The Mist on Bronte Moor
Read The Mist on Bronte Moor Online
Authors: Aviva Orr
Contents
WiD
ō
Publishing
Salt Lake City, Utah
widopublishing.com
Copyright © 2013 by Aviva Orr
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher.
This book is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Steven Novak
Book design by Marny K. Parkin
Print ISBN 978-1937178-27-7
Printed in the United States of America
Acknowledgements
I
am deeply indebted to all the members (past and present) of my fantastic critique group, Out of the Blue. I thank them for their valuable critiques, advice, and support, which helped bring
The Mist on Brontë Moor
to fruition. Thanks also to my sister, Tamara, for her endless reads and rereads of my manuscript. Many thanks to WiDō Publishing for making
The Mist on Brontë Moor
a reality. In particular, thanks to my editors Summer and Karen for their advice and guidance. A big thank you to my husband and two daughters for their unwavering support. I most certainly could not have completed this book without their encouragement. Finally, I am grateful to the Brontës for sharing their novels and poetry with the world, the Brontë biographers for their research, and The Brontë Society for preserving the parsonage and making it available for all to visit and enjoy.
Chapter 1
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree—
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
—E. J. Brontë
D
octors can be wrong. Everyone knows that. If only they’d been wrong about me.
My eyes drifted from the downpour outside to the spiky blond hair of my ex-best friend, Simon Davis, who sat two seats ahead of me in history. I studied him from the back, only vaguely aware of Mrs. Middleburg droning on about the role of the British Army in World War I. Simon’s hair had grown in the past month and his shoulders had broadened—probably the result of his becoming captain of the football team.
I wanted to talk to him so badly, to tell him that “it” had started again. He was the only one who knew my secret, and I longed to hear him say that everything would be all right. But I couldn’t. Nothing was going to be all right. Even Simon couldn’t change that.
We’d been mates since we’d first started school at age five—a petite, dark-haired little girl and a tall, fair-haired little boy—thrown together by our parents but remaining friends by choice. We’d survived ten years of friendship. So why had it taken only half a kiss and three seconds to destroy everything?
A lump formed in my throat, and I shifted my gaze toward the window once again. Large chunks of hail pelted the glass, a bit extreme for London in November. Still, I didn’t mind the stormy weather. It complemented my mood; a cliché, but true.
“Miss Bell, would you care to interrupt your reverie and join the rest of the class?”
I jumped in my seat, startled to find Mrs. Middleburg leaning on my desk, her fleshy face inches from mine.
I swallowed.
A chorus of snickers erupted from a group of girls in the back row.
“Could we trouble you to join us on page 264 of your text?” Mrs. Middleburg’s double chin wobbled as she nodded at my closed textbook.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, opening my book. “I got distracted by the hail.”
“More like by the male,” Bridget Beckman said.
Heavy laughter from the back row.
Heat spread across my face. Loads of girls fancied Simon, and they’d always been jealous of my friendship with him. Girls like Bridget, with their D cups and round bums, simply couldn’t understand why Simon chose to spend his time with a flat-chested waif like me. And now that our friendship was over, they took pleasure in reminding me I was no longer special.
It had been exactly four weeks since ‘the incident,’ as I liked to call it. I’d gone over to Simon’s for a cram session the way I always did when we had an exam. We both sat on the floor with our backs resting against his bed. Simon hadn’t been in the mood to study and spent most of the time fidgeting and messing around with his football.
“The capital of Ghana?” I asked him for the third time in ten minutes.
“Nairobi.”
I rolled my eyes. “Do you want to pass this exam or not?”
“Ask me another one.”
“Kenya?”
“Accra,” he said with a wicked grin.
I swatted him with my notebook. “That’s Ghana’s capital.”
He snatched the notebook out of my hand. “I need a break.”
“When you get something right,” I said, reaching for my book.
He waved the notebook in the air, taunting me.
I lunged forward and made a grab for it. He leaned forward at the same time and somehow our lips bumped together in a sort of kiss. For a second, we went with it—our lips melding together. Then Simon pulled back as if he’d just been electrocuted. I was too stunned to move, so I simply sat there, my cheeks burning. After a couple of torturous seconds, I leapt up, grabbed my book, and mumbled something about having to get home.
Just like that, he stopped ringing and coming round to see me. He’d turn in the other direction or suddenly become engrossed in conversation with the nearest person the minute he spied me walking toward him. I had my pride, so I acted as though I didn’t care. If he wanted to be a complete prat, that was his problem. But the whole incident left me with a permanent sick feeling in my gut. Simon had been a part of my life forever, and I missed him.
Actually, it was worse than that. I couldn’t think of him as just a friend anymore. It was as if that kiss had opened my eyes and made me notice things about him I’d never noticed before. The strong outline of his jaw. The fact that his eyes were more green than blue. The beauty mark on his ear. But obviously the experience hadn’t been the same for him—seeing as he was the one who’d pulled away like he had kissed a snake.
“Page 264!” Mrs. Middleburg’s massive frame loomed over me once again. Her thick fingers rifled the pages of my textbook.
I lowered my head and pretended to read, pushing my long hair back with my hands. As I did, I felt a cluster of hair come away from my head, like tender meat falling off a perfectly cooked roast.
No. Please no. Not now. Not now.
I jerked my hand forward. Sure enough, a clump of dark curls lay in my right palm. I froze. It was like the clump I’d found on my pillow two days earlier.
“Miss Bell!”
I looked up, too startled to speak. My hand shook. Mrs. Middleburg’s eyes flashed angrily at me from across the room. Everyone in the class turned to stare. I couldn’t stop my hand from shaking.
“Miss Bell, is something the matter?” Mrs. Middleburg sounded annoyed.
I glanced at Simon. His eyes were fixed on my trembling hand. In that moment, reality hit. I jumped up, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door.
“What’s her problem?” Deena Jenkins asked.
“I think she pulled her hair out,” Bridget said.
“Sick,” Deena said.
I swung open the classroom door.
“Detention!” I heard Mrs. Middleburg shout as I stepped into the corridor.
I ran all the way to the nurse’s office, pausing only to stuff my hair into my bag.
The nurse, a crotchety substitute who looked like she’d had enough of sick teens to last her a lifetime, arched her eyebrows at me as I stumbled into the room.
“I need to go home,” I said. “I don’t feel well.”
“Name,” she snapped.
“Bell,” I said, trying to keep calm. “Heather Jane.”
She searched through the index cards and pulled one out. After glancing at it, she picked up her thermometer and walked over to me.
“What seems to be the problem, Miss Bell?” she asked, as she ran the thermometer over my forehead.
“Nauseous,” I mumbled, “and headache.”
She scowled at her thermometer. “You don’t have a fever,” she said.
I clutched my stomach and doubled over. “Cramps.”
The nurse marched back to her desk, snatched my card, and scanned it once again. Then she pursed her thin lips.
My chest tightened. What did it say on that card? Something about my hair?
She plucked the phone out of its receiver. “I’ll ring your mum.”
Mum and I were both silent on the drive home. There was no need to ring the doctor. We both knew why my hair had come out.
Alopecia. That’s what the dermatologist had said when it had fallen out in small patches at the end of my tenth school year.
A disease in which your immune system attacks your hair follicles.
I’d read that definition on the Internet.
“The body sees the hair as a threat,” the doctor had explained.
It made no sense to me, but that didn’t matter. It was still my reality. I’d managed to hide the small bald spots with different hairstyles and caps. Then, just when I had started to accept my fate, my hair stopped falling out. It grew in again, thick and long. No hair fell out for six months. The doctors had made a mistake. I’d been so sure.
At home, I wanted nothing more than to lie in the dark and erase the memory of Simon’s eyes on my betraying hand. Had he and the rest of the class noticed the shiny bald spot at the back of my head when I’d left the classroom? Is that why Bridget had said that I’d pulled my hair out?
I crawled into bed and pulled my turquoise duvet over my head, letting it drown out my humiliation.
“Heather.” Mum knocked on my door.
I didn’t answer.
Mum pushed open the door. I heard her shuffle inside and set a cup of tea next to my bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I said from under my duvet.
“I’d like to see how bad it is. Perhaps tomorrow you can get away with putting your hair in a ponytail.”
“I’m not going back tomorrow.”
“Heather,” she began.
I sat up. “I’m not going back tomorrow or ever. I want to be home schooled.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then froze.
I followed her gaze to my pillow. A fresh clump of hair lay on my pillowcase.
“Oh my God,” I screamed. My hands flew to my head.
“Oh, love. I’m sorry.” Mum reached for me.
I sprang back. “Don’t.”
She pulled her hand away and sank onto the bed. “At least let me see the damage.”
I dropped my head into my hands while she inspected my hair.
“It’s not too bad,” she said after a minute. “We can try hiding it.” She paused. “Or you can cut it into something short and stylish.”
The full horror of what had occurred sunk in with those words. I spun around to face her. “It’s all going to fall out this time, isn’t it? The doctor said it could. He said I might be bald forever.”
Mum pursed her lips. “That’s very unlikely, Heather. But if it happens, we’ll have the best wig made money can buy. They make them out of real hair. No one will know.”
Everyone would know. Mum was so naive. She had no idea what girls in year eleven were like. They would find out, and they would make my life a living hell.
“I can’t go back,” I said.
“Heather.” Mum reached for me again. “You can’t let this destroy you.”
“No!” I said.
Mum patted my leg. “You’ve had a nasty shock. Things will settle down in a few days. Get some rest and we’ll talk again later.” She sighed and left my room.
I couldn’t stomach supper that night or breakfast the next morning. I couldn’t get out of bed. Crying had left me exhausted, and the only thing I wanted was sleep. I lay curled in a ball under my duvet like a full-term fetus refusing to leave the womb. The idea of going back to school and facing Simon, or anyone again, made me sick.
