The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 21


From our evening fireside now,

Merry laugh and cheerful tone,

Smiling eye and cloudless brow,

Mirth and music, all are flown;

—E.J. Brontë





My legs moved beneath me with such speed that I found it difficult to slow my run. Emily’s heavy breathing sounded behind me; I needed to see if she was all right. When I finally stumbled to a stop, my muscles trembled from the strain they’d been under and my legs gave way like a newborn colt’s. I sunk onto the muddy ground, wheezing and clutching my burning chest. My face and ears stung from the cold as if they’d been slapped repeatedly.

Emily collapsed beside me, holding her arm. Grasper, who had amazing speed for such a small dog, panted beside her.

I glanced at her mauled arm.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, but her pinched face told a different story.

“Let me see.” I reached for her arm.

She flinched. “It’s merely a scratch. He didn’t bite me. He only pinned me down with his teeth.”

“I think a wolf sinking his teeth into your arm qualifies as a bite,” I said. “We have to stop the bleeding.” I scanned the area for something—anything. But there was nothing other than rocks and a few shrubs on the ground.

I fingered my silk dress, wondering if I could rip a piece of it off. Then I remembered the petticoat. Quickly, I lifted my dress and ripped a strip of silk from my homemade petticoat. It had been badly sewn, probably by Charlotte, and it came apart easily.

“I’ve never done this before, so let me know if it’s too tight.”

I knelt in front of Emily and wrapped the flimsy material around her arm. Blood seeped through the silk and coated my fingers, making it difficult to secure a knot.

Grasper pawed at her, barking and trying desperately to lick her arm.

“No, Grasper,” I said, pushing him gently with my elbow.

I secured the knot then tore another strip of material from my petticoat, which hung shredded from my body, and wrapped a second bandage.

“That’ll have to do until we get home.” She pressed her hand firmly over the bandage. “Let’s go. The sooner we get back the better.”

I helped Emily to her feet. I knew her arm hurt badly because it wasn’t like her to accept aid from anyone. That’s as far as it went though. She refused to let me wrap my arm around her waist and help her walk the rest of the way home.

The wind sliced through my coat and blew its icy breath into my bones as we stumbled along the darkening moors. My modern coat was a lot thicker than Emily’s homemade cape, still she never complained. Her bloodless face and pursed lips were the only signs of distress she showed.

By the time we arrived at the parsonage, the sky was completely black, although it couldn’t have been time for tea yet. I glanced at the back door that led to the kitchen and imagined the warmth inside. I wanted to rush Emily toward it. It comforted me to know that she’d soon be in her own bed, with her arm securely stitched and bandaged. But as soon as we reached the back steps, she stopped and refused to go any further.

“Go inside while I wait here and see if anyone’s in the kitchen,” she said. “If Tabby’s in there, get her out.”

“What?” I asked with a surprised laugh. “Why would I do that? We need to get you inside and seen by a doctor.”

“No! There’s no need to worry Papa and the rest of the household. I’ll take care of the wound myself.”

“Don’t be daft!” I said, finally losing patience with her stoic act. Emily’s stubbornness could turn into downright stupidity sometimes.

Her voice hardened. “Go inside and do as I ask, or go away and I’ll take care of my own business.”

I glared at her for a second, then nodded. She had made up her mind; I decided to go along with it—anything to get her upstairs and lying down. She wouldn’t be able to hide her arm from the others once we were inside.

“Ok,” I said. “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”

I ran up the steps, cracked open the back door, and peeked into the kitchen. A blast of warm air and the smell of baked cinnamon greeted me. My eyes moved to the fire that danced in the range, and I had to fight the urge to step inside and warm my frozen hands.

“Tabby.” I scanned the kitchen.

Silence.

“Tabby,” I called again, this time a little louder.

No answer.

I motioned to Emily. “The kitchen’s clear.”

Emily staggered up the steps. I leaned against the door, holding it open for her. She stumbled inside followed by Grasper who trotted over to the fire. He settled beside it but kept his brown eyes on Emily, as if he sensed it was too soon to relax.

I closed the back door, careful not to let it bang shut.

“Tabby must be in the cellar and the others are probably entertaining Mary,” Emily said.

Mary. That problem seemed miles away now.

“Go to the door and keep guard,” she said. “If anyone comes, distract them.”

“Why? What are you up to?” I asked, thinking she was probably going to steal a few drops of laudanum from Tabby’s supply. God knew she needed a pain killer.

“Go on.” Emily swayed on her feet. “Quick, before someone comes.”

I strode over to the kitchen door and faced the empty hallway. The loud tick tock of the grandfather clock echoed through the house, accentuating the fact that the others had not yet returned home.

Could they still be in the graveyard at this hour? Maybe they’d decided to go to the village. I chewed my bottom lip. Maybe, Branwell hadn’t found Mary’s company so bad after all.

A short cry sounded behind me. I whirled around and was hit by the smell of burning flesh. Grasper jumped up, yelping as if he’d been hurt. My eyes widened with horror. Emily held Tabby’s red-hot iron poker against her wound. After a few seconds, she lifted the poker and her skin sizzled. Vomit rose up in my throat and I forced it back down, its bitterness overwhelming all my senses.

Emily dropped the poker and let it clatter to the floor. She stumbled toward me.

“I need to lie down for a minute.”

“Are you mad?” I asked. My mind still unable to comprehend what I’d witnessed.

“It’s the only way to stop the bleeding,” Emily said, her voice weary.

“It’s not the only way!” I stared at her blistering arm. “A doctor could’ve stitched you up.”

“I don’t want a doctor,” she said.

I stared at her, too shocked to respond.

She stared back at me in stony silence.

I softened my tone, knowing she must be in serious pain. “Let me get your father, then—or Tabby.”

Her face hardened. “Don’t you dare tell Papa or anyone else, understand?”

“Fine!” I hissed, fear spurring my angry tone. “If you want to lose your arm, then that’s your problem.”

She clutched the wall for support and made her way toward the stairs. I lunged forward to help, but she shook me off. I hovered behind her, ready to catch her in case she lost her balance and fell .

There was no sign of anyone upstairs. Apart from Aunt Branwell, who was no doubt sitting beside her fire, the house seemed deserted. Emily stumbled toward her bedroom, pushing me away as I tried to help. She fell onto her bed and lay in silence, her dark hair tangled, her face pale, and her arm a swollen mess.

I waited with her for agonizing minutes before I heard footsteps downstairs. Tabby had probably come up from the cellar. Emily had fallen into a disturbed sleep. Sweat matted her hair and every now and then she jerked violently. I touched her forehead. It burned.

I needed to tell Tabby. At the very least, she could give Emily some laudanum to ease the pain.

I made my way downstairs. Tabby would be furious at us for going back to Top Withins, and Emily would never speak to me again. I’d probably get thrown out of the house, but I couldn’t worry about that now.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, the front door opened and Charlotte and Anne ambled inside, talking and laughing while untying their bonnets.

They stopped when they saw me.

“Where have you been?” Charlotte asked, her face flushed from the cold. “Mary’s father came a day early and she wanted to say goodbye to Emily.”

I opened my mouth ready to answer, but no words came out.

Charlotte must have seen something in my face because she stopped fiddling with her bonnet and said, “What’s happened? Is Emily all right?”

“There’s been an accident.”

“What?” Charlotte strode toward me.

Anne’s face paled.

“We went back to Top Withins.” I faltered. “The wolf. It bit her arm.”

“Oh, Lord!” Charlotte swayed on her feet, and I worried she was about to faint.

Anne stepped forward and clutched Charlotte’s arm.

“I tow’d ya not t’ go t’ Top Withins,” Tabby’s voice boomed from behind.

I spun around. Tabby’s face was a thundercloud.

“We didn’t,” I lied. “We were out for a walk, and Harthorn’s wolf came out of nowhere and attacked Grasper. Emily tried to save her dog.”

“Where is she?” Charlotte asked, her voice panicky.

“Upstairs.”

Charlotte pushed past me and raced up the steps with Anne following close behind.

“She’ll be needin’ some laudanum.” Tabby marched to the kitchen, leaving me alone in the hallway.

I went back upstairs. Emily groaned as I entered the room, her face and hair wet with sweat. Charlotte and Anne bent over her, their faces a map of anxiety and pain.

“She didn’t want anyone to know, so she cauterized the wound herself with Tabby’s poker,” I said.

Charlotte sank onto the bed and buried her hands in her face. “My word! That sounds exactly like the stupid thing Emily would do.”

Tabby bustled into the room holding a bottle of laudanum. She pushed Charlotte and Anne out of the way and forced some laudanum into Emily’s mouth. Emily squirmed and tried to spit it out. I couldn’t blame her, the stuff was vile. But Tabby held her mouth closed, just as she had done for me after my fall. Emily thrashed about for a few seconds, then calmed. Within minutes, she slept.

Charlotte and Anne relaxed visibly. Charlotte quickly became her old self and issued orders. “Anne, find Papa in the village and tell him what’s happened. He’ll send Branni to fetch the doctor.”

Anne scurried out of the room.

I perched on the edge of my bed and chewed my thumbnail while Charlotte paced the tiny room. Each minute felt like an hour as we waited for Mr. Brontë to arrive. Finally, he rushed into the room with Anne in tow.

“Tabby’s given her some laudanum.” Charlotte scooted out of the way for her father. She wrung her hands as he leaned over to inspect Emily’s arm.

“Oh, Emily.” Mr. Brontë bowed his head. “What impetuous thing have you done now?”

“Has Branni gone for the doctor?” Charlotte asked, still wringing her hands.

Mr. Brontë nodded. He continued to inspect Emily’s swollen, blistered arm and then rubbed his forehead.

“She’ll be all right, won’t she?” Anne’s voice trembled as she spoke.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Brontë said. “Her arm appears infected. I hope she doesn’t lose it.”

Charlotte and Anne gasped.

“That’s impossible,” Charlotte said in a whisper.

Ann sunk onto the spare bed, her face white.

Nausea engulfed me. I knew how they amputated limbs in the nineteenth century. I’d seen it on the telly. They had no anesthetic, and they used a saw. My body swayed. I needed air. I whirled around and ran out of the room, passing Aunt Branwell who must have heard the commotion. Nobody had thought to let her know what had happened to Emily.

I rushed down the stairs and headed for the front door. It swung open and Branwell stepped inside followed by a lanky man carrying a black bag.

Branwell’s eyes met mine for a second before he rushed past me. His face carried the look of panic I felt. The man, who I guessed was the doctor, tipped his tall hat at me. He had a hawkish face with a beak-like nose and a large Adam’s apple that jutted out over his stiff, white collar.

I watched as he followed Branwell up the stairs, then I stepped out into the cold, black night. I didn’t bother to put on my coat, and the icy air sliced through my dress, chilling me to the bone.

I sat on the stone steps in front of the house and dropped my head in my hands. If Emily lost her arm, it would be my fault. I was the one who had taken the ring from Hugh. I was the one who had suggested going to Top Withins. And why had I wanted to go so badly? I knew it was only partly to save Clara. Mostly, I had wanted to save myself from wallowing in self-pity and jealousy over Mary. All that seemed stupid and irrelevant now. I wished I’d never come to Yorkshire. I should have stayed in London and faced up to my own problems. Instead, I’d run away and made things so much worse.

I stayed outside until my body shivered uncontrollably in protest to the cold. When I stepped back inside the house, I lingered in the silent hallway like a complete stranger unsure where to go.

Someone, probably Tabby, had lit a fire in the dining room, and its warm glow drew me forward. In a daze, I stumbled toward the black couch and sat down, still shivering despite the warmth of the fire. I stared at the orange and yellow flames, letting them hypnotize me, until I no longer felt nor thought anything.

I had no idea how much time had passed before I heard footsteps and voices on the stairs. Coming out of my trance, I cocked my head. One voice definitely belonged to Mr. Brontë, and I guessed the other belonged to the doctor. The voices came closer as the men walked down the stairs. They stopped just past the dining room, near the front door.

“It’s a sorry situation, but it has to be done,” the doctor said in a low voice.

“I agree,” Mr. Brontë sounded defeated. “Emily will be distraught when she hears the news, but she’s not always rational about things.”

They were going to do it. They were going to amputate Emily’s arm, and they were talking about it like she was going to have a tooth pulled!

“It will be a dangerous operation and a difficult one. I’ll need the help of several men in the village.”

I imagined a bunch of village men holding Emily down while the doctor sawed off her arm. My head swirled.

“A most unfortunate situation,” Mr. Brontë said. “But the sooner dealt with the better.”

You don’t have to do it! I wanted to scream. I know a place where they can fix her arm, give her medicine, and make her better. If only I can find a way to take her back with me, then I can save her from this nightmare.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Now, you say they were simply out for a walk and the wolf attacked, unprovoked.”

“Of course.” Mr. Brontë’s voice sounded confident. “Who would provoke a wolf?”

The doctor chuckled. “True. But, they weren’t trespassing? The constable will want to know.”

The constable! I sucked in my breath.

“I doubt it,” Mr. Brontë said. “Emily knows better. But even if they were on Harthorn’s land, he had no right to set a wolf on a young girl. They most certainly weren’t there to cause mischief. At worst, they may have wandered too far off.”

I sat rigid. What if Harthorn tells them the truth?

“You’re right,” the doctor said. “That beast is a proven danger. It will have to be shot.”

I swallowed.

“And you’re certain Emily will recover?” Mr. Brontë asked.

“Nowt is for certain,” the doctor paused. “But she should. She’s in a lot of pain. I’ve left an extra bottle of laudanum. She’ll be needing it.”

Mr. Brontë sighed. “Emily will have a hard time coming to terms with the fact that the beast lost its life because of her—she’s very fond of animals.”

“That animal should never have been brought into this country. It must have been smuggled in from Russia or some other such place,” the doctor said.

“Poor creature—taken out of its natural habitat as a mere cub. It’s not right,” Mr. Brontë said.

“Well, you can thank the Lord your daughter still has her arm in one piece, let alone her life.”

“I do, sir. You can be certain of that.” Mr. Brontë opened the front door to let the doctor out.

“I shall check back again tomorrow.” The doctor stepped outside. “Keep giving her the laudanum. She’s in for a difficult night.”

The front door banged shut, and I listened as Mr. Brontë stepped inside his study and closed the door behind him.

I sat in a stupor trying to absorb everything I’d heard. Emily would be all right. She wasn’t going to lose her arm.

Then I realized Harthorn would be out for blood.