while, the rightful heir left shamefully uneducated, a rough boy; the heiress, Elizabeth Heaton, dying young and her baby girl perishing rapidly after her; Elizabeth’s misalliance with her delivery boy, tales of grand places that are no more.
Now she listens to them as best she can, though her hearing is diminishing, as the three girls read their work to one another, once their father has retired to bed. They walk up and down, arm in arm, making up plots, wild stories, laughing, encouraging one another, commenting, criticizing. Sometimes she recognizes details: a place or an object. Indeed, they have even used her in various ways, though she herself has not much book learning. There are housekeepers in several of the books, sensible women who know much of the family’s stories—and what wild stories they are! One housekeeper tells the family’s story to a tenant who comes to stay in the house. She sits with her sewing or knitting—as she is doing now—and tells most of the tale. Another, in Charlotte’s new book, receives the governess who mistakes her for the lady of the house and treats her with kindness and courtesy, even though she opposes the girl’s marriage to the master of the house.
Of course, the three girls often disagree and sometimes dispute, but they are never unkind or petty in their comments.
They have often stepped in to take her place, indeed to nurse her, when she has been ill or injured, slipping on the ice in the dark and breaking her leg one evening and left alone in the street until her groans alerted a passerby.
Miss Emily has taken over the bread making, kneading the dough with her German grammar open at her side—perhaps the reason for the hard, crusty bread. She does the ironing, too, in the upstairs room, banging the iron down on the shirts with energy. They have brought in a young, gormless girl to help her. They have often insisted on taking over all her work, keeping her on in the house despite the efforts of the aunt, who once banished her to live with her sister for several years.
The housekeeper rises slowly now, thankful to be among her beloved girls. Her left leg still hurts and the knee swells when she stands on it for any length of time, though she does not like to speak of it. Ah! How her old body fails her. It makes her furious not to be able to do the things she once could. She frets and fumes. “Now where have I put my glasses? I had them a second ago,” she asks her girls, shaking her head at her stupidity.
“On your head,” Miss Emily says, laughing at her. She claps her hand to her head and finds them perched there! She spends her time hunting for lost objects, while these girls spend theirs hunting for the right words. Yet in her heart she still feels young. When she sees her face in a mirror, it shocks her. Who is this old, wrinkled woman?
She feels no one knows quite as well as she does how to do the housework. Besides, she would so like to help and protect these poor girls. God give me the strength to continue, the courage to go on.
She lays her knitting in its basket, wraps her shawl around her shoulders, tells them all, as she would when they were young, to go to bed. They stare up at her with reddened, haggard eyes and shake their heads. Their household hours have always been early ones, thanks be to God, and the parson is already in his bed sleeping soundly and not worrying his poor old head over his boy.
She knows, though, that Miss Emily, particularly, likes the quiet hours of the night. She hears her moving about sometimes, muttering to herself, or even striding out into the moonlight with her big, stupid dog. She hears her whistling out there to him, striding around the garden, hands behind her back, like a boy. She seems afraid of nothing in the natural world and has separated fighting dogs, branded herself with a red hot poker when bitten by a rabid one, and even punched her own in the face for disobedience. She is the only one strong enough to
Now she listens to them as best she can, though her hearing is diminishing, as the three girls read their work to one another, once their father has retired to bed. They walk up and down, arm in arm, making up plots, wild stories, laughing, encouraging one another, commenting, criticizing. Sometimes she recognizes details: a place or an object. Indeed, they have even used her in various ways, though she herself has not much book learning. There are housekeepers in several of the books, sensible women who know much of the family’s stories—and what wild stories they are! One housekeeper tells the family’s story to a tenant who comes to stay in the house. She sits with her sewing or knitting—as she is doing now—and tells most of the tale. Another, in Charlotte’s new book, receives the governess who mistakes her for the lady of the house and treats her with kindness and courtesy, even though she opposes the girl’s marriage to the master of the house.
Of course, the three girls often disagree and sometimes dispute, but they are never unkind or petty in their comments.
They have often stepped in to take her place, indeed to nurse her, when she has been ill or injured, slipping on the ice in the dark and breaking her leg one evening and left alone in the street until her groans alerted a passerby.
Miss Emily has taken over the bread making, kneading the dough with her German grammar open at her side—perhaps the reason for the hard, crusty bread. She does the ironing, too, in the upstairs room, banging the iron down on the shirts with energy. They have brought in a young, gormless girl to help her. They have often insisted on taking over all her work, keeping her on in the house despite the efforts of the aunt, who once banished her to live with her sister for several years.
The housekeeper rises slowly now, thankful to be among her beloved girls. Her left leg still hurts and the knee swells when she stands on it for any length of time, though she does not like to speak of it. Ah! How her old body fails her. It makes her furious not to be able to do the things she once could. She frets and fumes. “Now where have I put my glasses? I had them a second ago,” she asks her girls, shaking her head at her stupidity.
“On your head,” Miss Emily says, laughing at her. She claps her hand to her head and finds them perched there! She spends her time hunting for lost objects, while these girls spend theirs hunting for the right words. Yet in her heart she still feels young. When she sees her face in a mirror, it shocks her. Who is this old, wrinkled woman?
She feels no one knows quite as well as she does how to do the housework. Besides, she would so like to help and protect these poor girls. God give me the strength to continue, the courage to go on.
She lays her knitting in its basket, wraps her shawl around her shoulders, tells them all, as she would when they were young, to go to bed. They stare up at her with reddened, haggard eyes and shake their heads. Their household hours have always been early ones, thanks be to God, and the parson is already in his bed sleeping soundly and not worrying his poor old head over his boy.
She knows, though, that Miss Emily, particularly, likes the quiet hours of the night. She hears her moving about sometimes, muttering to herself, or even striding out into the moonlight with her big, stupid dog. She hears her whistling out there to him, striding around the garden, hands behind her back, like a boy. She seems afraid of nothing in the natural world and has separated fighting dogs, branded herself with a red hot poker when bitten by a rabid one, and even punched her own in the face for disobedience. She is the only one strong enough to
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