The Mist on Bronte Moor (17 page)

Anne stepped forward and clutched Charlotte’s arm.

“I tow’d ya not t’ go t’ Top Withins,” Tabby’s voice boomed from behind.

I spun around. Tabby’s face was a thundercloud.

“We didn’t,” I lied. “We were out for a walk, and Harthorn’s wolf came out of nowhere and attacked Grasper. Emily tried to save her dog.”

“Where is she?” Charlotte asked, her voice panicky.

“Upstairs.”

Charlotte pushed past me and raced up the steps with Anne following close behind.

“She’ll be needin’ some laudanum.” Tabby marched to the kitchen, leaving me alone in the hallway.

I went back upstairs. Emily groaned as I entered the room, her face and hair wet with sweat. Charlotte and Anne bent over her, their faces a map of anxiety and pain.

“She didn’t want anyone to know, so she cauterized the wound herself with Tabby’s poker,” I said.

Charlotte sank onto the bed and buried her hands in her face. “My word! That sounds exactly like the stupid thing Emily would do.”

Tabby bustled into the room holding a bottle of laudanum. She pushed Charlotte and Anne out of the way and forced some laudanum into Emily’s mouth. Emily squirmed and tried to spit it out. I couldn’t blame her, the stuff was vile. But Tabby held her mouth closed, just as she had done for me after my fall. Emily thrashed about for a few seconds, then calmed. Within minutes, she slept.

Charlotte and Anne relaxed visibly. Charlotte quickly became her old self and issued orders. “Anne, find Papa in the village and tell him what’s happened. He’ll send Branni to fetch the doctor.”

Anne scurried out of the room.

I perched on the edge of my bed and chewed my thumbnail while Charlotte paced the tiny room. Each minute felt like an hour as we waited for Mr. Brontë to arrive. Finally, he rushed into the room with Anne in tow.

“Tabby’s given her some laudanum.” Charlotte scooted out of the way for her father. She wrung her hands as he leaned over to inspect Emily’s arm.

“Oh, Emily.” Mr. Brontë bowed his head. “What impetuous thing have you done now?”

“Has Branni gone for the doctor?” Charlotte asked, still wringing her hands.

Mr. Brontë nodded. He continued to inspect Emily’s swollen, blistered arm and then rubbed his forehead.

“She’ll be all right, won’t she?” Anne’s voice trembled as she spoke.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Brontë said. “Her arm appears infected. I hope she doesn’t lose it.”

Charlotte and Anne gasped.

“That’s impossible,” Charlotte said in a whisper.

Ann sunk onto the spare bed, her face white.

Nausea engulfed me. I knew how they amputated limbs in the nineteenth century. I’d seen it on the telly. They had no anesthetic, and they used a saw. My body swayed. I needed air. I whirled around and ran out of the room, passing Aunt Branwell who must have heard the commotion. Nobody had thought to let her know what had happened to Emily.

I rushed down the stairs and headed for the front door. It swung open and Branwell stepped inside followed by a lanky man carrying a black bag.

Branwell’s eyes met mine for a second before he rushed past me. His face carried the look of panic I felt. The man, who I guessed was the doctor, tipped his tall hat at me. He had a hawkish face with a beak-like nose and a large Adam’s apple that jutted out over his stiff, white collar.

I watched as he followed Branwell up the stairs, then I stepped out into the cold, black night. I didn’t bother to put on my coat, and the icy air sliced through my dress, chilling me to the bone.

I sat on the stone steps in front of the house and dropped my head in my hands. If Emily lost her arm, it would be my fault. I was the one who had taken the ring from Hugh. I was the one who had suggested going to Top Withins. And why had I wanted to go so badly? I knew it was only partly to save Clara. Mostly, I had wanted to save myself from wallowing in self-pity and jealousy over Mary. All that seemed stupid and irrelevant now. I wished I’d never come to Yorkshire. I should have stayed in London and faced up to my own problems. Instead, I’d run away and made things so much worse.

I stayed outside until my body shivered uncontrollably in protest to the cold. When I stepped back inside the house, I lingered in the silent hallway like a complete stranger unsure where to go.

Someone, probably Tabby, had lit a fire in the dining room, and its warm glow drew me forward. In a daze, I stumbled toward the black couch and sat down, still shivering despite the warmth of the fire. I stared at the orange and yellow flames, letting them hypnotize me, until I no longer felt nor thought anything.

I had no idea how much time had passed before I heard footsteps and voices on the stairs. Coming out of my trance, I cocked my head. One voice definitely belonged to Mr. Brontë, and I guessed the other belonged to the doctor. The voices came closer as the men walked down the stairs. They stopped just past the dining room, near the front door.

“It’s a sorry situation, but it has to be done,” the doctor said in a low voice.

“I agree,” Mr. Brontë sounded defeated. “Emily will be distraught when she hears the news, but she’s not always rational about things.”

They were going to do it. They were going to amputate Emily’s arm, and they were talking about it like she was going to have a tooth pulled!

“It will be a dangerous operation and a difficult one. I’ll need the help of several men in the village.”

I imagined a bunch of village men holding Emily down while the doctor sawed off her arm. My head swirled.

“A most unfortunate situation,” Mr. Brontë said. “But the sooner dealt with the better.”

You don’t have to do it!
I wanted to scream.
I know a place where they can fix her arm, give her medicine, and make her better. If only I can find a way to take her back with me, then I can save her from this nightmare.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Now, you say they were simply out for a walk and the wolf attacked, unprovoked.”

“Of course.” Mr. Brontë’s voice sounded confident. “Who would provoke a wolf?”

The doctor chuckled. “True. But, they weren’t trespassing? The constable will want to know.”

The constable!
I sucked in my breath.

“I doubt it,” Mr. Brontë said. “Emily knows better. But even if they were on Harthorn’s land, he had no right to set a wolf on a young girl. They most certainly weren’t there to cause mischief. At worst, they may have wandered too far off.”

I sat rigid. What if Harthorn tells them the truth?

“You’re right,” the doctor said. “That beast is a proven danger. It will have to be shot.”

I swallowed.

“And you’re certain Emily will recover?” Mr. Brontë asked.

“Nowt is for certain,” the doctor paused. “But she should. She’s in a lot of pain. I’ve left an extra bottle of laudanum. She’ll be needing it.”

Mr. Brontë sighed. “Emily will have a hard time coming to terms with the fact that the beast lost its life because of her—she’s very fond of animals.”

“That animal should never have been brought into this country. It must have been smuggled in from Russia or some other such place,” the doctor said.

“Poor creature—taken out of its natural habitat as a mere cub. It’s not right,” Mr. Brontë said.

“Well, you can thank the Lord your daughter still has her arm in one piece, let alone her life.”

“I do, sir. You can be certain of that.” Mr. Brontë opened the front door to let the doctor out.

“I shall check back again tomorrow.” The doctor stepped outside. “Keep giving her the laudanum. She’s in for a difficult night.”

The front door banged shut, and I listened as Mr. Brontë stepped inside his study and closed the door behind him.

I sat in a stupor trying to absorb everything I’d heard. Emily would be all right. She wasn’t going to lose her arm.

Then I realized Harthorn would be out for blood.

I
gazed into the fire, my mind whirling with thoughts of Harthorn and the revenge he’d likely take on me and Emily if his wolf was shot. Then I became aware of someone else’s presence in the room.

“I’ve been watching you,” Branwell said.

I wanted to run up to him and throw my arms around his neck, but I hesitated. I’d been the one who’d convinced Emily to go back to Top Withins. Would Branwell still feel the same about me if he knew? I’d have to tell him. I couldn’t simply carry on as though I’d been a victim—guilty of nothing.

“What?” I stammered.

“For about five minutes. I’ve been here watching you. You didn’t even know I was here.”

“Oh, I—”

“It’s all right,” he said, walking over to me. “I’m glad for those moments. I was happy to be looking at you, knowing you are alive and unharmed.”

He sat next to me on the couch and wrapped his arms around me.

I folded into his embrace and buried my head in his chest inhaling a faint scent of charcoal and dried paint.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I pulled away from him. “For what?”

“For helping Emily. It must have been terrible. Anyone else would have run away. But not you. You stayed and made sure she got home safely.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, guilt overwhelming me. “It’s all my fault.”

“Rubbish,” Branwell said. “How can you be to blame for a wolf attacking my sister? It’s typical of her to try and save Grasper from a wolf. She’s always doing foolish things where animals are concerned.”

“No.” I sat up straight. “You don’t understand; she wouldn’t even have been there if it weren’t for me. I wanted to go to Top Withins.”

“Stop,” Branwell said.“You’re making yourself ill. How could you know better than Emily the dangers of the moors? She has lived here all her life. The moors are her home.”

“Yes, but I convinced her—”

“Emily does what she pleases, not what others tell her. She’s as stubborn as Achilles, that girl. God help her if it doesn’t get her killed one day.”

“You’re not listening,” I said, frustrated.

Branwell put his hand over my mouth. “Enough,” he said. “Emily’s all right. She’s strong; she’ll survive this. You cannot go on blaming yourself. No one else does.”

I blinked at him, wanting to say more.

“All I see,” he said, his hand still over my mouth, “is someone who helped my sister in a time of need.” His eyes locked onto mine. “I’m glad Emily brought you to us. She did the right thing.”

I stopped protesting. As long as Emily would recover, nothing else mattered. Branwell lifted his hand from my mouth and drew me close. I curled up against him and let myself drift off to sleep.

The walls of the house shook and the window rattled violently, jolting me out of my sleep. I shot up. The fire had died, leaving the dining room cold and dark. Branwell had gone, and I sat alone on the couch. For a few seconds, the house was completely still. Then violent thumping exploded at the window. I jumped to my feet and peered into the darkness.

Nothing.

It had only been the wind. Just as I was about to sink back onto the couch, a lantern appeared in the window, and Harthorn’s snarling face loomed behind it. A scream lodged in my throat.

“Let me in,” he growled, tapping on the window with his lantern.

I bolted out of the dining room. All of a sudden, he was at the front door, rattling its wooden frame and twisting the handle.

I raced upstairs and ran into Emily’s room, ready to drag Charlotte out of bed. But the room lay empty. Even Emily had disappeared.

“Emily,” I screamed. “Charlotte.”

The naked window in the tiny room shook. A light appeared at one of its small frames.

“Let me in.”

I raced into Mr. Brontë’s room and flung open the door, thinking of the pistol that lay on his dresser. Again, I faced an empty bed.

The window to Mr. Brontë’s room burst apart, and a gush of cold air swept into the room.

I screamed.

My eyes popped open. The nightmare was over. I lay alone on the couch in the dining room. The wind howled and rattled the window. I jerked my head toward it, half expecting to see Harthorn. Rain splattered against the glass and a branch of a nearby bush scratched the pane. A dim light from a weak sun illuminated the room.

I sat up, eerily aware of the silence that surrounded me.

Where was everyone?

My dress, caked in mud and blood from the day before, clung to my body. An urgent need to bathe and change propelled me off the couch. Across the dining room, Mr. Brontë’s study door had been left open, and the room stood empty—an unusual occurrence.

I stumbled to the kitchen, fearful I was having another nightmare, and I’d find it cold and deserted. To my relief, a fire blazed in the range as usual, but there was no sign of Tabby. I hesitated, bewildered for a minute, when the door to the back washroom swung open and Tabby bustled into the kitchen.

A smile broke out on my face.

Tabby stopped when she saw me and eyed my dress.

“I’m off to wash and change,” I said.

Tabby grunted.

I couldn’t blame her. This wasn’t the first dress I’d ruined. I shifted uncomfortably on my feet. “Um, I thought maybe I could do the washing for you today. Seeing as I’ve dirtied so many dresses.”

She studied me, evidently trying to decide whether or not my offer had been genuine. Then the corners of her mouth creased into a smile, and she nodded. “Aye, tha’ll do nicely.”

I grinned, pleased with myself for making peace with Tabby.

“Where’s everyone?” I asked.

“Still asleep. I expect they were up late. Emily ’ad a rough night n’ kept them awake wi’ worry fer t’ most of it.”

I lowered my eyes.

“Mr. Brontë’s at church preparing fer t’ funeral.”

I raised my eyebrows in question.

“Mrs. Pratchett’s three childers died early tis morning’.”

I gaped at her. “Her three children?”

“Aye. ’Tis a sad day. But they won’ be t’ first childers or t’ last t’ die in tis village. Mr. Brontë will be wantin’ all of ya at t’ funeral as a sign o’ respect.”

“Me too?”

“I should think so,” Tabby said. “Yer part o’ t’ reverend’s househowd now, aren’ ya?”

My chest tightened. The statement had caught me off guard, and I wasn’t prepared for how much I wanted it to be true.

I scrubbed my neck, face, arms, and hands until the water in my bucket morphed into a disgusting mixture of mud and blood. The fact that I’d ever taken a hot shower for granted baffled me as I threw out my bucket of filthy water and pumped a fresh bucket to start my scrubbing all over again. This time I took off my boots and stockings and scrubbed my feet and legs, washing as much of my body as I could while outside in the open with a bucket and slab of hard soap. Bathing was possible, I’d seen the others do it, but I wasn’t about to ask Tabby to boil endless pots of water for me after I’d caused her so much trouble.