drag her brother up the stairs when he returns besotted from the Black Bull, laying him down on his bed and pulling off his boots, covering him over tenderly. What would they do without her?
She wonders how Miss Emily has endured watching her brother slowly disintegrate, with only brief moments of reprieve. How has she continued helping so cheerfully and competently with the household tasks, her large dog, her self-absorbed father, her besotted brother, and managed to go on scribbling into the wee hours of the night? She seems to delight in her own company. This summer, when her morning chores were done, she spent whole afternoons lying motionless on the green grass at the foot of some old tree with nothing before her but the blue of the sky, a cloud drifting by.
Since the parson’s return from Manchester, things have become even worse. The boy spends all day in bed. He has managed to set his bedclothes on fire, and without Miss Emily’s intervention they would all have been burned in their beds. It was Miss Anne who happened to pass by his door and spot the flames, but she had not succeeded in rousing her brother. It was Miss Emily who had had the presence of mind to rush down to the kitchen for a ewer of water, drenching the bedding, pulling down the bed hangings, and throwing her brother unceremoniously into a heap in a corner of the room. She can still see the bedclothes alight, Master Branwell lying on his back, unconscious in all the hullabaloo. How much longer will these girls wait up for him tonight?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Childhood
S itting up with her sisters at her side, waiting for their brother, Charlotte remembers it all so clearly: the six small frightened children, five pale girls and one flame-headed boy, shut up alone in the small, dark room. They huddled together for warmth in the chilly house, haunted by unnamed fears. Outside the sole window was the waiting graveyard, the rain and wind beating against the pane, and beyond the cold village with its angular shadows and steep, slippery cobblestoned streets. She remembers their desolation, their expectation of catastrophe, their helpless longing for their dying mother, their concern for their grieving father, shut up alone in his room.
Unnaturally quiet children, they waited in the next room for their mother to die, for their father to emerge from his study, for the servant girls to call them for their supper, for the rain to stop. The eldest, seven-year-old Maria, sat in their midst, her tangled, light hair on her shoulders. In her stained gray pinafore and dark dress she swung her damp, black boots back and forth, the laces trailing. She held the baby’s bare, cold feet in her hand to warm them as she rocked her on her lap like a doll. The baby was Anne, who rested her head against Maria’s pinafore, her thumb in her mouth, drool on her chin, her cheeks flushed and feverish. All the children had colds and they alternated coughing. The boy, too, cuddled up at Maria’s side. Charlotte, five years old, sat sniffing, close beside him, only a year older than he. He squirmed beside her, his nose running, poking her in the ribs, tickling her. He could not keep still. She wiped his nose and her own with her gray handkerchief, hushed him, put her arm around him, and settled him close.
The four of them clustered together on the bed against the wall, while the other two girls, Elizabeth and Emily Jane, sat side by side on the mat, jam around their mouths, holding their scratched knees, looking up at the eldest adoringly, listening as she told them the story, one of their favorites, of Joseph, the youngest boy, with his coat of many colors, cast by his jealous brothers into a pit and sold into slavery. In her gentle, expressive voice, she told of hope, reversal, and redemption.
Charlotte can still see the bright stripes, the deep pit covered with sticks, the caravan disappearing into the desert distance. Joseph interprets the pharaoh’s dreams, becomes his guide,
She wonders how Miss Emily has endured watching her brother slowly disintegrate, with only brief moments of reprieve. How has she continued helping so cheerfully and competently with the household tasks, her large dog, her self-absorbed father, her besotted brother, and managed to go on scribbling into the wee hours of the night? She seems to delight in her own company. This summer, when her morning chores were done, she spent whole afternoons lying motionless on the green grass at the foot of some old tree with nothing before her but the blue of the sky, a cloud drifting by.
Since the parson’s return from Manchester, things have become even worse. The boy spends all day in bed. He has managed to set his bedclothes on fire, and without Miss Emily’s intervention they would all have been burned in their beds. It was Miss Anne who happened to pass by his door and spot the flames, but she had not succeeded in rousing her brother. It was Miss Emily who had had the presence of mind to rush down to the kitchen for a ewer of water, drenching the bedding, pulling down the bed hangings, and throwing her brother unceremoniously into a heap in a corner of the room. She can still see the bedclothes alight, Master Branwell lying on his back, unconscious in all the hullabaloo. How much longer will these girls wait up for him tonight?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Childhood
S itting up with her sisters at her side, waiting for their brother, Charlotte remembers it all so clearly: the six small frightened children, five pale girls and one flame-headed boy, shut up alone in the small, dark room. They huddled together for warmth in the chilly house, haunted by unnamed fears. Outside the sole window was the waiting graveyard, the rain and wind beating against the pane, and beyond the cold village with its angular shadows and steep, slippery cobblestoned streets. She remembers their desolation, their expectation of catastrophe, their helpless longing for their dying mother, their concern for their grieving father, shut up alone in his room.
Unnaturally quiet children, they waited in the next room for their mother to die, for their father to emerge from his study, for the servant girls to call them for their supper, for the rain to stop. The eldest, seven-year-old Maria, sat in their midst, her tangled, light hair on her shoulders. In her stained gray pinafore and dark dress she swung her damp, black boots back and forth, the laces trailing. She held the baby’s bare, cold feet in her hand to warm them as she rocked her on her lap like a doll. The baby was Anne, who rested her head against Maria’s pinafore, her thumb in her mouth, drool on her chin, her cheeks flushed and feverish. All the children had colds and they alternated coughing. The boy, too, cuddled up at Maria’s side. Charlotte, five years old, sat sniffing, close beside him, only a year older than he. He squirmed beside her, his nose running, poking her in the ribs, tickling her. He could not keep still. She wiped his nose and her own with her gray handkerchief, hushed him, put her arm around him, and settled him close.
The four of them clustered together on the bed against the wall, while the other two girls, Elizabeth and Emily Jane, sat side by side on the mat, jam around their mouths, holding their scratched knees, looking up at the eldest adoringly, listening as she told them the story, one of their favorites, of Joseph, the youngest boy, with his coat of many colors, cast by his jealous brothers into a pit and sold into slavery. In her gentle, expressive voice, she told of hope, reversal, and redemption.
Charlotte can still see the bright stripes, the deep pit covered with sticks, the caravan disappearing into the desert distance. Joseph interprets the pharaoh’s dreams, becomes his guide,
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