The Mist on Bronte Moor (3 page)

Then I remembered Mum had said my aunt had been a professor and historian. No wonder she needed a library.

My stomach grumbled again.
You don’t eat, you come home
. Mum’s words rang in my ears. I sighed. I’d have to come back and explore another time. But as I started to leave, I noticed a wall covered in paintings and old photographs. I walked over to it and searched the pictures. Many were portraits of families, and I wondered if any were related to me.

Not seeing anyone familiar, I was about to move on when a black and white photograph caught my eye. In it, a pretty stone house, lined with white windows, stood on an endless stretch of land. Black clouds hovered above the house as if a storm brewed in the gray sky. I craned my neck to get a closer look. Hundreds of graves dotted the landscape, their bulky stone heads jutting out of the muddy earth in every direction. It gave me the creeps.

I backed away from the picture and glanced around the room once more before leaving to continue my search for Maggie. Convinced she wasn’t upstairs, I walked back in the direction of my bedroom, hurried down the stairs, and paused at the bottom of the steps.

“Maggie?” I called.

No reply.

I continued on, my slight movements echoing in the silence.

“Maggie,” I called again.

Nothing.

Where is she? And where is my aunt?

“Aunt Elspeth? Maggie?”

Silence.

I turned down the L-shaped hallway. Just ahead, the white front door loomed large.
Maybe they’re outside milking cows or something. Who knows what people do in Yorkshire
.

I strode toward the door and flung it open. An icy wind enveloped me. I shivered and slipped my freezing hands into my pockets. My fingers closed around a soft bundle. I pulled out my spare pair of woolen gloves. A bar of Turkish Delight was nestled between them. I smiled. Dad had bought it for me at King’s Cross, but I’d forgotten to eat it on the train. Mum wouldn’t classify this as food, but it was the only thing I had, so it would have to do. Quickly, I pulled on my gloves then tore open the purple wrapper. Sinking my teeth into the chocolate, I walked into the blinding fog.

“Maggie?” My voice sounded tiny against the wind.

I ventured down the stone pathway, swallowed my last bite of chocolate, and let the wrapper fall to the ground. I could see nothing through the fog, yet I kept walking. I carried on despite the wind that chilled my bones and the icy air that filled my lungs. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I might not be able to find my way home. Still, I kept going. Walking made me feel better. The swirl of white that surrounded me was strangely comforting. It felt like my own personal shield against the world.

The mist grew heavier with every step, and it was several minutes before I stopped and looked around. Only then did I panic. The fog, thick as a drape, had closed around me like a cage.

I turned in every direction.

Fear took hold of me. White mist filled my ears, eyes, and lungs—choking me. Blindly, I attempted to wade through it, like a swimmer clawing her way to air.

“Maggie! Aunt Elspeth!” I called.

My head spun and I stumbled to the ground.

I
had no idea how long I’d been crouching on the ground before someone tapped my arm.

I jerked my head upright, expecting to see Maggie.

The thick fog had disappeared, and a thin, pale girl, about my age, sat two feet away. A small, gray terrier panted beside her.

I blinked in surprise.

The girl observed me as though I were a wounded animal. “You’re hurt,” she said.

Something warm trickled from my nose. I touched it and pulled my hand away. Blood and dirt smudged my gray glove. “It’s my nose. It sometimes bleeds in the cold.”

I tilted my head back and pinched my nose between my fingers. After a few seconds, the bleeding stopped. I wiped my bloodied glove on my jeans.

The girl stared at me with a blank expression. “Where did you come from?” She brushed a strand of tangled, dark-brown hair from her face.

“London.”

“London?” She cocked her head. “Are you a runaway?”

“No, not exactly. I got lost, that’s all.”

The girl fell silent. I searched her face. I couldn’t tell if she believed me or not.

“I’m staying with my aunt at the moment. Her house is somewhere up there.” I waved behind me, trying to sound casual.

“What’s your aunt called?”

“Elspeth.” I shrugged. “She’s really old.”

She glanced to her left. “There’s a house about a mile from here, but no one called Elspeth lives there.”

I looked to my left; a sea of green and brown land covered in a light mist lay before me. I turned to my right and saw the same thing. Truthfully, I couldn’t remember which direction I’d come from.

The girl studied me. Her gray eyes fixed on my face. “What’s your name?”

“Heather.”

She frowned.

“Heather,” I repeated a little louder.

She rubbed her forehead.

“Heather Jane Bell,” I said slowly. Had this girl suddenly become hard of hearing?

“Heather Jane Bell,” she said, squinting at me. “You? A girl? Why, I thought you were a boy with your shorn hair, grimy face, and trousers.”

Instinctively, my hands flew to my head. My beanie! Where had it gone? I scanned the ground in a panic and spotted it lying a few meters away. I lunged for it and pulled it on my head, feeling instantly calmer.

The girl watched me without reacting. She was difficult to read. I admired the way she kept her thoughts so well hidden. But her blank stare made me uncomfortable. My face warmed.

“A boy!” I scoffed. “Don’t you know that short hair is the new fashion in London? All the girls have pixie cuts.”

Her face remained expressionless as though she hadn’t understood or cared what I’d said.

I eyed her plain brown dress and her old-fashioned cape that looked as if it were a faded cast off from Little Red Riding Hood. Her clothes were beyond outdated and ugly. Obviously, she came from a very poor family. I sounded like a right snob talking about the latest fashion trend in London. No wonder I couldn’t get a reaction out of her. I changed tactics.

“Your face is quite dirty too, you know,” I teased.

The girl smiled.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

Instead of answering, she patted her dog. “This is Grasper.”

“I love dogs.” I reached out and stroked Grasper’s scruffy head.

Her eyes flicked from Grasper back to me. The expression on her face warmed as if I’d gone up in her estimation a notch or two. “So do I,” she said. “Sometimes I think they are better than people.”

I knew what she meant and nodded in silent agreement.

She stood up. “I am Emily,” she said. “Emily Jane Brontë.” Then she whistled for her dog and sauntered away.

Brontë? Now that sounded familiar. Hadn’t Maggie said something about this being Brontë country? Whatever that meant.

I stared at her retreating back, fascinated by her quaint mannerisms and odd clothing. She was definitely weird—like someone who had stepped out of another century. Still, I needed her help to find my way home.

“Hey,” I called out.

She kept walking.

Panic gripped me. Was she actually going to leave me stranded in the middle of nowhere?

“Wait a second,” I shouted. “Please.”

She stopped and spun around.

I stared at her, not really sure what to say.

She stood for a minute, ankle-deep in wild grass, her hair whipping about her face in the wind, before she motioned to me.

I jumped up and ran toward her.

“Come,” she said. “Papa is a reverend. He’ll know what to do with you.”

I followed Emily through the light mist. The cold air pierced my lungs and made my chest ache, but it didn’t seem to bother Emily, who strutted along with Grasper by her side. Her long, slender legs seemed to fly over the rugged landscape, and I had to break into a jog to keep up.

Eventually, the cold weather outdid me and I stopped to catch my breath. Emily made no attempt to slow down or even check to see if I still followed. Had she forgotten about me? I contemplated turning back, but that wasn’t really an option. I had no choice but to pick up my pace. I switched from a jog to a run. If I’d been forced to make a judgment at that point, I’d have said that Emily Brontë was severely lacking in the social skills department.

When Emily finally did slow down, I found myself in the midst of a massive graveyard.

“Our town is called Haworth.” Emily waltzed through the cemetery as if it were her own backyard. “That’s our parsonage.” She pointed to the back of a square, stone structure shrouded in mist.

I came up beside her and squinted at the building. The parsonage, I reasoned, being where the parson lived, had to be Emily’s home. The cemetery really was her backyard.

“And there’s Papa’s church.” She pointed to a stone building in the distance with a tall clock tower. “I stayed out on the moors too long and missed his sermon today.” Her eyes flitted to my beanie and skimmed my face. “Now Tabby will have two reasons to be cross.”

I straightened my beanie and used my sleeve to wipe my cheeks, hoping to make myself more presentable for Tabby. I had no idea who she was, but I thought I’d try to relate. “I know what you mean. My mum’s always on at me about something.”

Her eyes shifted to the tall clock tower. “My mother lies in the church under the stone floor.”

I swallowed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“She’s been there these past twelve years.” Emily continued to stare at the church. “When she was ill, Aunt came to help Papa. After Mama died, Aunt stayed, though she hates it here and still pines for her home in Cornwall.” She sighed. “I feel for Aunt. I dread the day I may have to leave my home to take on some lowly title, like governess.”

Governess? I scratched my forehead. I hadn’t realized that governess was still on the job menu. Again I tried to relate. “That does sound boring. You should definitely consider another career.”

Emily frowned at me. Either I’d said the wrong thing, or she didn’t understand me again. It felt like the two of us were speaking different languages.

“Boredom, monotony, and humiliation are all part of a governess’s existence,” Emily said. “But worse than that is the thought of leaving Haworth.”

I scanned the area. The gray sky and the barren land peppered with graves did not impress me, but I didn’t want to be rude. I remained silent and turned my attention to a tall headstone in front of me. It had been carved into the shape of a cross, and it read: In Memory of Jane Tompkins. Beloved Daughter. Born 1825 and died 1826. My eyes shifted to the grave beside it. In Memory of Lucy Smith. Dear Daughter. Born 1819 and died 1824. At the bottom of the grave, lay a statue of a sleeping angel.

I leaned forward and reread the dates on the headstone. “There are a lot of children buried here,” I said.

“Many children die in Haworth.” Emily glanced at the statue. “Papa is always burying children.”

“But these graves are ancient,” I said, confused. “I’m sure very few children die nowadays.”

Emily gave me a quizzical look. “They do. Papa says the conditions here are unsanitary. He’s tried to do something about it, but so far no one has listened to him. He says babies and children are too weak to fight the many diseases there are in Haworth.”

“But this is England,” I protested. “The government would never let that happen.”

“Well, Papa has received no help yet. After Mama died, my sisters Maria and Elizabeth both died from consumption.”

Emily stopped abruptly; it was blatant she hadn’t actually meant to say those words out loud. She lowered her head and stroked a nearby gravestone.

I gaped at her. “But didn’t they get vaccinated when they were babies?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

Emily continued to caress the gravestone. She didn’t respond to me.

I bit down on my lip, wishing I could take back my stupid words. I had no right to say that to her. First of all, I didn’t know what consumption was, and second of all, some people were against vaccinations. I respected that. Still, I knew one thing for certain, if they ever discovered a vaccine for alopecia, I would want it.

Emily finally lifted her head. Her eyes had a chameleon-like quality and were now dark blue instead of gray. “Do not speak of the dead when I take you inside to meet the others. They shan’t be happy that I have talked to you about them.”

I nodded, wondering who the “others” were.

“Come.” She strode toward the parsonage. “I’m late for dinner.”

“Dinner?” I shook my head, mentally dusting the cobwebs that seemed to have settled in my brain. “What time is it? I left home before breakfast.”

“Dinner is always at 2:00,” she said. “Papa prefers to have dinner in the afternoon and tea in the evening. He says eating late is bad for his health.”

“Right.” That made a bit more sense. Still, two o’clock! How long had I been sitting out on the moors?

I trailed behind Emily as she weaved past the graves and tried desperately to make sense of everything that had happened that morning.

“Through here.” She pushed open an iron gate built into a low stone wall, the only thing that separated her house from the graveyard. We stepped directly into an unkempt garden. The mist had cleared, and I was able to get my first good look at the parsonage. As I did, a cold chill gripped the back of my neck. I took a few steps forward. Goosebumps pricked my skin.

“I know this house,” I whispered.