up the sheet of paper, she dashes it down on the pile and puts her arms over it protectively.

She’s affronted. How dare he speak about her writing? It’s private. And how does he know Charlotte and Anne are away from home? Branwell’s obviously been tittle-tattling. She wonders briefly whether Robert Taylor is one of Branwell’s cronies from the Black Bull. If he’s one of the young men encouraging Branwell to drink far more than is good for him, then she dislikes him even more.

She’s certainly not going to ask him to sit down, but nor will she demean herself by showing him upstairs. Branwell must come and fetch him. “You
are
expected, I take it?” she asks. If not, she can send him packing.

“Oh yes. Your brother is going to paint me.”

Emily doesn’t comment. What’s keeping Branwell? She doesn’t like the way this young man keeps looking at her.

At last she hears Branwell running down the stairs. Thank heavens for that.

Her brother hastens in, full of apologies. “Taylor, my dear fellow. I’m sorry you’ve been left down here.” He glowers at Emily.

“Not at all. I have been delighted to make the acquaintance of your charming sister.”

Emily gives Robert Taylor a Medusan glare. If only she
could
turn him to stone.

But he’s smiling broadly at her. “I said to your brother here, I hope he’s going to cast me in a flattering light. If he creates a true likeness of my ugly face, it’ll frighten anyone who looks at it.”

What a vain fellow. He obviously doesn’t believe a word of what he’s saying, but if he’s expecting her to contradict him, he’ll be disappointed. Why on earth doesn’t Branwell take him away? She frowns at her brother, who finally takes the hint.

“Come on, Taylor. We’d better get started.” Branwell takes his friend’s arm.

“Very glad to meet you at last, Miss Emily.”

She acknowledges this with a stiff nod. And praise be, the two of them are finally going.

Out in the hallway, Robert Taylor says something that makes Branwell laugh.

Emily grits her teeth. They’d better not be talking about her.