The Mist on Bronte Moor (4 page)

She crouched down to unlace her mud-caked boots. I did the same, keeping my eyes fixed on the house. I felt certain it was the same house I’d seen in the picture at my aunt’s library. But how could that be? Emily had said she didn’t know an Elspeth, so why would my aunt have a photo of Emily’s house in her library?

I pulled off my boots and followed Emily up the stone steps that led to her front door. I held my breath as she pulled it open. I’m not sure what I expected, but I almost laughed out loud as I stepped inside and took in the small, neat entrance hall, wide archway, creamy white walls, and gleaming stone floors. The house was about as scary as a children’s fairytale. Directly in front of me, a stone staircase curved up to the second floor. On the first landing, a tall grandfather clock saluted the hallway.

Emily whistled for Grasper. In a flash, he bounded into the house and up the staircase.

“Grasper!” she hissed.

The dog raced out of sight.

“He’s not allowed upstairs.” Emily pushed the front door closed. “Aunt will be furious. She’s not fond of animals.” She pressed her fingers to her lips and motioned for me to follow. “Come on.”

I wondered why we had to be so quiet as we tiptoed through the archway and past the staircase toward the warmth and bustle of what had to be the kitchen. Emily entered first and positioned herself in the narrow doorway, hiding my shorter frame behind her own lanky body. Through a crack in the doorway, I spied three odd-looking teenagers sitting at a wooden table that dominated the tiny room—one boy and two girls. All were dressed in the same ugly, old-fashioned clothes that Emily wore. A woman, with wiry gray hair bursting out of a white bonnet, poured tea from a copper pot into three china cups.

The smell of roast meat filled the kitchen, which was warmed by a fire blazing in an antique range. For the first time in weeks, my mouth watered and I actually wanted food. As if my stomach agreed, it rumbled.

The gray-haired woman stopped pouring tea and glanced up. “There ya are, ya rascal,” she said in a thick Yorkshire accent. “Ya bin goan since early mornin’ n’ ya missed yer Papa’s sermon!”

“Sorry, Tabby,” Emily said.

Tabby plunked the teapot onto the table and picked up a small milk jug.“Ya’d best explain t’ yer Papa why ya ran off n’—” Tabby stopped talking in mid-sentence and stared. Her mouth fell open, and her eyes bulged so far out of her head that I thought they might pop right out.

Wanting a better view, I’d inadvertently stood on my toes and peered over Emily’s shoulder.

“Who’s tha’?” Tabby demanded when she found her voice.

The three teenagers at the table stared in shock. All the people in the kitchen were now focused on me. I wanted to sink behind Emily and disappear, but I forced myself to step out into the open. I imagined I looked ridiculous with my cropped hair, bloody nose, and mud-streaked clothes.

“A lad!” The milk jug fell from Tabby’s hand and smashed to bits on the stone floor. Tiny pieces of china swam in a river of milk at Tabby’s feet. She didn’t seem to notice. “Emily, ya browt a strange lad home! What’ll yer aunt say?”

Blimey! I know I’m petite and my breasts are practically nonexistent, but this is getting bloody ridiculous.

“I am not a lad,” I said before I could stop myself. The room fell silent. I cleared my throat. “My name is Heather.”

The boy, who looked about sixteen, burst out laughing.

My bravery evaporated and my face prickled with heat. “I got lost in the mist,” I said. “I’m not from here. I’m staying with my aunt. I couldn’t find Maggie. Emily helped me.” The words tumbled from my mouth before I could stop and make sense of them.

The boy laughed louder. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

Humiliation flooded my entire body. I yearned to disappear.

The older of the two girls studied me with large brown eyes as if trying to decide for herself whether I was male or female. And the younger girl stared at me as if I was neither a boy nor a girl but the anti-Christ.

“T’ lad is sick wi’ fever,” Tabby said. “He’s ramblin’ nonsense.”

“It’s the truth,” I snapped. I felt as though I’d interrupted the Mad Hatter’s tea party.

Emily raised her chin. “I’m going to ask Papa if she can stay with us until she’s able to locate her aunt.”

“Papa won’t approve,” the older girl said. “And what about Aunt? You’ll upset her terribly.”

“I don’t need a place to stay,” I said quickly. “I only need help finding my way home. My aunt’s house can’t be far from here.” I’d have asked to use their phone, but I didn’t know Aunt Elspeth’s number and ringing my parents was out of the question.

“Papa will know what to do,” Emily said. “I shall go and speak to him directly.”

“Nay!” Tabby held up her hand. “T’ reverend is ’avin’ his dinner; you mustn’t disturb ’im now. Bring t’ lad n’ wesh his face n’ hands. Let ’im ’av some dinner wi’ us.”

I smiled despite the fact that Tabby had called me “a lad.” Dinner sounded brilliant.

Emily strode to the back door and yanked it open. A gust of wind invaded the warm kitchen.

I stepped back in an effort to escape the cold. “Where are you going?”

“To wash.” She dropped her muddy boots onto the porch and shoved her feet into them.

“Outside?” I asked.

“Well of course outside,” she said, still holding the door open with one hand. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Do close the door, Emily,” the older girl snapped, glancing at me. “You’re letting cold air inside.”

I scurried onto the porch. Emily let go of the door, and it banged shut. Quickly, I pulled on my boots and followed her into the backyard. We walked past an empty clothesline and stopped in front of a well with an ancient hand-pump attached to it. I watched in fascination as Emily began pumping water into a copper bucket

Don’t they have taps? Does the vicar get paid so little that he can’t even afford running water?

Judging from the primitive stove in the kitchen, they didn’t have electricity either. But how was that possible? Surely, the church would provide their vicar with a decent home. Unless . . . Suddenly, it dawned on me. Maybe it was part of their religion. These people must belong to one of those religious groups who did away with all luxuries and modern conveniences. I’d seen something about it on the telly once. They didn’t use running water, electricity, cars, or anything. And they made their own old-fashioned-looking clothes. That explained why they were all dressed so strange.

Emily stopped pumping and rinsed her hands and face. “Come.” She grabbed a towel that hung over the pump. “Tabby won’t let you eat until you’ve washed.”

My body recoiled as I plunged my hands into the icy water. How could people live without hot water and indoor plumbing? I forced myself to splash a little water on my face before drying off with frantic speed and rushing back into the kitchen.

Inside, Emily slipped off her cape and hung it on a hook affixed to the back door. Then she kicked off her boots and placed them alongside several other pairs lined up against the wall. I did the same with my coat and boots.

Tabby narrowed her eyes as she inspected my face. Apparently, I hadn’t done a very good job of washing. I blinked at her, mentally pleading with her not to send me back outside. My body trembled. She must have taken pity on me because she shrugged and handed me a steaming cup of tea.

“My brother, Branwell.” Emily gestured to the boy as she slid into her seat.

Branwell had an Irish sort of look with messy, ginger hair that touched his shoulders, intense blue eyes framed by round glasses, and a strong, handsome face. I sat down next to Emily and smiled at him. He flashed me a devilish grin.

“And my sisters, Charlotte and Anne,” Emily said.

Charlotte, a petite girl who looked about seventeen or eighteen, shot me a disapproving glance. Up close, I noticed that her large nose and forehead were too big for her dainty face. She wore her brown hair in a loose bun, which did little to hide its frizz. Her eyes were a pretty mixture of unusual browns, but they were hidden behind a pair of old-fashioned glasses. She definitely didn’t share Emily or Branwell’s striking looks, but she wasn’t ugly either—more like someone who could have used a serious makeover.

The younger sister, Anne, had a sweet face with light brown curls and deep blue eyes. But she was no less strange. She blushed when Emily introduced us and avoided my smile by looking down at her plate.

Tabby slid a hot dish of meat, potatoes, and carrots in front of me. It smelled delicious. Still, I had to force myself to eat, not because I’d lost my appetite again, but because the others watched me while hardly touching their own food.

Emily pushed back her chair. Her dinner and tea remained untouched on the table. She slid her cup and plate over to me. “I shall go see Papa now.”

Then she left the room without waiting to hear what anyone had to say about the matter.

I stopped chewing. I felt a little uneasy being in the room without Emily. I put my fork down and pushed my plate away. Branwell reached out and took the piece of uneaten meat off Emily’s plate. He bit into it without taking his eyes off me.

P
apa will speak with you in his study.” Emily dashed into the kitchen, her face flushed.

I hesitated.

“Come,” she urged, “you needn’t be afraid.”

I stood up.

“I want to hear what Papa has to say about this.” Charlotte leapt out of her seat. She was almost a foot shorter than Emily.

“Me too.” Branwell pushed his chair back and sprang to his feet. He was also noticeably shorter than Emily.

Anne rose from the table but said nothing.

I took a deep breath. Apparently, the whole family wanted to be part of this discussion.

Like the kitchen, Mr. Brontë’s study basked in the warmth of a fire. Mr. Brontë sat in a chair at a wooden table situated in the center of the room. He stared into the fire as if deep in thought while he sipped his tea.

Charlotte, Anne, and Emily all took a seat at the table, and I, not wanting to be left standing alone, quickly followed. Branwell marched over to a small upright piano positioned next to the fireplace and played a few notes of what sounded like part of a song.

Emily covered her ears and whirled around to face Branwell. “That’s a piano, not an organ!”

Branwell threw his hands in the air and swiveled away from the piano.

Mr. Brontë pushed his teacup aside and peered at me through his round glasses. His strong, lean face, sharp nose, and blue eyes were the image of his son’s. He had a shock of white hair that I imagined had once been red like Branwell’s. He wore all black with the exception of a thick piece of white silk wrapped around his neck like a giant bandage. He appeared to be a wise man, and I knew he must be, because books titled
A Grammar of General Geography
,
A History of British Birds,
and
The Life of Napoleon
were amongst the many that littered his desk.

“Emily tells me you are staying with your aunt and that you became lost on the moors.” His voice was gentle. “I know most of the people in these parts, although I’m afraid I don’t know an Elspeth. What can you tell me about her?”

I swallowed. “Well, um I haven’t actually met her yet.”

Mr. Brontë’s eyes traveled from my beanie to my blood-encrusted nose and mud-streaked jeans. He leaned forward and peered at me with a look of concern on his face. “And you say your parents are in London?”

“Yes. We live in East Dulwich.”

“But they’ve sent you to stay with your aunt?”

I nodded.

He studied me. As with Emily, I felt he didn’t quite believe me.

“You needn’t worry,” he said. “I shall inquire about your aunt in the village tomorrow. Until then, you may stay here with us.”

I practically bolted out of my chair. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. I mean, thank you for the invitation, but my aunt will be worried. I need to get back today or she’ll ring my parents in London. They’ll go absolutely bonkers!”

I stopped, suddenly aware that everyone’s eyes were fixed on me. I forced a smile.

“If someone will walk back with me, I’d really appreciate it. The house can’t be far from where Emily found me. I’m not sure of the exact address though, because I only arrived last night, but I know what the house looks like—sort of.”

I paused, trying to conjure up a picture of the house in my mind, but it was no use. First the rain and then the fog had prevented me from getting a good look at the place.

“I know the name of the town where she lives,” I said, snapping my fingers. “It’s called. . .”
Bugger!
What had Mum said?
I frowned. It was useless; my mind was blank.

Mr. Brontë leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. After a moment, he said, “There is a storm brewing. It’s going to be a big one. I am afraid there is little we can do until tomorrow.”

I glanced out the curtainless window. Angry clouds hovered in the darkening sky. As if on cue, a long, piercing shriek sounded outside and the window rattled violently. I flinched.

“The wind,” Emily said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t think you understand,” I said. “I really must get home.”

If I don’t, my parents will get in their car and haul me back to London tomorrow
.

Mr. Brontë clasped his hands together and gave me a sympathetic smile. “I cannot keep you here against your will. But I cannot offer you any assistance in finding your aunt tonight. I can only offer you shelter from the storm.”

In a panic, I scanned the room for a mobile phone or mini-laptop. A quick text or email to Mum would solve a load of problems. But all I found was a burnt-out candle in a glass holder. My heart sank. I’d been right about the electricity and modern conveniences; they didn’t have any.

Thunder rumbled outside. Then lightning struck. My mind raced. Maybe Maggie would ring the police and they’d check the houses in the neighborhood. Surely they’d come to the parsonage. In films, people always took refuge in the church or with the vicar. I blew out my breath. Mum and Dad were definitely going to kill me.

“Go with Emily and she will give you a clean dress to wear,” Mr. Brontë said kindly. You can sleep with Tabby tonight if you choose to remain with us.”

With Tabby?
I glanced at Emily.

“But Papa,” Emily said quickly. “Couldn’t she sleep with me and Charlotte?”

“What? And let a strange boy in your bed?” Branwell said.

“She’s not a boy!” Emily’s face reddened with anger.

Branwell bit his lip in a half-hearted attempt to stifle his laughter. I could tell he wanted to bait Emily rather than insult me. Still, I disliked him for it.

Emily’s temper flared. “Someone ought to have whipped you a long time ago,” she said.