The World Within Read Free

told you? The hall is no place for your games. You’re too old for such silliness, but if you must behave like barbarians, then at least do it outside. All this noise is disturbing your poor father.”
    “We didn’t know he’d come home,” says Charlotte. “Otherwise we’d have been quiet.”
    “Well, he has. And he’s gone straight to bed.”
    Emily feels a prickle of alarm. Papa in bed so early? It’s unheard of.
    “I must go and see if he wants anything,” says Aunt. “When you’ve put this shambles to rights and had your tea, I suggest you occupy yourselves quietly until it’s time for prayers. Something useful, mind — not that foolish scribbling.” Wagging her finger as a final warning, she disappears upstairs again.
    There’s a silence as they look at one another.
    “Do you think Papa is ill?” Anne’s voice is tremulous, her eyes wide.
    Her question hangs in the air until finally Charlotte says, “I don’t know.”
    “I’ll go and ask Tabby. She’ll tell us.” Emily slips across the hall to the kitchen.
    But Tabby, buttering bread for their tea, will only say, “There’s nowt to worry thiselves about. Thi father’s worn hisself out traipsing over to Trawden and back in the heat. He’ll be right as ninepence in the morning, tha’ll see.”

But morning comes and their father doesn’t appear, not at prayers, which Aunt leads, haltingly, or for breakfast.
    “Your father is tired today,” Aunt announces. “He’ll be staying in his room for the time being. You can all carry on as usual, but you must be quiet. I don’t want your father disturbed.” She closes her lips tightly as if to forestall any further questions. But no one says a word.
    Emily droops over her bowl. She was awake a long time worrying about Papa. Now she’s tired and a lump like a heavy stone has lodged itself in her chest.
    This morning the parlor seems cold, despite the fire Tabby has lit for Aunt. The peat flickers sullenly in the grate as if unwilling to burst into life. And in the shadowy light, the grey walls seem to press in upon her.
    Emily looks across the table at the empty space where Papa normally sits.
    She can’t remember him ever missing breakfast before. He’s often out for dinner and always has his tea by himself in his study, but he makes a point of joining them for the first meal of the day.
    It’s so strange without him there, his face animated, his eyes bright, as he entertains them with some tale or other of his boyhood in Ireland in the tiny village of Drumballyroney, or something he’s heard in his parish rounds. Emily likes the thrillingly gruesome ones best — stories of violence, even murder — or the funny ones.
    Only yesterday he was telling them about an old woman he’d heard of who asked for two holes to be put in her coffin lid. “When they asked her why, she said it was so that if the devil came in at one, she could slip out at the other!”
    Aunt protested, as she often does. “Really, Mr. Brontë, do you think that’s suitable for children’s ears?”
    But Papa just laughed and winked at them.
    Dear Papa. He’s like a whirlwind, bursting in on them from time to time and turning everything upside down. You never know what he’s going to say or do next. He’s so exuberant, full of energy and enthusiasm. So alive.
    Emily picks up her spoon, looks at the porridge rapidly cooling and congealing in front of her, and puts the spoon down again. She glances covertly at Aunt. She’s sipping her tea with a preoccupied air and restlessly crumbling a piece of bread on her plate. She’s not even noticed that Emily hasn’t eaten anything.
    That means it must be serious. Aunt’s normally as watchful as a hawk.
    As soon as they’re allowed to leave the table, Emily goes into the kitchen and empties her bowl into Tiger’s dish. “There you are, puss,” she says as the cat comes over to sniff at his breakfast. “You’ve got an extra-large helping today.”
    Then she seeks out