The Mist on Bronte Moor (9 page)

Emily turned her palms outwards and laughed as the rain drenched her.

“Emily!” I screamed. “This isn’t funny; we could all be killed!”Another chorus of lightning and a burst of thunder proved my point.

Emily didn’t flinch.

Did this girl have a death wish or what?

I gritted my teeth, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her so hard that she almost fell to the ground. “Come on.”

I dragged her through the rain to the farmhouse. Charlotte and Anne raced ahead of us, taking shelter under the tiny porch. As soon as we reached them, I threw myself against the heavy wooden front door and pounded as hard as I could. Charlotte and Anne joined me, using both fists in an attempt to be heard over the howling wind.

“It’s no use,” Emily said. “No one lives here.”

“What?” I screamed over the wind.

“It’s empty,” she said, raising her voice. “I come up here all the time.”

“We have to find another way in then,” I shouted.

“The door and windows are bolted shut,” Emily said. “You’ll have to break in, if you can.” She swiveled around to face the moors as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

“That’s mad!” I screamed. “We’ll get hit by lightning out here.” My throat ached from all the shouting, but there was no other way to be heard over the storm.

Not knowing what else to do I slammed against the door with my whole body.

Charlotte and Anne added their weight to mine. The door shook. Encouraged, we tried a second and then a third time.

“Again,” I ordered, moving a few inches back.

The three of us propelled ourselves forward. This time the door swung open, and I smashed into something rock hard. Dazed, I stumbled backward. Charlotte and Anne crashed to the ground, then scrambled to their feet.

A burly man with ragged black hair towered over us. I stared at him open mouthed. His solid body had felt like a brick wall, and his massive arms looked as though they could crush a person’s skull with a single squeeze. He glared at me.

It took me a minute to find my voice before I stammered, “We need shelter.”

“Git away from ’ere.” The man gave me a little shove, and I tumbled into Emily. “Git off me land.” The man took a threatening step toward us.

Panic surged through me. “Stop!” I said, holding up my hand. Then I froze, stunned that I’d actually given this monster of a man an order.

He must have been stunned too because he hesitated.

I forced myself to continue, “Please. We’re the Reverend Brontë’s children, from the parsonage at Haworth. We’ve been out for a walk and got caught in the storm.”

The man eyed us with a look of loathing. Then he strode back into his house.

I couldn’t believe it. He was actually going to let us die out in the storm.

But I was wrong.

The man paused in his doorway, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled. To my horror, a gray wolf slunk up behind him and crouched by his side. Instinctively, we all backed away from the door. Every nerve in my body screamed for me to run, but my jellied legs were as useless to me as the day I was born.

Lightning struck the ground behind us. My whole body jumped. Charlotte and Anne fell to their knees. Heat and electricity pierced the air. We had nowhere to go.

The corners of the man’s lips twisted into an evil grin, and I felt as though we were helpless insects caught in his web. Slowly, he widened the door and motioned us in. We all hesitated, petrified to walk past the wolf.

“Well?” the man asked.

No one moved.

A barrage of thunder exploded in the sky, reminding me that lightning had almost struck our backs seconds ago.

“Go on then. Git off me land, or I’ll set me wolf on ya.” The man snapped his fingers, and the wolf shot to its feet.

“Wait,” I shouted.

The man touched the wolf’s back, and the beast sat down again.

I grabbed Emily’s hand, which was surprisingly steady. Then I held my breath and stepped between the man and his wolf, my body shaking. We walked directly into a sparse stone room. I glanced at the only furniture—a table and two chairs made from rough wood.

The man strode inside, sat on one of the chairs, and glared at the four of us huddled together. The wolf crouched beside him, rigid and fierce, his golden eyes locked on us.

I wrapped my arms around my freezing body and stared at the unlit fireplace, longing for the warmth of a fire.

“Thank you so much for your kindness, sir,” I said, hoping he’d offer to light the fire. “We’ll tell the reverend you gave us shelter.”

The man grunted. “Ya may tell t’ reverend wha’ ya please.”

I fell silent. I had no choice but to stand shivering with the others, my body soaked to the bone, and wait for the storm to pass. After a few minutes, I became so cold that I briefly considered asking the man to please light the fire, but before I could gather my courage, the wolf leapt to its feet and let out a low growl that reverberated throughout the room.

I stiffened.

Charlotte winced.

The man leaped out of his seat. “Go,” he said, in a cold voice.

I flinched and took a step back. Then I saw the man wasn’t talking to us. He glared straight past us to the top of the stairs. My eyes followed his and my breath caught in my throat.

A girl about my age stood at the top of the stone staircase. Her hair, a mass of tangled black curls, hung loose down her back. A dirty, white dress covered her neck, arms, and legs. Her feet were bare.

“Go,” the man said again, taking a step forward.

The girl didn’t move. She stared at me with empty green eyes.

The wolf snarled.

I clutched Emily’s arm.

The girl surveyed us for a few seconds, and then walked slowly away.

The pounding rain had stopped, but the wind shrieked and rattled the windows so viciously that I thought they’d explode.

“T’ storm has passed,” the man said. “’Tis time fer ya t’ git.”

We didn’t need to be told twice; we were already edging toward the door. Then we spun around and ran.

I kept hold of Emily’s arm as we sped down the muddy hill. Charlotte and Anne followed close behind us. I ran until my lungs burst with pain, forcing me to stop and catch my breath. Only then did I dare to look back at the house, which was now a speck in the distance.

“Who were those people?” I asked, in between gasps. “What kind of a person keeps a wolf in his house?”

“I don’t know.” Emily gazed at the house in the distance. “I’ve never seen anyone there before. That place has been empty for years.”

“That girl,” Charlotte whispered. “I shall never forget her face. She appeared to be quite mad.”

“We’d best get home,” Anne said. “It’ll be dark soon.”

Anne was right. It would be dark within minutes, and there were no lights to guide us home. Luckily, this didn’t seem to daunt Emily. Clearly, she knew her way around the moors blindfolded. I stumbled behind her, wet, miserable, and freezing. When we finally arrived at the parsonage, an agitated Tabby met us at the back door.

“Where ’av ya childer’s bin? Yer aunt’s bin waitin’ fer ya t’ come.”

“Has Papa returned?” Emily asked.

“Nay, n’ yer lucky or he’d ’av goan mad wi’ worry. It’s enough tha’ yer aunt’s bin sickened ya were ou’ on t’ moors in tha’ terrible storm. Ya all could ’av bin killed!”

“You’re not to worry so, Tabby,” Emily said. “We can take care of ourselves. We took shelter at Top Withens and were quite safe.”

“Wha’?” Tabby gaped at Emily. “Top Withins? Are ya mad?”

“Why do you say that?” Emily asked.

“Evil tha’s why.” Tabby wagged a finger at us. “Evil resides there n’ I won’ ’av ya goin’ back. Stay away from tha’ place. Yer brother should ’av known betta then t’ tek ya up there.”

“Our brother!” Emily snapped. “I suppose he’s sitting in front of the fire with his feet up—safe and dry.”

Tabby frowned. “Wha’ do ya mean t’ fire?”

“I mean, Branwell came home hours ago,” Emily said.

“Nay, he’s not bin home. I ’aven’t seen him since he left wi’ ya lot tis afternoon.”

Anne paled.

Charlotte’s hand flew to her mouth as if to suppress a scream.

I stared at Emily. Why was she lying?

“In tis weather?” Tabby shook her head. She stirred something that bubbled in a round copper pot hanging over the range. The smell of baked apples and cinnamon wafted in the air. My head grew dizzy, and my stomach ached with hunger.

Tabby stopped stirring and pointed a huge ladle at us. “Go n’ tek off those wet clothes ’afore ya catch yer death. I’ll tell yer aunt ya home safe.”

We took off our boots and hung our coats in the kitchen, then hurried upstairs to strip off our soaked dresses.

“What did you mean telling Tabby that Branwell went to visit Mr. Brown?” Charlotte grabbed Emily’s arm once we were safely behind the bedroom door.

“I think you know what I mean,” Emily said.

Charlotte pursed her lips in a hard, disapproving line.

Anne cast her eyes to the ground.

“What are you on about?” I asked.

“Our brother is fond of a place called the Black Bull,” Emily said.

“The Black Bull? What sort of place is that?”

“The drinking sort,” Emily said. “A pastime Papa does not approve of.”

“You can’t be sure,” Charlotte said. “He might’ve got stuck in the storm. He might be hurt. We should alert the constable.”

“Alert the constable and have Papa humiliated when he is dragged home from the Black Bull? I think not,” Emily said.

I bit my lip.
Should I tell them about the laudanum?
What
if he really is lost on the moors or hurt from the storm?

“I’ll go down to the Black Bull myself and fetch him after dinner,” Emily said.

“No!” Charlotte snapped. “I will not have you disgrace yourself by going to that place.”

“Well, someone has to go. That’s the only way we’ll find out if he’s truly safe.”

“I’ll go,” I said.

The three of them stared at me in silence.

“Do you remember the day I arrived? You said I looked like a boy with my short hair and trousers.”

“What of it?” Emily asked.

“Well, if I put on Branwell’s clothes, I’ll look like a boy again. All I need is a pair of trousers and a coat to cover my chest—it won’t take much for me.”

Anne’s face reddened at the reference to my chest.

Emily exchanged a look with Charlotte, apparently trying to gauge her thoughts.

“No one will even notice me,” I said. “I’ll check if Branwell’s all right, and then I’ll come straight back and let you know.”

I kept my voice calm, but my insides churned with worry. I needed to find out if Branwell was all right.

Emily must have been equally concerned because she nodded and said, “You can change directly after tea.”

With only a dim lantern to guide me, I slipped out the front door after Tabby went to bed and dashed across the garden, through the iron gate, into the graveyard. Although the village lay only a few hundred feet from the parsonage, every step I took seemed like a mile in the icy darkness. The ever-present mist hovered in the air like a giant specter while the wind whistled around me, chilling my bones. I stumbled along, holding the lantern out in front of me, but still able to see little more than my own breath.

I passed Mr. Brontë’s church, my boots echoing as I stepped over the cobblestone path, and hurried down the stairs that led into the village.

The Black Bull stood immediately to my right. A brown stone building with gridded glass windows like every other building in the village. A lantern cast a shadow over a sign that creaked in the wind and showed a picture of a black bull. Another two lanterns fixed to either side of the front door, shed a dull light on the pub’s entrance. Through the windows, a warm glow emanated from inside. Standing out in the cold, I had to admit it looked inviting. Who could blame Branwell for wanting to be here?

I placed my lantern on the floor by the pub’s entrance and steeled myself to go inside. What did they do to girls who ventured inside pubs in 1833? Was it even legal? A vision of the stocks positioned at the bottom of the church steps flashed before my eyes. It wouldn’t be fun to end up in those.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the door. But before I could grasp the handle, a bulky man came tumbling out. I jumped aside to avoid getting crushed. In the same instant, a blast of warm air and the sound of laughter hit me. Seeing my chance, I sprang forward, caught hold of the door, and slipped inside.

The place wasn’t crowded, and I quickly scanned the room. Eight or ten older men sat drinking and smoking pipes beside two open fires, but there was no sign of Branwell. I hesitated, contemplating what to do next when a loud crash and a chorus of shouting came from the floor above. My eyes darted across the room and fell on a staircase. I dashed toward it and scurried up the stairs.

Even before I reached the top, a cloud of cigarette smoke enveloped me. I coughed and covered my nose with my hand. A crowd of men formed a large circle in the room. They jostled each other, shouting, laughing, and holding their drinks in the air. Some waved fistfuls of money. More shouting. Something was going on.

I stood on my toes and craned my neck to see over the crowd when suddenly it parted. Out of nowhere, a body came flying across the room. It landed with a crash a few feet away from me. The crowd roared. I stiffened. A shirtless Branwell lay on his back, blood seeping from his nose.

My mind screamed to do something, but my body refused to move. Before I had time to think clearly, Branwell leapt to his feet, wiped his nose on his arm, and charged forward. The crowd closed around him. I rushed after him, squeezing my way past men six-times my size. Had Branwell gotten into a fight? He’d be killed!