The Mist on Bronte Moor (20 page)

I spun around. A large stone farmhouse stood directly in front of me. “That’s it,” I whispered, adrenaline pumping through my veins. “That’s the house.”

I leapt forward but came to an abrupt stop at the sight of a paved road winding up past the house.
Cement?
That’s strange.

Gingerly, I stepped onto the road and walked toward the house. There was something familiar about its long, flat shape, and the stretch of white railings that ran along its walls.

I stopped at the entrance—a lengthy stone pathway, wedged between moss-covered stone walls, leading to a white front door. I stared at the white door before stepping onto the pathway.

As I did, something crunched beneath my foot. A purple and silver Turkish delight wrapper stuck out from under my boot. The same wrapper I’d dropped the morning I’d disappeared into the mist. I froze. My fears had been confirmed. I was no longer in the nineteenth century.

I took several steps backward.
No. It can’t be true.
I spun around and ran back to the tarmac road, searching wildly for the mist. I’d go back into it. I’d find Branwell.

But the landscape was clear. I slumped to the ground and sat for a long time trying to process everything that had happened. The wolf had pounced on me. I could still feel its weight on my back, so coming home had probably saved my life.

But what about Clara? She’d run into my aunt’s house. How could that be?

I stared at the house. There was no doubt it was really old, but that was nothing unusual. England was full of old buildings. Then I remembered the picture of the parsonage in the library
.
So there was some connection between this house and the Brontës.

I jumped to my feet and raced down the stone pathway, eager to get inside. Still, I paused at the front door, knowing that once I pushed it open, I’d be back where I started. I took a deep breath and was about to turn the handle when I noticed writing carved into a stone tablet above the door. I squinted, trying to read the words. It was almost impossible to see from where I stood. I rubbed my eyes and tried again, “Heaton.” I blinked. “1801.”

“Heaton.” I mouthed the name. “Hugh Heaton.” This house had belonged to the Heatons, that’s why Clara had run toward it.

I pushed open the door. A long corridor stretched out before me. I’d seen the tarmac road and the Turkish Delight wrapper, but still I hoped—I had to make sure.

I dashed down the L-shaped corridor, raced up the stairs, swerved left, and pushed open the heavy oak door of my room. As soon as I stepped inside, a wave of nausea hit me. My bags lay strewn on the floor. There was no denying it now, I was definitely back.

I gazed at my belongings. Had I dreamed everything? Confused, I sank to the floor. As I sat, Emily’s dress billowed around me. And a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and sorrow swept over me. Part of me wanted to lie down and sob, but the other part was desperate to find out what had a happened to Clara and most of all Branwell, Emily, Charlotte, and Anne.

I pulled off Emily’s mud-caked dress. Obviously, I couldn’t let anyone in the twenty-first century see me wearing it. Besides, I wanted to keep the dress all to myself. It was the only thing I had left—the only proof that the last two weeks hadn’t been a dream.

Wait. I touched my forehead and felt the jagged scar. I had that, too. A fortnight. Had that much time really passed? I scanned the room. None of my stuff had been moved. Surely the police would have gone through it if they thought I was missing—or maybe they wanted to preserve the crime scene?

I spotted my mobile phone on the table next to my bed and grabbed it: 11:45 am, Sunday, November 7.. The day after I’d arrived at my aunt’s house.

I stared at the date, feeling dazed. Suddenly, the phone buzzed in my hand.
You have one unread message.
I pressed my inbox:
I know you must be exhausted from your trip. Give us a ring when you wake up. Miss you. Love Mum.

I blinked. All my fears had been unfounded. No time had passed. My parents were oblivious.

As soon as this thought hit me, I longed to go back. I ached for more time. Especially now that I knew Mum and Dad would never know the difference. I could go back worry free. I could spend months, even years with Branwell. Just thinking his name brought a lump to my throat. I forced it down and rummaged through my suitcase, selecting a pair of jeans, a jumper, and my Uggs to wear. I needed a shower, but it would have to wait. As I pulled on my clothes, a knock sounded at my door.

“Come in,” I said.

Maggie pushed open the door and poked her head into my room. “I see you’re finally up and dressed. You must be hungry. Shall I tell cook to prepare you some tea and eggs?”

I gaped at her. I was so used to seeing Tabby in her floppy bonnet and apron that Maggie actually looked weird in her stylish trousers and heeled boots. She’d take some getting used to.

“Um, thanks, that sounds nice.”

She nodded and closed the door again. I sat motionless and stared at Emily’s dress, afraid that it might dissolve and disappear before my eyes. After a while, I pulled open the door to my bedroom and headed down the corridor to the library.

A
feeling of déjà vu hit me the moment I stepped into the large, paneled room. I had seen those looming shelves and their colorful armies of books before. This was where everything had begun. This was where I’d gotten my first glimpse of the parsonage.

Clara had run to this house, which had once belonged to Hugh’s family. If I were going to find any answers to my questions they’d be in this room. I walked over to the wall of pictures and scanned every frame. There had to be something.

And then I saw it—a small, but unmistakable portrait of a smiling Clara and Hugh.

From the frame, Clara’s face flushed a healthy pink. Her huge smile made her green eyes sparkle. Her long, dark hair had been curled and rested neatly on her shoulders. She clutched Hugh’s arm, his face handsome and proud—nothing like the pale, anguished expression I’d encountered on the moors. Just to make sure it was real, and not part of a dream, I leaned forward and touched the frame lightly.

“A lovely couple, aren’t they?” A voice sounded behind me. I jumped and whirled around to see a thin, gray-haired lady with bright blue eyes.

I blinked. “Aunt Elspeth?”

“Yes.” The woman took a step toward me. “And you must be Heather. I haven’t seen you since you were a baby.”

“Oh, I thought you would be—” I stopped.

“More fragile?” Aunt Elspeth winked.

I flushed.

She tapped her head. “It’s all up here,” she said. “Keep your mind sharp and your body will follow.”

I smiled, and then pointed to the picture of Clara and Hugh. “Who are they?” I asked, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice.

“He was a Heaton. They’re the family that built this house. They owned it until 1898. Then it was sold and resold, until I was lucky enough to get my hands on it.”

“Why did the Heatons sell it?”

“They didn’t. The family simply died out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Robert Heaton had three sons and they all died childless. That was the last of the Heaton family.”

“But you said he was a cousin, so couldn’t he have inherited the house?”

Aunt Elspeth cocked her head. “Actually, I didn’t say that. But, you are correct. He was a relation and could have inherited. But he and his wife both died very young of tuberculosis—even before the Heaton boys—and without any heirs.”

Clara and Hugh dead—young and childless. So all my efforts had been for nothing. What had been the point of everything? I’d given up Branwell for no reason at all.

Suddenly, an image of a ragged, frightened Clara clinging to me in a cold cemetery flashed in my mind. I’d helped her escape a monster. It didn’t matter how long she’d lived after that. The important thing was that she didn’t die imprisoned in Harthorn’s house like an animal.

“When I bought this house, the library had been transformed into a bedroom. I did a lot of meticulous research and work to restore it. Luckily the original panels had been kept intact.”

I only half listened as Aunt Elspeth spoke, my eyes still locked on the painting of Clara and Hugh.

“I wanted to get it as close as possible to the library the Brontës knew and loved.”

The word
Brontës
penetrated my brain like a bullet. I whirled around to face Aunt Elspeth. “Who?”

“The Brontës.” Aunt Elspeth’s blue eyes twinkled. “This is the very library they used to frequent. Didn’t your mum tell you anything about my house?”

I shook my head.

“Mr. Heaton was a dear friend of Mr. Brontë’s, and he used to allow the Brontë children free use of his personal collection of books. He didn’t know it at the time, but it would make his house and the Heaton name famous.”

I frowned. “But why did that make the house famous?”

Aunt Elspeth raised her eyebrows. “Oh my, no wonder your mother wanted my help.” She strode over to one of the shelves and pulled out three books.

“I think you can start with this one.” She held up a red leather-bound book.

I took the book from her hands—
Jane Eyre
by Currer Bell. I’d heard of
Jane Eyre
before. In fact, I’d watched it, or at least part of it, on Masterpiece Theatre with my mum once. But that was only because the upstairs telly had broken down, and I was feeling a bit desperate. The film had given me the creeps. There had been a mad woman locked away in an old mansion, which she eventually ended up burning down. Weird.

“Of course we’ll have to get you some paperbacks,” Aunt Elspeth said. “That is a very early and extremely rare edition. As you can see, it still has Charlotte Brontë’s pseudonym on the cover.”

I jerked my head up. “Did you say Charlotte Brontë?”

“Yes. Currer Bell was her pseudonym.”

The book fell from my trembling fingers and landed with a thud onto the floor.

Aunt Elspeth gasped.

“Sorry.” I scooped up the book and placed it gently on the oak table, unable to tear my eyes away from the words
Jane Eyre
by Currer Bell written in fancy gold letters.

Bell—my last name.
Jane Eyre
. Charlotte Brontë. The names swirled in my mind. They seemed to belong together.

Aunt Elspeth slid the two books in her hands onto the table and picked up
Jane Eyre
. She caressed the spine and cover, checking for damage and looking relieved when she found none.

My eyes shifted to the other two books lying on the table. One had a dark-blue leather cover and the words
Wuthering Heights
by Ellis Bell printed in gold. There it was again. My name.

“Emily Brontë.” Aunt Elspeth patted the book. “Her only novel. Although I do have a volume of her poems as well if you’re interested.”

Wuthering Heights
. Brontë. Again the words fit together in my brain like a pair of matching gloves.

A million questions swirled in my mind, but my throat was so dry, no words would come.

Aunt Elspeth pointed to the third book that had a dark-green cover and the same fancy gold lettering as the other two. This one read:
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
by Acton Bell. Anne, I guessed.

Jane Eyre
and
Wuthering Heights.
To me, these had always just been ancient books that teachers and parents went nutty over—boring books that would no doubt be required reading in English class someday.

I sank onto one of the oak chairs and forced my mind to focus. Had I actually met a bunch of really famous writers while going back in time? I bit my lip. There had been a lot of writing going on in that house. All those tiny books that Charlotte and Branwell—I froze. Branwell.

I jerked my head up. “Didn’t they have a brother?”

Aunt Elspeth beamed. “So you do know something.”

“Um . . . I don’t know where I heard that; it just popped into my mind.”

Aunt Elspeth took a seat next to me. “Well, as a matter a fact you’re correct. There was a Brontë boy, Branwell, but he never achieved the fame and success his sisters enjoyed. He had talent, to be sure, but he became addicted to laudanum and alcohol at an early age.”

“And?” I asked, my heart racing.

“And it destroyed him.”

My stomach contracted as if someone had taken a bat to my insides. I turned my head and bit back a scream that struggled to escape my throat.

“He led a short, troubled life.”

“Short?” I clenched my trembling jaw and forced myself to look at Aunt Elspeth.

She picked up
Wuthering Heights
and gazed at the cover.

“Well, they all did really. Branwell was the first to die of tuberculosis at thirty-one. Unfortunately, he passed the disease onto Emily who died two months after her brother.” Aunt Elspeth sighed. “To think of the novels that died with her. Anne contracted the disease as well. She died five months after Emily.”

The scream throbbed in my throat. I didn’t even have the voice to ask about Charlotte.

Aunt Elspeth laid
Wuthering Heights
back on the table and picked up
Jane Eyre.
“Fortunately, Charlotte survived the outbreak and lived for five years after Anne’s death. She left us with several wonderful novels.”

Five years. Only five years! “They were cursed,” I said.

“That’s what some people believe, but in reality they were probably lucky to have survived their childhood. Disease was rampant in Haworth during their time. The one I feel for most is poor Mr. Brontë. To outlive his wife and six children.” She shook her head. “Their story is bittersweet.”

An image of Mr. Brontë shuffling around the empty parsonage flashed in my mind. I couldn’t stand to hear anymore. I needed to get away from Aunt Elspeth and everything she was telling me. It was only a history lesson to her, but to me—

Somehow, I managed to push myself out of my chair.

“Here you are!” Maggie strode into the library. “Cook’s been waiting for you.”