The Mist on Bronte Moor

Chapter 9


When his glance drooped, ’twas hard to quell

Unbidden feelings’ sudden swell;

And pity scarce her tears could hide,

So sweet that brow, with all its pride;

—E.J. Brontë





Fury coursed through my veins like an electric current. I lunged forward and swatted the bottle out of Branwell’s hand. He fell back in surprise. The bottle landed on the ground, dark liquid pooling from its open mouth.

“What did you do that for?” He grabbed the bottle and held it up to his face, surveying the waste.

I leaped to my feet. “You tricked me into buying drugs for you. You said they were for your father. That’s why you sent me into the chemist, so no one will know you bought the laudanum.”

I sounded like a baby, and I hated myself for it. But I couldn’t stop the anger from taking over. I let him make a fool of me. I let him use me to buy his drugs. That’s why he’d been Mr. Charming.

I leaned over him, my body trembling.

He stared at me open-mouthed as if I’d fallen from the sky. After a few seconds, he said, “Ok. I did. But no one’s going to care. Miss Betty thinks you bought it for the house. I’m sure she assumes you’re a servant.”

His indifference infuriated me even more. I wanted to lash out at him for humiliating me. Instead, I faced him with my fists clenched at my sides. “And what if she finds out I’m not a servant? What if she says something to your father?”

“What if she does?” he said.

I glared at him. He really didn’t care if I got blamed. He didn’t care about me at all. My mind raced.

If Mr. Brontë finds out, or worse, Aunt Branwell, I’ll be on my way to an orphanage before I can blink.

Fear and anger tightened their grip on me. “I’m not taking the blame for this! I’m going to tell Emily what you’ve done, and you can explain it to your father.” I stalked in the direction of the house, not really intending to tell Emily anything. All I wanted was to get away from Branwell.

“Wait!” Branwell bolted up and clasped his arms around my waist.

I struggled to free myself. “Let go, or I’ll scream!”

He tightened his grip. He was surprisingly strong for someone so small. “Listen for a minute, please.”

“No, I’ve listened to enough of your lies.” I tried to pry his hands apart, but I couldn’t free myself. Tears threatened to leak out of the corners of my eyes.

“I promise I’ll confess to Papa if he ever finds out. I won’t let you take the blame. But you needn’t worry. Miss Betty won’t think anything of the laudanum. It’s a common medicine. Everyone has it in their home. Tabby keeps some close by at all times. She even gave it to you.”

I stopped fighting. “To me?”

“Yes, after you fell down the stairs.” He loosened his grip, and I whirled around to face him. “You thrashed about like a wild animal after she sewed you up, and she couldn’t get you to rest, so she gave you some laudanum.”

I recalled the vile liquid Tabby had forced into my mouth.

“It helped you feel better, didn’t it?” he asked.

I nodded. It had taken the pain in my forehead away. But then I’d had that weird dream. I shuddered. “If laudanum is so common, why not get it from Tabby? Why send me to buy it?”

“From Tabby!” he scoffed. “Tabby still treats us as though we were little children. She administers laudanum when we’re ill and only in the smallest doses. It’s hardly worth having at all. She certainly doesn’t give enough to induce poetry-worthy vision.”

I observed him, curious now. “Are you saying that if you take enough laudanum, it will make you a great poet?”

“Of course not. I already have the makings of a great poet,” he said with an arrogant toss of his head. He plopped onto the boulder and leaned back on the palms of his hands. “But laudanum frees your mind. It’s going to help me create my masterpiece, the way it helped Coleridge, Keats, and Shelley create theirs.”

I suppressed a smile. He was so sure of himself; I couldn’t resist bursting his bubble just a little.

“It all sounds like a load of rubbish to me,” I said. “If you need laudanum to create a masterpiece then you’re not a very good poet to begin with, are you?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “That resembles something one of my sisters would say.”

I folded my arms. “Well, your sisters are very clever.”

He gazed at me. I fought the urge to look away. I hated being scrutinized, but I didn’t want Branwell to think he’d unnerved me.

“Seriously, though,” I said, dropping my cheeky tone. “Opium is a scary drug. You shouldn’t play around with it.”

Without taking his eyes off me, he reached out, grabbed hold of my arm, and gently pulled me toward him. “I’ve already told you,” he said, leaning in close, “it’s harmless. You needn’t worry.”

His face was inches from mine, and our eyes locked. It was impossible to look away. My pulse raced, but I did my best to steady my voice. “What if you’re wrong?”

He smiled. “Are you sure your name is not Ms. Emily or Ms. Charlotte Brontë?”

“Maybe you should listen to your sisters more often,” I said, feeling strong.

He reached up and ran his thumb along my cheekbone. “Maybe,” he said.

He’d won. He’d succeeded in unnerving me. I felt myself blush and quickly pulled away from him. I sank to the ground at the foot of the boulder, picked up a stone, and juggled it from one hand to another as a ploy to avoid looking at him.

Branwell scooted off the rock and crouched directly in front of me, so I couldn’t avoid him.

“Did you see something that upset you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“When Tabby gave you the laudanum, did you hallucinate? Is that why you’re so afraid of it?”

I stiffened, remembering the Frankenstein nightmare. “No,” I said, turning my attention to the stone again.

Branwell didn’t move. I felt his eyes on me, and I was desperate to push him away. He was the last person I’d tell about that dream.

“Was it a vision?” he pressed. “Tabby must have erred and given you too much laudanum, probably because you were thrashing about so wildly.”

I jumped up, causing Branwell to fall backward. “It was only a stupid dream. Forget it, all right?” I leaned against the boulder and folded my arms.

Branwell sprang to his feet and leaned next to me. We stood side by side in silence, but I was keenly aware of his body next to mine.

After a minute, he stepped in front of me. “I’ll tell you what,” he held up the laudanum, “I’ll throw this whole bottle away if it upsets you that much.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I will. I swear it.” He tossed the bottle over his shoulder.

I laughed.

He leaned forward. “I can write poems without laudanum. Do you want to hear?”

This time, I closed my eyes willingly.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May . . .”

My eyes popped open. “You didn’t write that!”

He cocked his head. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve read it before. Shakespeare wrote it.”

“You’ve studied Shakespeare?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ve read Romeo and Juliet. And I’ve seen the fil—” I stopped myself. “And I’ve read that sonnet as well as loads of others,” I said.

That wasn’t entirely true. But Mrs. Holiday, my English teacher, had read a few sonnets to the class, and it so happened the one Branwell had recited was her favorite. She kept a copy of it in a frame on her desk.

I opened my mouth, ready to embellish on the truth even more. But Branwell stared at me with such intensity that my voice jammed in my throat.

“So, you really are who you say you are—a girl from London with an education and a family?”

I nodded, my eyes locked on his.

He continued to study me as if I were a puzzle he couldn’t piece together. A thousand butterflies spread their wings and took flight in my stomach. I looked away.

“Why do you hide under that hat?” he asked.

My insides froze, but I faced him and forced a smile. “It keeps me warm.”

“A bonnet would suit you better.”

“But it wouldn’t be as warm,” I said.

He reached up and touched the delicate strands on my forehead that peeked out from under my beanie. “What happened to your hair? Did someone cut it as a punishment?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I pushed his hand away. “Who would do something like that?”

“School masters for one. Charlotte told me about it. When she was away at Cowen Bridge with my sisters,” he paused, “a girl was punished for vanity. Her hair was cut in front of the others to teach her humility.”

That sounded familiar, actually. I think I’d seen something like that on the telly once.

He waited for me to respond. I remained silent and shifted my gaze to the moors. I didn’t want to talk about my hair—not now or ever.

After a minute, he cupped his hand under my chin and turned my face toward him.

“Will you allow me to paint you?” he asked.

I pulled my chin out of his grip. “What?”

“We can start tomorrow.” His eyes hadn’t left my face. “It’ll give you further excuse to miss your sewing lessons.”

My body relaxed. “Well, if I can miss sewing . . .”

“I only have one condition,”

“What’s that?”

He caressed my cheek. “I draw you without your hat.”

I jerked my head back as if someone had lit a flame under it. “No,” I snapped.