The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 27


“Well, some may hate, and some may scorn,

And some may quite forget thy name,

But my sad heart must ever mourn

Thy ruined hopes, thy blighted fame.”

—E. J Brontë





Afeeling of déjà vu hit me the moment I stepped into the large, paneled room. I had seen those looming shelves and their colorful armies of books before. This was where everything had begun. This was where I’d gotten my first glimpse of the parsonage.

Clara had run to this house, which had once belonged to Hugh’s family. If I were going to find any answers to my questions they’d be in this room. I walked over to the wall of pictures and scanned every frame. There had to be something.

And then I saw it—a small, but unmistakable portrait of a smiling Clara and Hugh.

From the frame, Clara’s face flushed a healthy pink. Her huge smile made her green eyes sparkle. Her long, dark hair had been curled and rested neatly on her shoulders. She clutched Hugh’s arm, his face handsome and proud—nothing like the pale, anguished expression I’d encountered on the moors. Just to make sure it was real, and not part of a dream, I leaned forward and touched the frame lightly.

“A lovely couple, aren’t they?” A voice sounded behind me. I jumped and whirled around to see a thin, gray-haired lady with bright blue eyes.

I blinked. “Aunt Elspeth?”

“Yes.” The woman took a step toward me. “And you must be Heather. I haven’t seen you since you were a baby.”

“Oh, I thought you would be—” I stopped.

“More fragile?” Aunt Elspeth winked.

I flushed.

She tapped her head. “It’s all up here,” she said. “Keep your mind sharp and your body will follow.”

I smiled, and then pointed to the picture of Clara and Hugh. “Who are they?” I asked, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice.

“He was a Heaton. They’re the family that built this house. They owned it until 1898. Then it was sold and resold, until I was lucky enough to get my hands on it.”

“Why did the Heatons sell it?”

“They didn’t. The family simply died out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Robert Heaton had three sons and they all died childless. That was the last of the Heaton family.”

“But you said he was a cousin, so couldn’t he have inherited the house?”

Aunt Elspeth cocked her head. “Actually, I didn’t say that. But, you are correct. He was a relation and could have inherited. But he and his wife both died very young of tuberculosis—even before the Heaton boys—and without any heirs.”

Clara and Hugh dead—young and childless. So all my efforts had been for nothing. What had been the point of everything? I’d given up Branwell for no reason at all.

Suddenly, an image of a ragged, frightened Clara clinging to me in a cold cemetery flashed in my mind. I’d helped her escape a monster. It didn’t matter how long she’d lived after that. The important thing was that she didn’t die imprisoned in Harthorn’s house like an animal.

“When I bought this house, the library had been transformed into a bedroom. I did a lot of meticulous research and work to restore it. Luckily the original panels had been kept intact.”

I only half listened as Aunt Elspeth spoke, my eyes still locked on the painting of Clara and Hugh.

“I wanted to get it as close as possible to the library the Brontës knew and loved.”

The word Brontës penetrated my brain like a bullet. I whirled around to face Aunt Elspeth. “Who?”

“The Brontës.” Aunt Elspeth’s blue eyes twinkled. “This is the very library they used to frequent. Didn’t your mum tell you anything about my house?”

I shook my head.

“Mr. Heaton was a dear friend of Mr. Brontë’s, and he used to allow the Brontë children free use of his personal collection of books. He didn’t know it at the time, but it would make his house and the Heaton name famous.”

I frowned. “But why did that make the house famous?”

Aunt Elspeth raised her eyebrows. “Oh my, no wonder your mother wanted my help.” She strode over to one of the shelves and pulled out three books.

“I think you can start with this one.” She held up a red leather-bound book.

I took the book from her hands—Jane Eyre by Currer Bell. I’d heard of Jane Eyre before. In fact, I’d watched it, or at least part of it, on Masterpiece Theatre with my mum once. But that was only because the upstairs telly had broken down, and I was feeling a bit desperate. The film had given me the creeps. There had been a mad woman locked away in an old mansion, which she eventually ended up burning down. Weird.

“Of course we’ll have to get you some paperbacks,” Aunt Elspeth said. “That is a very early and extremely rare edition. As you can see, it still has Charlotte Brontë’s pseudonym on the cover.”

I jerked my head up. “Did you say Charlotte Brontë?”

“Yes. Currer Bell was her pseudonym.”

The book fell from my trembling fingers and landed with a thud onto the floor.

Aunt Elspeth gasped.

“Sorry.” I scooped up the book and placed it gently on the oak table, unable to tear my eyes away from the words Jane Eyre by Currer Bell written in fancy gold letters.

Bell—my last name. Jane Eyre. Charlotte Brontë. The names swirled in my mind. They seemed to belong together.

Aunt Elspeth slid the two books in her hands onto the table and picked up Jane Eyre. She caressed the spine and cover, checking for damage and looking relieved when she found none.

My eyes shifted to the other two books lying on the table. One had a dark-blue leather cover and the words Wuthering Heights by Ellis Bell printed in gold. There it was again. My name.

“Emily Brontë.” Aunt Elspeth patted the book. “Her only novel. Although I do have a volume of her poems as well if you’re interested.”

Wuthering Heights. Brontë. Again the words fit together in my brain like a pair of matching gloves.

A million questions swirled in my mind, but my throat was so dry, no words would come.

Aunt Elspeth pointed to the third book that had a dark-green cover and the same fancy gold lettering as the other two. This one read: The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Acton Bell. Anne, I guessed.

Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. To me, these had always just been ancient books that teachers and parents went nutty over—boring books that would no doubt be required reading in English class someday.

I sank onto one of the oak chairs and forced my mind to focus. Had I actually met a bunch of really famous writers while going back in time? I bit my lip. There had been a lot of writing going on in that house. All those tiny books that Charlotte and Branwell—I froze. Branwell.

I jerked my head up. “Didn’t they have a brother?”

Aunt Elspeth beamed. “So you do know something.”

“Um . . . I don’t know where I heard that; it just popped into my mind.”

Aunt Elspeth took a seat next to me. “Well, as a matter a fact you’re correct. There was a Brontë boy, Branwell, but he never achieved the fame and success his sisters enjoyed. He had talent, to be sure, but he became addicted to laudanum and alcohol at an early age.”

“And?” I asked, my heart racing.

“And it destroyed him.”

My stomach contracted as if someone had taken a bat to my insides. I turned my head and bit back a scream that struggled to escape my throat.

“He led a short, troubled life.”

“Short?” I clenched my trembling jaw and forced myself to look at Aunt Elspeth.

She picked up Wuthering Heights and gazed at the cover.

“Well, they all did really. Branwell was the first to die of tuberculosis at thirty-one. Unfortunately, he passed the disease onto Emily who died two months after her brother.” Aunt Elspeth sighed. “To think of the novels that died with her. Anne contracted the disease as well. She died five months after Emily.”

The scream throbbed in my throat. I didn’t even have the voice to ask about Charlotte.

Aunt Elspeth laid Wuthering Heights back on the table and picked up Jane Eyre. “Fortunately, Charlotte survived the outbreak and lived for five years after Anne’s death. She left us with several wonderful novels.”

Five years. Only five years! “They were cursed,” I said.

“That’s what some people believe, but in reality they were probably lucky to have survived their childhood. Disease was rampant in Haworth during their time. The one I feel for most is poor Mr. Brontë. To outlive his wife and six children.” She shook her head. “Their story is bittersweet.”

An image of Mr. Brontë shuffling around the empty parsonage flashed in my mind. I couldn’t stand to hear anymore. I needed to get away from Aunt Elspeth and everything she was telling me. It was only a history lesson to her, but to me—

Somehow, I managed to push myself out of my chair.

“Here you are!” Maggie strode into the library. “Cook’s been waiting for you.”

“Oh my!” Aunt Elspeth said. “You haven’t even had your breakfast, and here I’ve been prattling on about your studies. You must be ravenous, not to mention exhausted.” She reached out and patted my hand. “Rest today. Maggie can take you to Haworth tomorrow. You can visit the parsonage if you wish.”

Another bullet to the brain. The parsonage!

“No,” I said. “I want to go today.”



The walk from Stanbury to Haworth was long, but I didn’t mind. I had become used to long walks. I’d convinced Maggie to let me go on my own. She’d agreed readily—and why not? Haworth was a tourist spot; there were signs everywhere in both English and Japanese. There was even a special path to guide visitors called Brontë Way. But I didn’t need signs. In fact, I wished they would all disappear. My feet knew where to take me.

My mood soared as I approached Haworth cemetery. Maybe, just maybe, the magic would take hold of me again, and I’d find myself back in the nineteenth century. The thought made me break into a sprint. I ran, ignoring the homes that had sprung up in the area since I’d last been there. I wanted to rush past the graves and run straight into the church. This time I’d throw my arms around Branwell and never let him go.

The first thing I saw were trees. Huge trees everywhere; their yellow leaves littered the graves. I slowed my run to a stop. There had been no trees in the graveyard before.

I moved through the cemetery in a daze. Small clusters of people mingled around the graves, pointing and flashing their cameras. My heart sat like a lump of stone in my chest.

The parsonage stood, as it always had, surrounded by the low stone wall that separated it from the cemetery. I stumbled toward the iron gate that I knew would take me into the garden, but stopped abruptly when I found it had disappeared. A block of stone sat in its place. I stared at the words engraved on the stone—This was the site of the gate leading to the church used by the Brontë family and through which they were carried to their final resting place in the church.

A lump rose in my throat. I forced it down and tramped toward the side alley, which I knew would take me to the back gate. I found the gate easily enough, only now there was a sign affixed to the wall beside it that read: Museum Entrance. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Everything looked different—the garden was fuller and the house bigger than it had been. Still, it was impossible for me to believe that I would go inside and not see Branwell, Emily, Charlotte, and Anne sitting in the dining room together, or find Tabby bustling around the kitchen. I couldn’t contain myself any longer, and I dashed forward, leapt up the stairs, and pushed open the white wooden door.

The gleaming entrance hall with its wide archway stretched before me. I paused. The corridor seemed narrower somehow, but still achingly familiar. A painful longing filled my entire body; all I could think of was Branwell. I rushed forward and veered left, eager to get into the dining room. But a red rope, coiled from one end of the doorway to the other, stopped me in my tracks. I blinked at it in confusion.

“No touching, luv.”

I spun around to face a middle-aged woman with tight, brown curls and a square-shaped body.

“You here on your own?” she asked.

I nodded.

She cocked her head. “Let’s see. You about fifteen? It’s £3.60 for under sixteen.” She handed me a pamphlet. “Feel free to give more if you want to make a donation.”

I fished a fiver out of my pocket and handed it to her.

“Go ahead and roam around, but remember no touching and no photographs,” she said.

In the dining room, crimson curtains hung from the windows—when had Mr. Brontë allowed that? The walls were different, too—they had been wallpapered. My eyes fell on the small square table in the center of the room. On top of it, a wooden writing box, papers, and a quill pen were carefully arranged for display. I stared at the quill. It reminded me of the one Mr. Brontë had given me. My gaze drifted to the black couch where I’d last sat wrapped in Branwell’s arms.

“That’s the couch where Emily Brontë died,” the woman said, coming up behind me.

I jumped. “What?”

“Sad to think, isn’t it?” she said.

The lump in my throat swelled, and I couldn’t stand to look at the dining room anymore. I stepped across to Mr. Brontë’s study. Another red rope warned me not to enter. I backed away and rushed down the hallway toward the kitchen. A fire would be crackling in the range as usual and Tabby would be fussing about, making apple pudding or peeling potatoes with Emily and Anne for dinner. I hurried forward.

The kitchen stood cold and empty. Gone were the colorful capes that hung on the back door and the muddy boots that lined the back wall. All that remained were the familiar blue and white china cups I’d sipped tea from and the copper pots Tabby had cooked with, sitting neatly on display, unused and untouched.

I couldn’t bear to be in the house anymore. It was no longer a home. It was a museum.

I ran back down the hall and out the front door, almost slamming into two women coming up the stairs. Out of habit, I raced across the garden to the iron gate and stopped in front of the stone wall that now took its place. The church and its clock tower loomed ahead. The last place I’d seen Branwell.

I bit my lip. I wouldn’t go there. I wanted to remember it exactly as I’d last seen it—with Branwell inside. I wished I hadn’t gone into the parsonage. Still, I wasn’t ready to leave. I tramped across the garden, out the side gate, and down the cobblestone lane that led to the village. Maggie had said it was almost exactly the same as in the Brontë’s time, and I needed that now.

The first building I headed for was the Black Bull. It stood next to the church steps, looking exactly as it always had, except that a plaque had been fixed to its front. I walked over to it and read—This inn was frequented by Patrick Branwell Brontë from 1827–1848, the only son of Rev. Patrick Brontë, incumbent of Haworth from 1810–1861.



I blinked. Is this how Branwell is remembered?

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped. An elderly man held a camera out to me.

“Picture,” the man said pointing to himself and his companion. Clearly he didn’t speak English.

I nodded and tried to steady the camera in my shaking hands as the couple posed in front of the Black Bull. After handing back the camera, I crossed the street.

The druggist’s had a new name, Rose & Co Apothecary. It too had a plaque fixed to the wall, similar to the one at the Black Bull. This one was even more painful to read—When the Brontë Family lived in Haworth this was the druggist’s house and shop. The pharmacist at the time was Betty Hardacre & it was she who dispensed laudanum, an opium derived drug, to Branwell Brontë in the years leading up to his death in September 1848, aged 31.

The last time I’d been here, Branwell had waited for me on the other side. Now, a red phone box stood next to the church steps and tourists with cameras, maps, and souvenirs milled about, pointing and taking pictures.

Maggie had been wrong. Nothing was the same.