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Authors: Jane Eagland
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enough to eat? Above all, is she well?
Emily doesn’t want to mention Charlotte to Papa in case he starts worrying too. There’s no point in speaking to Aunt — she was so keen for Charlotte to go to school. In the end, she confides her fears in Tabby.
“Nay, don’t fret thiself. I reckon Miss Charlotte’ll be doing fine. Those friends of thi papa, the Atkinsons, they live nearby and Miss Charlotte’s been a-visiting there, I believe. They’ll be keeping an eye on her and be letting him know soon enough if owt’s amiss.”
Emily’s not convinced. Charlotte would never tell the Atkinsons how she’s feeling. She’d just keep it all to herself.
Glass Town is never discussed now, but one day when Emily, Anne, and Branwell are sitting round the parlor table, supposedly working on stories for their miniature books, Branwell announces that he’s going to write a complete history of the Young Men — the characters originating from the twelve wooden soldiers Papa gave him when he was nine, which have been at the center of many of their stories over the years.
“I’m taking it from the very beginning, complete with statistics, maps, and battle plans. And I’m doing it on my own,” he adds with a challenging glare at Emily.
This is a blow. Ever since Charlotte left, she’s been trying without much enthusiasm to write a Glass Town story, revisiting the imaginary world they all shared before everything changed. But her ideas don’t flow as they used to and every time she tries to write she finds she scarcely produces anything. What used to be a comfort and gave her such pleasure is a struggle now. Without Charlotte and Branwell, Glass Town doesn’t feel as real as it did, and she’s been clinging to the hope that Branwell might change his mind and agree to work together again.
His declaration is the last straw. She grinds her teeth, then suddenly scrunches up the page she’s been toiling over and throws it into the fire. If she has to make it up on her own, she doesn’t want to do it anymore.
Taking another sheet of paper, she starts doodling on it, sketching horses’ heads. It’s completely wasteful — since paper’s so expensive, they normally treasure every scrap of it that they can scrounge — and she’s aware of Anne watching her, her blue eyes wide with surprise.
She doesn’t care. What’s the point of saving paper, if there’s nothing to write?
This black mood she’s sinking into has become familiar — Tabby calls it an attack of “the mopes” and it’s been happening a lot lately.
Tabby says it’s her age — that she’s growing up.
“Don’t you remember? Miss Charlotte was just the same,” Tabby remarked one evening as she saw Emily into bed.
Perhaps Tabby’s right. Emily can’t get the idea out of her mind — she’s horrified by the implications.
She’s grown at least three inches this last year. Branwell says she’s turning into a giraffe, but it’s not funny. Her skirts are way off the ground and sometimes she doesn’t know what to do with her arms and legs. From what she’s seen her sister coping with, womanhood is a horrible, messy business. The very thought of it repels her …
Emily pulls a face and gouges the nib of her quill into the paper.
“Careful,” says Anne. “You’ll make a hole in the tablecloth.”
“Children! Come and see what I’ve found.” At the sound of Papa’s voice calling them, the nasty retort Emily was about to make dies on her lips. And then there’s an unexpected sound outside the parlor door — a short, sharp bark.
“Papa!” Emily leaps up and flings open the door. And yes, it is a dog, one of a good size with a brindle coat, sniffing about in their hall with great curiosity.
As Emily and the others surge out, the dog rushes up to them, baring his teeth in a grin and wagging his tail. Emily looks at Papa hopefully. “Is he ours?”
Papa, smiling broadly, winks at them. Branwell cheers and immediately stands on his
Emily doesn’t want to mention Charlotte to Papa in case he starts worrying too. There’s no point in speaking to Aunt — she was so keen for Charlotte to go to school. In the end, she confides her fears in Tabby.
“Nay, don’t fret thiself. I reckon Miss Charlotte’ll be doing fine. Those friends of thi papa, the Atkinsons, they live nearby and Miss Charlotte’s been a-visiting there, I believe. They’ll be keeping an eye on her and be letting him know soon enough if owt’s amiss.”
Emily’s not convinced. Charlotte would never tell the Atkinsons how she’s feeling. She’d just keep it all to herself.
Glass Town is never discussed now, but one day when Emily, Anne, and Branwell are sitting round the parlor table, supposedly working on stories for their miniature books, Branwell announces that he’s going to write a complete history of the Young Men — the characters originating from the twelve wooden soldiers Papa gave him when he was nine, which have been at the center of many of their stories over the years.
“I’m taking it from the very beginning, complete with statistics, maps, and battle plans. And I’m doing it on my own,” he adds with a challenging glare at Emily.
This is a blow. Ever since Charlotte left, she’s been trying without much enthusiasm to write a Glass Town story, revisiting the imaginary world they all shared before everything changed. But her ideas don’t flow as they used to and every time she tries to write she finds she scarcely produces anything. What used to be a comfort and gave her such pleasure is a struggle now. Without Charlotte and Branwell, Glass Town doesn’t feel as real as it did, and she’s been clinging to the hope that Branwell might change his mind and agree to work together again.
His declaration is the last straw. She grinds her teeth, then suddenly scrunches up the page she’s been toiling over and throws it into the fire. If she has to make it up on her own, she doesn’t want to do it anymore.
Taking another sheet of paper, she starts doodling on it, sketching horses’ heads. It’s completely wasteful — since paper’s so expensive, they normally treasure every scrap of it that they can scrounge — and she’s aware of Anne watching her, her blue eyes wide with surprise.
She doesn’t care. What’s the point of saving paper, if there’s nothing to write?
This black mood she’s sinking into has become familiar — Tabby calls it an attack of “the mopes” and it’s been happening a lot lately.
Tabby says it’s her age — that she’s growing up.
“Don’t you remember? Miss Charlotte was just the same,” Tabby remarked one evening as she saw Emily into bed.
Perhaps Tabby’s right. Emily can’t get the idea out of her mind — she’s horrified by the implications.
She’s grown at least three inches this last year. Branwell says she’s turning into a giraffe, but it’s not funny. Her skirts are way off the ground and sometimes she doesn’t know what to do with her arms and legs. From what she’s seen her sister coping with, womanhood is a horrible, messy business. The very thought of it repels her …
Emily pulls a face and gouges the nib of her quill into the paper.
“Careful,” says Anne. “You’ll make a hole in the tablecloth.”
“Children! Come and see what I’ve found.” At the sound of Papa’s voice calling them, the nasty retort Emily was about to make dies on her lips. And then there’s an unexpected sound outside the parlor door — a short, sharp bark.
“Papa!” Emily leaps up and flings open the door. And yes, it is a dog, one of a good size with a brindle coat, sniffing about in their hall with great curiosity.
As Emily and the others surge out, the dog rushes up to them, baring his teeth in a grin and wagging his tail. Emily looks at Papa hopefully. “Is he ours?”
Papa, smiling broadly, winks at them. Branwell cheers and immediately stands on his
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