The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 16


Hope and despair in turns arise

This doubting, dreading heart to move;

And now, ’mid smiles and bitter sighs,

Tell how I fear, tell how I love.

—E.J. Brontë





I sat across from Branwell at breakfast. His father asked his opinion about some duke and talked about a new act that parliament was trying to pass. Charlotte seemed quite excited by this topic. Branwell was distracted and kept glancing my way. I tried not to stare at him and forced myself to scrutinize my tea. The last thing I wanted was Mr. Brontë becoming suspicious. Now that he’d come home, I knew he’d start inquiring about my aunt again, and I didn’t want to give him any reason to rush his investigation.

“Branwell, my boy, what has gotten into you today? You’re thoughts seem elsewhere.”

My breath caught in my throat and my eyes snapped forward. Mr. Brontë was frowning at Branwell.

Emily looked up too. She’d been feeding Grasper fingerfuls of porridge under the table. “He was up late last night, reading.”

I swallowed, relieved. Again, I wondered if she suspected something.

“I was brushing up on my Greek,” Branwell said.

“Excellent,” Mr. Brontë said. “Are you ready to start on your translation of Homer?

Branwell perked up. Clearly, the project really excited him. “I’ve been ready for months, Papa, you know that.” Then he glanced at me. “But I was hoping to finish another portrait study before I meet with my new painting master.”

“Another study? Who are you painting? You have done your sisters already multiple times.”

“Heather kindly agreed to pose for me,” Branwell said.

“Very good.” Mr. Brontë nodded in my direction. “The more you paint, the better you will become. But I don’t think you will have time today.”

“I was hoping—” Branwell started.

“Not to worry, there will be plenty of time to finish your portrait before Mr. Robinson comes next week.”

A strange mixture of elation and frustration swirled in my stomach. I was upset that Branwell and I wouldn’t have time on the moors together, but I was thrilled that Mr. Brontë didn’t seem to be in a hurry to find my aunt and get me out of his house.

Mr. Brontë pushed back his chair and put his hand on Branwell’s shoulder. “I am anxious to see how you have got on in my absence. Come, let’s to the study.”

Branwell shot me an apologetic look before he followed his father out of the kitchen. A tidal wave of disappointment swept over me as I watched them leave. The worst was yet to come. I had no choice but to go with the girls up to Aunt Branwell’s room for sewing.

The morning moved at a snail’s pace. I spent an hour fidgeting with my needle and thread and completely bungling up my sample. My only saving grace was the raging fire in Aunt Branwell’s room. I’d been craving warmth all morning.

After sewing, we spent another two hours with Charlotte who taught us French and literature.

I yawned as I followed the others downstairs. I hadn’t fully recovered from waking up so early, and I hoped to take a nap in front of the fire while the girls wrote. As I entered the dining room, my heart leapt. Branwell sat bent over the table scribbling furiously. Had he already finished his lessons for the day?

“What are you doing?” Charlotte swooped next to him.

Branwell paused. “Writing.”

“In my new notebook!” Charlotte snatched the book off the table. “You know very well Papa intended this for my writing!”

“Charlotte, Glass Town is in the midst of a war,” Branwell said. “And I have big plans for your Marquis.”

I rolled my eyes. Charlotte and Branwell were always arguing about the inhabitants of Glass Town as though they really existed.

“And you can write about them in your own notebook. Papa gave this one to me.” Charlotte tore the page of Branwell’s writing out of her notebook and let it flutter to the floor.

Branwell lunged for the paper, knocking over a chair in the process, which flew toward Charlotte. She jumped out of the way and crashed into Tabby who’d come into the dining room.

Tabby wobbled precariously on her feet. She steadied herself and glared at Charlotte. “Why don’ ya stop foolin’ about n’ come help me peel t’ potatoes?”

Branwell got to his feet and gave Tabby an irresistible smile. He could charm a statue. “Papa’s expecting me in his study.”

He bent to pick up the chair then left the room, taking care to brush past me on the way out. I pursed my lips to stop myself from smiling.

“I’ll be along in a minute, Tabby.” Charlotte plopped down on a chair and grabbed her quill. “Glass Town needs me at the moment.”

Tabby clucked her tongue. “Why ya wastin’ yer time wi’ nonsense when there’s work t’ be done?” She glanced at Anne. “Yer aunt is wantin’ ya upstairs.”

Anne left the room.

Tabby glared at me and Emily. “Well, wha’ are ya waitin’ fer? There’s potatoes tha’ need a peelin’.”

A pile of potatoes and several knives sat on the kitchen table. I took my seat and stared gloomily at the mound, wondering what Branwell was doing in his father’s study.

Emily and Tabby’s potato peels came off in long, twirling strips, while mine broke off in tiny, jagged chunks. I blew out my breath in irritation. This was a lot harder than using a peeler. I picked up my second potato, thinking I might die of boredom before the day was over, when Emily said, “Tabby, who are the new tenants at Top Withins?”

I jerked my head up.

Tabby dropped her potato. “Wha’ did ya say?”

“When we took shelter at Top Withins, we saw a brute of a man and a young girl in the house.”

“Ya wen’ in t’ house?” Tabby asked.

Emily nodded.

Tabby paled. “Tha’ man is t’ devil ’imself. If yer Papa finds ou’ he’ll . . .” She shook her head.

I shifted in my seat. I hadn’t even told Emily about seeing Wolf-Man again in the Black Bull.

“Who is he?” Emily asked. “And who’s the girl?”

Did Tabby know something about the girl?

Tabby paused for a minute and then said, “I’ll tell ya, but only if ya promise not t’ go nosin’ abowt up there again.”

I put down my knife and potato.

“Of course not,” Emily said. “It was an emergency.”

“T’ man is called Harthorn,” Tabby leaned on the table. “T’ lass is his own daughter. They only came a few weeks ago, so I don’ know much abowt ’em. I only know wha’ they say in t’ village.”

“What do they say?” Emily urged.

“Tha’ Harthorn’s wife ran from ’im when she was wi’ child, sixteen years ago.”

Sixteen years ago! So the girl was only a year older than me.

“T’ man is a devil n’ he likes his drink, so you can think why t’ poor lass ran,” Tabby continued. “He searched but never found her. Some fowks say she went t’ Ireland. No one knows fer sure, but then wurd came t’ Harthorn abowt a month ago tha’ his wife had died, n’ tha’ his daughter was in Halifax wi’ her aunt. He went t’ claim her. T’ poor girl tried to run away wi’ a young lad she wanted t’ marry. Hugh Heaton.”

“Hugh Heaton!” Emily exclaimed. “Of Ponden Hall?”

Tabby nodded. “He’s one of t’ cousins.

“What happened?” Emily asked.

“Harthorn caught ’em tryin’ t’ run. He browt her t’ Top Withins after tha’. Keeps her shut away in tha’ house. Says she must pay fer her mama’s sins. Told her Hugh Heaton is dead. Says he killed t’ lad himself.”

My mouth fell open. “Has anyone tried to help her?”

“’Tis nobody’s business t’ meddle atween a father n’ his own childer, n’ it’ll do ya good t’ remember tha’.”

Emily and I exchanged a quick look. I knew she wasn’t finished with this.

Tabby must have read something in her face too because she pointed her peeling knife at Emily. “Now ya listen t’ me—both of ya.” She swung her knife in my direction. “None of ya is t’ go near tha’ house again. Never, or I will speak t’ yer Papa.”

“Oh, Tabby!” Emily said. “I do wish you’d stop treating us as though we were five.”

Heat peppered Tabby’s cheeks. “Mark my words.” She nodded. “Harthorn’s t’ devil. You stay away.”

Instinctively, I rubbed my arm where Harthorn had gripped it, and a cold chill ran down my spine.