The World Within Read Free Page A

Tabby in the back kitchen.
    “Papa is ill, isn’t he?”
    Tabby pauses in her pan scouring and looks at Emily directly. “Aye, lass, he is.”
    Emily’s heart starts to beat faster. “There was a pigeon tapping at the bedroom window this morning.” The words come out in a rush.
    Tabby gives her a look. “Now don’t tha go believing that old nonsense.”
    “But you said it meant that someone was going to die. Remember?”
    Tabby wipes her hands on her apron. “Listen, my lamb. I said that’s what some folk believe, ignorant folk who don’t know any better. What ails thi papa is nobbut a chill. He got caught in that heavy shower the other day, didn’t he?” She clicks her tongue. “There’s other parsons would look to their own comfort, but tha knows thi father — he thinks only of other folk. But he’ll soon shake it off, so there’s no need to grieve. Take this food to yon birds. Thi papa wouldn’t want thee to forget them on his account.”
    She lays a work-roughened hand on Emily’s cheek and it’s this gentleness that alarms Emily the most.

    Having fed the birds in their makeshift cage in the yard — the doves, Rainbow, Diamond, and Snowflake, flutter down for the crumbs immediately, but Jasper the pheasant is being standoffish this morning — Emily goes upstairs to find Charlotte.
    She tells her the news as they turn and shake their mattress.
    “A chill?” Charlotte looks doubtful.
    From Papa’s room next door, they hear him coughing, a painful-sounding protracted spasm.
    Charlotte’s eyes meet Emily’s across the striped ticking. “Let’s not tell the others. Not unless we have to.”

    When they’ve completed their allotted tasks, out of habit the girls drift toward the study, where they find Branwell sitting at Papa’s desk, sighing over his Latin translation of the New Testament.
    A pang of annoyance shoots through Emily. He shouldn’t be sitting in Papa’s chair. But then she bites her tongue. With Papa lying ill upstairs, she mustn’t start a row.
    Branwell has brightened at the sight of them. “Aunt says we are to go on with whatever lessons Papa set us yesterday. But, I say, she won’t know whether we have got further on or not. Shall we carry on with Glass Town?”
    Charlotte shakes her head. “I think we should do some work first.” She selects a book from the shelves under the window and takes a seat. Seeing that the others haven’t moved, she says, “Papa would want us to, don’t you think?” She’s appealing to Emily and Anne.
    Anne says, “Yes,” at once and, finding her spelling book, she takes it over to the rocking chair by the fireplace. There’s no fire, of course — the grate is empty and swept clean — but Anne still takes up her favorite position, with her feet on the fender.
    Emily hesitates, torn. Branwell has a point. And she’d much rather spend the time writing about their imaginary world than studying the characters of the English monarchs. But she doesn’t want to argue with Charlotte. Not today.
    Sighing, she takes the history book from the shelf and perches on the windowsill. There’s a cold draft whistling through the gap between the frame and the pane and rattling the shutters, but, knowing that Aunt is occupied with Papa, she’s smuggled Tiger in with her — his warm weight in her lap is so comforting — and she’d rather sit here so she can look out.
    The sky’s overcast this morning, a uniform dull grey, and the wind’s stirring the long damp grass and the nettles in the graveyard. From the barn just up the lane comes the constant chink, chink of iron on stone — Mr. Brown, the sexton, must be cutting the lettering on a new headstone.
    The existing headstones in the graveyard are hung with washing, looking as if a flock of geese has landed. Normally Aunt would complain about it to Papa and he would say what he always says — that it’s doing no harm and where else can the villagers dry their wet linen? But today, Emily