The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 2


Heavy hangs the raindrop

From the burdened spray;

Heavy broods the damp mist

On uplands far away;

—E. J. Brontë





I left for Yorkshire three days later with hair cropped so short I barely recognized myself. Mum had taken me to the best salon in Knightsbridge and paid a fortune for the cut. Still, I hated it.

A numb sensation had dulled my senses as I’d watched the hairdresser’s scissors fly across my head, snipping off chunks of hair that seemed to float through the air in slow motion before landing in a fluffy pile on the floor. The experience had been surreal, almost as if it were happening to someone else.

I’d been born with beautiful hair—thick, healthy, and rich chestnut brown. And I’d worn it long since the age of three, receiving compliments almost everywhere I went. It curled naturally at the ends and never frizzed—even in the rain. I never had to run to Boots to buy a million products like the other girls, or tie my hair up in an emergency messy ponytail. I was lucky—or at least, I had been.

The hairdresser stepped back and admired his work. The end result was a boyish, pixie cut.

“Very glamorous,” Mum announced.

“It suits her bone structure.” The hairdresser cupped my face in his hands. “She has model features.”

As far as I was concerned, I looked like Peter Pan. And as soon as we’d left the salon, I dragged Mum to Oxford Street, bought a black beanie, and resolved to wear it for the rest of my life. The beanie remained firmly planted on my head as I boarded my train at King’s Cross Station.

I had convinced Mum and Dad to let me make the journey to Yorkshire on my own.

“You’ll have to change trains in Leeds,” Mum said, her face creased with worry. “It’s a big station.”

I forced myself not to roll my eyes. “Mum, I’ve taken trains from King’s Cross and Victoria a million times. I’m bloody fifteen already.”

“But you’re leaving on a Saturday,” she reasoned. “Dad and I are both free to come with you.”

“I know, Mum, but this is something I need to do on my own. The train ride will give me time to think,” I paused, trying not to crack at the sight of her hurt face. “Look, I need time alone for now. You’ll both come up next weekend when I’m settled, all right?”

Mum glanced at Dad. He shrugged.

“You’ll ring when you get to Leeds and then again when you get to Keighley?” she said, relenting.

“I’ll ring,” I said, holding up my mobile.

“All right,” she said. “Elspeth’s assistant will meet you at the Keighley station. Her name is Maggie.”



Maggie turned out to be a prim, slender woman with hair neatly woven into a tight bun. She strode right up to me the minute I stepped onto the small station platform at Keighley and introduced herself with a firm handshake. It hadn’t been difficult for her to identify me. The only other people who’d gotten off the train with me were an old couple in their nineties, a young mum juggling three toddlers, and two men wearing matching tweed caps.

“And you must be Heather,” Maggie said before I had a chance to respond to her greeting.

“Yes.” I nodded, taking in her trim navy trench coat, heeled boots, black umbrella, and oversized handbag. I raised my eyebrows. Had Mum sent Mary Poppins to collect me?

“Your aunt is very excited to have you,” Maggie said.

I forced a smile. “Thank you.”

“Well, let’s not waste any more time, shall we? It will be dark before you know it.”

Maggie apparently didn’t care for chit chat, which suited me fine. The last thing I wanted was to talk. I grabbed my wheeled suitcase and followed her out of the station onto a busy road—half expecting her to snap open her umbrella at any second and ferry me away. The rain had stopped, but the cold air stung my face as I walked, and I prayed her car was parked nearby. I was wrong, of course. There was no car. Instead, we walked for about ten minutes before arriving at a modern bus station.

Maggie marched straight through the bustling station, dodging people and ignoring the rows of ticket counters and changing bus schedules. I rushed to keep up and followed her out into the parking area.

“This is the one we want.” She pointed to a blue and white bus marked Stanbury.

I climbed onto the empty bus, heaving my suitcase up the steps, and plunked into the first available seat. Maggie paid the driver and slid into the seat next to me. We waited in silence as more passengers boarded—a young couple full of facial piercings and tattoos, an old lady carrying an armful of shopping bags, and a rotund man who reeked of beer—before the doors swung closed and the engine roared to life like a dragon waking after a long sleep.

A light rain began to fall as the bus rolled out of the station and onto the bustling street. Outside, cars, umbrella-toting pedestrians, and rows of brown stone buildings streamed by, while in the distance, vast stretches of green and brown hills beckoned.

As the bus bounced forward, leaving the city of Keighley behind, Maggie leaned toward me. “You should be very excited,” she said. “You’re in Brontë country now.”



Maggie and I were the last to exit the bus. We stepped onto a dimly lit, country road. Although it was only five o’clock, darkness had already engulfed Yorkshire. Maggie thanked the driver, who promptly nodded his head, slammed the doors shut, and rolled away. I watched the bus lights grow faint and disappear into the night. Shivering, I wrapped my arms around myself.

“Where are we?” I asked, focusing on a small stone building to my right.

“Almost home.” Maggie tightened the strap on her coat. “And we’d best get moving before the rain comes again.”

I pulled my beanie over my ears, grabbed my suitcase, and trudged behind Maggie. We made a right onto an unlit, badly paved road and walked past the stone building. The road narrowed as we passed a second, larger stone building. We continued our hike for over half a mile, tramping through puddles gathered in shallow potholes, while going uphill, then downhill, then uphill again. Aside from a few lights twinkling in the windows of distant homes, the area was completely black.

My eyes stung and watered from the wind, and my body trembled with cold and fatigue. I craved a hot cup of tea. Finally, the silhouette of an elongated structure surrounded by stone walls and white iron railings came into view.

“Here we are,” Maggie announced, as she turned onto a lengthy stone pathway that led to a white front door.

A sudden burst of rain prevented me from seeing more, and I ran blindly down the pathway toward my new home. Maggie strode up behind me, sheltered by her umbrella, and unlocked the front door. She pushed it open, and I stepped into a long, dimly lit hallway.

“I’ll show you to your room, so you can get settled right away,” Maggie said. “You can see the rest of the house later. There’ll be plenty of time to explore.”

I followed her along the L-shaped hallway, passing several heavy oak doors. The house was big but far from grand. It looked like a spruced-up farmhouse with its stone walls and wood-beamed ceilings. My suitcase bumped behind me as it rolled over the flagstone floors.

We approached a staircase, and Maggie stopped to grab one end of my suitcase. Together we heaved it upstairs. Here again, I encountered a long, narrow hallway, this time carpeted, and several rooms hidden behind sturdy oak doors. The walls upstairs were painted a rusty orange, which gave the place a warm, homely feel.

Maggie took a left at the top of the stairs and I followed. “You’ll be in the Cathy room,” she said. “It’s quite comfortable.”

The Cathy room? My room had a name?

She pushed open the door to reveal a spacious bedroom with stone walls, dark hardwood floors, and massive wooden beams on the ceiling. A wrought-iron bed, a low bedside table, two sets of dressers, and an ancient hunchbacked television were the only furniture.

Maggie strode across the room into an adjoining bathroom and flipped on the light switch. “Your aunt is resting now, but she’ll join you for supper in an hour. In the meantime, why don’t you wash up, and I’ll tell Cook to make you a nice cup of hot tea.”

She left the room without waiting for my response, pausing only to pull the heavy oak door shut behind her.

I tugged off my gloves and fished my mobile out of my pocket. I’d spoken to Mum twice already, but I was sure she’d ring again. I dropped the phone onto the table next to my bed. Then I wriggled out of my black wool coat, letting it fall to the floor, and made my way into the bathroom.

A medicine chest with a mirrored front hung above a white pedestal sink. I peered at my reflection and slowly pulled off my beanie, revealing the pixie cut that had replaced my long, chestnut curls. I bit my lip. The cut made my face look smaller and my dark eyes larger as if I were a caricature of my former self. My eyelashes were still thick, but my eyebrows appeared thinner than usual. I blinked. At least I still had them.

I stumbled back into the bedroom, flopped onto the bed, and curled into a ball, hugging the pillow. Something poked my leg through my jean pocket. My iPod. I pulled it out, feeling as though I’d found a long lost friend. Eagerly, I pressed play. Dead. Tossing it aside, I grabbed my pillow again. I thought about Simon, my alopecia, and the long lonely months that lay ahead. Tears flooded my eyes. Alopecia is a rare disease; why did I have to be the one to get it? The tears spilled down my cheeks, but I wiped them away. I’d already cried enough to flood the Thames twice, and it hadn’t changed anything. My hair still fell out.

Exhaustion washed over me. My head throbbed and my eyelids grew heavy. I let them close.



The next morning, I awoke to a silent house. I sat up to discover that someone—probably Maggie—had covered me with a woolen blanket during the night. Shoving it aside, I climbed out of bed. A small window, embedded in a little stone alcove, beckoned, and I peered out of it.

A thick fog hovered over the landscape, making it impossible to see the view outside. I pressed my face close to the windowpane, but the mist from my breath immediately rose up and clouded my vision. My stomach rumbled, despite the fact that I hadn’t yet regained my appetite and didn’t actually feel hungry. I supposed it was just a biological thing. Anyway, it reminded me of the promise I’d made Mum—eat. I shivered from the cold, and pulled on my boots, coat, and beanie before going in search of Maggie.

It took some effort to pull open the hefty door to my bedroom. I paused in the doorway for a minute and scanned the narrow corridor that stretched before me.

“Hello,” I called. “Maggie?”

Silence.

I stepped into the hallway and made my way to the staircase, thinking she or Aunt Elspeth might be downstairs. As I walked, I caught sight of an open door halfway down the passage. I stopped. Perhaps Maggie was in there? I decided to take a quick look and hurried down the passageway, stopping at the room’s entrance. I knew better than to barge into a room unannounced.

“Hello.” I hovered in the doorway. “Is anyone in here?”

Massive, wooden shelves crammed with rows of neatly arranged books filled the room. I stepped inside. Paneled walls framed the shelves and thick white drapes hung from the window, partially concealing a cushioned window seat. A large oak table and matching chairs sat on top of a crimson carpet. And a bronze plaque affixed to the wall read: Heaton Library.

Brilliant! I’d never been in a house that had its own library before—not to mention rooms with names like Cathy and Heaton. Impressive, but weird. I stepped further into the room, feeling like the shrinking Alice as I scanned the towering shelves. There were hundreds of leather-bound books with colorful spines—some tattered and worn and some pristine and new.

Who could read all these?

Then I remembered Mum had said my aunt had been a professor and historian. No wonder she needed a library.

My stomach grumbled again. You don’t eat, you come home. Mum’s words rang in my ears. I sighed. I’d have to come back and explore another time. But as I started to leave, I noticed a wall covered in paintings and old photographs. I walked over to it and searched the pictures. Many were portraits of families, and I wondered if any were related to me.

Not seeing anyone familiar, I was about to move on when a black and white photograph caught my eye. In it, a pretty stone house, lined with white windows, stood on an endless stretch of land. Black clouds hovered above the house as if a storm brewed in the gray sky. I craned my neck to get a closer look. Hundreds of graves dotted the landscape, their bulky stone heads jutting out of the muddy earth in every direction. It gave me the creeps.

I backed away from the picture and glanced around the room once more before leaving to continue my search for Maggie. Convinced she wasn’t upstairs, I walked back in the direction of my bedroom, hurried down the stairs, and paused at the bottom of the steps.

“Maggie?” I called.

No reply.

I continued on, my slight movements echoing in the silence.

“Maggie,” I called again.

Nothing.

Where is she? And where is my aunt?

“Aunt Elspeth? Maggie?”

Silence.

I turned down the L-shaped hallway. Just ahead, the white front door loomed large. Maybe they’re outside milking cows or something. Who knows what people do in Yorkshire.

I strode toward the door and flung it open. An icy wind enveloped me. I shivered and slipped my freezing hands into my pockets. My fingers closed around a soft bundle. I pulled out my spare pair of woolen gloves. A bar of Turkish Delight was nestled between them. I smiled. Dad had bought it for me at King’s Cross, but I’d forgotten to eat it on the train. Mum wouldn’t classify this as food, but it was the only thing I had, so it would have to do. Quickly, I pulled on my gloves then tore open the purple wrapper. Sinking my teeth into the chocolate, I walked into the blinding fog.

“Maggie?” My voice sounded tiny against the wind.

I ventured down the stone pathway, swallowed my last bite of chocolate, and let the wrapper fall to the ground. I could see nothing through the fog, yet I kept walking. I carried on despite the wind that chilled my bones and the icy air that filled my lungs. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I might not be able to find my way home. Still, I kept going. Walking made me feel better. The swirl of white that surrounded me was strangely comforting. It felt like my own personal shield against the world.

The mist grew heavier with every step, and it was several minutes before I stopped and looked around. Only then did I panic. The fog, thick as a drape, had closed around me like a cage.

I turned in every direction.

Fear took hold of me. White mist filled my ears, eyes, and lungs—choking me. Blindly, I attempted to wade through it, like a swimmer clawing her way to air.

“Maggie! Aunt Elspeth!” I called.

My head spun and I stumbled to the ground.