The Mist on Bronte Moor (19 page)

I lowered the paper. The funeral today. That little girl. Had she reminded Branwell of his dead sister? I hadn’t even asked.

I ran to the church, pushed open the door, and scanned the dark pews for Branwell. He was nowhere. I stepped inside and walked a few paces, my footsteps echoing in the silence. Then I spotted him hunched over on the floor. He must have heard me coming. I watched him, not needing an explanation for why he was on the floor. I knew he was visiting the graves of his mother and his two sisters.

I walked over, dropped down next to him, and laid the crumpled paper on the floor. I wanted him to know that I’d read it. That I understood.

“Branwell, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

He blinked at the paper. For a while he said nothing. Then he spoke in an aching voice. “She lifted me up for one last look. But I couldn’t do it. I saw Maria lying in her coffin and turned my head.”

“Who lifted you?” I asked.

“Aunt. She meant well. She only wanted me to say goodbye. But I—I couldn’t stand it.” He raised his eyes and gazed at the stone engraving bearing the names of his mother and sisters. “At first, she looked peaceful as if she slept. Then I noticed her ashen face and rigid body.” He squeezed his eyes shut.“There was no life in that body. It haunts me still.”

He clasped his head between his hands as if he could force the image of his dead sister from his mind.

“How old were you?”

“Eight.”

“And Charlotte and Emily did they—”

He shook his head. “They were away at school. Papa had not yet brought them home. And Anne was so young—only five. She didn’t know Maria as I did.”

“So you had no one.” I put my hand over his, desperate to offer some comfort, but he jerked his hand out from under mine.

“You should go,” he said, turning away from me.

“Go?” I asked, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. “You want to be alone?”

He jumped to his feet. “I mean leave—this church, the parsonage, Haworth. Go back to London or wherever it is you came from.”

“I don’t think you mean that,” I said, getting up.

“Don’t you see?” He gestured to the graves. “We’re cursed. All of us. The whole Brontë family. Cursed. If you don’t want to die before your time, you’ll leave now and never come back.”

“Branwell,” I said, my hurt quickly becoming concern. “You’re not yourself. The things you’re saying—” I paused. “Did you take the laudanum? Is that what’s making you act this way?”

He grabbed my hand and slapped the unopened bottle of laudanum in it. Then he turned his back to me.

My fist closed around the small brown bottle, its glass cold against my skin. He hadn’t taken any. But I wished he had. At least then there would have been an explanation—an excuse for his stinging words.

I walked slowly down the pews, my heart heavy—not because of Branwell’s tirade, I knew he’d be back to his old self in no time, charming me and teasing his sisters—but because I couldn’t help him. I didn’t know how to piece him back together and make him whole again.

I reached the church door and pushed it open. A stream of light filtered inside. Before stepping out, I glanced at Branwell once more. He was hunched over, his forehead pressed against a stone pillar.

I couldn’t fix him. I didn’t think anyone could. But I couldn’t leave him either.

T
he last weak rays of sunlight cast a dim shadow over the graveyard as daylight faded into dusk. The wind moaned and whined as it always did and I bent my head, submitting to its power. I didn’t have much fight left in me anyway—Branwell had all but defeated me.

I trudged along, trying to ignore my own thoughts. I couldn’t stand to think of Branwell hunched over in the church. I’d experienced his moods before and seen his morbid drawings, but they hadn’t really mattered to me. He had charm, talent, and genius. I was drawn to him. He’d been strong when I was at my weakest. He’d made me feel beautiful even when I’d despised myself. He’d made me feel safe.

But now I understood those glimpses of darkness were bigger and more powerful than I’d imagined, and it terrified me. I ached to cry, longed to let the tears flow freely and give me relief. But I couldn’t. He needed me now, and I had to stay strong for both of us.

I wondered if Mr. Brontë had found Branwell’s painting and the spilled paint on the floor. What would he make of that? I glanced up at the parsonage, and a flash of white appeared in the corner of my eye. My gaze flicked from the parsonage to the cemetery. I froze.

Someone or something was running toward me. In the faint sunlight, I made out a form darting through the graveyard. I blinked. Was I seeing things?

The figure came closer, and the shape of a girl emerged, her white dress billowing in the wind and her pale gray cape flying behind her. She ran in a confused zig zag, somehow managing to avoid crashing into the bulky tombstones that blocked her path. Her long hair, wild from the wind, flew in her face. She grappled with it and stumbled before regaining her footing.

Clara.

I sprinted forward. When I reached her, she lurched forward and collapsed into my arms, gasping for air between raspy sobs. Her body trembled violently, and she clung to me sobbing.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m not going to leave you.”

I peeled her frozen fingers from my arms, forcing her to let go. I crouched next to her. “What happened? How did you get away?”

“Th-they c-came for the wolf,” she stammered. “T-the constable and s-some men with him.”

Oh God. A nauseating fear hit me.

“Papa argued with them. S-shots were fired. I think he may have killed someone. A man lay on the ground. There was blood everywhere. I saw my chance to escape and I ran.” Her green eyes were wild with fear. “But now I think he’s after me.”

“What?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “How do you know?”

“I know Papa. He’ll k-kill me. ”

“You’ll stay here,” I said. “In the church. It’s like a safety zone, right? Harthorn wouldn’t dare—”

“Papa cares nowt for the church,” Clara said. “If I stay in the church, he will smash down its door and drag me out. Then he’ll shoot every last one of you.”

I didn’t want to believe what she was saying. “No, you’re wrong. He does care something for the church. That’s why he gave us shelter from the storm—because we told him we were from the parsonage.”

“Is that what you think?” Clara asked, her eyes wide. “He gave you shelter because he enjoyed watching you tremble under the glare of his wolf. That’s what gave him pleasure.”

I reached out to her.

She gripped my arms. “I can’t stay here. I need to find Hugh. Tell me where you saw him? Was it in Bradford? Or is he here with his uncle?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

She glanced frantically over her shoulder. “Listen to me. He’s following me. He’ll come here. He’s already killed someone; a few more won’t make a difference. They can only hang him by the neck once.”

“I saw Hugh at a place called Ponden Kirk. But I don’t know if he’ll be there now.”

Her eyes lit up. “Ponden Kirk is near Ponden Hall—the home of his uncle. I must go there. Hugh’s family is powerful. They can protect me. He’ll make them help. He won’t let them turn me away again.”

“Turn you away? Why didn’t they help you before?”

“They don’t approve of me. They don’t want Hugh to have anything to do with the likes of me or my mad father. And even if they did, they have no right to interfere. I am not yet of age to marry without consent. But now that he has committed murder, and I’ve escaped him, Hugh will make them—” She broke off. Tears streamed down her dirty cheeks.

“What is it?”I asked.

“Why didn’t he come for me? He knew where I was. From the moment I saw that ring and discovered he was alive, I resolved to find him. Nothing could stop me, even if it cost my life.” She dropped her head and sobbed.

Panic surged through me. She couldn’t afford to break down now. She had to get away from the parsonage before Harthorn came looking for her.

“He wanted to,” I said quickly. “Harthorn told him he’d kill you if he came near Top Withins. Don’t you see? He had no choice. He couldn’t take the risk of Harthorn harming you. The only thing that could keep him away was the thought of losing you forever.”

As I said those words, Branwell’s voice sounded in the back of my mind.
If you don’t want to die before your time you’ll leave now and never come back.

I faced the church. The urge to run toward it overwhelmed me, and I had to force my legs to stay rooted to the ground.

A long, spine-chilling howl rang through the air. Was that the wind?

Clara jumped at the sound. She clutched my arm.

“You have to leave,” I urged. “Do you know how to get to Ponden Hall?”

Another howl sounded and this time there was no mistaking it for the wind—a wolf was on the hunt.

Clara’s body stiffened, and she tightened her grip on my arm. “You promised you wouldn’t leave me.”

She was right. I had said that. But more importantly, I was the one who’d started all this. I’d taken her that ring. If anything happened to her, it would be my fault.

I closed my eyes and steeled myself for what was about to come.
I’ll be back Branwell. I promise.
I opened my eyes again and allowed myself one last look at the church. If someone had taken a knife and sliced me open, the pain could not have been greater than what I felt at that moment.

Clara trembled beside me.

I gritted my teeth and stood up, pulling Clara to her feet at the same time. Then I clasped her hand and ran, dragging her behind me. I had only a vague idea of the direction we needed to go. All I could do was pray that Clara and I would find Hugh before Harthorn or his wolf caught up with us.

Dusk was rapidly replacing daylight and the all too familiar mist began to roll across the moors. We ran blindly and feverishly, without daring to rest.

My feet grew numb as we sped across the tangled earth, crashing through the thick brush and leaping over stones. Mud flew into the air and spattered onto my dress each time my boots hit the ground. I struggled against the bitter wind, pumping my arms and legs against its forceful blasts while trying to ignore the searing pain in my lungs and the long fearsome howls that echoed across the moors.

We stumbled several times, sometimes tumbling to the ground, but each time we scrambled to our feet without stopping to check for broken bones or bloodied parts.

Until Clara let out a piercing scream and dropped with a heavy thud. I stopped.

Clara lay motionless.

“Get up!” I tugged her arm.

“I can’t,” Clara said, wheezing. “My leg.” She clutched her thigh and rolled over in pain.

“It’s only a cramp,” I said, without knowing if it was true. We didn’t have time for complications. “You have to run through it.”

“I can’t,” she screamed.

“You can!” I said, adrenaline still running amok in my veins. “You must.”

“You go, I can’t anymore.”

“Do you want to go back to Harthorn? And stay locked up forever?”

I must have been right about the cramp because Clara’s body relaxed. She pushed herself into a sitting position and started to get up, but I raised my hand to stop her.

“Shh,” I whispered.

“What?” She jerked her head in small, fearful movements.

An eerie silence had settled over the moors.

I scanned the landscape. The light mist had transformed into a thick fog, making it impossible to see.

“It’s too quiet,” I said, my voice thick with fear.

Clara whimpered.

I peered into the mist, desperate to penetrate through the thick layers of fog. Every muscle in my body tensed.

“Get up,” I whispered, pulling Clara to her feet. She clung to my arm.

A guttural snarl sounded close by.

We froze.

“Take off your cape,” I whispered.

“What?” Clara said.

“Do it!” I shrugged off my own coat, with as little movement as possible.

Clara’s fingers trembled as she pulled open the strings of her cape and let it slip to the ground.

I placed my coat in Clara’s hands. “Put this on.”

“Why?” Clara asked, staring at my coat.

“The wolf is tracking your scent, not mine,” I said. “This should throw him off. He’ll stop here to sniff the cape and then the scent will be at a dead end.”

I had no idea if what I was saying was true. I didn’t know the first thing about wolves. All I had was my intuition.

Clara slipped on my coat.

“Okay.” I gave her a light push. “Let’s go.”

Clara ran. I was about to follow when a low growl sounded close by, sending chills through me. I stood motionless for a few seconds, too afraid to move.

Another growl rumbled in the mist. My eyes darted from left to right, desperate to locate the wolf. I shuffled back. The heel of my boot caught on something and I fell, hitting the ground with a thud. A vicious bark filled the air. I scrambled to my feet and ran.

I could feel the beast behind me. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, and I seemed to fly over the ground.

I can’t outrun a wolf. I’ll die here.

For a second, the mist cleared enough for me to glimpse Clara racing toward a stone house.

“Clara,” I shouted, stretching out my hand, before I felt the weight of the beast on my back. The mist closed around me and everything turned black.

I
lay sprawled on my stomach with the taste of dirt in my mouth and a bruised feeling all over my body, as if someone had shoved me violently to the ground. Overgrown shrubs and soil swam before my eyes. I blinked.
Where am I?

Then I remembered the wolf and sprang to my feet. The sun shone weakly behind a mass of gray clouds. Still, its brightness startled me. It had been dark. Where had the night gone? And where was the mist? An enormous pond lay before me, and several houses sat spread out in the distant hills. Harthorn and his wolf had disappeared. I frowned and scanned my surroundings, searching for something—anything that would tell me what had happened to Clara, Harthorn, and the wolf.

But there was nothing.

I placed my hands on my pounding temples and squeezed my eyes shut.
Think. Think! I saw Clara run toward a house. That’s the last thing I remember
.