The World Within (39 page)

When Branwell comes down for tea, late and with his hands stained with paint, Emily says, “I’m not opening the door for that young man when he comes for his sittings. You must let him in yourself.”

Branwell laughs. “I don’t know why you’ve taken against him. He’s a perfectly pleasant fellow.”

Emily doesn’t deign to respond.

“Anyway, he’s taken a shine to you.”

“How could he? He doesn’t know anything about me.”

“Well, he’s seen you often enough at church and been admiring you from a distance, so I now hear.”

Emily snorts.

“As for not knowing anything about you, I think he’s worked you out pretty well.”

“What do you mean?”

“He says you’ve got fiery eyes. And he seems to find that rather appealing, for some strange reason. I said he was right — you are a firebrand, but that he didn’t have to live with you and he wouldn’t find your temper so appealing if he did.”

Emily throws a bread roll at Branwell’s head, but he just ducks and laughs.

Grasper, whose eyes have never left the table, immediately wolfs down the unexpected treat. When he’s done, Emily calls him over and he snoozles his nose into her face. Fondling his head and not looking at Branwell, she says, “I’d rather the two of you didn’t talk about me.”

Branwell shrugs. “I’ve no desire to discuss you — can’t think of anything more boring. Don’t!” he adds as she picks up another roll. “You’ll give the poor dog indigestion. But I can’t help it if Taylor wants to talk about you, can I?” And he gives her an angelic smile.

When Robert Taylor comes for further sittings, Emily makes sure she keeps out of his way. She can hear the two of them talking and laughing upstairs and if she finds this too disturbing she takes herself out for a walk.

One afternoon on her way to her bedroom she notices that the studio door is ajar. Branwell’s not about and, suddenly curious to see how he’s been getting on, she slips in.

The room, which still smells slightly of the malt and grain that used to be stored there, is in a fine old state of disorder, with half-finished canvases stacked anyhow against the wall, dried-up brushes sitting in jars, and splashes of paint on the floor. The easel is over by the window and she goes across to look.

She has to admit that her brother has caught his friend’s likeness rather well. Robert Taylor does look pleasant enough, with his wavy brown hair and open expression, but it’s a bland, rather ordinary-looking face. There’s nothing about it to hold the onlooker’s attention or suggest that this person would be interesting to know.

She remembers what he’s supposed to have said about her and she grimaces.

Silly nonsense.

Then she pauses. Supposing that it was true? Supposing he did admire her? Emily Jane, beloved object of someone’s affections …

She shakes her head with a wry laugh.

Remembering the way that Mary behaved with Branwell, surely it would be tedious to be someone’s beloved object, to have them following you around all the time, hanging off your every word, never leaving you alone. It would be suffocating.

Unless her lover was someone extraordinary, someone with a proud, passionate soul who felt things deeply and understood her need for freedom. In other words, someone like one of her Gondal characters.

But such people only existed in books. In real life you were saddled with someone like Robert Taylor, someone about as exciting as a dishcloth.

With a sigh she leaves the studio, closing the door on his smiling painted face.

Eventually the portrait is finished, the carrier takes it off to Stanbury, where the Taylor family are reportedly “very satisfied” with it, according to Branwell, and Emily doesn’t give Robert Taylor another thought. She occasionally catches sight of him at church gazing in her direction, but she simply turns her head away.

The chilly spring turns into a miserable summer — day after day of rain — but one afternoon it eases off and a watery sun comes out. It’s a good opportunity to return a book to the library at Ponden Hall.

Just as Emily’s leaving the house with Grasper, Papa catches her.

“Will you take this note to Mr. Taylor? It’s about the church rate meeting, so I’d like you to wait for his reply, if you don’t mind.”

She can easily make a detour to the Taylors’ farm on her way home and with luck she won’t have to speak to Mr. Taylor. Then she remembers, with a frown, that that foolish young man, Robert Taylor, might be there.

But she only has to hand the note to a servant and wait on the doorstep. She’s not likely to bump into him. Smiling at Papa, she takes the note.

It’s quite late by the time she reaches the Manor House. The servant who opens the door tells her that “the maister” is in the barn, if she just wants to step across and speak to him. The woman points to the large stone building adjoining the house.

Skirting the puddles, Emily crosses the muck-bespattered yard and hovers uncertainly on the threshold of the barn. When her eyes have adjusted to the gloom, she spies Mr. Taylor at the far end talking to one of his hands. They seem to be discussing a cow that, penned in by straw bales, is lowing mournfully.

Emily hesitates; she doesn’t want to interrupt them. But just then Grasper catches sight of the cow and gives a sharp bark.

Mr. Taylor looks round and, seeing her, comes forward. “Miss Emily! What can I do for you?”

Silently, Emily proffers the note.

“From your father, is it? Now let me see.”

As he reads the missive, Emily gives him a covert glance. He’s not as tall as his son, but he has the same wavy brown hair, although his is greying at the temples, and the same round face, albeit with a ruddier complexion.

“This needs an answer, but it won’t take a minute. Will you come into the house while I write it? It looks as if it might rain again.”

Emily shakes her head and then, remembering that Mr. Taylor has the power to affect Papa’s income, she adds, more politely, “No, thank you. I’d rather stay out here.”

“As you wish. Go through the barn if you like and have a look round. You’ll find my horses stabled out at the back there, if you’re interested.”

Emily’s eyes widen. Of course she’s interested. “Should I tie up my dog?”

“There’s no need. Shep and Nell are chained up in the side yard and my Jessie’s in the house — she’s due to whelp soon.”

He goes off and Emily follows Grasper into the barn, glad to see that the farmhand has gone as well. Grasper thrusts his nose at the cow and growls.

“No, Grasper. Leave it,” Emily orders, shooing him out the rear door.

She spends a few minutes with the cow, which licks her with its big, slobbery tongue, and then she wanders out into the yard.

After the shadowiness of the barn, even the weak sunshine seems bright. There’s no sign of Grasper, but the horses — a chestnut and a grey — are peering over their stable doors. She goes over and strokes their necks, letting them nuzzle her and breathing in their warm, malty smell.

She’s laughing because the grey is trying to nibble her sleeve when she hears quick footsteps behind her and Mr. Taylor appears at her side.

“I’m sorry I took so long. My wife seemed to feel the need of my opinion on some brocades, though I couldn’t for the life of me see much difference between ’em.”

He laughs and Emily smiles politely. She’s hoping he won’t keep her talking for long because she has no idea what to say to him, but to her relief he hands her the note, saying, “Tell your father I’d be glad to see him any time he cares to drop by.”

Emily nods and calls Grasper, but he doesn’t reappear.

“He might be in the end stable.” Mr. Taylor nods at an open door. “I’ll look in the washhouse, though I can’t think he’d find anything interesting in there.”

Emily looks in at the door of the empty stable and there’s Grasper in the corner, head down, intently eating something.

“What have you got there, Grasper?” she asks, approaching him.

The bloody mangled remains are barely identifiable, but then she sees the long tail. “Oh, a rat!”

“What’s that? A rat, you say?” Mr. Taylor comes up behind her.

“Yes, he must have caught it. Papa thought he’d be a good ratter, but I’ve never seen him do it before.” Emily feels quite proud. It looks as if it was a big rat, and as far as she can see Grasper is unscathed.

“Mm, well, I hope he did catch it.” Mr. Taylor’s cheery geniality has disappeared and he looks worried.

“What do you mean?” asks Emily.

Mr. Taylor attempts a rather strained smile. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure it will be all right.”

Emily’s not been back home five minutes when Tabby, who’s been listening to her account of her visit to the farm, interrupts her, drawing her attention to Grasper.

“By heck, yon lad’s got a thirst on him.”

Grasper, having emptied his water bowl, is licking at it desperately.

“Do you want some more?” Emily fills his bowl again and Grasper laps away.

“Has he been running all over?” asks Tabby, watching him.

“Not more than usual. He … Oh, Tabby, look!” Emily breaks off in alarm as Grasper’s back legs give way.

He tries to get up, but he can’t — and then he begins to retch, his sides heaving, saliva dripping from his mouth.

Emily rushes over to him and, throwing herself down onto the floor, she cradles his head. “There, there, Grasper, it’s all right, boy.” She looks up at Tabby, her eyes wide. “What’s wrong with him?”

Tabby shakes her head. “I don’t know, lass. Mebbe it’s summat he ate?”

“But he hasn’t — oh!” Emily’s hand flies to her mouth. “The rat! He was eating a rat in Mr. Taylor’s stable.”

They both turn to look at Grasper, who now manages to get up and stagger a few steps. He’s shivering and then he suddenly squats and Emily watches, horrified, as he releases a stream of bloody diarrhea onto the stone floor before collapsing again.

Emily gives Tabby an agonized look.

Tabby’s face is grim. “I’ll fetch maister. Happen he’ll know what to do.”

Left alone in the kitchen, Emily goes on stroking Grasper and murmuring endearments in his ear, as if by the sheer force of her love she can will him to recover.

But he just lies there in her arms with his eyes half-closed and every now and then a spasm shakes him.