The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 5


For, lone, among the mountains cold

Lie those that I have loved of old,

And my heart aches, in speechless pain,

Exhausted with repinings vain,

That I shall see them ne’er again!

—E. J. Brontë





Papa will speak with you in his study.” Emily dashed into the kitchen, her face flushed.

I hesitated.

“Come,” she urged, “you needn’t be afraid.”

I stood up.

“I want to hear what Papa has to say about this.” Charlotte leapt out of her seat. She was almost a foot shorter than Emily.

“Me too.” Branwell pushed his chair back and sprang to his feet. He was also noticeably shorter than Emily.

Anne rose from the table but said nothing.

I took a deep breath. Apparently, the whole family wanted to be part of this discussion.

Like the kitchen, Mr. Brontë’s study basked in the warmth of a fire. Mr. Brontë sat in a chair at a wooden table situated in the center of the room. He stared into the fire as if deep in thought while he sipped his tea.

Charlotte, Anne, and Emily all took a seat at the table, and I, not wanting to be left standing alone, quickly followed. Branwell marched over to a small upright piano positioned next to the fireplace and played a few notes of what sounded like part of a song.

Emily covered her ears and whirled around to face Branwell. “That’s a piano, not an organ!”

Branwell threw his hands in the air and swiveled away from the piano.

Mr. Brontë pushed his teacup aside and peered at me through his round glasses. His strong, lean face, sharp nose, and blue eyes were the image of his son’s. He had a shock of white hair that I imagined had once been red like Branwell’s. He wore all black with the exception of a thick piece of white silk wrapped around his neck like a giant bandage. He appeared to be a wise man, and I knew he must be, because books titled A Grammar of General Geography, A History of British Birds, and The Life of Napoleon were amongst the many that littered his desk.

“Emily tells me you are staying with your aunt and that you became lost on the moors.” His voice was gentle. “I know most of the people in these parts, although I’m afraid I don’t know an Elspeth. What can you tell me about her?”

I swallowed. “Well, um I haven’t actually met her yet.”

Mr. Brontë’s eyes traveled from my beanie to my blood-encrusted nose and mud-streaked jeans. He leaned forward and peered at me with a look of concern on his face. “And you say your parents are in London?”

“Yes. We live in East Dulwich.”

“But they’ve sent you to stay with your aunt?”

I nodded.

He studied me. As with Emily, I felt he didn’t quite believe me.

“You needn’t worry,” he said. “I shall inquire about your aunt in the village tomorrow. Until then, you may stay here with us.”

I practically bolted out of my chair. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. I mean, thank you for the invitation, but my aunt will be worried. I need to get back today or she’ll ring my parents in London. They’ll go absolutely bonkers!”

I stopped, suddenly aware that everyone’s eyes were fixed on me. I forced a smile.

“If someone will walk back with me, I’d really appreciate it. The house can’t be far from where Emily found me. I’m not sure of the exact address though, because I only arrived last night, but I know what the house looks like—sort of.”

I paused, trying to conjure up a picture of the house in my mind, but it was no use. First the rain and then the fog had prevented me from getting a good look at the place.

“I know the name of the town where she lives,” I said, snapping my fingers. “It’s called. . .” Bugger! What had Mum said? I frowned. It was useless; my mind was blank.

Mr. Brontë leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. After a moment, he said, “There is a storm brewing. It’s going to be a big one. I am afraid there is little we can do until tomorrow.”

I glanced out the curtainless window. Angry clouds hovered in the darkening sky. As if on cue, a long, piercing shriek sounded outside and the window rattled violently. I flinched.

“The wind,” Emily said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t think you understand,” I said. “I really must get home.”

If I don’t, my parents will get in their car and haul me back to London tomorrow.

Mr. Brontë clasped his hands together and gave me a sympathetic smile. “I cannot keep you here against your will. But I cannot offer you any assistance in finding your aunt tonight. I can only offer you shelter from the storm.”

In a panic, I scanned the room for a mobile phone or mini-laptop. A quick text or email to Mum would solve a load of problems. But all I found was a burnt-out candle in a glass holder. My heart sank. I’d been right about the electricity and modern conveniences; they didn’t have any.

Thunder rumbled outside. Then lightning struck. My mind raced. Maybe Maggie would ring the police and they’d check the houses in the neighborhood. Surely they’d come to the parsonage. In films, people always took refuge in the church or with the vicar. I blew out my breath. Mum and Dad were definitely going to kill me.

“Go with Emily and she will give you a clean dress to wear,” Mr. Brontë said kindly. You can sleep with Tabby tonight if you choose to remain with us.”

With Tabby? I glanced at Emily.

“But Papa,” Emily said quickly. “Couldn’t she sleep with me and Charlotte?”

“What? And let a strange boy in your bed?” Branwell said.

“She’s not a boy!” Emily’s face reddened with anger.

Branwell bit his lip in a half-hearted attempt to stifle his laughter. I could tell he wanted to bait Emily rather than insult me. Still, I disliked him for it.

Emily’s temper flared. “Someone ought to have whipped you a long time ago,” she said.

I cringed. I’d only just arrived and already I’d caused a row. But I had to admit, I liked the way my new friend defended me.

Branwell laughed out loud but said nothing more to anger his sister.

Mr. Brontë didn’t interfere in the argument. He merely leaned toward Emily and asked, “Where will your guest sleep if not with Tabby?”

“She can have my bed, and I’ll sleep with Charlotte.”

Now it was Charlotte’s turn to protest. “No, Emily. We couldn’t possibly fit comfortably.”

“We did this past July when Ellen Nussey came to visit,” Emily snapped.

“And I suffered from backache for a month because of it,” Charlotte retorted. “Besides, Ellen is my dearest friend from Roe Head. I’m used to sharing close quarters with her.” She blushed. “This is different.”

Heat spread across my cheeks. Charlotte really had a knack for making people feel welcome.

“There’s another cot in the cellar, isn’t there, Papa?” Emily said. “Shouldn’t we start using that for guests?”

Everyone fell silent.

“There is another sleeping cot in the cellar,” Mr. Brontë said hesitantly, “but the room is small; it will be hard to fit another bed in it.”

“We’ll take out the rocking chair. Besides, it’s only for one night,” she argued.

This whole subject seemed to touch a nerve with Branwell. He leapt to his feet. “We can’t give a stranger Maria and Elizabeth’s bed.”

“Why not?” Emily asked. “We should put the less fortunate before ourselves. It was what Maria and Elizabeth would have done.”

The less fortunate? Is that supposed to be me?

“You don’t know anything.” Branwell’s face flushed, and I could see he definitely wasn’t teasing anymore. He sank back onto the piano stool.

“Emily’s right.” Charlotte’s voice sounded strangled.“It is what Maria and Elizabeth would have wanted.”

For several agonizing seconds, no one spoke.

I shifted in my seat and longed to disappear.

Finally Charlotte said, “I’ll take the extra cot. It’s better than trying to share again. Our beds are simply too small, and Emily’s grown at least half a foot since July.”

Mr. Brontë nodded. “Thank you, Charlotte. I’ll have Tabby retrieve it from the cellar.” His voice trembled as he spoke, and it was clear that he was unsettled by the thought of dragging out his dead daughters’ cot.

Branwell stormed out of the room.

I held my breath as he left, embarrassed to have caused so much trouble. Still, I was grateful for how things had worked out. I didn’t want to sleep with Tabby, and I didn’t relish the idea of sleeping in the bed of two dead girls either.

As soon as Branwell was out of sight, Mr. Brontë steadied his voice. “Now girls, I must get on with my work.”

But as we rose to leave, a loud clip-clopping sounded in the hallway. A second later, a petite woman holding a tray with a black and gold teapot and a plate of half-eaten meat and potatoes, strode into the room.

Emily stumbled backward, knocking me over. I fell into my seat.