The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 8


Awake! awake! how loud the stormy morning

Calls up to life the nations resting round;

Arise! arise! is it the voice of mourning

That breaks our slumber with so wild a sound?

—E. J. Brontë





Early the next morning, a single gunshot fractured the silence, jolting me out of my sleep. My eyelids flew open. Darkness filled my vision, and then a flame lightened the room. I jerked my head in its direction. Emily, already washed and dressed for the day, walked toward me holding a candle.

I sat up.

“You look as though the grim reaper himself has paid you a visit,” Emily said.

“What?”

“The grim reaper,” she repeated. “Death.”

“Is someone dead?” I gaped at her. “I thought I heard a gunshot.”

“Oh that,” Emily said. “That’s only Papa firing his pistol out the window. He does it every morning.”

“Why?” I asked.

She yawned. “He loads it before bed every night for protection and must empty its chamber when he wakes.”

I narrowed my eyes. Protection from what, exactly?



“Where’s Charlotte?” I glanced at Charlotte’s empty bed. “And why are you already dressed when it’s still dark out?”

Emily put the glass candle holder on top of her dresser and pulled open one of the drawers. “Charlotte’s downstairs helping Tabby prepare for Papa’s departure. He’s leaving directly for Leeds. That’s why we’re up extra early this morning.”

I glanced out the window at the black sky, grateful to know that they didn’t wake up before sunrise every morning.

Emily picked out a navy blue dress, smoothed it with her hands, and passed it to me along with a stiff petticoat.

I shivered as I stepped out of bed onto the bare floor. I hated winter. My teeth chattered like a wind-up toy as I slipped off my nightgown and squeezed into the petticoat, silk dress, and a pair of black stockings that Emily had selected from another drawer.

We went downstairs, barely able to see with only a flicker of light from the candle. To my surprise, instead of going to breakfast, we went straight to Mr. Brontë’s study.

“Why are we here?” I whispered to Emily.

She appeared shocked for a second and then said, “For prayers. We say them every morning.”

“Of course,” I said, pretending that prayers had simply slipped my mind.

I shuffled behind Emily into Mr. Brontë’s study. As it happened, morning prayers were relatively short. When they were finished, Mr. Brontë said his goodbyes and left for Leeds.

“Do not fret,” he reassured me before leaving the house, “I shall find your aunt on my return.”

I smiled weakly. If only he knew.

At least Mr. Brontë’s going away would buy me time. Something had brought me to the nineteenth century, so something would have to take me back again. Perhaps I’d stumbled into some type of magic portal or something. Whatever is was, I’d have to find it before Aunt Branwell packed me off to the orphanage.

My body warmed the minute I stepped into the kitchen. It was definitely my favorite room in the house, with its constant fire and snug atmosphere. I sat next to Emily and wrapped my icy hands around a cup of hot tea. Tabby placed a steaming bowl of porridge in front of me.

“Mind ya eat it all now. Ya need yer strength.”

I glanced up and smiled. “Thank you, Tabby.”

I swallowed a spoon of the sugar-sweetened porridge. It was lumpy and tasteless. I had the urge to push it aside, but Tabby eyed me like a mother-hen. I forced myself to finish it out of politeness.

“Since Papa’s gone and I have no lessons today, I think I’ll take a ramble on the moors.” Branwell pushed his empty bowl of porridge aside and swallowed his last drops of tea.

“Don’t you dare go without us,” Charlotte said.

“I do have some business to tend to in the village. I suppose I can wait until you’ve finished your lessons,” Branwell said.

I groaned inwardly. I couldn’t stand another sewing lesson with Aunt Branwell. The woman hated me.

“I’m not very good at sewing.” I twirled my spoon. “Would it be rude if I helped Tabby clean up instead?”

“I could use some help, if you don’t mind,” Branwell said.

I narrowed my eyes, immediately suspicious. “With what?”

“Business for Papa.”

“What kind of business?”

“Oh, Papa is always sending Branwell on errands.” Emily pushed back her chair and got up. “Go with him. Aunt won’t care if we say you’re helping Branni.” She scooted out the room behind Charlotte and Anne before I had the chance to say anything.

Going with Branwell would definitely be more productive than helping Tabby clean. I had to see what was out there. How else would I find a way home?

Branwell smiled at me.

I raised my eyebrows at him and said teasingly. “Branni?”

He blushed. “Sisters!”

I grinned. There was something charming about Branwell.

We grabbed our coats and slipped on our freshly scrubbed boots before leaving out the front door. Branwell led me across the garden, through the iron gate, and into the graveyard.

“Thanks,” I said as we walked. “I really am pathetic at sewing.”

“I’m happy to be of service.” He gave a low bow.

I laughed. Maybe Branwell wasn’t so bad after all.

Just past the church we came to a short flight of stairs which led us into the midst of a quaint village. My eyes widened as I took in the dark stone buildings huddled together at the top of a steep cobblestone hill. People popped in and out of shops, carrying bundles under their arms, and trudged up and down the pebbled street that flowed through the village like a rocky river.

“Brilliant,” I whispered. “There are shops here.”

“Indeed there are,” Branwell said.

“Emily never said anything about a village.”

“Emily dislikes the village.” Branwell said. “She prefers the quiet of the moors.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s the people. She’s more fond of animals. That’s why we were all so surprised when she brought you home. Not typical of her at all. It’s usually stray animals she picks up on the moors,” Branwell said. “She must have really pitied you.”

I blushed, my skin prickling at the insult.

Branwell must have noticed because he said, “Forgive me. I wasn’t trying to offend you. I simply know how my sister’s mind works.”

I nodded, knowing that he was probably right.

“Do you see that shop?” Branwell pointed to a building across the street. “The druggist’s?”

All the buildings were the same brown stone, but each shop bore a gold-lettered sign announcing its name. I found the druggist’s house and nodded.

“I need you to go inside and hand this to Miss Betty Hardacre. She’ll be the one behind the counter.” He pressed a note and several coins into my hand.

“What does it say?” I glanced at the note.

He shrugged. “It’s father’s business. Simply give the note to Miss Betty, and she’ll give you a package.”

“Why don’t you do it?” I eyed him.

“Oh, Miss Betty prattles on and pinches my cheeks as though I were still five years old. If I go in there I might never come out.”

I laughed. “Ok, but you owe me.”

“Consider me indebted,” he said.

I grinned. It couldn’t hurt to have Branwell owe me a favor. Anyway, the shop looked intriguing. Truthfully, I was dying to go inside.

“Buy some licorice with the change,” Branwell said. “My sisters will welcome that.”

I strolled across the street feeling like I’d just stepped into Hogsmeade, stopped in front of the druggist’s, and peered into its gridded, glass windows. Hundreds of colorful glass bottles sat crammed onto rows of wooden shelves. A thrill passed through me as I pressed down the golden door handle and pushed open the door. A tiny bell chimed as I entered. I lingered in the doorway for a second, taking in the shelves filled with an array of perfumes, creams, powders, and medicines. It was brilliant.

“May I help you, miss?” A rosy-cheeked woman wearing a white apron and bonnet greeted me from behind the counter.

“Please.” I strode toward the counter and handed her the paper and coins Branwell had given me.

The woman took the paper and read its contents. “For the reverend?” she asked, raising her eyes to meet mine.

I nodded, wondering what the note said.

“He’s not ill is he?” the woman asked.

“No,” I said. “I mean, I don’t think so.”

“For the house, then?” the woman said. “In case.” She nodded at the paper. “Good to have around. Excellent for coughs.”

She disappeared to the back of the shop and emerged a few seconds later holding a paper bag.

“I didn’t know the reverend had a new servant.” She handed me the bag.

“I’m not . . .” I began, but then thought better of it.

“Not?” The woman arched her eyebrows.

“Um. Not finished ordering. I need some licorice, please. For the girls.”

The woman grinned and opened a glass jar on the counter. She pulled out several sticks of black licorice and wrapped them in paper. “That Charlotte enjoys her sweets. She’ll have tooth trouble one of these days—mark my words.” She handed me the wrapped licorice.

“Thank you,” I said, taking my packages and leaving the little shop.

Branwell waited where I’d left him. As soon as I crossed the street, he ran up to me and lunged for the bag.

“Did you get it?” He opened the bag and peeked inside. “Beautiful,” he said.

“What?” I asked, straining my neck to see inside the bag.

“Come on.” He grabbed my hand. “I’ll show you.”

My nerves jolted to life at his touch. But my new protective instinct, the one that told me I was a freak and that no boy would ever be interested in me again, was to pull away. Branwell didn’t even notice. He held my hand in a firm grip and pulled me up the stairs, past the church, through the graveyard up to the edge of the moors. There he flopped onto the ground behind a large boulder and attacked the packet.

I sank beside him, winded from the long run. “What’s the rush?”

“This.” He plucked out a small, dark bottle and held it in front of his face. “It’s about time I had my own supply.”

He shook the bottle and beamed at the liquid that sloshed inside.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Poet’s gold.” His eyes sparkled as he examined the bottle.

“What are you talking about?”

He lowered the bottle and peered at me. “Close your eyes.”

I froze.

“Why?” I asked.

“Go on,” he said with an irresistible grin. “I’m not going to eat you.”

Was he going to try and kiss me? I inched away from him. I wasn’t ready for this. I came here to get away from everyone, not to get a nineteenth-century boyfriend.

“Are you feeling ill?” Branwell reached out and steadied my trembling arm.

My body tingled. What was wrong with me? Only yesterday I thought he was a prat.

“I’m fine,” I managed to say.

“All right, then. What are you waiting for?”

Reluctantly, I closed my eyes—my nerves screamed for me to run.

“Now listen.” Branwell’s soothing voice filled the air:

“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.”

Immediately my body relaxed and a smile formed on my lips. I could see it all—the winding river flowing through giant caves into a sunless sea; the miles of lush gardens, brimming with the smell of incense, flanked by elegant towers and snaking walls. Branwell’s voice, like an angel’s, took me there.

He stopped too soon. I kept my eyes closed, waiting for more.

“How do you think Coleridge came up with that?” he asked, snapping me out of my trance.

I opened my eyes, disappointed to be taken out of that lush place.

“Laudanum, that’s how.” Branwell waved the bottle in front of my face. “All the great poets take it.”

“What’s laudanum?” I blinked.

“Don’t you know anything?” he teased.

I flushed.

“It’s medicine with magical powers.” He flashed me another winning smile. “It comes from the poppy flower.”

“The poppy flower?” I frowned. I’d learned about poppies in the anti-drug program at school. They’d shown us a film about poppy fields in Afghanistan. They grew poppies there to make drugs. I tried to remember—opium and . . . heroin! I gasped out loud at this revelation.

Branwell grinned, unscrewed the cap, and put the bottle to his lips.