The Mist on Bronte Moor (21 page)

“Oh my!” Aunt Elspeth said. “You haven’t even had your breakfast, and here I’ve been prattling on about your studies. You must be ravenous, not to mention exhausted.” She reached out and patted my hand. “Rest today. Maggie can take you to Haworth tomorrow. You can visit the parsonage if you wish.”

Another bullet to the brain. The parsonage!

“No,” I said. “I want to go today.”

The walk from Stanbury to Haworth was long, but I didn’t mind. I had become used to long walks. I’d convinced Maggie to let me go on my own. She’d agreed readily—and why not? Haworth was a tourist spot; there were signs everywhere in both English and Japanese. There was even a special path to guide visitors called Brontë Way. But I didn’t need signs. In fact, I wished they would all disappear. My feet knew where to take me.

My mood soared as I approached Haworth cemetery. Maybe, just maybe, the magic would take hold of me again, and I’d find myself back in the nineteenth century. The thought made me break into a sprint. I ran, ignoring the homes that had sprung up in the area since I’d last been there. I wanted to rush past the graves and run straight into the church. This time I’d throw my arms around Branwell and never let him go.

The first thing I saw were trees. Huge trees everywhere; their yellow leaves littered the graves. I slowed my run to a stop. There had been no trees in the graveyard before.

I moved through the cemetery in a daze. Small clusters of people mingled around the graves, pointing and flashing their cameras. My heart sat like a lump of stone in my chest.

The parsonage stood, as it always had, surrounded by the low stone wall that separated it from the cemetery. I stumbled toward the iron gate that I knew would take me into the garden, but stopped abruptly when I found it had disappeared. A block of stone sat in its place. I stared at the words engraved on the stone—
This was the site of the gate leading to the church used by the Brontë family and through which they were carried to their final resting place in the church.

A lump rose in my throat. I forced it down and tramped toward the side alley, which I knew would take me to the back gate. I found the gate easily enough, only now there was a sign affixed to the wall beside it that read: Museum Entrance. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Everything looked different—the garden was fuller and the house bigger than it had been. Still, it was impossible for me to believe that I would go inside and not see Branwell, Emily, Charlotte, and Anne sitting in the dining room together, or find Tabby bustling around the kitchen. I couldn’t contain myself any longer, and I dashed forward, leapt up the stairs, and pushed open the white wooden door.

The gleaming entrance hall with its wide archway stretched before me. I paused. The corridor seemed narrower somehow, but still achingly familiar. A painful longing filled my entire body; all I could think of was Branwell. I rushed forward and veered left, eager to get into the dining room. But a red rope, coiled from one end of the doorway to the other, stopped me in my tracks. I blinked at it in confusion.

“No touching, luv.”

I spun around to face a middle-aged woman with tight, brown curls and a square-shaped body.

“You here on your own?” she asked.

I nodded.

She cocked her head. “Let’s see. You about fifteen? It’s £3.60 for under sixteen.” She handed me a pamphlet. “Feel free to give more if you want to make a donation.”

I fished a fiver out of my pocket and handed it to her.

“Go ahead and roam around, but remember no touching and no photographs,” she said.

In the dining room, crimson curtains hung from the windows—when had Mr. Brontë allowed that? The walls were different, too—they had been wallpapered. My eyes fell on the small square table in the center of the room. On top of it, a wooden writing box, papers, and a quill pen were carefully arranged for display. I stared at the quill. It reminded me of the one Mr. Brontë had given me. My gaze drifted to the black couch where I’d last sat wrapped in Branwell’s arms.

“That’s the couch where Emily Brontë died,” the woman said, coming up behind me.

I jumped. “What?”

“Sad to think, isn’t it?” she said.

The lump in my throat swelled, and I couldn’t stand to look at the dining room anymore. I stepped across to Mr. Brontë’s study. Another red rope warned me not to enter. I backed away and rushed down the hallway toward the kitchen. A fire would be crackling in the range as usual and Tabby would be fussing about, making apple pudding or peeling potatoes with Emily and Anne for dinner. I hurried forward.

The kitchen stood cold and empty. Gone were the colorful capes that hung on the back door and the muddy boots that lined the back wall. All that remained were the familiar blue and white china cups I’d sipped tea from and the copper pots Tabby had cooked with, sitting neatly on display, unused and untouched.

I couldn’t bear to be in the house anymore. It was no longer a home. It was a museum.

I ran back down the hall and out the front door, almost slamming into two women coming up the stairs. Out of habit, I raced across the garden to the iron gate and stopped in front of the stone wall that now took its place. The church and its clock tower loomed ahead. The last place I’d seen Branwell.

I bit my lip. I wouldn’t go there. I wanted to remember it exactly as I’d last seen it—with Branwell inside. I wished I hadn’t gone into the parsonage. Still, I wasn’t ready to leave. I tramped across the garden, out the side gate, and down the cobblestone lane that led to the village. Maggie had said it was almost exactly the same as in the Brontë’s time, and I needed that now.

The first building I headed for was the Black Bull. It stood next to the church steps, looking exactly as it always had, except that a plaque had been fixed to its front. I walked over to it and read—
This inn was frequented by Patrick Branwell Brontë from 1827–1848, the only son of Rev. Patrick Brontë, incumbent of Haworth from 1810–1861.

I blinked.
Is this how Branwell is remembered?

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped. An elderly man held a camera out to me.

“Picture,” the man said pointing to himself and his companion. Clearly he didn’t speak English.

I nodded and tried to steady the camera in my shaking hands as the couple posed in front of the Black Bull. After handing back the camera, I crossed the street.

The druggist’s had a new name, Rose & Co Apothecary. It too had a plaque fixed to the wall, similar to the one at the Black Bull. This one was even more painful to read—
When the Brontë Family lived in Haworth this was the druggist’s house and shop. The pharmacist at the time was Betty Hardacre & it was she who dispensed laudanum, an opium derived drug, to Branwell Brontë in the years leading up to his death in September 1848, aged 31.

The last time I’d been here, Branwell had waited for me on the other side. Now, a red phone box stood next to the church steps and tourists with cameras, maps, and souvenirs milled about, pointing and taking pictures.

Maggie had been wrong. Nothing was the same.

I
t rained on the way home. But I hardly noticed. I trudged across the muddy moors with only one thought in mind. Branwell had died the way I’d left him—miserable. And I’d lost any chance I’d had to help him. He was right. He had been cursed. They all had.

In my room at Ponden Hall, four paperbacks lay on my bedside table. I picked up
The
Complete Poems of Emily Jane Brontë
and
Wuthering Heights
. Its cover showed a picture of Top Withins, the twisted tree bent toward the house just as I remembered it.

I stripped off my wet clothes, pulled on a t-shirt, and crawled into bed, clutching the two books.

I stayed in bed for three days, trying to digest Emily’s words. Everything about Emily’s writing was painfully familiar. There were bits of Branwell everywhere, and each time I came across a piece of him it was like peeling back a fresh wound.

I struggled to keep going, yet I clung to every word. I couldn’t eat or sleep.

I both loved and hated Cathy and Heathcliff at the same time—loved them for letting me relive what I’d felt for Branwell and hated them throwing it all away like I had. I wondered if Emily had fallen in love, too—how else could she have described the pain of it so well?

As I closed
Wuthering Heights,
I noticed a folded note in my bed. It must have fallen from the book. I picked it up; it was addressed to me.

Heather, I thought you might be interested to know that you are staying in a room which Emily Brontë may have visited on several occasions. It is named the “Cathy” room because the small window that faces you on the right is the very same one Emily writes about in Wuthering Heights. That is the windowpane the ghost of Catherine Linton scratches while pleading to be let inside. Enjoy the books  Aunt Elspeth

I put down the note and gazed at the little window embedded in the stone wall. Emily had been in this room and probably Branwell, too. Fresh tears pooled in my eyes. I ached to see them again.

Maggie believed me when I said I’d caught a cold from the rainstorm. Every time she came to check on me, I faked a sneeze or a cough. My eyes were red and my nose was clogged from crying; I both looked and sounded sick.

Soup and tea were delivered to my room three times a day like clockwork. Otherwise, I was left in peace. Maggie let me go on for three days before she came into my room and told me that someone had come to see me. I felt certain she’d rung my mum.

I didn’t have the energy to get out of bed and try to make myself look normal. I knew it would be harder to fake out Mum the way I had Maggie. But I had to try—what other choice did I have? Anyway, what could Mum do? Take me back to London? I hardly cared what happened to me anymore.

A knock sounded at my door. I sat up in bed, grabbed a handful of tissues, and braced myself for Mum. I knew she’d go mental when she saw me—I had to look a mess. I hadn’t eaten in days. All the soup Cook had brought me ended up being flushed down the loo. I hadn’t been able to stomach anything more than tea.

But at least Mum would see that I’d been reading. She’d be happy about that. I’d let her know how seriously I was taking my studies. I wasn’t sure I could tell her about my visit to Haworth without losing it, so I decided to leave that part out, no matter how much it would impress her.

“Come in,” I said, trying to sound as normal as possible.

The door creaked open. My eyes flicked nervously toward it.

Simon stepped into my room.

I gaped at him. In reality, it had only been a week since I’d last seen him, but it felt like years. I had known him since I was five but somehow his broad footballer frame, spiky blond hair, and green eyes looked completely foreign to me.

Simon had been the most important boy in my life for the past ten years. A few weeks ago he’d been the one I’d been crying over. But now all I wanted was a red-haired, nineteenth-century boy genius.

Simon stared back at me as if he was seeing me for the first time in years too. Neither of us spoke. Then he moved toward me uncertainly. His black wool coat reaching down to his knees, and his blue jeans rumpled from his journey.

“Are you—?” Simon stopped. “God, Heather.”

“What?” I said, my old anger at him resurfacing.

“This alopecia thing,” he paused, “it’s not like . . . cancer is it?”

I blinked, taking a second to register what he’d said. When I did, I burst out laughing, all the tension and pain exploding inside me.

“Heather.” Simon rushed to me and gripped my shoulders. “What the bloody hell’s going on?” Panic flickered in his eyes.

“It’s not like cancer,” I said. “I mean it doesn’t kill you. It just makes your hair fall out.”

The tears came as hard and fast as the laughter had before. Everything that had happened in the last few weeks came rushing at me like a tidal wave.

Simon wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. “What can I do?” he whispered. “Just tell me what I can do to make it better.”

Whoever thought the simple act of getting out of bed could be so difficult? I dragged myself to the bathroom as Simon stood with his back to me, hands in his pockets, staring at his feet.

I knew he was worried, but it was only when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that I understood the extent of his concern. My face, gaunt and pale, looked as if it belonged to a stranger. And my eyes, swollen and red from the lack of sleep and constant crying, frightened even me. But most of all, my hair—fragile and short—had to have been a shock to Simon, who’d last seen me with long, thick curls. I ran my fingers through my pixie cut, and it struck me that I hadn’t thought about my alopecia in three days. I didn’t feel the urge to hide it from Simon either—or anyone for that matter.

This is the way Branwell had known me, and he’d loved me anyway.

It took all the strength I had to wash my face and get dressed. I almost broke down when I pulled on my beanie, still stained with nineteenth-century soil and rich with Branwell’s scent.

To appease Simon, I forced down a piece of Marmite toast that Cook had placed on my bedside table earlier that morning. It stuck in my throat, and I gagged before washing it down with a gulp of cold tea.

It felt brilliant to get outside and breathe in the cold, fresh air. Being out on the moors gave me a strange comfort. Being with Simon helped, too, but I wasn’t ready to let him know that yet.

We walked in silence for a long time before he said, “I’m really sorry for acting the way I did.”

The old pain flared briefly. “You didn’t talk to me for two months.”

“I know.” He stopped walking.

“It hurt.”

He bit his lip and bent his head.

I’d waited two months to tell him how I’d felt. And now, standing in front of him, I couldn’t understand why it had taken me so long.