The World Within by Jane Eagland Read Free Book Online Page B

sugar, for those blessed curates haven’t left me a speck of it and thi Papa will be wanting some in his coffee.”
    Emily tenses. But Tabby doesn’t seem to notice her dismay. She’s too busy counting out coins from the old tea caddy. Shaking her head, she says, “It’s all very well for thi Papa to invite yon fellows to tea, but they’re like locusts. They’d eat us out of house and home if they could.”
    “Can’t you ask one of the others?”
    “Now tha knows Miss Anne can’t go by herself, and besides it’s far too cold out for the poor mite. And I think Maister Branwell’d best be let alone awhile.”
    Tabby has heard them rowing, then. Emily opens her mouth.
    “Nay, don’t make a fuss, my lass,” says Tabby firmly, pushing the money into her hand. “I know tha likes a walk.”

Emily fetches her cloak, grumbling to herself. Of course Tabby’s right and if she’d suggested a ramble on the moors, Emily would have been off like a shot. But Tabby knows how much she hates going down into the village — it’s mean of her to make her go.
    Once she’s out of the front door, Emily wishes even more that she was going for a proper walk. The cold is still biting, but the skies have cleared a little and above the church tower a pale sun is doing its best to shine through the veil of cloud. As she crosses the garden, where the twisted branches of the hawthorn and the bare stems of the fruit bushes are rimed with frost, her boots make a satisfying crunch on the frozen gravel path.
    Passing through the wicket gate, she enters the churchyard. The dusting of snow on the gravestones crammed together on either side of her almost softens their oppressive presence. Almost, but not entirely. Whenever Emily sees these heavy grey slabs, she can’t help thinking of Mama and Maria and Elizabeth, even though they’re not buried here, but in the church. She tries to pass through the graveyard as quickly as possible, to not let herself dwell on them, but today she has to go more cautiously on the icy flagstones. By the time she reaches the corner by the church her mood is even darker. Casting one longing look along the track that would take her to the moors, she braces herself and passes through the archway into Kirkgate, Haworth’s main street.
    Luckily it’s far too early for the bells that will release a stream of workers from the mills down in the valley, so she doesn’t have to endure the brazen stares of the girls as they clatter up the cobbles in their clogs. But there are two men outside the Black Bull. Out of the corner of her eye, she’s aware of their open curiosity and though they lower their voices as she goes by she hears them.
    “Parson’s lass.”
    “Miss Emily.”
    Emily grits her teeth. Just because Papa is the parson, and therefore a public figure, the villagers seem to think they somehow own the whole family. It’s all very well for Charlotte to say, as she did once when Emily grumbled about it, that it’s their keeping themselves to themselves that makes the cottagers even more curious. Why shouldn’t they have a right to their privacy?
    As she makes her way down the steep hill, the blackened stone cottages on either side of the narrow street seem to press toward her. Despite the cold, some doors are open to give light to the handloom weavers working inside. She imagines eyes watching her from within the dark interiors, but she looks to neither right nor left. She looks straight ahead, breathing through her mouth. Even so, she can still sense it, the smell rising from the open gutter beside her feet, which is choked with household waste, unrecognizable bits of rotting carcass, and the overflow from several privies.
    Repressing a shudder, she makes herself keep going. Already she’s regretting this morning’s row with Branwell. She should have handled him differently. Instead of losing her temper, she should have buttered him up, and he might have agreed to let them help him. Charlotte would