The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 19


I know the path I ought to go;

I follow fearlessly,

Enquiring not what deeper woe

Stern Duty stores for me.

—E.J. Brontë





I awoke early the next morning, jolted out of my sleep by the sound of Mr. Brontë’s pistol. Another thing I’d never get used to.

Mary bolted upright and gasped. “What in heaven’s—”

I stifled a giggle.

Charlotte threw back her covers and gave a little laugh. “Papa’s pistol. I told you about it, remember?”

“And you were serious? I thought you were joking.”

“I’m afraid not,” Charlotte said.

Mary climbed out of bed. “How did Ellen react to that?”

“Not very well. She almost died of fright. I believe she thinks my papa very strange.”

Mary laughed.

I lay in the bed beside Emily and pretended to sleep while Charlotte and Mary dressed. The room was too cramped for four people to be dressing at the same time. Emily must have been thinking the same thing as me because she lay motionless, even though I knew she never slept through the sound of her father’s gunshot.

Before Charlotte left the room, she gave Emily a little shake. “Get up, Em. You don’t want to miss church on Papa’s first day home.”

I opened my eyes. Church. Of course, it was Sunday. Exactly two weeks since I’d arrived at the parsonage. Yet, it would be my first time going to Mr. Brontë’s church, since he’d been away the previous Sunday.

Emily rolled out of bed and I followed, shivering as I always did in the mornings. She handed me a clean brown dress. I tried not to look ungrateful as I took it from her, but I was so tired of wearing her ugly, awkward dresses. I’d have killed for a pair of Uggs and my comfy sweats. Instead, I struggled into a pair of stockings and stiff petticoat. Finally, I pulled the cold silk dress up my shivering body. Then I straightened my beanie, which I always slept in.

Emily put her hand on my arm. “Not today,” she said. “It will do for outside and around the house, but not for church. You need to wear a bonnet.” She handed me a brown bonnet to match my dress.

I hesitated before taking the bonnet from her slim hands. “Thank you.”

I stared at the contraption in my hands for a moment before taking a deep breath and pulling off my beanie, praying no hair would come away with it. None did. I plunged the bonnet onto my head and tied the two strings into a bow under my chin.

“How do I look?” I asked Emily.

“As God made you,” she said without looking at me.

I frowned. “Is that good?”

Her face remained expressionless. “It’s as it should be.”

I stared at her. No, it’s not. I wanted to say. Nothing is as it should be.

The old grandfather clock chimed, breaking the silence between us.

“Come,” Emily said. “Let’s to breakfast.”

As we made our way toward the stairs, I noticed that the door to Aunt Branwell’s bedroom hung ajar. A second later, her shrill voice sounded from inside.

“Inquiries must be made at church today, Patrick. If no one knows of this girl’s family she must be sent to an orphanage as soon as possible.”

Emily and I stopped in our tracks.

“I don’t think that would be wise, Elizabeth. I feel certain the girl comes from a good family. She can read and write tolerably well, even if her knowledge of the classics is severely lacking.”

“A good family? Her sewing is akin to a donkey’s, and she has no knowledge of scripture. I ask you Patrick, what kind of family neglects to teach their female offspring these necessary skills? She cannot even obtain a job as a governess!”

My eyes widened.

“Well, someone has taken the time and expense to invest in her education,” Mr. Brontë said. “Although I agree it is lacking in many areas. Perhaps she only became orphaned recently.”

“Which is why an orphanage is best equipped to care for her. Look at how Miss Taylor is forced to sleep in that crammed room. It’s appalling. And how will Charlotte stand to invite that charming Miss Nussey again under such conditions?”

I bit my lip. Emily’s face darkened.

There was a pause. “The girl’s almost of marriageable age. Perhaps an orphanage won’t be necessary. Emily is so fond of her. There must be another solution.”

“Emily is fond of every stray on the moors. The girl must go, Patrick.”

Emily grabbed my hand and pulled me forward. Together we tiptoed down the stairs.

“I won’t let them send you away,” she hissed as soon as we reached the bottom step.

“How can you stop them?”

Her face became stony. “I’ll go on a hunger strike if I have to. And so will Branni.”

Heat spread across my cheeks. She did know about me and Branwell.

“I can’t let you do that.”

“I shall do as I please,” she said, her face hard.

I stared at her. She was a puzzle. At that moment, I wanted to hug her, but I knew she would recoil. Emily saved most of her affection for her dog.



Church was a strange event. Mum and Dad had never been big on religion, so I’d only been twice in my life before, once for a christening and another time for a wedding. At first, I was fascinated by the people streaming inside. Not a lot of people came to the parsonage, and we rarely went to the village, so seeing that many people at once came as a bit of a shock.

Inside the small church, a stone pathway divided two rows of dark wooden pews framed by wide arches. Mr. Brontë stood erect at the pulpit. Behind him, weak sunlight filtered in through a stained glass window. Branwell sat on a stool near the pulpit, his fingers resting on the keyboard of an organ. He’d left the house with Mr. Brontë before Emily and I had finished breakfast. Now, he sat with his body twisted to the side, his neck craned, and his eyes searching the crowed. I caught his gaze, and his face lit up.

As soon as everyone settled down, Branwell began to play. My breath caught in my throat. I didn’t even like church music, but he played brilliantly. He let the music consume him, swaying his body in rhythm with it as his fingers glided over the keys. The churchgoers sat riveted in their seats. Was there any talent Branwell didn’t possess?

Prayers were dull and carried on for too long. Children fidgeted and adults yawned. If it hadn’t been for Branwell, I might have fallen asleep. But things changed when Mr. Brontë spoke. The entire congregation perked up and listened. He had a knack for captivating an audience, the same way Branwell did. Even when he’d read the works of Milton or Bunyan—foreigners to me—it’d been hard not to become swallowed up by his voice. Still, for me, the pull of Branwell was more powerful.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he sat bent over the organ, his slim fingers poised on its keyboard. His hunched figure made me think of Hugh, and a mixture of sorrow and fear washed over me. Branwell and I couldn’t be separated. But how could we stay together? Aunt Branwell wanted me out. And I couldn’t allow the family to fall apart over me.

As though he’d read my thoughts, Branwell caught my eye. He smiled as if to say, don’t worry, everything will be all right.



After church, people crowded around Branwell, congratulating him on his organ playing. He seemed to have a magnet that drew people to him. And he enjoyed being the center of attention. He joked and talked enthusiastically to everyone. His face beamed as he spoke. The women giggled in response, and the men laughed heartily and patted him on the back.

I wished everyone would disappear so we could be alone. It seemed like forever since we’d had some time to ourselves.

Mr. Brontë shook hands with people and listened to their comments, nodding his head as they spoke. Aunt Branwell lingered beside him, presumably waiting for him to start his inquiries about my family.

Charlotte chatted with a few people and introduced Mary around, but Emily and Anne didn’t seem at all interested in speaking to anybody. They nodded at a few people and then headed for the parsonage as if they had something urgent to do. I meandered through the graveyard behind them, pretending to read the gravestones and enjoy the scenery, while I waited for Branwell to make his escape and catch up with me.

He bounded up behind me as I approached the parsonage gate. “You look beautiful,” he whispered in my ear.

A jolt of pleasure coursed through me, and a huge smile spread across my face.

“Will you wear the bonnet when I sketch you today?”

I gave him a little shove. “Only if you promise not to fool around and actually sketch me.”

“I’ll try.” He grinned and put his arm on my back, gently escorting me into the house.



It was too early for dinner, but a special Sunday tea was served in the dining room—in honor of Mary.

“What are your plans today, Charlotte?” Mr. Brontë asked as he sipped his tea. “Will you take Mary out onto the moors?”

“I should enjoy that,” Mary said.

“Splendid,” Mr. Brontë said. “You must all go together. Branwell knows his way around the moors better than anyone.”

Emily gave a small grunt. I knew she’d found that remark offensive. She knew the moors as well as Branwell, if not better.

Branwell cleared his throat. “Actually Papa, I was hoping to continue working on my portrait study. I wish to finish it before Mr. Robinson comes next week.”

“You paint portraits?” Mary beamed at Branwell. “How wonderful. Are you as good as Charlotte is at drawing?”

“He’s a great talent,” Aunt Branwell answered for him.

“It’s all right, Branwell,” Emily said, her voice tight. “Go ahead and work on your portrait. I’m sure we can manage the moors without you.”

“Now, Emily,” Mr. Brontë said, “you know I worry about you girls out on the moors unaccompanied.”

“Oh, Papa!” Emily huffed, clearly frustrated.

“I should like to see your work,” Mary said, changing the subject back to Branwell.

Charlotte’s face brightened. “Why doesn’t Branwell paint your portrait while you’re here?” Your Papa would love that.”

Mary’s cheeks glowed. “He would indeed. But I’m afraid I’m not here for long enough.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Brontë said. “Branwell can do the sketch today and paint it later. Then we can send it to your home.”

My eyes darted to Branwell. He caught my glance.

“Papa,” Branwell said, “I’ve already started a portrait of Heather, and I’d prefer to finish that first.”

“It would be very good exposure for you. Think on how many people will see your work. The Taylor’s are very sociable, I understand,” Aunt Branwell said.

“Yes, but—” Branwell began.

“Oh, come now, Branwell, you’ll have plenty of time to finish both,” Mr. Brontë said. “I think a portrait would make a fine gift for Mr. Taylor.”

“I’m sure he’d be very pleased,” Mary said.

A lump of misery and anger formed in my throat. Another day watching Branwell spend all his time and energy on Mary.

Branwell opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Brontë cut him off. “It’s settled then. Mary, your Papa shall have a portrait painted by Branwell.”

Branwell avoided my eyes and stared into his tea, his jaw clenched tight and his hands gripping the cup so hard I thought it might shatter in a million pieces.

Do something! I wanted to shout.

But he just sat staring at his tea as if it held the answer to all his problems.

He is worse than Hugh. I wanted to take my tea cup and fling it at his head.

Tabby came into the dining room, and Mr. Brontë and Aunt Branwell both put down their cups and got up from the table.

“It might be a good idea to take dinner out on the moors. That will give you plenty of time to draw. Have Tabby pack you a basket before you leave,” Mr. Brontë said before he strode across the room to his study with Aunt Branwell in tow.

“I think I’ll take some drawing paper, too,” Charlotte said. “We can all go up to The Meeting of the Waters. I’m sure Mary would love to see it.”

The waterfall. Where Branwell had planned to sketch me. My chest burned.

“No,” Branwell said jerking his head up from his tea. “I shan’t go that far today. My leg has a cramp in it. The edge of the moors will be perfectly fine.”

His words brought a tidal wave of relief and mixed emotions. I loved him for keeping our place sacred but remained sick at the thought of him sketching Mary instead of me.

“Well, I should enjoy a long walk,” Emily said.

“Then you’ll have to go without me,” Branwell snapped.

“That will suit me perfectly!” Emily said.

“Branni! Emily!” Charlotte said, her voice slightly high pitched and her cheeks reddening. She was blatantly embarrassed by the way her family was behaving in front of Mary.

There was an awkward silence for a moment before Mary said, “Why go anywhere? You can sketch me right here in the graveyard. I’d find it quite fitting actually.”

“Really?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes. Think on it. A young woman surrounded by graves. What could be more appropriate? I have my life ahead of me, yet all my prospects are buried simply because of my sex.”

I raised my eyes to look at her. As much as I hated the way she flirted with Branwell, I couldn’t help admiring her. She was totally ahead of her time.

But her comments seemed to irritate Branwell even more. He slammed his tea cup onto the table, jumped up and snapped, “Fine, the graveyard it is, then” before striding out of the room.

I watched him go, but my mind remained on Mary’s words. They made me think of Clara shut away at Top Withins. I slipped my hand into my pocket and fingered Hugh’s ring. I imagined him hunched over by the fairy cave at Ponden Kirk. Then I thought of Branwell in the graveyard with Mary. She would laugh and tease him while he sketched her. My anger surfaced again, and a sense of recklessness swept over me.