The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 13


Frowning on the infant,

Shadowing childhood’s joy,

Guardian angel knows not

That melancholy boy.

—E.J. Brontë





Branwell didn’t make an appearance the next day until breakfast was almost over. He staggered into the kitchen wearing his bloodied shirt from the night before. He’d managed to change into a clean pair of trousers, so it was blatant he’d decided to wear the shirt as some sort of trophy. He slumped into his chair without greeting anyone. His shirt still hung open from when I’d unbuttoned it the night before, and the thin scratch I’d cleaned lay exposed on his chest. My face burned at the sight of it, and I inspected the leftover porridge in my bowl until I felt my cheeks cool.

Tabby placed a cup of tea in front of Branwell. He picked it up and slugged it back with one giant gulp. She refilled his cup, and he did the same thing with that one. I imagined he was quite thirsty after being plastered the night before. Tabby pursed her lips and bustled back to the stove where she scooped some steaming porridge into a bowl. She returned to the table and slid the bowl in front of Branwell.

“Ya must eat now,” she ordered.

Branwell balked and pushed the bowl away. It was easy to tell he was in a foul mood.

Apparently, his hangover didn’t agree with him.

“You ought to eat something,” Anne said.

He grunted in response.

“Will you be drawing Heather today?” Emily asked, refusing to acknowledge her brother’s state.

Branwell opened and closed his fist and winced.

I had done a decent job of wiping the blood off his face. But I’d completely forgotten about his hands. They were covered in cuts and bits of dried blood. And his right hand was badly swollen.

Charlotte watched him through narrowed eyes. “Papa will be pleased to see you’ve injured your hand now that he’s gone to the expense of hiring you a painting master.”

“Mr. Robinson is not due to come for over a week. My hand is sure to be better by then.”

“That’s not the point,” she said.

“What is the point, then?” Branwell asked. “Papa doesn’t disapprove of boxing. It’s a fine sport.”

“It’s not the boxing I was referring to,” Charlotte said. “You know he wouldn’t want you down in the Black Bull all night. And if he knew you’d been drinking—”

“I haven’t done any such thing. Ask Heather, she let me inside last night. She’ll tell you I was only a little tired after winning my match, that’s all.”

My eyes dropped to my porridge again. Oh God! Why did he have to put me on the spot?

“I just don’t want to see you develop bad habits,” Charlotte said, “and I don’t want you to upset Papa. He has such high hopes for you. We all do.”

“And so you should. I shan’t disappoint anyone.”

“Perhaps you should bandage your hand,” Anne chimed in.

Branwell shrugged. “My left hand is intact and it works just as well.”

Charlotte sighed, pushed herself up, and went out the back door. She returned a few seconds later carrying a bowl of water, which she placed next to Branwell. “Soak your hand in that. It will help the swelling go down.” She took his hand and gently placed it in the water.

Branwell cursed under his breath as soon as his skin touched the icy water. He shoved the bowl away, splashing water onto the table and Charlotte’s dress. Then he pushed his chair back.

“Does every woman in this house feel compelled to tell me what to do?” he asked, before standing up and stalking out of the room.

I watched him go, really hating him now.

Suddenly, he stopped in mid-stride. He lingered in the doorway for a couple of seconds clenching his jaw as if debating with himself. Then he walked back over to Charlotte, who remained rigid and fuming in the same spot, and folded his arms around her in a tender embrace. Her face softened. Then he kissed her quickly on the forehead and left the room.

My heart melted. I’d never met anyone who’d caused me to experience such a rollercoaster of emotions.



I pleaded a headache to get out of sewing and lessons with Charlotte. I told myself I needed to go for a walk to sort out my thoughts, but in reality, I wanted to find Branwell. I knew it was the wrong thing to do—a complication I didn’t need, but I couldn’t help myself. My stomach ping-ponged at the memory of him pulling me onto his lap and telling me I was beautiful. Had he meant it? What would he think if all my hair fell out?

Once outside the parsonage, I hesitated. Soon I’d be in exactly the same position as I’d been in London. I had to get back to the safety of Aunt Elspeth’s house. Getting involved with Branwell was a huge mistake. I spun around, intending to go back inside the house, then stopped. I bit my thumbnail. After a few seconds, I strode across the garden into the graveyard.

I found Branwell leaning against a gravestone with his sketchpad on his lap. He sketched effortlessly with his left hand. As I approached, he glanced up and then carried on drawing. I waited, annoyed and confused by his rudeness.

“You might say thank you.” I kicked some dirt with my boot.

He stopped drawing and faced me. “What for?”

“For cleaning your wounds last night.”

He grinned. “Yes. I remember you unbuttoned my shirt.”

My face grew hot. “I only did it to help you.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“You were bleeding.”

He peeked at his shirt, as if he didn’t already know there was a big blood stain on it, and nodded. “So I was.”

“Is that your idea of fun?” I asked.

“What?”

“Punching people?”

“It’s a boxing club,” he said. “We box.”

I didn’t respond.

“Many great poets are pugilists,” he said. “Take Lord Byron for instance, he—”

I cut him off. “Do you do everything the great poets do?”

He stared at me for a second as though trying to decide whether I’d insulted him or not. Then he shrugged. “Why not?”

“This wasn’t your first boxing match?”

“Heavens, no!” he said. “I started at the beginning of the year, but I’ve been taking pointers from a friend for ages.”

“Well, you did all right.”

A guilty look crept onto his face. “It was the other lad’s first time.”

My mouth fell open. “You knew that and you still knocked him out?”

He grinned. “You stayed to watch?”

I caught my breath. He’d seen me. “They were worried about you. I wanted to help that’s all.”

He nodded and patted the ground, inviting me to sit down.

“My sisters are excellent company—particularly Charlotte. She’s sharp and can discuss politics as well as any lad. But a man can’t be expected to be entertained by his sisters for the rest of his life.” He puffed out his chest. “Boxing is something they don’t understand.”

I glanced at the bleak graveyard. “Well, I suppose there isn’t much going on around here. But don’t you think your sisters might want something more, too?”

He laughed. “Charlotte maybe. She gets away every once in a while to visit her friends. She even invited her dearest friend Miss Nussey for a visit this past July. But Emily.” He smiled affectionately. “She’d die if you took her away from here.” He gazed at me. “You’re the only friend she’s ever made. And I’m still trying to make sense of that.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“It’s not an insult.” His blue eyes searched my face. “You’re a mystery, that’s all.”

His stare unnerved me, and I fiddled with the hem of my dress.

“What was Miss Nussey like?” I asked, seeking to take the spotlight off myself.

“Pretty,” he said without hesitation.

I immediately regretted asking the question. A stab of jealousy plunged deep inside me.

“And what did she think of you?” I managed to choke out.

He laughed. “I don’t think she cares for artists and poets.”

I bit my bottom lip to stop myself from smiling.

He set his sketch down. “Shall I draw you, or not?”

“What about your hand?”

“My hand will do what I command it to do.”

I glanced at the drawing by his side. I blinked, momentarily confused, then warning bells clanged in my mind. It was a self-portrait—not bad either—except that Branwell had drawn a noose around his neck, the rope of which was slung over a tree.