The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 12


How long will you remain? The midnight hour

Has tolled the last note from the minster tower.

Come, come: the fire is dead, the lamp burns low

—E. J. Brontë





That’s right.” Emily snapped her fingers. “Branwell said he was going to visit John Brown. I forgot. He won’t be home until late.”

I stared at Emily. Why was she lying?

“In tis weather?” Tabby shook her head. She stirred something that bubbled in a round copper pot hanging over the range. The smell of baked apples and cinnamon wafted in the air. My head grew dizzy, and my stomach ached with hunger.

Tabby stopped stirring and pointed a huge ladle at us. “Go n’ tek off those wet clothes ’afore ya catch yer death. I’ll tell yer aunt ya home safe.”

We took off our boots and hung our coats in the kitchen, then hurried upstairs to strip off our soaked dresses.

“What did you mean telling Tabby that Branwell went to visit Mr. Brown?” Charlotte grabbed Emily’s arm once we were safely behind the bedroom door.

“I think you know what I mean,” Emily said.

Charlotte pursed her lips in a hard, disapproving line.

Anne cast her eyes to the ground.

“What are you on about?” I asked.

“Our brother is fond of a place called the Black Bull,” Emily said.

“The Black Bull? What sort of place is that?”

“The drinking sort,” Emily said. “A pastime Papa does not approve of.”

“You can’t be sure,” Charlotte said. “He might’ve got stuck in the storm. He might be hurt. We should alert the constable.”

“Alert the constable and have Papa humiliated when he is dragged home from the Black Bull? I think not,” Emily said.

I bit my lip. Should I tell them about the laudanum? What if he really is lost on the moors or hurt from the storm?



“I’ll go down to the Black Bull myself and fetch him after dinner,” Emily said.

“No!” Charlotte snapped. “I will not have you disgrace yourself by going to that place.”

“Well, someone has to go. That’s the only way we’ll find out if he’s truly safe.”

“I’ll go,” I said.

The three of them stared at me in silence.

“Do you remember the day I arrived? You said I looked like a boy with my short hair and trousers.”

“What of it?” Emily asked.

“Well, if I put on Branwell’s clothes, I’ll look like a boy again. All I need is a pair of trousers and a coat to cover my chest—it won’t take much for me.”

Anne’s face reddened at the reference to my chest.

Emily exchanged a look with Charlotte, apparently trying to gauge her thoughts.

“No one will even notice me,” I said. “I’ll check if Branwell’s all right, and then I’ll come straight back and let you know.”

I kept my voice calm, but my insides churned with worry. I needed to find out if Branwell was all right.

Emily must have been equally concerned because she nodded and said, “You can change directly after tea.”



With only a dim lantern to guide me, I slipped out the front door after Tabby went to bed and dashed across the garden, through the iron gate, into the graveyard. Although the village lay only a few hundred feet from the parsonage, every step I took seemed like a mile in the icy darkness. The ever-present mist hovered in the air like a giant specter while the wind whistled around me, chilling my bones. I stumbled along, holding the lantern out in front of me, but still able to see little more than my own breath.

I passed Mr. Brontë’s church, my boots echoing as I stepped over the cobblestone path, and hurried down the stairs that led into the village.

The Black Bull stood immediately to my right. A brown stone building with gridded glass windows like every other building in the village. A lantern cast a shadow over a sign that creaked in the wind and showed a picture of a black bull. Another two lanterns fixed to either side of the front door, shed a dull light on the pub’s entrance. Through the windows, a warm glow emanated from inside. Standing out in the cold, I had to admit it looked inviting. Who could blame Branwell for wanting to be here?

I placed my lantern on the floor by the pub’s entrance and steeled myself to go inside. What did they do to girls who ventured inside pubs in 1833? Was it even legal? A vision of the stocks positioned at the bottom of the church steps flashed before my eyes. It wouldn’t be fun to end up in those.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the door. But before I could grasp the handle, a bulky man came tumbling out. I jumped aside to avoid getting crushed. In the same instant, a blast of warm air and the sound of laughter hit me. Seeing my chance, I sprang forward, caught hold of the door, and slipped inside.

The place wasn’t crowded, and I quickly scanned the room. Eight or ten older men sat drinking and smoking pipes beside two open fires, but there was no sign of Branwell. I hesitated, contemplating what to do next when a loud crash and a chorus of shouting came from the floor above. My eyes darted across the room and fell on a staircase. I dashed toward it and scurried up the stairs.

Even before I reached the top, a cloud of cigarette smoke enveloped me. I coughed and covered my nose with my hand. A crowd of men formed a large circle in the room. They jostled each other, shouting, laughing, and holding their drinks in the air. Some waved fistfuls of money. More shouting. Something was going on.

I stood on my toes and craned my neck to see over the crowd when suddenly it parted. Out of nowhere, a body came flying across the room. It landed with a crash a few feet away from me. The crowd roared. I stiffened. A shirtless Branwell lay on his back, blood seeping from his nose.

My mind screamed to do something, but my body refused to move. Before I had time to think clearly, Branwell leapt to his feet, wiped his nose on his arm, and charged forward. The crowd closed around him. I rushed after him, squeezing my way past men six-times my size. Had Branwell gotten into a fight? He’d be killed!

“Oy!” A man grabbed the back of my shirt as I wormed my way past him. “Where do ya think yer goin’?”

The crowd roared and the man loosened his grasp on me. I lurched forward to see Branwell and another shirtless boy circling each other, their fists raised. The other boy took a swing at Branwell; he ducked expertly. The crowd cheered. But as soon as he came back up, another punch came flying toward his face. This time it hit him above the eye. Branwell stumbled and almost fell to the ground.

I held my breath and buried my face in my hands. Stop. Please stop. Don’t hit him again.

More shouts erupted from the crowd. I peeked through my fingers to see Branwell regain his footing. Blood streamed from the cut above his eye down the left side of his face. He clenched his jaw. The muscles in his arms and back tightened. Then, with menacing speed, he lunged forward and threw three swift punches to his opponents gut, chin, and eye. After the last punch, the boy dropped to the floor, his face a bruised and bloody pulp. The crowd exploded.

I gagged. I’d never seen a real fight before. No amount of bloodshed on TV could have prepared me for the real thing.

A man stepped forward, stooped over the boy, and started counting. The boy struggled to get up, but collapsed back on the floor after a few seconds. The crowd cheered and began counting with the man. When he reached ten, the man walked over to Branwell and held up his arm.

“T’ winner,” he announced.

The pub erupted. “Brontë, Brontë!”

Men slapped Branwell on the back and threw silver coins at his feet. Someone shoved a drink into his hand.

The stench of sweat, blood, and smoke invaded my nostrils, mouth, and throat. Desperate to escape, I spun around, pushed through the crowd, and raced down the stairs. As I flew off the bottom stair, I slammed into a man trying to make his way upstairs. Beer sloshed from his mug onto my shirt. I gasped and sprang back.

The man caught my arm in an iron grip.

I recoiled with fright. A tangle of black hair framed the man’s face and came to rest on his enormous shoulders, giving him a wild, feral look. He pushed his face close to mine and glared at me with fierce, black eyes. It was the wolf man from Top Withins.

Panicked, I struggled to free myself from his grip, but he clamped down on me like a vice. He continued to scrutinize me with his ferocious eyes, then his face twisted into an ugly snarl. I was sure he’d recognized me.

“Let t’ lad go.” A short, skinny man wearing a top hat came forward. “There’s nowt amiss. I’ll give ya another beer.”

My captor ignored the man with the top hat and gave me a vicious shake. “What’s yer name?”

My knees buckled, but his iron grip on my arm prevented me from losing my balance and falling.

“Go on,” Top-Hat said. “Let t’ lad go. He meant nowt.” Top-Hat nodded at me. “Say yer sorry n’ be on yer way.”

I swallowed, too terrified to answer.

“Cat go’ yer tongue?” someone called out. Laughter filled the pub.

I writhed, desperate to free my arm and get out of the pub.

“I said, what’s yer name?” Wolf-Man gripped my arm tighter.

My mouth clamped shut. I was caught.

Top-Hat stepped forward and faced my captor. “Let t’ lad go, I say. You’ll get yer beer. I don’ wan’ trouble in me pub.”

Wolf-Man glared at me, taking in my every feature, until his eyes came to rest on my beanie. He shook me loose without taking his eyes off me.

Blood rushed through my veins as soon as my arm was free. Top-Hat immediately stepped in front of the man to prevent him from grabbing me again. Not that it would have made any difference. Wolf-Man could have brushed Top-Hat aside with his baby finger if he wanted to get hold of me again. But I knew he was finished with me. My face was locked in his memory, and it would be up to me to ensure my own safety by never crossing his path again.

I stayed for a second, too dazed to move.

“Go on,” Top-Hat said. “Be off with ya.”

I bolted across the pub and out the front door, feeling Wolf-Man’s eyes drill holes into my back.

For the first time since arriving in Haworth, I was thrilled to feel the harsh Yorkshire air hit my face. I paused outside the pub and stole a few precious seconds to gulp fresh air, my breathing desperate and raspy as though I’d been released from a chokehold.

The door to the pub swung open again and two men stumbled outside. I jumped out of their way. Thankfully, it was only two drunks and not Wolf-Man coming after me. I watched the two men stagger, arm in arm, down the steep cobblestone hill. Then I picked up my lantern, raced up the church steps, and disappeared into the graveyard.

Bloody Branwell! What was I supposed to do now? Go back and tell his sisters, what? They would see his bruises tomorrow. I stared out into the darkness, trying to calm my raging thoughts. Truthfully, I didn’t want to let go of them, because if I did, I would have to admit the truth. Branwell had scared me. The shock of seeing him laying on the floor, covered in blood—the fear that he’d been hurt. I didn’t want to feel that. I didn’t want to care about him or anyone else. I’d left the people I cared about back in London—in the twenty-first century. I didn’t come to Yorkshire for caring. I just wanted to be left alone.



As soon as I stepped inside the parsonage and bolted the door behind me, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne came running out of the dining room.

“Well?” Emily asked.

I forced a smile. “He’s there.”

Relief broke out on every one of their faces.

“And he’s fine?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes, he’s the life of the party.”

“That’s our Branni.” Charlotte beamed.

I nodded.

Charlotte bit her lip. “He wasn’t,” she paused, “in a bad way, was he?”

“Oh, Charlotte,” Emily said, “as long as he’s safe, that’s all that matters now.”

My stomach knotted, but I said, “He’s safe. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Charlotte sighed. “It’s been a long, adventurous day. I think I shall tidy up and go to bed.”

“Yes,” Anne agreed.

I followed them back into the dining room. Charlotte scooped up her pile of books and reshelved them while Emily and Anne put away their quill pens and tidied their papers.

“Shall we leave the door unlocked for Branni, or are you going to wait up for him, Emily?” Anne asked.

“No,” I almost shouted the words. “Don’t wait up. You don’t know how long he’ll be.” I shrugged, trying my best to appear casual. “He seemed to be having fun.”

Charlotte frowned. “I don’t think Papa would approve if we left the door unlocked.”

“He wouldn’t,” Emily said. “But I’ll take his pistol and keep it next to my bed in case we need it. He’s taught me how to use it.”

I raised my eyebrows. This wasn’t the best plan. I didn’t exactly relish the idea of having Mr. Brontë’s loaded pistol next to my bed as I slept. The thing was ancient, and there was no telling what could set it off.

“I’ll wait for Branwell,” I said. “I’m not tired, and I probably couldn’t fall asleep even if I tried.” I put on my most cheerful face. “I really want to stay down here and read.”

“We couldn’t . . .” Charlotte began.

“Please, you’ve done so much for me. It’s the least I can do.”

Charlotte glanced at Emily.

Emily shrugged.

“If you insist,” Charlotte said.

“I do.”

“Make sure you bolt the door after you let him in. Papa is very particular about that,” Charlotte said.

“I will. I promise. Now go to bed.”

I watched them go upstairs then took my lantern and went to browse the books in the dining room. Wordsworth, Byron, Sir Walter Scott. My eyes fell on a volume of Coleridge. I pulled it off the shelf and settled on the couch, flipping the pages until I came to Kubla Khan. Next to the poem was a picture of a majestic castle, surrounded by an exquisite garden. I studied the picture then closed my eyes, trying to recapture Branwell’s voice in my mind.

The next thing I knew, I was jolted awake by a loud crash followed by a chorus of pounding on the front door. I grabbed my lantern and rushed to unbolt the lock. The door swung open and Branwell staggered inside. He reeked of alcohol and cigar smoke. I held the lantern up to his swollen, blood-spattered face and winced. His jacket hung open to reveal a rumpled and blood-stained white shirt.

He frowned at me, apparently wondering what I was doing in front of him. Then he stumbled forward. “Sleep,” he muttered, heading for the stairs. “I must sleep.”

“Wait!” I sprang forward to close and bolt the door, and then rushed to step in his path.

He lurched and fell onto me. I struggled to hold his weight. He was light for a sixteen-year-old boy, but I was still a lot smaller than him.

“Branwell!” I pushed him as hard as I could with my one free hand, the other still held the lantern. He stepped back and stood on his own but swayed precariously on his feet.

“Can you walk? Who helped you home anyway?

He laughed. “John Rown.”

“What?”

“John Rown.”

“John Brown?” I asked. “That’s who Emily said you’d end up with.”

I steered him toward the kitchen, still holding the lantern. “We’ve got to clean all that blood off your face. Do you want to give your sisters a heart attack in the morning?”

In the kitchen, I set the lantern on the table and eased Branwell into a chair. Most of the candle inside the lantern had burned away, and what was left provided little light. Life was ridiculous without electricity, not to mention running water. I made my way to the back door fumbling through the darkness, grabbed a small towel that hung on a hook, and steeled myself before venturing into the freezing night air. As if a member of a relay team, I dunked the towel into one of the buckets of water Mr. Brontë kept at the ready in case of a fire, rung it out, and dashed back inside all within three seconds.

Branwell sat sprawled out on the chair, his head resting against the wall, and his eyes closed. Taking the wet cloth, I held the lantern up to his face and carefully dabbed at a spot of dried blood. His eyes flew open, and he jerked his head away.

I tried again. He swatted my hand.

I set the lantern down, steadied his face in my hands, and wiped as gently as I could. He struggled for a few seconds, but then gave up, probably because he no longer had the strength. That is, until I pressed on the cut above his eye. He winced and grabbed my wrist. For a second, our eyes locked. Then he pulled me onto his lap. I sat rigid. My heart thumped wildly.

After a few seconds, I let my eyes fall from his face to his chest, where I noticed a fresh blood stain on his white shirt. I bit my lip. The silk bow at his neck had not been tied and hung open. Still, I’d have to unbutton his shirt to get to the wound. I could feel Branwell’s eyes on me, but I didn’t have the courage to meet his gaze.

“Your chest is bleeding,” I said without looking up.

Branwell didn’t answer, but his breathing grew heavier.

My fingers trembled as I undid three buttons and peeled back part of his shirt. In the dim candlelight, I made out a long, thin scrape above the right side of his chest. I dabbed it gently with the damp cloth.

He caught my arm, and my eyes darted up to meet his.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

Instantly, I pulled my arm out of his grip and jumped off his lap. My hands trembled. I didn’t like feeling this vulnerable. It meant I could get hurt. And then where would I be? The best thing for me to do was concentrate on getting home—back to Aunt Elspeth’s where I would be safe.

I steadied my voice. “I should get to bed now. It’s well past midnight.” Without waiting for an answer from Branwell, I scurried out of the kitchen.