The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 28


The damp stands in the long, green grass

As thick as morning’s tears;

And dreamy scents of fragrance pass

That breathe of other years.

—E.J. Brontë





It rained on the way home. But I hardly noticed. I trudged across the muddy moors with only one thought in mind. Branwell had died the way I’d left him—miserable. And I’d lost any chance I’d had to help him. He was right. He had been cursed. They all had.

In my room at Ponden Hall, four paperbacks lay on my bedside table. I picked up The Complete Poems of Emily Jane Brontë and Wuthering Heights. Its cover showed a picture of Top Withins, the twisted tree bent toward the house just as I remembered it.

I stripped off my wet clothes, pulled on a t-shirt, and crawled into bed, clutching the two books.

I stayed in bed for three days, trying to digest Emily’s words. Everything about Emily’s writing was painfully familiar. There were bits of Branwell everywhere, and each time I came across a piece of him it was like peeling back a fresh wound.

I struggled to keep going, yet I clung to every word. I couldn’t eat or sleep.

I both loved and hated Cathy and Heathcliff at the same time—loved them for letting me relive what I’d felt for Branwell and hated them throwing it all away like I had. I wondered if Emily had fallen in love, too—how else could she have described the pain of it so well?

As I closed Wuthering Heights, I noticed a folded note in my bed. It must have fallen from the book. I picked it up; it was addressed to me.

Heather, I thought you might be interested to know that you are staying in a room which Emily Brontë may have visited on several occasions. It is named the “Cathy” room because the small window that faces you on the right is the very same one Emily writes about in Wuthering Heights. That is the windowpane the ghost of Catherine Linton scratches while pleading to be let inside. Enjoy the books Aunt Elspeth

I put down the note and gazed at the little window embedded in the stone wall. Emily had been in this room and probably Branwell, too. Fresh tears pooled in my eyes. I ached to see them again.

Maggie believed me when I said I’d caught a cold from the rainstorm. Every time she came to check on me, I faked a sneeze or a cough. My eyes were red and my nose was clogged from crying; I both looked and sounded sick.

Soup and tea were delivered to my room three times a day like clockwork. Otherwise, I was left in peace. Maggie let me go on for three days before she came into my room and told me that someone had come to see me. I felt certain she’d rung my mum.

I didn’t have the energy to get out of bed and try to make myself look normal. I knew it would be harder to fake out Mum the way I had Maggie. But I had to try—what other choice did I have? Anyway, what could Mum do? Take me back to London? I hardly cared what happened to me anymore.

A knock sounded at my door. I sat up in bed, grabbed a handful of tissues, and braced myself for Mum. I knew she’d go mental when she saw me—I had to look a mess. I hadn’t eaten in days. All the soup Cook had brought me ended up being flushed down the loo. I hadn’t been able to stomach anything more than tea.

But at least Mum would see that I’d been reading. She’d be happy about that. I’d let her know how seriously I was taking my studies. I wasn’t sure I could tell her about my visit to Haworth without losing it, so I decided to leave that part out, no matter how much it would impress her.

“Come in,” I said, trying to sound as normal as possible.

The door creaked open. My eyes flicked nervously toward it.

Simon stepped into my room.

I gaped at him. In reality, it had only been a week since I’d last seen him, but it felt like years. I had known him since I was five but somehow his broad footballer frame, spiky blond hair, and green eyes looked completely foreign to me.

Simon had been the most important boy in my life for the past ten years. A few weeks ago he’d been the one I’d been crying over. But now all I wanted was a red-haired, nineteenth-century boy genius.

Simon stared back at me as if he was seeing me for the first time in years too. Neither of us spoke. Then he moved toward me uncertainly. His black wool coat reaching down to his knees, and his blue jeans rumpled from his journey.

“Are you—?” Simon stopped. “God, Heather.”

“What?” I said, my old anger at him resurfacing.

“This alopecia thing,” he paused, “it’s not like . . . cancer is it?”

I blinked, taking a second to register what he’d said. When I did, I burst out laughing, all the tension and pain exploding inside me.

“Heather.” Simon rushed to me and gripped my shoulders. “What the bloody hell’s going on?” Panic flickered in his eyes.

“It’s not like cancer,” I said. “I mean it doesn’t kill you. It just makes your hair fall out.”

The tears came as hard and fast as the laughter had before. Everything that had happened in the last few weeks came rushing at me like a tidal wave.

Simon wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. “What can I do?” he whispered. “Just tell me what I can do to make it better.”



Whoever thought the simple act of getting out of bed could be so difficult? I dragged myself to the bathroom as Simon stood with his back to me, hands in his pockets, staring at his feet.

I knew he was worried, but it was only when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that I understood the extent of his concern. My face, gaunt and pale, looked as if it belonged to a stranger. And my eyes, swollen and red from the lack of sleep and constant crying, frightened even me. But most of all, my hair—fragile and short—had to have been a shock to Simon, who’d last seen me with long, thick curls. I ran my fingers through my pixie cut, and it struck me that I hadn’t thought about my alopecia in three days. I didn’t feel the urge to hide it from Simon either—or anyone for that matter.

This is the way Branwell had known me, and he’d loved me anyway.

It took all the strength I had to wash my face and get dressed. I almost broke down when I pulled on my beanie, still stained with nineteenth-century soil and rich with Branwell’s scent.

To appease Simon, I forced down a piece of Marmite toast that Cook had placed on my bedside table earlier that morning. It stuck in my throat, and I gagged before washing it down with a gulp of cold tea.

It felt brilliant to get outside and breathe in the cold, fresh air. Being out on the moors gave me a strange comfort. Being with Simon helped, too, but I wasn’t ready to let him know that yet.

We walked in silence for a long time before he said, “I’m really sorry for acting the way I did.”

The old pain flared briefly. “You didn’t talk to me for two months.”

“I know.” He stopped walking.

“It hurt.”

He bit his lip and bent his head.

I’d waited two months to tell him how I’d felt. And now, standing in front of him, I couldn’t understand why it had taken me so long.

He lifted his head. “I was embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed? Why would you—?”

“For kissing you. I was embarrassed by your reaction. The way you pulled away from me and then practically ran out of my house, like you were repulsed.”

I stared at him. “No, you’ve got it all wrong. I thought you were the one who was repulsed. Your face—”

“Well, you should’ve seen your face!” Simon said.

“I was shocked, that’s all. I mean I wasn’t expecting that—it was a crazy accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Simon said.

I didn’t respond. A few weeks ago those words would have been all I needed to make me happy.

Simon moved toward me. I stopped him with my hand. “Don’t.”

“That day in history class,” he said, “when your hair fell out, I should have been there for you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, Simon. I’m not upset with you. It’s just. Things have changed.” My voice broke. I couldn’t tell him about Branwell. I couldn’t tell anyone.

“I rang,” Simon said urgently, “but your mum said you didn’t want to talk to anyone, and then I heard that you’d left. I wish—” He shook his head, “I don’t know.”

“It’s all right, really.” I started to walk again.

Simon followed. I didn’t have a destination in mind, but after a while, we found ourselves approaching Ponden Kirk.

“What is this place?” he asked, frowning at the odd pile of rocks jutting out of the steep valley.

“Just a place I like.”

We stood on top of the valley. I stepped forward and gazed down at the fairy cave—a place for lovers. I had never come to Ponden Kirk with Branwell. But I knew he’d been there. I felt his presence. And I wondered if he’d felt mine after I’d gone.

I shifted my gaze. A rock lay at my feet. Something had been carved into it. I crouched down and squinted at the words: Here is Ponden Kirk a place frequented by my dear friend P.B.B—just a man moving in a mist who lost his way—Francis A. Grundy.

I blinked. P.B.B.—Patrick Branwell Brontë.

“What is it?” Simon asked. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I said, stunned by the words that rang so true. “I am, actually.” I lifted my chin. “I think I’ve found my way.”

“Found your way?” he asked.

I grabbed Simon’s hand and stepped onto the large, flat top of the rock tower. The entire valley lay sprawled out beneath us.

He tightened his grip on my hand. “Come back to London with me. I’ll help you through everything, I promise. You don’t have to go it alone.”

My eyes swept over the rugged landscape. “Thanks, Simon. But, I’m fine, really. In fact, I’ve decided to stay. I’m going to ask Mum to enroll me at the local school. I want to finish out the year here. And then, I’ll see.”

“You don’t have to run away.”

“I’m not. I mean not anymore. Actually, I’m doing the opposite of that.”

“Really? How so?”

“Have you ever walked into a place that felt—I don’t know—right? As if, somehow you belonged there, even though you’d never been there before?

He shrugged. “You mean like the football field?”

I smiled. “Exactly, Simon—like the football field. That’s how this place feels to me.”

Simon nodded slowly. He couldn’t argue with the football analogy.

I scanned the wild moors below, closed my eyes, and breathing deeply, inhaled the scents of fragrance past.





Author’s Note


In 1833, the Reverend Patrick Brontë and his sister-in-law, Elizabeth Branwell, lived with a house full of teenagers: Charlotte (17), Branwell (16), Emily (15), and Anne (13). The Mist on Brontë Moor is a fictional account of the Brontë’s lives during this time period.

Charlotte Brontë’s school friend, Ellen Nussey, visited the Brontë Parsonage in June 1833 (five months before Heather’s arrival). Several years later, Ellen documented her impressions of the Brontë family. Since then, Ellen’s depictions have been widely recorded and make an appearance in almost every Brontë biography. In The Mist on Brontë Moor, I have used Ellen Nussey’s descriptions, old and new scholarly research, my own imagination, and some of the characteristics the Brontës exhibited both as children and as adults in my portrayal of them. I have tried to stay faithful to the descriptions of their looks and characters as well as the locations they frequented: the parsonage, the moors, the Meeting of the Waters, the Black Bull, Top Withins, Ponden Hall, and Ponden Kirk. In addition, I have incorporated several incidents that occurred throughout their lives, but I have also drawn much from their writing and my imagination.

The anecdote of Emily cauterizing her own wound with a poker after being bitten by a dog, for example, is well known. Charlotte Brontë, herself, writes about this incident in her novel Shirley, whose title character is based on Emily. In The Mist on Brontë Moor, I up the ante by introducing a wolf into the picture. Either way, this incident sheds an interesting light on Emily’s character.

From Ellen Nussey we learn that at sixteen, Branwell was a studious young man and a budding artist. No one knows for certain when Branwell’s problems with alcohol and drugs began. In The Mist on Brontë Moor, Branwell is portrayed as a teenager merely experimenting with alcohol and laudanum, which later become a crutch for his problems.

There has been much debate over the cause of Branwell’s instability. While some biographers deem Maria and Elizabeth’s deaths as largely responsible for Branwell’s troubles, others believe that the deaths of his sisters only partially contributed to his problems. Branwell’s poem “Caroline” (featured in The Mist on Brontë Moor) is thought by scholars to be partly based on his experiences at the time of Maria’s death.

Although Branwell had many problems, he was also very charming and sociable. Ellen Nussey indicated that he was both gregarious and entertaining when in the company of others. One person charmed by Branwell was Mary Taylor, Charlotte’s friend from Roe Head, who visited the parsonage in 1840. It is certain that Branwell noticed the beautiful Mary and even “cared” for her, as Charlotte reported in a letter to Ellen. Not being the typical coy nineteenth-century female, Mary did little to hide her strong feelings for Branwell. As a result, his feelings quickly changed from caring to “contempt.”1 The independent Mary remained unmarried and went on to live a full life of adventure and self-sufficiency overseas.

For the reader who sympathizes with Heather, Mary might come across as unlikeable. But it is important to note that, in life, Mary Taylor was a strong, intelligent woman and early feminist who is admired to this day. In Charlotte Brontë’s novel, Shirley, the feisty character Rose Yorke is modeled after Mary Taylor.

Elizabeth Branwell was a religious woman who pined for her home in Cornwall and abhorred the cold Yorkshire weather. Anecdotes illustrate that she was practical, dutiful, outspoken, and sometimes strict with the servants. However, she also exhibited a sense of humor and much generosity toward her family. In the Mist on Brontë Moor, Aunt Branwell, like the rest of the Brontë family and their acquaintances, is portrayed through Heather’s eyes. As such, she may come across as a harsher and less likeable character than she was in life.

Ponden Hall still stands today. It once housed a library thought to be frequented by the Brontës and is believed to be the model for Thrushcross Grange in Wuthering Heights. At the time of the Brontës, it belonged to Robert Heaton, his wife, and their three sons. Hugh Heaton, who is portrayed as a cousin of the Heaton family in my novel, is a fictional character.

Lastly, I’d like to encourage everyone to visit the Brontë Parsonage Museum in Haworth. The experience is truly awe-inspiring.

I hope you have enjoyed The Mist on Brontë Moor, which incorporates both fact and fiction. For scholarly readings on the Brontës, please see the bibliography.

—Aviva Orr





Note

1. To read more of the letter, see Barker, The Brontes: A Life in Letters, 83–84.





The Brontë Novels


The Professor, Charlotte Brontë

Jane Eyre, Charlott Brontë

Villette, Charlotte Brontë

Shirley, Charlotte Bronte

Wuthering Heights, Emily Jane Brontë

Agnes Grey, Anne Brontë

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, Anne Brontë





Bibliography


Barker, Juliet R.V. The Brontës. New York: St. Martin’s, 1994.

———. The Brontës: A Life in Letters. New York: Overlook, 1998.

Brontë, Anne. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. London: John Murray, 1920.



Brontë, Anne, Branwell, Charlotte, and Emily. The Brontes: Tales of Glass Town, Angria, and Gondal. Ed. Christine Alexander. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2010.

Brontë, Charlotte. Jane Eyre. Ed. Michael Mason. London: Penguin, 1996.

———. Shirley. Eds. Andrew and Judith Hook. London: Penguin, 1985.

Brontë, Emily. Wuthering Heights. Ed. Linda H. Peterson. New York: St. Martin’s, 1992.

———. The Complete Poems of Emily Jane Brontë. Ed. C. W. Hatfield. NewYork: Columbia UP, 1995.

Brontë, Patrick Branwell. The Poems of Patrick Branwell Brontë. Ed.Tom Winnifrith. New York: New York UP, 1983.

Cannon, John. The History of the Brontë Family: From Ireland to Wuthering Heights. Gloucestershire: Sutton, 2000.

Frank, Katherine. A Chainless Soul: A life of Emily Brontë. Boston: Houghton, 1990.

Fraser, Rebecca. The Brontës: Charlotte Bronte and Her Family. New York: Crown, 1988.

Gaskell, Elizabeth Cleghorn. The Life of Charlotte Brontë. London: Penguin, 1985.

Gerin, Winifred. Anne Brontë: A Biography. London: Thomas Nelson, 1959.

———. Branwell Brontë. London: Thomas Nelson, 1961.

———. Emily Brontë: A Biography. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1971.

Miller, Lucasta. The Brontë Myth. New York: Knopf, 2003.

Paddock, Lisa, and Carl Rollyson. The Brontës A to Z. New York: Checkmark, 2003.

Sellars, Jane. The British Library Writer’s Lives: Charlotte Brontë. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1997.





About the Author


Aviva Orr was born and raised in Cape Town, South Africa. She currently lives in Southern California with her husband, two daughters, and two Yorkshire terriers (Lucy and Branwell). Aviva received a master’s degree in English from California State University, Long Beach, where she spent most of her time studying early British literature. Aside from writing, Aviva enjoys reading and traveling. Her favorite place to visit is England. In 2005, Aviva visited the Brontë Parsonage in Haworth and the idea for The Mist on Brontë Moor was born. To learn more about Aviva, please visit her website at www.avivaorr.com.