The Mist on Bronte Moor (11 page)

“And so you should. I shan’t disappoint anyone.”

“Perhaps you should bandage your hand,” Anne chimed in.

Branwell shrugged. “My left hand is intact and it works just as well.”

Charlotte sighed, pushed herself up, and went out the back door. She returned a few seconds later carrying a bowl of water, which she placed next to Branwell. “Soak your hand in that. It will help the swelling go down.” She took his hand and gently placed it in the water.

Branwell cursed under his breath as soon as his skin touched the icy water. He shoved the bowl away, splashing water onto the table and Charlotte’s dress. Then he pushed his chair back.

“Does every woman in this house feel compelled to tell me what to do?” he asked, before standing up and stalking out of the room.

I watched him go, really hating him now.

Suddenly, he stopped in mid-stride. He lingered in the doorway for a couple of seconds clenching his jaw as if debating with himself. Then he walked back over to Charlotte, who remained rigid and fuming in the same spot, and folded his arms around her in a tender embrace. Her face softened. Then he kissed her quickly on the forehead and left the room.

My heart melted. I’d never met anyone who’d caused me to experience such a rollercoaster of emotions.

I pleaded a headache to get out of sewing and lessons with Charlotte. I told myself I needed to go for a walk to sort out my thoughts, but in reality, I wanted to find Branwell. I knew it was the wrong thing to do—a complication I didn’t need, but I couldn’t help myself. My stomach ping-ponged at the memory of him pulling me onto his lap and telling me I was beautiful. Had he meant it? What would he think if all my hair fell out?

Once outside the parsonage, I hesitated. Soon I’d be in exactly the same position as I’d been in London. I had to get back to the safety of Aunt Elspeth’s house. Getting involved with Branwell was a huge mistake. I spun around, intending to go back inside the house, then stopped. I bit my thumbnail. After a few seconds, I strode across the garden into the graveyard.

I found Branwell leaning against a gravestone with his sketchpad on his lap. He sketched effortlessly with his left hand. As I approached, he glanced up and then carried on drawing. I waited, annoyed and confused by his rudeness.

“You might say thank you.” I kicked some dirt with my boot.

He stopped drawing and faced me. “What for?”

“For cleaning your wounds last night.”

He grinned. “Yes. I remember you unbuttoned my shirt.”

My face grew hot. “I only did it to help you.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“You were bleeding.”

He peeked at his shirt, as if he didn’t already know there was a big blood stain on it, and nodded. “So I was.”

“Is that your idea of fun?” I asked.

“What?”

“Punching people?”

“It’s a boxing club,” he said. “We box.”

I didn’t respond.

“Many great poets are pugilists,” he said. “Take Lord Byron for instance, he—”

I cut him off. “Do you do everything the great poets do?”

He stared at me for a second as though trying to decide whether I’d insulted him or not. Then he shrugged. “Why not?”

“This wasn’t your first boxing match?”

“Heavens, no!” he said. “I started at the beginning of the year, but I’ve been taking pointers from a friend for ages.”

“Well, you did all right.”

A guilty look crept onto his face. “It was the other lad’s first time.”

My mouth fell open. “You knew that and you still knocked him out?”

He grinned. “You stayed to watch?”

I caught my breath.
He’d seen me
. “They were worried about you. I wanted to help that’s all.”

He nodded and patted the ground, inviting me to sit down.

“My sisters are excellent company—particularly Charlotte. She’s sharp and can discuss politics as well as any lad. But a man can’t be expected to be entertained by his sisters for the rest of his life.” He puffed out his chest. “Boxing is something they don’t understand.”

I glanced at the bleak graveyard. “Well, I suppose there isn’t much going on around here. But don’t you think your sisters might want something more, too?”

He laughed. “Charlotte maybe. She gets away every once in a while to visit her friends. She even invited her dearest friend Miss Nussey for a visit this past July. But Emily.” He smiled affectionately. “She’d die if you took her away from here.” He gazed at me. “You’re the only friend she’s ever made. And I’m still trying to make sense of that.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“It’s not an insult.” His blue eyes searched my face. “You’re a mystery, that’s all.”

His stare unnerved me, and I fiddled with the hem of my dress.

“What was Miss Nussey like?” I asked, seeking to take the spotlight off myself.

“Pretty,” he said without hesitation.

I immediately regretted asking the question. A stab of jealousy plunged deep inside me.

“And what did she think of you?” I managed to choke out.

He laughed. “I don’t think she cares for artists and poets.”

I bit my bottom lip to stop myself from smiling.

He set his sketch down. “Shall I draw you, or not?”

“What about your hand?”

“My hand will do what I command it to do.”

I glanced at the drawing by his side. I blinked, momentarily confused, then warning bells clanged in my mind. It was a self-portrait—not bad either—except that Branwell had drawn a noose around his neck, the rope of which was slung over a tree.

I
decided not to ask Branwell about his macabre self-portrait as we hiked together on the moors. Artists were eccentric. No one took them literally. Besides, he’d no doubt been emulating some famous poet and would laugh at me for not knowing as much.

We left for our walk without telling the others, reasoning that we’d be back before they finished their lessons. Like every November day in Haworth, the cold stung my face and burned my cheeks, but I didn’t care. Walking alone with Branwell felt invigorating.

Once out on the moors, Branwell’s mood changed dramatically. He bubbled over with energy, talking non-stop, and dancing around as if he’d been let out on his own for the first time. The land was almost barren because of the cold, but he pointed to every hill and dragged me to every stunted shrub while holding my hand in a firm grip. The moors had never looked more beautiful.

We walked until we came to the waterfall we’d visited the day before. Only this time Branwell convinced me to forgo the bridge and cross by stepping over the rocks.

“Come on.” He held out his hand to help me across.

I hesitated.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asked.

I took his hand like a fool, and he yanked me forward, causing my foot to slip into the water. I gasped, more from fright than anything else, as the water was shallow and my boot had protected my foot from getting wet.

Branwell laughed.

“You monster!” I exclaimed and bent to scoop some water with my gloved hands.

He saw what I was doing and dodged out of the way, but I was quicker. A splash of water caught him in the face.

He inhaled sharply, dropped his sketchpad and drawing box, and chased me. I ran across the hills, laughing, and holding up my dress to avoid tripping. It didn’t take long for him to catch me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and tackled me to the ground, tickling me without mercy.

“Stop,” I begged in between my laughter.

“Say you’re sorry!” he demanded.

“Sorry,” I screamed.

“Say you’ll never do it again.” He kept tickling me.

“I’ll never do it again.” I gasped. “I promise.”

He stopped the tickling but remained on top of me, his face pressed close to mine. We were both breathing heavily from the running. I closed my eyes. This time, I wanted him to kiss me.

I wasn’t disappointed. He pressed his lips to mine, hesitating only for a second before kissing me with force. He tasted faintly of alcohol and blood, but I didn’t mind. The world spun. I didn’t care that I was stuck in 1833 or that Branwell was technically well over a hundred years older than me. I only knew that I never wanted this moment to end.

His lips moved to my cheek and then my ear. His hand combed through my pixie cut, and it was at that moment I realized my beanie was gone. I stiffened. He must have sensed a change because he stopped kissing me.

I struggled to get up. “I think I dropped my hat.”

“We can look for it later.” He tried to kiss me again.

I pushed him away. “I want to look for it now.”

“Why? We’ll find it before we go back.”

I hesitated. Branwell looked as though I’d slapped him. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I need it now.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward him. “You’re beautiful without it.”

His half-open, blood-stained shirt billowed on the wind. I wondered briefly if he was freezing, but he didn’t seem to notice the cold. His forehead creased in confusion, and his blue eyes fixed on my face.

Part of me wanted to crumple in his arms. Instead, I wrenched my hand out of his grip.

“That’s what you say about every girl.” I jumped to my feet. “Isn’t that what you told me about Miss Nussey?” I scanned the hills for my beanie, desperate to get it back.

“I said she was pretty.”

“Exactly.” I spotted my beanie and ran to grab it.

He chased after me. “It’s not the same.” He caught me by my coat and spun me around. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

I still hadn’t managed to put my beanie on, and I hated him seeing me without it. I hated not knowing if small patches of skull showed through my hair, or if any new hairs had come off with my hat. I jerked my coat back.

“I’m sure you say that to all the girls you bring up here.”

It was a stupid, childish thing to say. I realized that even as the words came tumbling out of my mouth. But I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t want to care about anyone, and I didn’t want anyone to care about me. I had a disease. And I hated it. I hated myself.

Branwell’s handsome face was a mixture of anger and hurt.

I pulled on my beanie and ran, intent on getting as far away from him as I could.

He let me go.

I ran hard and fast—until my lungs were ready to explode and my legs were no longer willing to carry me. When I finally stopped to catch my breath, I scanned my surroundings. Nothing but green and brown hills for miles. My brain switched to high alert as a new type of anguish crept over me. Where was I?

I spun in every direction, hoping to see Branwell. Anger flared inside me. I couldn’t believe he let me go! He should’ve known I’d be lost.

A mist came out of nowhere. It crept over the moors like a giant specter until I could barely see anything at all. Panic gripped my throat as it closed around me. My mind raced. And then it hit me.
This is how I came here. Through the mist. It will take me back.
I whirled around, searching wildly for Branwell.

“I’m not ready,” I screamed. “I’m not ready.” Mist blinded me, and I lashed into the air with my fists. “Not yet!”

My fist came down on something solid and arms encircled me. Branwell’s lean body pressed against mine, and I sobbed into his neck.

“Don’t do that again.” He held me close. “Promise you’ll never run from me again.”

“I promise,” I whispered.

B
ranwell didn’t go to the Black Bull that night. Instead, he stayed home and read to us in the dining room. Carrying on with
Paradise Lost
where Mr. Brontë had left off, he lay on his side, propped up by his arm, with the open book in front of him. The fire illuminated his strong, lean features and reflected in his glasses. The words to the poem rolled off his tongue, encapsulating me. A storm raged outside, rattling the windows and beating against the front door as if frantic to gain shelter against its own destructive force.

Emily curled on her favorite couch, stroking Grasper’s ears. Charlotte hunched over her writing at the table, and Anne sat on a chair with her sewing on her lap. I sighed and hunkered down next to the fire, letting its warmth spread over me.

Branwell and I stayed up long after Charlotte, Emily, and Anne went to bed. He claimed he wanted to draw, and I said I wanted to read. The others didn’t seem to mind. It was past 11:00 and they all seemed exhausted.

We sat on the floor several feet apart and listened to them traipse up the stone stairs. Once the house fell silent, and I was truly alone with Branwell, my stomach knotted with uncertainty. What had happened on the moors had taken me by surprise. I’d never experienced such intense feelings for anyone before, even Simon. Did Branwell feel the same way? Would he still if he knew about my alopecia? Things were moving fast. And I was afraid it would end badly for me.

Branwell must have read something on my face because he scooted over and wrapped his arms around me. We cuddled without talking and watched the fire. Then he kissed my neck softly, and a quiver ran down my spine. I turned to him. Every nerve in my body had been awakened by his lips on my skin. He must have felt the same because he grabbed my face and kissed me deeply. I’d never been drunk before, but I imagined kissing Branwell was as close to the feeling I could get without actually drinking. Giddiness mingled with a carefree pleasure swept over me, and nothing else in the world mattered or existed.

He pulled me to the floor without taking his mouth off mine, and I pressed my body against his, not wanting to separate. His hand traveled up my back, past my shoulder blades, to the nape of my neck. My beanie shifted slightly and his fingers touched the fine hair underneath.

I jolted.

“What?” he asked, his blue eyes wide. “Are you all right?”

I nodded and straightened my beanie. “It’s nothing. I got a fright, that’s all.”

He reached for me and I burrowed against his chest. We lay together, with the heat of the fire on our bodies, listening to the wind howl and beat against the naked windowpane.