The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 22


Mild the mist upon the hill,

Telling not of storms to-morrow;

No; the day has wept its fill,

Spent its store of silent sorrow.

—E.J. Brontë





I gazed into the fire, my mind whirling with thoughts of Harthorn and the revenge he’d likely take on me and Emily if his wolf was shot. Then I became aware of someone else’s presence in the room.

“I’ve been watching you,” Branwell said.

I wanted to run up to him and throw my arms around his neck, but I hesitated. I’d been the one who’d convinced Emily to go back to Top Withins. Would Branwell still feel the same about me if he knew? I’d have to tell him. I couldn’t simply carry on as though I’d been a victim—guilty of nothing.

“What?” I stammered.

“For about five minutes. I’ve been here watching you. You didn’t even know I was here.”

“Oh, I—”

“It’s all right,” he said, walking over to me. “I’m glad for those moments. I was happy to be looking at you, knowing you are alive and unharmed.”

He sat next to me on the couch and wrapped his arms around me.

I folded into his embrace and buried my head in his chest inhaling a faint scent of charcoal and dried paint.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I pulled away from him. “For what?”

“For helping Emily. It must have been terrible. Anyone else would have run away. But not you. You stayed and made sure she got home safely.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, guilt overwhelming me. “It’s all my fault.”

“Rubbish,” Branwell said. “How can you be to blame for a wolf attacking my sister? It’s typical of her to try and save Grasper from a wolf. She’s always doing foolish things where animals are concerned.”

“No.” I sat up straight. “You don’t understand; she wouldn’t even have been there if it weren’t for me. I wanted to go to Top Withins.”

“Stop,” Branwell said.“You’re making yourself ill. How could you know better than Emily the dangers of the moors? She has lived here all her life. The moors are her home.”

“Yes, but I convinced her—”

“Emily does what she pleases, not what others tell her. She’s as stubborn as Achilles, that girl. God help her if it doesn’t get her killed one day.”

“You’re not listening,” I said, frustrated.

Branwell put his hand over my mouth. “Enough,” he said. “Emily’s all right. She’s strong; she’ll survive this. You cannot go on blaming yourself. No one else does.”

I blinked at him, wanting to say more.

“All I see,” he said, his hand still over my mouth, “is someone who helped my sister in a time of need.” His eyes locked onto mine. “I’m glad Emily brought you to us. She did the right thing.”

I stopped protesting. As long as Emily would recover, nothing else mattered. Branwell lifted his hand from my mouth and drew me close. I curled up against him and let myself drift off to sleep.



The walls of the house shook and the window rattled violently, jolting me out of my sleep. I shot up. The fire had died, leaving the dining room cold and dark. Branwell had gone, and I sat alone on the couch. For a few seconds, the house was completely still. Then violent thumping exploded at the window. I jumped to my feet and peered into the darkness.

Nothing.

It had only been the wind. Just as I was about to sink back onto the couch, a lantern appeared in the window, and Harthorn’s snarling face loomed behind it. A scream lodged in my throat.

“Let me in,” he growled, tapping on the window with his lantern.

I bolted out of the dining room. All of a sudden, he was at the front door, rattling its wooden frame and twisting the handle.

I raced upstairs and ran into Emily’s room, ready to drag Charlotte out of bed. But the room lay empty. Even Emily had disappeared.

“Emily,” I screamed. “Charlotte.”

The naked window in the tiny room shook. A light appeared at one of its small frames.

“Let me in.”

I raced into Mr. Brontë’s room and flung open the door, thinking of the pistol that lay on his dresser. Again, I faced an empty bed.

The window to Mr. Brontë’s room burst apart, and a gush of cold air swept into the room.

I screamed.

My eyes popped open. The nightmare was over. I lay alone on the couch in the dining room. The wind howled and rattled the window. I jerked my head toward it, half expecting to see Harthorn. Rain splattered against the glass and a branch of a nearby bush scratched the pane. A dim light from a weak sun illuminated the room.

I sat up, eerily aware of the silence that surrounded me.

Where was everyone?

My dress, caked in mud and blood from the day before, clung to my body. An urgent need to bathe and change propelled me off the couch. Across the dining room, Mr. Brontë’s study door had been left open, and the room stood empty—an unusual occurrence.

I stumbled to the kitchen, fearful I was having another nightmare, and I’d find it cold and deserted. To my relief, a fire blazed in the range as usual, but there was no sign of Tabby. I hesitated, bewildered for a minute, when the door to the back washroom swung open and Tabby bustled into the kitchen.

A smile broke out on my face.

Tabby stopped when she saw me and eyed my dress.

“I’m off to wash and change,” I said.

Tabby grunted.

I couldn’t blame her. This wasn’t the first dress I’d ruined. I shifted uncomfortably on my feet. “Um, I thought maybe I could do the washing for you today. Seeing as I’ve dirtied so many dresses.”

She studied me, evidently trying to decide whether or not my offer had been genuine. Then the corners of her mouth creased into a smile, and she nodded. “Aye, tha’ll do nicely.”

I grinned, pleased with myself for making peace with Tabby.

“Where’s everyone?” I asked.

“Still asleep. I expect they were up late. Emily ’ad a rough night n’ kept them awake wi’ worry fer t’ most of it.”

I lowered my eyes.

“Mr. Brontë’s at church preparing fer t’ funeral.”

I raised my eyebrows in question.

“Mrs. Pratchett’s three childers died early tis morning’.”

I gaped at her. “Her three children?”

“Aye. ’Tis a sad day. But they won’ be t’ first childers or t’ last t’ die in tis village. Mr. Brontë will be wantin’ all of ya at t’ funeral as a sign o’ respect.”

“Me too?”

“I should think so,” Tabby said. “Yer part o’ t’ reverend’s househowd now, aren’ ya?”

My chest tightened. The statement had caught me off guard, and I wasn’t prepared for how much I wanted it to be true.



I scrubbed my neck, face, arms, and hands until the water in my bucket morphed into a disgusting mixture of mud and blood. The fact that I’d ever taken a hot shower for granted baffled me as I threw out my bucket of filthy water and pumped a fresh bucket to start my scrubbing all over again. This time I took off my boots and stockings and scrubbed my feet and legs, washing as much of my body as I could while outside in the open with a bucket and slab of hard soap. Bathing was possible, I’d seen the others do it, but I wasn’t about to ask Tabby to boil endless pots of water for me after I’d caused her so much trouble.

Once clean, I tiptoed upstairs. Charlotte, Anne, and Emily lay asleep in their beds. Emily’s arm had been freshly bandaged, and she appeared a lot more peaceful than her sisters, who both jerked in their sleep. That was thanks to the half-empty bottle of laudanum sitting on the dresser.

I changed into a clean dress as quietly as possible before bundling my dirty clothes under my arm and tiptoeing back downstairs. Tabby had tea and porridge waiting. Then she introduced me to the washroom—a large tub of warm soapy water, another tub for rinsing, and a pile of dirty clothes.

I eyed the heap of laundry. Was I supposed to wash everything by hand? That would take hours. There was no way. I spun around and was about to pull open the door and march back into the kitchen, when the thought of Tabby’s smile transforming into a scowl stopped me in my tracks. I sighed, scooted back to the clothing, and picked up my stained dress sitting on top of the pile.

I pushed it into the soapy water and began to scrub. I spent the next four hours hunched over, scrubbing, pulling, rinsing, and wringing until my fingers became raw and tender. I cursed the blood stains, which were impossible to get out. Next time, I’d be a bit more careful when I went out on the moors.

By the time dinner came, my body ached as if it had been pummeled from every angle, and I was ready to charge into the mist and give up on the nineteenth century all together. But when I emerged from the back room, I saw Branwell sitting at the kitchen table in his black tailcoat suit, and my heart faltered.

Charlotte and Anne sat next to him with a plate of meat, potatoes, and cooked carrots in front of them. Both wore black silk dresses with stiff black bonnets.

Branwell frowned at me. “Have you been doing the washing?”

I nodded. “I thought I’d help Tabby.”

He suppressed a smile.

“What?” I asked.

“You’ll have to change if you intend to make the funeral,” Charlotte said. “Your dress is soaked through.”

I looked down. The wet silk clung to my thighs. And I’d forgotten to wear a petticoat.

Charlotte and Anne tried to stifle their giggling but gave up when I burst out laughing. It was the first time any of us had laughed since Emily’s accident, and it felt brilliant.