Worlds of Ink and Shadow (5 page)

“I wonder what Maria and Elizabeth would have made of this,” Papa said.

“Oh,” Charlotte said again. This was the coup de grâce that made her vision blur with tears. It had been years since she had heard those names on her father's lips. “My sisters would be very ashamed of me, I'm sure.”

What clean, white souls they all would have if Maria and Elizabeth had not died, she thought. They should have been the ones to set the example, not her.

Papa ran his fingers over his mouth, looking suddenly tired. It had cost him to say those names. He didn't invoke his dead children lightly. “Well,” he said, forcing a smile, “I have pontificated long enough for a day that isn't Sunday, and I fear our porridge will turn cold. Shall we bow our heads?”

“Wait,” Charlotte said. “I'd like to say something, if I may, Papa.” He nodded, and Charlotte stood. Her siblings were still looking very grave. She hoped they were in the proper frame of mind to hear what she had to say, especially Branwell. “I have been thinking a great deal about . . . my stories.” She nodded significantly to them, willing them to understand that she was not talking about writing so much as about crossing over. “Papa
was very wise when he called my writing a childish habit, and I think he understands that, for me, it's a dangerous one as well.”

The small square of paper that had caused such consternation lay in front of her on the table. Now she took it up and held it out, looking at each of her siblings in turn. “Emily. Anne. Branwell.” She ripped the paper in half. Emily gasped. “I am renouncing my invented worlds and all who live there. If any of you are in the grip of a similar childish habit”—she raised an eyebrow at her brother—“I challenge you to do the same.”

ANNE

T
HE PAIN THAT FLASHED ACROSS CHARLOTTE'S
face at breakfast had made Anne's breath catch.
Why did she do it?
she wondered.
Why renounce her stories when they obviously meant so much to her?

“Stand there, Charlotte,” Branwell said, waving a hand distractedly. “And pinch your cheeks—you're pale as milk. You too, Anne. It's lucky you both had your curl papers in this morning.”

Anne dutifully squeezed the flesh under her eyes as Charlotte took her place beside her. They were in the children's study, posing for the group portrait.

“I don't think a gentleman should display such familiarity with a lady's morning toilet,” Charlotte said.

Branwell was busy scraping freshly mixed paints onto his palette, and he answered without looking up. “If you don't want me
to know you use curl papers, then don't burn them at the dining room grate where anyone can see them.”

The room felt terribly cramped. Anne couldn't imagine how Branwell slept with all the clutter and with such a strong smell of linseed oil. She and Charlotte were in front of the door where the light was best, while their brother and his easel were next to the window.

Branwell shook back the too-long sleeves of his painter's smock and took stock of the room. “Now, where the devil is Emily?”

“Here I am,” she said, squeezing through the door.

Oh dear
, Anne thought. There was anger in the tightness of her sister's face, in the hardness of her eyes.

Like Charlotte and Anne, Emily had changed into her best dress—plain green with a wide, white collar and large gigot sleeves. Anne's was almost identical but dark blue, while Charlotte's was lower cut and worn with a fichu around her shoulders. All the dresses were silk. Poor as they were, the girls owned only silk dresses, as their father believed that cotton could too easily catch fire.

“Now, there's a fine complexion,” Branwell said, oblivious to the anger in Emily's face. “Comes from all those long walks on the moor. You look like a corpse by comparison, Charlotte.”

Anne glanced at Charlotte, but her sister only pursed her lips and ignored the slight. She was very sensitive to comments about her appearance.

There are too many emotions in this small room
, Anne thought.
Too many barbed little words.

When they were all in place, Branwell picked up his brush. “I feel I must mention that nonsense at breakfast, Charlotte.” He tried to make his tone light and conversational, but Anne didn't miss the strain in his voice. He made a few small marks on his canvas. “Is it safe to assume that your claim to be quitting Verdopolis was a falsehood for Father's benefit?”

Charlotte took a moment to answer. “I assure you, it was no falsehood.”

Branwell feigned an indulgent smile. “You won't do it.”

“My decision is made.”

A look of panic crossed his face, but it was gone in a second. “No,” he said. “This is another one of those resolutions that you'll go back on a week later. I recall a pledge to speak French for two hours every day, and another to give up sugar in your tea.”

Charlotte shrugged as if to say,
Think what you like.

“But you can't stop!” Branwell said, his voice rising in pitch in spite of himself. “Verdopolis is ours—yours and mine. It would fall apart without either of us.”

“It's yours now,” Charlotte said.

“I don't think you understand. Our worlds aren't so easily abandoned. You forget, I tried once. I tried . . . They don't . . .” Branwell lowered his voice as if someone might be listening. “They don't let you go.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Charlotte asked. “Who doesn't let one go?”

Branwell stabbed at his palette with a brush. “We'll discuss this between ourselves,” he said, looking pointedly at Anne and Emily. “Later.”

“My answer will be the same.”

“Are you planning to paint at all today, Branwell?” Emily interrupted. Anne looked to her in alarm. Was she the only one who could see Emily was practically quaking with rage?

“Quite right,” said Charlotte. “Do begin, brother. The girls and I are being held hostage by this wretched painting. I'd planned to teach them some new irregular verbs today.”

I must say something
, Anne thought,
suggest we do this another day.
She didn't understand all the emotions smoldering in the room, but she felt sure they would burst into flame at any moment.

Branwell held up his brush. “Well, I'm sorry, but I must paint today.” A cruel smirk crossed his face. “As you know,
Mr. Robinson
comes at the end of the summer.” He elongated the syllables of the name. “And
Mr. Robinson
is very eager to see my new work.”

Charlotte's face turned stony, and Anne felt the tension in the room rise even higher. Usually Branwell had the sense not to mention the man's name.

Earlier that summer, two of Charlotte's pencil drawings had been chosen for inclusion in the exhibition of the Northern Society for the Encouragement of the Arts. It was a great honor, and the whole family had traveled to Leeds by carriage to marvel
at the works on display. They had met Mr. Robinson there and seen his portraits. Branwell had shown him some of his work, and it was Mr. Robinson who convinced Papa that Branwell could be a professional painter—with a few private lessons, of course. There was simply not enough money for Charlotte to have lessons as well.

“Father is paying
Mr. Robinson
two guineas a lesson to teach me to paint in oils. He must have a large body of work to critique. Do you know what
Mr. Robinson
said the other day?” Branwell asked. “He told Father I had a prodigious talent. That was his very word:
prodigious
.”

“I expect he only said it to get some drinking money,” Charlotte replied, mimicking Branwell's false smile. “Rumor has it that
Mr. Robinson
has a prodigious appetite for alcohol.”

Anne could see that this taunt hit the mark. They had all noticed that Mr. Robinson smelled of whisky.

Don't let's fight
, Anne tried to say.
Please
. The words tangled in her mouth.

Branwell slammed his palette down onto his desk and turned to point at Charlotte with a paintbrush. “You can't stand the fact that if future generations remember you for anything at all, it will be for being Branwell Brontë's sister.”

Charlotte sputtered. “What did you say?” She left her place, navigating around the easel. On her toes, she looked over Branwell's shoulder at his canvas, though he tried to prevent her by moving his body back and forth in front of her.

“It's not finished!” he complained.

“How exactly do you intend to bestow immortality on the Brontë family, Branwell?” Charlotte asked. “With this? You haven't even given us hands. Has
Mr. Robinson
not yet covered the extremities?”

Stop now. Do stop.

“Jealousy makes you very unattractive, Charlotte,” Branwell spat. “Or should I say, more unattractive than usual.”

The room fell silent. Branwell looked guilty as soon as the words were out. Charlotte went bright pink. Anne could see that she was fighting to keep her face fixed, trying desperately to show that Branwell's comment had had no effect.

Charlotte was not a physically attractive person; there was no getting around it. Her complexion was poor, her lips were thin, and her hair was stringy—and on top of this she was so very small, almost doll-like, that she was always being mistaken for the youngest. Her one beauty was her large, gray eyes, but these were hidden by her thick spectacles and by her unfortunate habit of squinting at everything.

“They were
my
sketches,” Charlotte said icily. “We only went to Leeds because my sketches were chosen, but somehow
you're
the one who ended up with the great painting teacher.” Anne was certain she was about to sweep out and slam the door.

“Stop it!” Emily cried. “Why are the two of you talking about such inanities?”

Charlotte and Branwell shared a confused glance. Even Anne was surprised by her vehemence.

“The very future of Verdopolis is hanging in the balance, and the two of you are arguing about nothing!” Emily's words came tumbling out. “You mustn't stop writing, Charlotte. You mustn't! Branwell's right. Verdopolis is both of you. I . . . I couldn't bear to see it diminished in any way.”

Charlotte shook her head, trying to make sense of Emily's abrupt reversion to the topic of her writing. “I fail to see how this is any of your concern.”

Emily's face grew red with rage. “You're so selfish!” Her voice was a high-pitched shriek. “I hate you both with the hottest passions of hell!” And then it was she, not Charlotte, who swept out of the room.

“What the devil?” Branwell said when she was gone. “You women are all mad. Was she in earnest or was she acting out a scene from
Udolpho
?”

“Please do not judge all women by
that
,” Charlotte said with a forced laugh. “What is Verdopolis to her, I ask you?”

Isn't it enough that it
is
something?
Anne wanted to ask.

“I suppose I must go after her,” Charlotte said, leaving Anne and Branwell alone in the room.

Branwell threw his brush in frustration. “Damn and blast!” Anne winced at his anger and at the mark of paint the brush left on the floor.

I could have prevented this
, she thought.
I saw it coming and said nothing. Why didn't I talk about the weather or pretend to be ill?

“I suppose I'll have to work on the Martin copy now.” He gestured to another canvas leaning up against a wall, but he made no move toward it. Instead he stood with his hands on his hips. “I'll tell you, Anne. Somewhere on the other side of the world, there is a man whose three sisters dote on him. They bring him his tea and soothe his brow and listen to his cares. They realize that it's their duty to support him. Their duty!”

Anne wanted to remind Branwell that she had brought him tea only the day before and that she was more than happy to listen to his cares, but she was too demoralized to try to form the words.

“That paint won't keep now that it's mixed,” Branwell said. “None of you understands how much these pigments cost.” He took off his smock and hung it over a chair. “I'm going out for a smoke.”

And then Anne was alone. The wind gusted through the window, knocking a canvas that was leaning against the wall to the floor. She propped it up again and shut the window. Then she bent to pick up the fallen brush.

“The oatmeal porridge was especially good today,” she said to no one at all.

BRANWELL

B
ANNY DEAR! ARE YOU THERE?”

Branwell wheeled around, paintbrush in one hand, palette in the other. There was no one in the room. He went to the window and looked out—his friends from town were sometimes too shy of his father to knock on the door. No one. The fog was finally lifting, and above the church, a stiff breeze was pushing clouds across the sky. Branwell was used to the Yorkshire wind and its tricks: Sometimes it seemed to speak, sometimes it sobbed and moaned. He told himself that this was all he'd heard and went back to his canvas.

The room was neater than it had been in a long time—Tabby never entered except to change his bedding, but someone had swept and dusted, cleaned his painting knives, and grouped all his
brushes into jars in order of size. What a dear little mouse that Anne was. Heaven forfend Charlotte would ever show him such support. Charlotte insisted on calling this “the children's study” and invaded it whenever she pleased, but it was
his
studio, and his bedroom, too—at least it was during the warmer months. The room had no fireplace, and by December it was so cold that his wash water would freeze solid in the basin overnight. Still, he would stuff rags into the window cracks and shiver in his blankets, delaying the night when he would finally have to relent and go back to sharing a bed with his father.