The Mist on Bronte Moor (12 page)

I awoke early the next morning to the sound of banging and a flurry of movement. My eyes popped open, and then a smile spread across my face. My body tingled with pleasure as I remembered the night with Branwell. I hadn’t woken up this happy in ages.

A dress flew across the room and landed on my face. I yanked it off and sat up. Emily rummaged through the drawers, pulling out dresses, stockings, and bonnets.

“What are you doing?” I asked grinning. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.

“Get dressed,” Emily motioned to the dress lying on my bed. “Papa is home!”

My bubble burst. Mr. Brontë had returned from Leeds. That would change everything.

Emily pulled off her nightdress. “Hurry, he’s downstairs.”

I could hear the excitement in her voice, so I pushed back my covers. “What time is it?”

“Past 7:00. Charlotte and Anne are already in the study.”

I stepped out of bed and cursed the cold under my breath.

Emily slipped on her dress and combed her hair with her hands.

Shivering, I pulled off my nightgown. Goosebumps traveled up my arms and down my spine as I struggled into my stockings and dress. The second I’d pulled on my beanie, Emily grabbed me by the arm and dragged me toward the stairs.

“Slow down! I’m coming.” I stumbled alongside her, trying not to fall.

Emily galloped down the stairs and sprang off the last step; my feet flew in the air alongside hers, and we headed for the study.

“Ya’ll not go see yer Papa ’afore weshin’ yer faces.” Tabby’s voice bellowed from the kitchen.

We stopped abruptly and sped to the kitchen. A blast of warmth enveloped me the minute I stepped inside the room. I freed myself from Emily’s grip and went to stand by the range. Heat crept up my body. I groaned with pleasure.

“Out wi’ ya.” Tabby pushed me from behind. “There’ll be nowt t’ll ya wesh.”

I stumbled forward a few paces, reluctant to leave the warmth of the kitchen.

“Out ya go,” Tabby shoved me through the back door. The sudden change in temperature made me gasp.

I staggered to the backyard. Emily had a towel in her hand. She’d already finished washing her face.

“There you are.” She tossed the towel at me. “You are dragging this morning. What time did you stay up reading until?” She raised her eyebrows. “I trust it was a good book.”

I bit my lip, trying to suppress my smile. Did Emily suspect something was going on between me and Branwell?

“Well, get on with it,” Emily said. “I’ll wait for you inside. But do hurry.” She strode across the yard.

I tried to collect my thoughts. Had Branwell and I been careless? What would Emily think if she found out? I knew Aunt Branwell and Mr. Brontë wouldn’t approve. But how long could we keep our relationship a secret? I twisted the towel in my hands. Branwell and I would have to be a lot more careful now that Mr. Brontë was back.

“Heather! Have you forgotten that Papa is in his study?”

I spun around.

Emily waited by the back porch with her hands on hips.

I scurried over to the bucket, took a deep breath, and plunged my hands into the water. The cold shocked me. No matter how many times I did it, I’d never get used to washing outside in the freezing air. After patting my face dry with laser speed, I raced back into the warmth of the kitchen.

Tabby had set a large pot of porridge, a steaming pot of tea, and a loaf of freshly baked bread on the kitchen table. The smell of the bread filled the room, making my mouth water and my stomach rumble. I paused in front of the table. Emily grabbed my arm and yanked me sideways.

“Sorry, Papa,” Emily said as we raced into the study.

Charlotte and Anne huddled at Mr. Brontë’s table, their heads bent together. Branwell sat cross-legged beside the fire reading. He lifted his head when I entered the room and caught my eye. Heat spread across my cheeks as I remembered our passionate kissing the night before.

Anne sprang up and handed me and Emily each a writing quill. “Papa brought everyone gifts.”

I twirled the feathered instrument between my fingers. The feathers were white with brown and gray speckles. It was quite beautiful.

“Thank you,” I stammered.

Emily threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Thank you, Papa.”

Mr. Brontë wrapped his arms around Emily and embraced her warmly. “My Emily,” he said.

A sharp pang caught me off guard as I watched them. I’d been so wrapped up in Branwell that I’d pushed my parents to the back of my mind. I ached to think I was causing them pain. I could go home. I knew that now. The mist had brought me here and it would take me back. I’d felt it yesterday as though I’d had a foot in each world. But I’d fought to stay. I glanced at Branwell, his ginger head buried in a book. I’d fought to stay because going back would’ve meant leaving him.

“Charlotte, my dear.” Mr. Brontë stepped forward and handed Charlotte a book. “This is for you.”

Charlotte clasped the book in her hands. “Thank you, Papa.”

“It’s a notebook,” Mr. Brontë said with a smile. “You’re always scribbling away, so I thought this would suit you nicely.”

Charlotte opened the book. “You’ve written something inside.”

Mr. Brontë nodded. “So I have.”

“
1833. All that is written in this book, must be in a good, plain, and legible hand. PB,
” Charlotte read.

“No more of that illegible scrawl I’ve seen about the house.” Mr. Brontë raised his eyebrows.

Branwell and Charlotte exchanged a quick look. And I knew why. They’d invented an imaginary land called Glass Town, and they wrote volumes about it. Emily and Anne were involved in it too. Between the four of them, they’d filled loads of tiny homemade books with microscopic writing.

From the little they’d read aloud to me, I knew that Branwell’s main character, a man called Rogue, liked to drink and was usually up to no good. And Charlotte’s characters always seemed to be entangled in passionate romances. Mr. Brontë would have raised more than his eyebrows if he could have deciphered their writing.

Just then, the loud clapping of Aunt Branwell’s pattens sounded in the hallway. She entered the study seconds later.

“Patrick.” She said. “I trust you are well after your journey.”

Mr. Brontë nodded. “Quite well, Elizabeth. And how is your health today?”

“I’m afraid I have a bit of a chill. I think I’ll take breakfast in my room.” She pulled a posh, gold tin from her dress pocket, opened its hinged lid, and pinched a bit of whatever was in the box between her fingers. Then she held her fingers to her nose and sniffed.

I stared at her in fascination. It stank like tobacco.

Mr. Brontë bowed his head and opened his Bible. Everyone gathered and formed a circle around him. Branwell snapped his book shut, pushed himself up, and squeezed in next to me. We were side by side, his shoulder pressed against mine.

I wanted so badly to slip my hand in his, to feel his bare skin against mine. He must have been wanting the same thing because he slipped his arm behind me and touched my back—a daring move. My body quivered. I lifted my eyes and glimpsed his profile. I’d never been in love before, but I was sure it felt something like this.

I
sat across from Branwell at breakfast. His father asked his opinion about some duke and talked about a new act that parliament was trying to pass. Charlotte seemed quite excited by this topic. Branwell was distracted and kept glancing my way. I tried not to stare at him and forced myself to scrutinize my tea. The last thing I wanted was Mr. Brontë becoming suspicious. Now that he’d come home, I knew he’d start inquiring about my aunt again, and I didn’t want to give him any reason to rush his investigation.

“Branwell, my boy, what has gotten into you today? You’re thoughts seem elsewhere.”

My breath caught in my throat and my eyes snapped forward. Mr. Brontë was frowning at Branwell.

Emily looked up too. She’d been feeding Grasper fingerfuls of porridge under the table. “He was up late last night, reading.”

I swallowed, relieved. Again, I wondered if she suspected something.

“I was brushing up on my Greek,” Branwell said.

“Excellent,” Mr. Brontë said. “Are you ready to start on your translation of Homer?

Branwell perked up. Clearly, the project really excited him. “I’ve been ready for months, Papa, you know that.” Then he glanced at me. “But I was hoping to finish another portrait study before I meet with my new painting master.”

“Another study? Who are you painting? You have done your sisters already multiple times.”

“Heather kindly agreed to pose for me,” Branwell said.

“Very good.” Mr. Brontë nodded in my direction. “The more you paint, the better you will become. But I don’t think you will have time today.”

“I was hoping—” Branwell started.

“Not to worry, there will be plenty of time to finish your portrait before Mr. Robinson comes next week.”

A strange mixture of elation and frustration swirled in my stomach. I was upset that Branwell and I wouldn’t have time on the moors together, but I was thrilled that Mr. Brontë didn’t seem to be in a hurry to find my aunt and get me out of his house.

Mr. Brontë pushed back his chair and put his hand on Branwell’s shoulder. “I am anxious to see how you have got on in my absence. Come, let’s to the study.”

Branwell shot me an apologetic look before he followed his father out of the kitchen. A tidal wave of disappointment swept over me as I watched them leave. The worst was yet to come. I had no choice but to go with the girls up to Aunt Branwell’s room for sewing.

The morning moved at a snail’s pace. I spent an hour fidgeting with my needle and thread and completely bungling up my sample. My only saving grace was the raging fire in Aunt Branwell’s room. I’d been craving warmth all morning.

After sewing, we spent another two hours with Charlotte who taught us French and literature.

I yawned as I followed the others downstairs. I hadn’t fully recovered from waking up so early, and I hoped to take a nap in front of the fire while the girls wrote. As I entered the dining room, my heart leapt. Branwell sat bent over the table scribbling furiously. Had he already finished his lessons for the day?

“What are you doing?” Charlotte swooped next to him.

Branwell paused. “Writing.”

“In my new notebook!” Charlotte snatched the book off the table. “You know very well Papa intended this for my writing!”

“Charlotte, Glass Town is in the midst of a war,” Branwell said. “And I have big plans for your Marquis.”

I rolled my eyes. Charlotte and Branwell were always arguing about the inhabitants of Glass Town as though they really existed.

“And you can write about them in your own notebook. Papa gave this one to me.” Charlotte tore the page of Branwell’s writing out of her notebook and let it flutter to the floor.

Branwell lunged for the paper, knocking over a chair in the process, which flew toward Charlotte. She jumped out of the way and crashed into Tabby who’d come into the dining room.

Tabby wobbled precariously on her feet. She steadied herself and glared at Charlotte. “Why don’ ya stop foolin’ about n’ come help me peel t’ potatoes?”

Branwell got to his feet and gave Tabby an irresistible smile. He could charm a statue. “Papa’s expecting me in his study.”

He bent to pick up the chair then left the room, taking care to brush past me on the way out. I pursed my lips to stop myself from smiling.

“I’ll be along in a minute, Tabby.” Charlotte plopped down on a chair and grabbed her quill. “Glass Town needs me at the moment.”

Tabby clucked her tongue. “Why ya wastin’ yer time wi’ nonsense when there’s work t’ be done?” She glanced at Anne. “Yer aunt is wantin’ ya upstairs.”

Anne left the room.

Tabby glared at me and Emily. “Well, wha’ are ya waitin’ fer? There’s potatoes tha’ need a peelin’.”

A pile of potatoes and several knives sat on the kitchen table. I took my seat and stared gloomily at the mound, wondering what Branwell was doing in his father’s study.

Emily and Tabby’s potato peels came off in long, twirling strips, while mine broke off in tiny, jagged chunks. I blew out my breath in irritation. This was a lot harder than using a peeler. I picked up my second potato, thinking I might die of boredom before the day was over, when Emily said, “Tabby, who are the new tenants at Top Withins?”

I jerked my head up.

Tabby dropped her potato. “Wha’ did ya say?”

“When we took shelter at Top Withins, we saw a brute of a man and a young girl in the house.”

“Ya wen’ in t’ house?” Tabby asked.

Emily nodded.

Tabby paled. “Tha’ man is t’ devil ’imself. If yer Papa finds ou’ he’ll . . .” She shook her head.

I shifted in my seat. I hadn’t even told Emily about seeing Wolf-Man again in the Black Bull.

“Who is he?” Emily asked. “And who’s the girl?”

Did Tabby know something about the girl?

Tabby paused for a minute and then said, “I’ll tell ya, but only if ya promise not t’ go nosin’ abowt up there again.”

I put down my knife and potato.

“Of course not,” Emily said. “It was an emergency.”

“T’ man is called Harthorn,” Tabby leaned on the table. “T’ lass is his own daughter. They only came a few weeks ago, so I don’ know much abowt ’em. I only know wha’ they say in t’ village.”

“What do they say?” Emily urged.

“Tha’ Harthorn’s wife ran from ’im when she was wi’ child, sixteen years ago.”

Sixteen years ago! So the girl was only a year older than me
.

“T’ man is a devil n’ he likes his drink, so you can think why t’ poor lass ran,” Tabby continued. “He searched but never found her. Some fowks say she went t’ Ireland. No one knows fer sure, but then wurd came t’ Harthorn abowt a month ago tha’ his wife had died, n’ tha’ his daughter was in Halifax wi’ her aunt. He went t’ claim her. T’ poor girl tried to run away wi’ a young lad she wanted t’ marry. Hugh Heaton.”

“Hugh Heaton!” Emily exclaimed. “Of Ponden Hall?”

Tabby nodded. “He’s one of t’ cousins.

“What happened?” Emily asked.