The Mist on Bronte Moor (2 page)

Over the next couple of days, Mum and Dad tried everything from buying my favorite takeout curry to trying to force-feed me chicken soup.

On the third day, they came into my room with grim faces and sat down.

“They’ll put you in the hospital if you don’t eat.” Dad squeezed my hand.

I pulled away and remained silent. I didn’t relish the idea of going to a hospital, but it was better than going back to school.

“Would it help if we arranged for you to talk to someone?” Mum asked.

I shook my head and disappeared under my duvet. Unless that someone could wave a magic wand and make my alopecia disappear, I couldn’t see how talking would help.

“I’ve inquired about a full-time tutor,” she said.

I poked my head out from under my duvet.

“They’re very expensive.” She stared at her hands, and I knew she felt guilty.

A pang of shame shot through me. “Can’t I teach myself? There must be some online school or something.”

“It’s not that simple,” she said.

I sank back under my covers.

Mum sighed and rubbed my arm over the duvet. “We want to help you through this; tell us what we can do to make this easier on you.”

“Let me stay home,” I said.

Mum fell silent. I imagined she was upset and had nothing more to say to me. Instead, she continued with, “I can give up work for a while.”

“No!” I threw back my covers. Mum was an archeologist and loved her job. “I don’t want you staying at home with me like I’m some kind of invalid.”

She paused. “There might be one other option—”

I blinked at her.

“You have a great-aunt,” she said.

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

Mum was an only child like me; I didn’t have any aunts or uncles. Her parents had both died within three months of each other when I was two. As for Dad, his family all lived in New Zealand, where he’d been born. Was I going overseas?

“She’s Gran’s sister,” Mum said. “She lives in West Yorkshire.”

“Yorkshire?”

“That’s right.”

“I didn’t even know Gran had a sister.”

“Her name is Elspeth.” Mum’s face softened, and I could tell the name brought back sweet memories. “We haven’t seen her since Gran died, so I don’t expect you to remember. She’s a brilliant woman, well respected for her work as a professor and historian. She’s traveled the world and lived in several different countries, but now that she’s retired, she stays permanently in Yorkshire. Of course, her health is not what it used to be, but she has a very capable assistant. Between the two of them, I think they can help until we find a better solution.”

“You don’t have to go,” Dad said. “Mum and I would much rather have you at home, but we think the change might do you good.”

“What’s Aunt Elspeth’s place like?” I asked, a little wary.

“It’s remote,” Mum said, “but beautiful. On the edge of the moors in Stanbury.”

Remote. Tucked away on the moors. It sounded perfect.

I
 left for Yorkshire three days later with hair cropped so short I barely recognized myself. Mum had taken me to the best salon in Knightsbridge and paid a fortune for the cut. Still, I hated it.

A numb sensation had dulled my senses as I’d watched the hairdresser’s scissors fly across my head, snipping off chunks of hair that seemed to float through the air in slow motion before landing in a fluffy pile on the floor. The experience had been surreal, almost as if it were happening to someone else.

I’d been born with beautiful hair—thick, healthy, and rich chestnut brown. And I’d worn it long since the age of three, receiving compliments almost everywhere I went. It curled naturally at the ends and never frizzed—even in the rain. I never had to run to Boots to buy a million products like the other girls, or tie my hair up in an emergency messy ponytail. I was lucky—or at least, I had been.

The hairdresser stepped back and admired his work. The end result was a boyish, pixie cut.

“Very glamorous,” Mum announced.

“It suits her bone structure.” The hairdresser cupped my face in his hands. “She has model features.”

As far as I was concerned, I looked like Peter Pan. And as soon as we’d left the salon, I dragged Mum to Oxford Street, bought a black beanie, and resolved to wear it for the rest of my life. The beanie remained firmly planted on my head as I boarded my train at King’s Cross Station.

I had convinced Mum and Dad to let me make the journey to Yorkshire on my own.

“You’ll have to change trains in Leeds,” Mum said, her face creased with worry. “It’s a big station.”

I forced myself not to roll my eyes. “Mum, I’ve taken trains from King’s Cross and Victoria a million times. I’m bloody fifteen already.”

“But you’re leaving on a Saturday,” she reasoned. “Dad and I are both free to come with you.”

“I know, Mum, but this is something I need to do on my own. The train ride will give me time to think,” I paused, trying not to crack at the sight of her hurt face. “Look, I need time alone for now. You’ll both come up next weekend when I’m settled, all right?”

Mum glanced at Dad. He shrugged.

“You’ll ring when you get to Leeds and then again when you get to Keighley?” she said, relenting.

“I’ll ring,” I said, holding up my mobile.

“All right,” she said. “Elspeth’s assistant will meet you at the Keighley station. Her name is Maggie.”

Maggie turned out to be a prim, slender woman with hair neatly woven into a tight bun. She strode right up to me the minute I stepped onto the small station platform at Keighley and introduced herself with a firm handshake. It hadn’t been difficult for her to identify me. The only other people who’d gotten off the train with me were an old couple in their nineties, a young mum juggling three toddlers, and two men wearing matching tweed caps.

“And you must be Heather,” Maggie said before I had a chance to respond to her greeting.

“Yes.” I nodded, taking in her trim navy trench coat, heeled boots, black umbrella, and oversized handbag. I raised my eyebrows. Had Mum sent Mary Poppins to collect me?

“Your aunt is very excited to have you,” Maggie said.

I forced a smile. “Thank you.”

“Well, let’s not waste any more time, shall we? It will be dark before you know it.”

Maggie apparently didn’t care for chit chat, which suited me fine. The last thing I wanted was to talk. I grabbed my wheeled suitcase and followed her out of the station onto a busy road—half expecting her to snap open her umbrella at any second and ferry me away. The rain had stopped, but the cold air stung my face as I walked, and I prayed her car was parked nearby. I was wrong, of course. There was no car. Instead, we walked for about ten minutes before arriving at a modern bus station.

Maggie marched straight through the bustling station, dodging people and ignoring the rows of ticket counters and changing bus schedules. I rushed to keep up and followed her out into the parking area.

“This is the one we want.” She pointed to a blue and white bus marked
Stanbury
.

I climbed onto the empty bus, heaving my suitcase up the steps, and plunked into the first available seat. Maggie paid the driver and slid into the seat next to me. We waited in silence as more passengers boarded—a young couple full of facial piercings and tattoos, an old lady carrying an armful of shopping bags, and a rotund man who reeked of beer—before the doors swung closed and the engine roared to life like a dragon waking after a long sleep.

A light rain began to fall as the bus rolled out of the station and onto the bustling street. Outside, cars, umbrella-toting pedestrians, and rows of brown stone buildings streamed by, while in the distance, vast stretches of green and brown hills beckoned.

As the bus bounced forward, leaving the city of Keighley behind, Maggie leaned toward me. “You should be very excited,” she said. “You’re in Brontë country now.”

Maggie and I were the last to exit the bus. We stepped onto a dimly lit, country road. Although it was only five o’clock, darkness had already engulfed Yorkshire. Maggie thanked the driver, who promptly nodded his head, slammed the doors shut, and rolled away. I watched the bus lights grow faint and disappear into the night. Shivering, I wrapped my arms around myself.

“Where are we?” I asked, focusing on a small stone building to my right.

“Almost home.” Maggie tightened the strap on her coat. “And we’d best get moving before the rain comes again.”

I pulled my beanie over my ears, grabbed my suitcase, and trudged behind Maggie. We made a right onto an unlit, badly paved road and walked past the stone building. The road narrowed as we passed a second, larger stone building. We continued our hike for over half a mile, tramping through puddles gathered in shallow potholes, while going uphill, then downhill, then uphill again. Aside from a few lights twinkling in the windows of distant homes, the area was completely black.

My eyes stung and watered from the wind, and my body trembled with cold and fatigue. I craved a hot cup of tea. Finally, the silhouette of an elongated structure surrounded by stone walls and white iron railings came into view.

“Here we are,” Maggie announced, as she turned onto a lengthy stone pathway that led to a white front door.

A sudden burst of rain prevented me from seeing more, and I ran blindly down the pathway toward my new home. Maggie strode up behind me, sheltered by her umbrella, and unlocked the front door. She pushed it open, and I stepped into a long, dimly lit hallway.

“I’ll show you to your room, so you can get settled right away,” Maggie said. “You can see the rest of the house later. There’ll be plenty of time to explore.”

I followed her along the L-shaped hallway, passing several heavy oak doors. The house was big but far from grand. It looked like a spruced-up farmhouse with its stone walls and wood-beamed ceilings. My suitcase bumped behind me as it rolled over the flagstone floors.

We approached a staircase, and Maggie stopped to grab one end of my suitcase. Together we heaved it upstairs. Here again, I encountered a long, narrow hallway, this time carpeted, and several rooms hidden behind sturdy oak doors. The walls upstairs were painted a rusty orange, which gave the place a warm, homely feel.

Maggie took a left at the top of the stairs and I followed. “You’ll be in the Cathy room,” she said. “It’s quite comfortable.”

The Cathy room? My room had a name?

She pushed open the door to reveal a spacious bedroom with stone walls, dark hardwood floors, and massive wooden beams on the ceiling. A wrought-iron bed, a low bedside table, two sets of dressers, and an ancient hunchbacked television were the only furniture.

Maggie strode across the room into an adjoining bathroom and flipped on the light switch. “Your aunt is resting now, but she’ll join you for supper in an hour. In the meantime, why don’t you wash up, and I’ll tell Cook to make you a nice cup of hot tea.”

She left the room without waiting for my response, pausing only to pull the heavy oak door shut behind her.

I tugged off my gloves and fished my mobile out of my pocket. I’d spoken to Mum twice already, but I was sure she’d ring again. I dropped the phone onto the table next to my bed. Then I wriggled out of my black wool coat, letting it fall to the floor, and made my way into the bathroom.

A medicine chest with a mirrored front hung above a white pedestal sink. I peered at my reflection and slowly pulled off my beanie, revealing the pixie cut that had replaced my long, chestnut curls. I bit my lip. The cut made my face look smaller and my dark eyes larger as if I were a caricature of my former self. My eyelashes were still thick, but my eyebrows appeared thinner than usual. I blinked. At least I still had them.

I stumbled back into the bedroom, flopped onto the bed, and curled into a ball, hugging the pillow. Something poked my leg through my jean pocket. My iPod. I pulled it out, feeling as though I’d found a long lost friend. Eagerly, I pressed play. Dead. Tossing it aside, I grabbed my pillow again. I thought about Simon, my alopecia, and the long lonely months that lay ahead. Tears flooded my eyes. Alopecia is a rare disease; why did I have to be the one to get it? The tears spilled down my cheeks, but I wiped them away. I’d already cried enough to flood the Thames twice, and it hadn’t changed anything. My hair still fell out.

Exhaustion washed over me. My head throbbed and my eyelids grew heavy. I let them close.

The next morning, I awoke to a silent house. I sat up to discover that someone—probably Maggie—had covered me with a woolen blanket during the night. Shoving it aside, I climbed out of bed. A small window, embedded in a little stone alcove, beckoned, and I peered out of it.

A thick fog hovered over the landscape, making it impossible to see the view outside. I pressed my face close to the windowpane, but the mist from my breath immediately rose up and clouded my vision. My stomach rumbled, despite the fact that I hadn’t yet regained my appetite and didn’t actually feel hungry. I supposed it was just a biological thing. Anyway, it reminded me of the promise I’d made Mum—eat. I shivered from the cold, and pulled on my boots, coat, and beanie before going in search of Maggie.

It took some effort to pull open the hefty door to my bedroom. I paused in the doorway for a minute and scanned the narrow corridor that stretched before me.

“Hello,” I called. “Maggie?”

Silence.

I stepped into the hallway and made my way to the staircase, thinking she or Aunt Elspeth might be downstairs. As I walked, I caught sight of an open door halfway down the passage. I stopped. Perhaps Maggie was in there? I decided to take a quick look and hurried down the passageway, stopping at the room’s entrance. I knew better than to barge into a room unannounced.

“Hello.” I hovered in the doorway. “Is anyone in here?”

Massive, wooden shelves crammed with rows of neatly arranged books filled the room. I stepped inside. Paneled walls framed the shelves and thick white drapes hung from the window, partially concealing a cushioned window seat. A large oak table and matching chairs sat on top of a crimson carpet. And a bronze plaque affixed to the wall read: Heaton Library.

Brilliant!
I’d never been in a house that had its own library before—not to mention rooms with names like Cathy and Heaton. Impressive, but weird. I stepped further into the room, feeling like the shrinking Alice as I scanned the towering shelves. There were hundreds of leather-bound books with colorful spines—some tattered and worn and some pristine and new.

Who could read all these?