The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 15


And then a throb, and then a lightening,

And then a breathing from above,

And then a star in heaven brightening—

The star, the glorious star of love.

—E.J. Brontë





Branwell didn’t go to the Black Bull that night. Instead, he stayed home and read to us in the dining room. Carrying on with Paradise Lost where Mr. Brontë had left off, he lay on his side, propped up by his arm, with the open book in front of him. The fire illuminated his strong, lean features and reflected in his glasses. The words to the poem rolled off his tongue, encapsulating me. A storm raged outside, rattling the windows and beating against the front door as if frantic to gain shelter against its own destructive force.

Emily curled on her favorite couch, stroking Grasper’s ears. Charlotte hunched over her writing at the table, and Anne sat on a chair with her sewing on her lap. I sighed and hunkered down next to the fire, letting its warmth spread over me.

Branwell and I stayed up long after Charlotte, Emily, and Anne went to bed. He claimed he wanted to draw, and I said I wanted to read. The others didn’t seem to mind. It was past 11:00 and they all seemed exhausted.

We sat on the floor several feet apart and listened to them traipse up the stone stairs. Once the house fell silent, and I was truly alone with Branwell, my stomach knotted with uncertainty. What had happened on the moors had taken me by surprise. I’d never experienced such intense feelings for anyone before, even Simon. Did Branwell feel the same way? Would he still if he knew about my alopecia? Things were moving fast. And I was afraid it would end badly for me.

Branwell must have read something on my face because he scooted over and wrapped his arms around me. We cuddled without talking and watched the fire. Then he kissed my neck softly, and a quiver ran down my spine. I turned to him. Every nerve in my body had been awakened by his lips on my skin. He must have felt the same because he grabbed my face and kissed me deeply. I’d never been drunk before, but I imagined kissing Branwell was as close to the feeling I could get without actually drinking. Giddiness mingled with a carefree pleasure swept over me, and nothing else in the world mattered or existed.

He pulled me to the floor without taking his mouth off mine, and I pressed my body against his, not wanting to separate. His hand traveled up my back, past my shoulder blades, to the nape of my neck. My beanie shifted slightly and his fingers touched the fine hair underneath.

I jolted.

“What?” he asked, his blue eyes wide. “Are you all right?”

I nodded and straightened my beanie. “It’s nothing. I got a fright, that’s all.”

He reached for me and I burrowed against his chest. We lay together, with the heat of the fire on our bodies, listening to the wind howl and beat against the naked windowpane.



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.