The Mist on Bronte Moor (10 page)

“Oy!” A man grabbed the back of my shirt as I wormed my way past him. “Where do ya think yer goin’?”

The crowd roared and the man loosened his grasp on me. I lurched forward to see Branwell and another shirtless boy circling each other, their fists raised. The other boy took a swing at Branwell; he ducked expertly. The crowd cheered. But as soon as he came back up, another punch came flying toward his face. This time it hit him above the eye. Branwell stumbled and almost fell to the ground.

I held my breath and buried my face in my hands
. Stop. Please stop. Don’t hit him again
.

More shouts erupted from the crowd. I peeked through my fingers to see Branwell regain his footing. Blood streamed from the cut above his eye down the left side of his face. He clenched his jaw. The muscles in his arms and back tightened. Then, with menacing speed, he lunged forward and threw three swift punches to his opponents gut, chin, and eye. After the last punch, the boy dropped to the floor, his face a bruised and bloody pulp. The crowd exploded.

I gagged. I’d never seen a real fight before. No amount of bloodshed on TV could have prepared me for the real thing.

A man stepped forward, stooped over the boy, and started counting. The boy struggled to get up, but collapsed back on the floor after a few seconds. The crowd cheered and began counting with the man. When he reached ten, the man walked over to Branwell and held up his arm.

“T’ winner,” he announced.

The pub erupted. “Brontë, Brontë!”

Men slapped Branwell on the back and threw silver coins at his feet. Someone shoved a drink into his hand.

The stench of sweat, blood, and smoke invaded my nostrils, mouth, and throat. Desperate to escape, I spun around, pushed through the crowd, and raced down the stairs. As I flew off the bottom stair, I slammed into a man trying to make his way upstairs. Beer sloshed from his mug onto my shirt. I gasped and sprang back.

The man caught my arm in an iron grip.

I recoiled with fright. A tangle of black hair framed the man’s face and came to rest on his enormous shoulders, giving him a wild, feral look. He pushed his face close to mine and glared at me with fierce, black eyes. It was the wolf man from Top Withins.

Panicked, I struggled to free myself from his grip, but he clamped down on me like a vice. He continued to scrutinize me with his ferocious eyes, then his face twisted into an ugly snarl. I was sure he’d recognized me.

“Let t’ lad go.” A short, skinny man wearing a top hat came forward. “There’s nowt amiss. I’ll give ya another beer.”

My captor ignored the man with the top hat and gave me a vicious shake. “What’s yer name?”

My knees buckled, but his iron grip on my arm prevented me from losing my balance and falling.

“Go on,” Top-Hat said. “Let t’ lad go. He meant nowt.” Top-Hat nodded at me. “Say yer sorry n’ be on yer way.”

I swallowed, too terrified to answer.

“Cat go’ yer tongue?” someone called out. Laughter filled the pub.

I writhed, desperate to free my arm and get out of the pub.

“I said, what’s yer name?” Wolf-Man gripped my arm tighter.

My mouth clamped shut. I was caught.

Top-Hat stepped forward and faced my captor. “Let t’ lad go, I say. You’ll get yer beer. I don’ wan’ trouble in me pub.”

Wolf-Man glared at me, taking in my every feature, until his eyes came to rest on my beanie. He shook me loose without taking his eyes off me.

Blood rushed through my veins as soon as my arm was free. Top-Hat immediately stepped in front of the man to prevent him from grabbing me again. Not that it would have made any difference. Wolf-Man could have brushed Top-Hat aside with his baby finger if he wanted to get hold of me again. But I knew he was finished with me. My face was locked in his memory, and it would be up to me to ensure my own safety by never crossing his path again.

I stayed for a second, too dazed to move.

“Go on,” Top-Hat said. “Be off with ya.”

I bolted across the pub and out the front door, feeling Wolf-Man’s eyes drill holes into my back.

For the first time since arriving in Haworth, I was thrilled to feel the harsh Yorkshire air hit my face. I paused outside the pub and stole a few precious seconds to gulp fresh air, my breathing desperate and raspy as though I’d been released from a chokehold.

The door to the pub swung open again and two men stumbled outside. I jumped out of their way. Thankfully, it was only two drunks and not Wolf-Man coming after me. I watched the two men stagger, arm in arm, down the steep cobblestone hill. Then I picked up my lantern, raced up the church steps, and disappeared into the graveyard.

Bloody Branwell! What was I supposed to do now? Go back and tell his sisters, what? They would see his bruises tomorrow. I stared out into the darkness, trying to calm my raging thoughts. Truthfully, I didn’t want to let go of them, because if I did, I would have to admit the truth. Branwell had scared me. The shock of seeing him laying on the floor, covered in blood—the fear that he’d been hurt. I didn’t want to feel that. I didn’t want to care about him or anyone else. I’d left the people I cared about back in London—in the twenty-first century. I didn’t come to Yorkshire for caring. I just wanted to be left alone.

As soon as I stepped inside the parsonage and bolted the door behind me, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne came running out of the dining room.

“Well?” Emily asked.

I forced a smile. “He’s there.”

Relief broke out on every one of their faces.

“And he’s fine?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes, he’s the life of the party.”

“That’s our Branni.” Charlotte beamed.

I nodded.

Charlotte bit her lip. “He wasn’t,” she paused, “in a bad way, was he?”

“Oh, Charlotte,” Emily said, “as long as he’s safe, that’s all that matters now.”

My stomach knotted, but I said, “He’s safe. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Charlotte sighed. “It’s been a long, adventurous day. I think I shall tidy up and go to bed.”

“Yes,” Anne agreed.

I followed them back into the dining room. Charlotte scooped up her pile of books and reshelved them while Emily and Anne put away their quill pens and tidied their papers.

“Shall we leave the door unlocked for Branni, or are you going to wait up for him, Emily?” Anne asked.

“No,” I almost shouted the words. “Don’t wait up. You don’t know how long he’ll be.” I shrugged, trying my best to appear casual. “He seemed to be having fun.”

Charlotte frowned. “I don’t think Papa would approve if we left the door unlocked.”

“He wouldn’t,” Emily said. “But I’ll take his pistol and keep it next to my bed in case we need it. He’s taught me how to use it.”

I raised my eyebrows. This wasn’t the best plan. I didn’t exactly relish the idea of having Mr. Brontë’s loaded pistol next to my bed as I slept. The thing was ancient, and there was no telling what could set it off.

“I’ll wait for Branwell,” I said. “I’m not tired, and I probably couldn’t fall asleep even if I tried.” I put on my most cheerful face. “I really want to stay down here and read.”

“We couldn’t . . .” Charlotte began.

“Please, you’ve done so much for me. It’s the least I can do.”

Charlotte glanced at Emily.

Emily shrugged.

“If you insist,” Charlotte said.

“I do.”

“Make sure you bolt the door after you let him in. Papa is very particular about that,” Charlotte said.

“I will. I promise. Now go to bed.”

I watched them go upstairs then took my lantern and went to browse the books in the dining room. Wordsworth, Byron, Sir Walter Scott. My eyes fell on a volume of Coleridge. I pulled it off the shelf and settled on the couch, flipping the pages until I came to Kubla Khan. Next to the poem was a picture of a majestic castle, surrounded by an exquisite garden. I studied the picture then closed my eyes, trying to recapture Branwell’s voice in my mind.

The next thing I knew, I was jolted awake by a loud crash followed by a chorus of pounding on the front door. I grabbed my lantern and rushed to unbolt the lock. The door swung open and Branwell staggered inside. He reeked of alcohol and cigar smoke. I held the lantern up to his swollen, blood-spattered face and winced. His jacket hung open to reveal a rumpled and blood-stained white shirt.

He frowned at me, apparently wondering what I was doing in front of him. Then he stumbled forward. “Sleep,” he muttered, heading for the stairs. “I must sleep.”

“Wait!” I sprang forward to close and bolt the door, and then rushed to step in his path.

He lurched and fell onto me. I struggled to hold his weight. He was light for a sixteen-year-old boy, but I was still a lot smaller than him.

“Branwell!” I pushed him as hard as I could with my one free hand, the other still held the lantern. He stepped back and stood on his own but swayed precariously on his feet.

“Can you walk? Who helped you home anyway?

He laughed. “John Rown.”

“What?”

“John Rown.”

“John Brown?” I asked. “That’s who Emily said you’d end up with.”

I steered him toward the kitchen, still holding the lantern. “We’ve got to clean all that blood off your face. Do you want to give your sisters a heart attack in the morning?”

In the kitchen, I set the lantern on the table and eased Branwell into a chair. Most of the candle inside the lantern had burned away, and what was left provided little light. Life was ridiculous without electricity, not to mention running water. I made my way to the back door fumbling through the darkness, grabbed a small towel that hung on a hook, and steeled myself before venturing into the freezing night air. As if a member of a relay team, I dunked the towel into one of the buckets of water Mr. Brontë kept at the ready in case of a fire, rung it out, and dashed back inside all within three seconds.

Branwell sat sprawled out on the chair, his head resting against the wall, and his eyes closed. Taking the wet cloth, I held the lantern up to his face and carefully dabbed at a spot of dried blood. His eyes flew open, and he jerked his head away.

I tried again. He swatted my hand.

I set the lantern down, steadied his face in my hands, and wiped as gently as I could. He struggled for a few seconds, but then gave up, probably because he no longer had the strength. That is, until I pressed on the cut above his eye. He winced and grabbed my wrist. For a second, our eyes locked. Then he pulled me onto his lap. I sat rigid. My heart thumped wildly.

After a few seconds, I let my eyes fall from his face to his chest, where I noticed a fresh blood stain on his white shirt. I bit my lip. The silk bow at his neck had not been tied and hung open. Still, I’d have to unbutton his shirt to get to the wound. I could feel Branwell’s eyes on me, but I didn’t have the courage to meet his gaze.

“Your chest is bleeding,” I said without looking up.

Branwell didn’t answer, but his breathing grew heavier.

My fingers trembled as I undid three buttons and peeled back part of his shirt. In the dim candlelight, I made out a long, thin scrape above the right side of his chest. I dabbed it gently with the damp cloth.

He caught my arm, and my eyes darted up to meet his.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

Instantly, I pulled my arm out of his grip and jumped off his lap. My hands trembled. I didn’t like feeling this vulnerable. It meant I could get hurt. And then where would I be? The best thing for me to do was concentrate on getting home—back to Aunt Elspeth’s where I would be safe.

I steadied my voice. “I should get to bed now. It’s well past midnight.” Without waiting for an answer from Branwell, I scurried out of the kitchen.

B
ranwell didn’t make an appearance the next day until breakfast was almost over. He staggered into the kitchen wearing his bloodied shirt from the night before. He’d managed to change into a clean pair of trousers, so it was blatant he’d decided to wear the shirt as some sort of trophy. He slumped into his chair without greeting anyone. His shirt still hung open from when I’d unbuttoned it the night before, and the thin scratch I’d cleaned lay exposed on his chest. My face burned at the sight of it, and I inspected the leftover porridge in my bowl until I felt my cheeks cool.

Tabby placed a cup of tea in front of Branwell. He picked it up and slugged it back with one giant gulp. She refilled his cup, and he did the same thing with that one. I imagined he was quite thirsty after being plastered the night before. Tabby pursed her lips and bustled back to the stove where she scooped some steaming porridge into a bowl. She returned to the table and slid the bowl in front of Branwell.

“Ya must eat now,” she ordered.

Branwell balked and pushed the bowl away. It was easy to tell he was in a foul mood.

Apparently, his hangover didn’t agree with him.

“You ought to eat something,” Anne said.

He grunted in response.

“Will you be drawing Heather today?” Emily asked, refusing to acknowledge her brother’s state.

Branwell opened and closed his fist and winced.

I had done a decent job of wiping the blood off his face. But I’d completely forgotten about his hands. They were covered in cuts and bits of dried blood. And his right hand was badly swollen.

Charlotte watched him through narrowed eyes. “Papa will be pleased to see you’ve injured your hand now that he’s gone to the expense of hiring you a painting master.”

“Mr. Robinson is not due to come for over a week. My hand is sure to be better by then.”

“That’s not the point,” she said.

“What is the point, then?” Branwell asked. “Papa doesn’t disapprove of boxing. It’s a fine sport.”

“It’s not the boxing I was referring to,” Charlotte said. “You know he wouldn’t want you down in the Black Bull all night. And if he knew you’d been drinking—”

“I haven’t done any such thing. Ask Heather, she let me inside last night. She’ll tell you I was only a little tired after winning my match, that’s all.”

My eyes dropped to my porridge again. Oh God! Why did he have to put me on the spot?

“I just don’t want to see you develop bad habits,” Charlotte said, “and I don’t want you to upset Papa. He has such high hopes for you. We all do.”