The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 23


I see around me tombstones grey

Stretching their shadows far away.

Beneath the turf my footsteps tread

Lie low and lone the silent dead;

—E.J. Brontë





The church bells clanged three times like a morbid alarm clock, alerting us to the start of the funeral procession. I tied my bonnet and rushed downstairs, where Branwell, Charlotte, and Anne were already stepping out the front door.

Branwell held the door open for me and winked as I slipped past him. I wondered at his good mood. Then I remembered that death, especially the death of children, was commonplace in Haworth. The graveyard was overrun with graves, and I supposed it would be impossible to take every death to heart.

We hurried across the garden and filed through the small iron gate into the cemetery. The procession, headed by Mr. Brontë, was already in progress. We watched as he led a cluster of somber figures along the cobblestone path that curved from the church into the graveyard.

Three men, each with a small, wooden coffin perched on his shoulder, followed closely behind Mr. Brontë. As they approached us, I spotted Aunt Branwell in her usual dark silk dress and pattens amongst the group of mourners that trailed the men. One woman, whose ragged black dress hung on her frail body, clung to the arm of a gaunt man, who seemed to drag her reluctant body up the path with his own. A lump formed in my throat. I guessed those were the parents.

The four of us joined the end of the procession as it passed by the parsonage. I walked with my head hung low, my eyes avoiding the coffins, and fixed instead on the heavy pairs of boots before me that sunk into and lifted out of the muddy ground.

The procession snaked through the graveyard until it came to a stop next to three freshly dug holes. Mrs. Pratchett’s legs gave way as each coffin was lowered to the ground. Her husband literally held her up by her waist.

I thought of my own parents, wondering if I was dead or alive. I gazed out at the moors, pushing my parents from my mind—something I did often. I couldn’t bear to think about them. It was too painful.

The sudden movement of bodies jolted me out of my thoughts. Mourners shuffled forward. I frowned. Where were they going?

I craned my neck to see and caught a glimpse of the coffins. The lid to each casket had been lifted. Mrs. Pratchett stood motionless, gazing into the first coffin. A train of people waited patiently to the side. Her husband shuffled up beside her and tugged lightly on her arm, but she wouldn’t budge. Eventually, another man stepped forward and gently took hold of her. Together, they escorted her away as she hung between them like a limp rag doll.

One by one, the rest of the crowd filed past the coffins. I froze. Was I expected to view the coffins too? The answer came when Charlotte and Anne stumbled forward and Branwell nudged me gently from behind, prompting me to move with the crowd.

When it came to my turn, I walked quickly, determined not to look into the coffins. But my eyes betrayed me and flicked to the first little box. I stopped and stared into the wooden casket. A petite girl, aged about ten, with golden ringlets framing her face, lay positioned like a porcelain doll in its display case.

My stomach wrenched into a knot. I hurried past the two smaller coffins, forcing my eyes to the ground until I was safely back amongst the mourners.

Branwell, who had been behind me and last in line, still stared into the first coffin, unmoving, like Mrs. Pratchett before him. His lips were drawn together in a tight line and his forehead creased as if he were in physical pain. My throat ached with a longing to call his name, and my hand itched to reach out to him. Even though he was only a few feet from me, he seemed a million miles away.

Whatever spell had been cast over Branwell broke when Mr. Brontë came over and tapped his arm. Branwell jerked his head to the side as if he’d been touched by a ghost. Then he strode away without stopping to look into the two smaller coffins.

I expected him to come and stand next to me, but he didn’t. My eyes followed him until he came to a stop next to Aunt Branwell, where he stood with his head bent and his fists clenched tightly together.

Something was wrong. Had he known the Pratchett girl? It was possible he’d known her from church, but she’d only been about ten or eleven years old. Charlotte and Anne had viewed the dead quickly and courteously without showing too much emotion. So why should Branwell’s reaction have been so different from theirs?

The three men who’d carried the coffins reappeared to replace their lids. My gaze flicked once again toward the sanctuary of the distant moors. I didn’t want to watch them being lowered into those gaping black holes. Nor did I want to think about those three little girls trapped in their wooden boxes for eternity.

Instead, I envisioned myself running up the path toward the moors, hand in hand with Branwell, while Mr. Brontë’s voice, interrupted only by Mrs. Pratchett’s shattered sobs, played like a bad soundtrack in the back of my mind.

At the end of the funeral, the mourners came forward again, each taking a turn to shovel some dirt into the graves. I craned my neck in search of Branwell, wondering if he would take his turn with the shovel, but he had disappeared. I checked behind me and spotted him walking back to the parsonage. My first instinct was to chase after him, but something told me he needed to be left alone.

I lingered while Charlotte and Anne paid their respects, and then I returned to the parsonage with them, our moods dark after the day’s events. But our spirits lifted when Tabby told us that Emily had woken up while we were out and had even sipped a bit of tea. The three of us raced up the stairs.

“Quiet!” Tabby warned, “she’s goan back t’ sleep n’ needs her rest.”

We stampeded into the room to find Emily in another laudanum-induced coma.

Mr. Brontë and Aunt Branwell had gone back to the Pratchett home to offer comfort, and Charlotte decided they could wait to hear the good news.

“But someone should tell Branni.” Charlotte looked straight at me, her eyes shining.

I gaped at her blankly for a second, and then I understood. She had guessed about me and Branwell, only she’d been too polite to let me know. Obviously, she was so happy about Emily’s recovery that she was ready to forgive anything.

Anne pursed her lips and dropped her gaze, silently telling me that she knew too, but did not approve.

I needed to find Branwell—needed to know if he was all right. And now I had the perfect reason. Maybe the news about Emily would help to pull him out of whatever funk he was in.

After changing out of my mourning clothes into one of Emily’s oldest and most simple dresses, I hurried downstairs to the dining room. If Branwell was in the house, he’d be there, bent over his writing desk. Eagerly, I dashed across the stone hallway and entered the small room. Then I then stopped dead.

A large oil painting sat on the table. Next to it, a glass jar of black paint lay knocked over on its side. Paint spilled out of the jar, pooling onto the table and dripping slowly onto the spotless red rug.

I inched toward the painting. It was a portrait of Emily, Charlotte, Anne, and Branwell. Only Branwell’s image had been partially blotted out with black paint. I could still make out part of his face and red hair. The painting itself was signed Patrick Branwell Brontë.

Had Branwell done this? Why would he ruin his own painting?