The Mist on Bronte Moor (8 page)

“Seriously, though,” I said, dropping my cheeky tone. “Opium is a scary drug. You shouldn’t play around with it.”

Without taking his eyes off me, he reached out, grabbed hold of my arm, and gently pulled me toward him. “I’ve already told you,” he said, leaning in close, “it’s harmless. You needn’t worry.”

His face was inches from mine, and our eyes locked. It was impossible to look away. My pulse raced, but I did my best to steady my voice. “What if you’re wrong?”

He smiled. “Are you sure your name is not Ms. Emily or Ms. Charlotte Brontë?”

“Maybe you should listen to your sisters more often,” I said, feeling strong.

He reached up and ran his thumb along my cheekbone. “Maybe,” he said.

He’d won. He’d succeeded in unnerving me. I felt myself blush and quickly pulled away from him. I sank to the ground at the foot of the boulder, picked up a stone, and juggled it from one hand to another as a ploy to avoid looking at him.

Branwell scooted off the rock and crouched directly in front of me, so I couldn’t avoid him.

“Did you see something that upset you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“When Tabby gave you the laudanum, did you hallucinate? Is that why you’re so afraid of it?”

I stiffened, remembering the Frankenstein nightmare. “No,” I said, turning my attention to the stone again.

Branwell didn’t move. I felt his eyes on me, and I was desperate to push him away. He was the last person I’d tell about that dream.

“Was it a vision?” he pressed. “Tabby must have erred and given you too much laudanum, probably because you were thrashing about so wildly.”

I jumped up, causing Branwell to fall backward. “It was only a stupid dream. Forget it, all right?” I leaned against the boulder and folded my arms.

Branwell sprang to his feet and leaned next to me. We stood side by side in silence, but I was keenly aware of his body next to mine.

After a minute, he stepped in front of me. “I’ll tell you what,” he held up the laudanum, “I’ll throw this whole bottle away if it upsets you that much.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I will. I swear it.” He tossed the bottle over his shoulder.

I laughed.

He leaned forward. “I can write poems without laudanum. Do you want to hear?”

This time, I closed my eyes willingly.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May . . .”

My eyes popped open. “You didn’t write that!”

He cocked his head. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve read it before. Shakespeare wrote it.”

“You’ve studied Shakespeare?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ve read
Romeo and Juliet
. And I’ve seen the fil—” I stopped myself. “And I’ve read that sonnet as well as loads of others,” I said.

That wasn’t entirely true. But Mrs. Holiday, my English teacher, had read a few sonnets to the class, and it so happened the one Branwell had recited was her favorite. She kept a copy of it in a frame on her desk.

I opened my mouth, ready to embellish on the truth even more. But Branwell stared at me with such intensity that my voice jammed in my throat.

“So, you really are who you say you are—a girl from London with an education and a family?”

I nodded, my eyes locked on his.

He continued to study me as if I were a puzzle he couldn’t piece together. A thousand butterflies spread their wings and took flight in my stomach. I looked away.

“Why do you hide under that hat?” he asked.

My insides froze, but I faced him and forced a smile. “It keeps me warm.”

“A bonnet would suit you better.”

“But it wouldn’t be as warm,” I said.

He reached up and touched the delicate strands on my forehead that peeked out from under my beanie. “What happened to your hair? Did someone cut it as a punishment?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I pushed his hand away. “Who would do something like that?”

“School masters for one. Charlotte told me about it. When she was away at Cowen Bridge with my sisters,” he paused, “a girl was punished for vanity. Her hair was cut in front of the others to teach her humility.”

That sounded familiar, actually. I think I’d seen something like that on the telly once.

He waited for me to respond. I remained silent and shifted my gaze to the moors. I didn’t want to talk about my hair—not now or ever.

After a minute, he cupped his hand under my chin and turned my face toward him.

“Will you allow me to paint you?” he asked.

I pulled my chin out of his grip. “What?”

“We can start tomorrow.” His eyes hadn’t left my face. “It’ll give you further excuse to miss your sewing lessons.”

My body relaxed. “Well, if I can miss sewing . . .”

“I only have one condition,”

“What’s that?”

He caressed my cheek. “I draw you without your hat.”

I jerked my head back as if someone had lit a flame under it. “No,” I snapped.

W
e should go.” I pushed past Branwell. “The others are probably looking for us.”

Without waiting for his reply, I stalked away. I’d only taken a few steps when I almost crashed into Emily.

“Here you are,” she said. “I was afraid you’d started without us.”

“No, we were just—”

“I’ve decided Heather will be my next subject.” Branwell came up behind me.

“I’m going to draw her tomorrow while you have your lessons.”

“Branwell’s going to be a true artist.” Emily said. “I’m sure you won’t be disappointed with the result.”

I noted the way she said “going to be” as opposed to is and stifled a smile.

“What’s that?” She glanced at the paper bag lying on the ground next to the boulder.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Branwell scooted back, scooped up the bag, and tossed it to Emily.

She caught it with both hands and pressed the package to her nose. “Licorice! Thanks, Branni. I’ll take it to Charlotte. She’s busy packing the tea.”

“You two go on,” Branwell said. “I’ll be round in a minute.”

I followed Emily back to the house, half disappointed and half relieved to be away from Branwell. My emotions had been toyed with enough for one day.

“Poor Grasper tramped on a pile of thorns when Tabby let him out to do his business this morning,” Emily said. “He came limping into the kitchen and Tabby had to call me to remove them. Blessed creature. He was an angel when I took them out, and there were at least six embedded in his paw.” She shook her head. “He shan’t be walking with us today.”

“I hope he’ll be all right,” I said. I knew how much Emily loved her dog.

“He’ll be fine in a few days. I convinced Tabby to let him sleep beside the kitchen fire. She wasn’t happy about it, but she relented.” Emily smiled. “She’s not as stern as she pretends to be.”

In the kitchen, Charlotte and Anne wrapped bread and apples in cloth for our picnic on the moors.

Emily tossed the package of licorice to Charlotte. “Branni bought some licorice.”

“Did he?” Charlotte’s eyes brightened as she stuffed it into the basket.

I watched her work. Her face glowed. Branwell’s gift had made her happy. She adored him. They all did. What would they say if I told them about the laudanum? Maybe they’d think it was nothing to worry about, like Branwell had said. But somehow I doubted that.

Branwell waited for us outside the front door—his hands in his pockets and a huge grin on his face. My heart leapt when I saw him, but I squelched the feeling. I was determined not to let him get to me. I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust anyone after Simon. If my best friend could scrap me after one kiss, then what could I expect from a virtual stranger when he realized my hair was falling out?

Branwell led the way on our walk, taking us past the graves and deep into the moors. There, he raced ahead, sprinting across the hills and leaping over rocks and shrubs as though he’d been locked in a box all day.

“Branni, slow down!” Charlotte yelled. “What’s gotten in to you today?”

“See the colors, Charlotte,” he called back. “See how glorious the day is.”

I frowned. What colors? The winter landscape was shrouded in a light mist under a gray sky.

That didn’t matter to Branwell. He kept up his mad pace, shouting about colors and pointing at plants and birds that no one else could see. It was impossible to keep up with him, so we let him go ahead. We walked about two miles on our own before arriving at a small waterfall and stream. Branwell was already there; we found him lying on the ground, staring at the sky as if he were seeing it for the first time.

“No wonder you’re exhausted,” Charlotte said as she set the basket down. “All that running about like a rabid dog.”

I sank onto the grass and watched as Charlotte divided the thick chunks of bread between us. We devoured our food in silence. Only the sound of gushing water and the bleat of sheep in the distance broke the stillness.

I chewed my last piece of bread and studied my surroundings. The sea of desolate green and brown land that lay before me was strangely beautiful. I was used to the city with its towering buildings and bustling noise of traffic, sirens, and people. I’d never thought about the world being so tranquil.

“It’s lovely here,” I said.

“We call this place the Meeting of the Waters,” Charlotte said, gazing at the water tumbling down the rocks.

“It’s the most beautiful place in the world.” Emily dipped her hands into the stream and splashed some water onto her face.

“Did you bring a book, Charlotte?” Anne asked.

Charlotte opened the basket. “No. I forgot to pack one.” She grimaced. “What shall we do now?”

“Maybe Emily can recite one of her poems,” Branwell said, without taking his eyes off the sky.

Emily jumped to her feet.

Charlotte paled. “Branwell! You promised.”

“Promised what?” Emily snapped, her cheeks flaming.

“Charlotte read your poems,” Branwell said and then burst out laughing.

Charlotte scrambled to her feet. “Emily, I’m sorry. I only told Branwell because I was so proud of you.”

Emily glared at Charlotte. “You read my poems and shared them with Branwell?” Her voice trembled with anger.

My eyes darted from Emily to Charlotte.

“No.” Charlotte said. “Only I read them myself. I promise.”

“You promise?” Emily said. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? You, who connives and steals from her own sister.”

“I found them by accident.” Tears formed in Charlotte’s eyes. “When I started reading, I couldn’t stop. Emily, they’re beautiful.”

“Girls don’t make very good poets,” Branwell said with a yawn.

“Branwell.” Charlotte glowered at her brother. “What a stupid remark!”

I clenched my jaw. Why was he acting this way?

Branwell stretched out his arms and legs and made an angel shape in the grass.

“Get up!” Charlotte pulled his arm. “It’s time to go back.”

“I’ll not go anywhere with you lot. You . . . you spies.” Emily whirled around in disgust and stalked away.

Branwell rolled over onto his stomach and stretched out on the grass like a contented cat, a Cheshire grin plastered on his face.

I turned to see Emily marching over the stone bridge that ran across the stream.

Charlotte looked from Emily to Branwell, and I knew she was trying to decide who needed her attention the most. She bent down and shook Branwell by the shoulders. “Get up!”

He didn’t respond.

What was going on with him?

“I fear he is ill,” Charlotte said. “We must get him home.”

Anne, who’d been glued to the same spot since the commotion started, rushed over and crouched by Branwell’s side. “Branni,” she shouted in his ear, “are you all right?”

As if Anne’s voice had the effect of an adrenaline injection to his heart, Branwell leapt to his feet and sprinted away.

“Branni!” Charlotte screamed after him.

I ran forward and stumbled on something hard. Expecting to see a stone, I glanced down. A small, dark bottle lay in the grass. I knew immediately what it was. It must have fallen out of Branwell’s pocket. I scooped up the bottle and clutched it in my hand. It was empty.

He took it. He took all the laudanum. I clenched my jaw.

“What should we do?” Anne asked, a note of panic in her voice.

“Let him go,” I said, my own voice thick with disgust.

A cold wind had set in, and I had to struggle against it to catch up with Emily. When I did, we walked side by side in silence, each preoccupied by our own furious thoughts. Charlotte and Anne lagged behind, arm in arm, their heads bent against the wind.

We hiked for a long time up a steep, rocky trail, then went downhill and crossed another stream before the path became very steep again. I didn’t care how tired or cold I was or where we were headed. As long as it was away from the parsonage and Branwell.

“I have something to show you.” Emily stopped suddenly.

“What?” I followed her gaze and saw a farmhouse sitting on top of the hill we’d been climbing. A single, twisted tree leaned in toward it as if listening to a terrible secret.

“That?” I asked

She nodded.

“It looks a bit creepy.”

“It’s beautiful. You’ll see.”

Charlotte and Anne stopped next to us. “Em,” Charlotte said softly, “Branni’s run off. I’m afraid he’s not well.”

“Perhaps you should go find him, then.” Emily cut her off. “Maybe the two of you want to read more of my poems.”

Charlotte bit her lip and dropped her eyes to the ground. “Em,” she tried again, “I’m sorry.”

Emily turned her back on Charlotte and started up the hill. I followed. My thighs burned and my back ached as I worked my way through the mud, but I didn’t care. My fury at Branwell gave me the energy I needed.

When we reached the top, I understood why Emily had wanted to come. My anger melted away as I took in the miles of green and brown hills that lay before me. It seemed as if I stood on top of the world.

“It’s brilliant,” I said.

As I spoke, a symphony of lightning exploded in the distance like a fireworks display, turning the gray sky a blinding white. I fell back. Charlotte, who had only just reached the top, shrieked. A cold, heavy rain assailed us.