The Mist on Bronte Moor (5 page)

I cringed. I’d only just arrived and already I’d caused a row. But I had to admit, I liked the way my new friend defended me.

Branwell laughed out loud but said nothing more to anger his sister.

Mr. Brontë didn’t interfere in the argument. He merely leaned toward Emily and asked, “Where will your guest sleep if not with Tabby?”

“She can have my bed, and I’ll sleep with Charlotte.”

Now it was Charlotte’s turn to protest. “No, Emily. We couldn’t possibly fit comfortably.”

“We did this past July when Ellen Nussey came to visit,” Emily snapped.

“And I suffered from backache for a month because of it,” Charlotte retorted. “Besides, Ellen is my dearest friend from Roe Head. I’m used to sharing close quarters with her.” She blushed. “This is different.”

Heat spread across my cheeks. Charlotte really had a knack for making people feel welcome.

“There’s another cot in the cellar, isn’t there, Papa?” Emily said. “Shouldn’t we start using that for guests?”

Everyone fell silent.

“There is another sleeping cot in the cellar,” Mr. Brontë said hesitantly, “but the room is small; it will be hard to fit another bed in it.”

“We’ll take out the rocking chair. Besides, it’s only for one night,” she argued.

This whole subject seemed to touch a nerve with Branwell. He leapt to his feet. “We can’t give a stranger Maria and Elizabeth’s bed.”

“Why not?” Emily asked. “We should put the less fortunate before ourselves. It was what Maria and Elizabeth would have done.”

The less fortunate? Is that supposed to be me?

“You don’t know anything.” Branwell’s face flushed, and I could see he definitely wasn’t teasing anymore. He sank back onto the piano stool.

“Emily’s right.” Charlotte’s voice sounded strangled.“It is what Maria and Elizabeth would have wanted.”

For several agonizing seconds, no one spoke.

I shifted in my seat and longed to disappear.

Finally Charlotte said, “I’ll take the extra cot. It’s better than trying to share again. Our beds are simply too small, and Emily’s grown at least half a foot since July.”

Mr. Brontë nodded. “Thank you, Charlotte. I’ll have Tabby retrieve it from the cellar.” His voice trembled as he spoke, and it was clear that he was unsettled by the thought of dragging out his dead daughters’ cot.

Branwell stormed out of the room.

I held my breath as he left, embarrassed to have caused so much trouble. Still, I was grateful for how things had worked out. I didn’t want to sleep with Tabby, and I didn’t relish the idea of sleeping in the bed of two dead girls either.

As soon as Branwell was out of sight, Mr. Brontë steadied his voice. “Now girls, I must get on with my work.”

But as we rose to leave, a loud clip-clopping sounded in the hallway. A second later, a petite woman holding a tray with a black and gold teapot and a plate of half-eaten meat and potatoes, strode into the room.

Emily stumbled backward, knocking me over. I fell into my seat.

I
see Tabitha neglected to clear away your dinner tray too, Patrick.”

The woman marched toward Mr. Brontë’s desk but stopped in mid-stride. She stood motionless for a second and then turned to face me.

I cringed, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. A black dress with white lace trimmings covered every inch of her slim body, with the exception of her sharp face and tiny lily-white hands. A dark shawl draped her bony shoulders, and, aside from a curly auburn fringe, her hair was completely hidden under an enormous lace bonnet. My face warmed as she stared at me in silence.

Mr. Brontë cleared his throat. “Elizabeth, this is Miss Heather Bell. She became lost on the moors and was rescued by Emily.” He paused for a moment and then continued slowly, “I have given permission for her to stay here until we locate her family.”

The color drained from her face, and she stared at Mr. Brontë as though he’d lost his mind.

“Are you quite serious, Patrick?” She examined me once more as if to make sure I was real and not some practical joke Mr. Brontë had played on her.

Then she jerked her head back to face Mr. Brontë. “Patrick, that is a gypsy. You cannot allow it to stay here and mingle with my sister’s children. Think of all the effort you have put into their education!” Her body stiffened. “Think of Branwell. He studies Latin, Greek, art, and poetry. He can translate Homer and recite Milton.”

Oh, so this is Emily’s aunt.

“You are right, of course,” Mr. Brontë said. “Branwell is both gifted and talented. He will go far in life. Of that I have no doubt. But neither he nor the girls are small children anymore. We cannot shelter them forever. And this is only for a night or two. What harm can come of it?”

My skin prickled. I knew I was dirty and lost, but that didn’t mean I was a criminal. What did she think I was going to do to Branwell?

Emily’s aunt opened her mouth to speak again, but Mr. Brontë interrupted her. “What else do you propose I do, Elizabeth? Emily has brought her here, and I cannot send away a lost child without offering some assistance. I am the Church after all.”

“Emily has gone too far this time,” she said. “Bringing home a stray dog or an injured bird is one thing. But a gypsy is quite another.”

I wondered why she kept calling me a gypsy. And what was her problem with gypsies, anyway?

“Elizabeth,” Mr. Brontë said patiently. “I urge you to remember your Christian duty. Perhaps you can help by teaching her to sew and by educating her in a bit of scripture.”

My eyes widened.
Teach me what
?

Emily’s aunt’s body relaxed, but she kept a disapproving look on her face.

“Of course,” she said, pausing to take a deep breath, “we must perform our charitable duty toward those less fortunate than ourselves.”

I grimaced. There was that less fortunate comment again.

“Precisely,” Mr. Brontë said. “I knew you would understand.”

“And I’ll do it gladly.” Emily’s aunt held up one hand in the air while her other hand still clutched her tea tray. “But I hope you will locate the family soon. She cannot stay here indefinitely. What will people think? The reverend taking in strays. The next thing you know, people will be disposing their offspring at your doorstep.” She wagged her finger in the air. “It’s not practical. It’s simply not practical.”

“I shall inquire about the family first thing tomorrow,” he said.

“And if you fail to locate them—” she pursed her lips at Mr. Brontë before continuing— “she must be sent to an orphanage as soon as possible.”

I drew in my breath.
Oh, so they thought I was an orphan! I knew they didn’t believe I was staying with my aunt
.

Emily’s aunt inspected me as though I were a rat caught in trap. She blinked rapidly in blatant disbelief at what I wore. “Those filthy cotton clothes must be destroyed. Emily, please give this”—she hesitated for a moment to give me another once over—“child,” she finally continued, “a proper dress.”

“Yes, Aunt,” Emily said.

Just then, Tabby bustled into the study. “Oh, Miss Branwell! Browt ya tea tray down yerself did ya? Couldn’t resist a sample of t’ nice cold Yorkshire air could ya?” She winked in our direction and chuckled under her breath.

I frowned.
Why did Tabby call her Miss Branwell? I thought Branwell was Emily’s brother’s name.

Emily’s aunt thrust her tea tray in Tabby’s arms and pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. Then she pivoted in my direction and blinked, as if I were an apparition that refused to disappear, before marching out of the room. As she walked, I noticed her black boots were strapped into a pair of weird clogs that clapped like horses’ hooves against the stone floor.

Emily must have seen me staring at them because she leaned toward me and whispered, “Aunt is adamant about wearing pattens over her shoes at all times even though they’re only meant for outside protection.”

My mouth fell open. I’d never met anyone so bonkers in my life.

“You’d best get changed for your lessons, Emily,” Charlotte said. “You don’t want Aunt to think you’re neglecting your sewing on account of your guest.” She marched out of the room with Anne in tow.

Emily glanced at me.

“Go on, Emily,” Mr. Brontë said. “Charlotte makes a good point.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, and motioned for me to follow her.

“Why did Tabby call your aunt by your brother’s name?” I asked as we left her father’s study and headed for the stairs.

“Oh, my brother is named for both my papa and mama. He is Patrick Branwell Brontë. Patrick is Papa’s name, and Branwell is Mama’s maiden name. But he’s always been Branwell to us. Aunt is Mama’s sister, so she is Aunt Branwell. She came to stay when we were so little that we are not accustomed to calling her by her Christian name, Elizabeth, as Papa does.”

I blew out my breath. All right. Aunt Branwell and Branwell in the same house. Why she simply couldn’t be Aunt Elizabeth to avoid confusion was a mystery to me.

There were five rooms upstairs.

“This is Tabby’s room.” Emily pointed to the first door on the right. “She has her own staircase that leads into the backyard, so she can come and go as she pleases.” Emily lowered her voice. “The one next to it is Aunt Branwell’s. She hates the harsh Yorkshire weather, so she keeps herself shut away next to the fire all winter.”

“A fire sounds nice,” I said, feeling the iciness of the stone house envelope me.

Emily nodded. “That’s what Anne says. She shares a room with Aunt and loves to remind us that she is always warm during the winter months while we are freezing in our beds.”

I winced. That didn’t exactly sound appealing.

Emily led me to an impossibly tiny room that contained two skinny beds, a chest of drawers, and a wooden rocking chair. “This one is mine and Charlotte’s. Branwell and Papa are both down the hall.”

I stepped into the room, feeling like I was walking into a closet. Emily pulled open one of the drawers and took out a brown silk dress, a pair of tights, and a silk petticoat. She handed them to me. I eyed the dress. It was horrible. And it was going to be far too long and probably a bit tight as well. As thin as I was, Emily was even thinner. Still, I had no choice. My clothes were filthy and I had nothing else.

“Put them on.” Emily closed the bedroom door.

I peeled off my jumper and jeans, taking care to leave my long-sleeved thermal undershirt on for extra warmth—cotton or not. Still, I shivered as I squeezed into the petticoat, stockings, and silk dress. The rain had started and was coming down fast and heavy. I glanced at the bare window and remembered there were no curtains in Mr. Brontë’s study either.

“Why are there no curtains on your windows?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

“Papa doesn’t allow curtains,” Emily said. “He believes they are dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Yes. If a candle or oil lamp were to fall over, for example, the curtains could catch fire and explode in flames.”

“Right,” I said, feeling sorrier for her by the minute.

“Papa doesn’t allow cotton clothing for the same reason,” Emily continued. “It burns too easily. Since we’re only permitted to wear silk or wool, Tabby will have to destroy your cotton clothes. Papa says we must always be prepared for a fire. That is why he keeps two full buckets of water ready for use directly outside the kitchen.”

I was about to ask her if there were any fire stations nearby when another thought came crashing through. “Hang on?” I said. “Did you say destroy my clothes?”

“Yes. Aunt will have them put in the kitchen fire.”

“In the fire?” There was no way I was going back to Aunt Elspeth’s wearing Emily’s hideous dress. “Burning them is a little extreme, don’t you think? Can’t we simply throw them in the wash?”

Emily rubbed her chin and inspected my jeans. “Wash day is tomorrow,” she said. “Tabby does it every Monday. But . . .”

“It’s fine,” I interrupted her, remembering that they didn’t have any electricity and probably had to do their laundry by hand. “Tabby doesn’t have to clean my clothes. I’ll wear them dirty and change when I get home.”

“I’m afraid Papa will insist. He has his pride. He won’t send you away in rags.”

Rags?
My clothes were dirty, but they certainly weren’t rags
.

“You needn’t be ashamed,” Emily said with a hint of pity in her voice.

I blinked at her, my mind swarming with questions.

By the time we knocked on Aunt Branwell’s door and entered her room, Charlotte and Anne were sitting cross-legged on the floor, sewing. Aunt Branwell glanced up at us and pursed her lips in disapproval at the sight of my beanie, which I’d insisted on keeping. Wanting to avoid her glare, I dropped my eyes and focused on Anne’s sewing. She was busy stitching a large cross above which she’d sewn the words May The Lord Bless Us.

I nodded to myself. I’d definitely been right about that religious group thing.

Emily settled down with a dilapidated wooden sewing box and started to work. Aunt Branwell handed me a square piece of white cloth filled with tiny holes, attached to a wooden frame. Then she gave me a needle threaded with dark brown wool.

“Make a cross stitch,” she ordered, as if I was supposed to know what she was talking about.

Since I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of letting her know that I’d never heard of a cross stitch, I clutched the frame and plunged the needle into the material. The frame fell out of my grip and clattered to the floor. Aunt Branwell winced as if I’d dropped the bloody thing on purpose. I snatched up the frame and tried a second time. The needle plunged through the material right into my thumb.

“Bugger!”

Aunt Branwell gasped. Emily, Charlotte, and Anne looked up from their sewing wide-eyed.

Drops of blood smudged the new white material.

Aunt Branwell clucked her tongue, plucked the frame out of my hands, and opened her Bible.

I retreated to the corner of the room, deciding I’d better stay out of Aunt Branwell’s way before she had me sleeping in the cemetery.

The Bible lesson carried on for what seemed like hours. Aunt Branwell’s voice droned on and on as my eyes wandered about the room. A pile of magazines and a newspaper lay on the floor a few feet away from me. I scooted closer to them, thinking I might be able to sneak a magazine to read. But the magazines were all titled
Fraser’s
and seemed really antiquated. I winced.

My eyes settled on the newspaper. The headline read:
Royal Assent for the Reform Bill!
I frowned and glanced at its title:
Halifax Guardian
. I squinted at the date printed underneath the title in small, black letters. June 1832.