Romancing Miss Bronte: A Novel - By Juliet Gael Page 0,3

and the dog’s nails clicking on the stone floor, followed by Emily’s light footsteps.

“Emily,” Charlotte called out, “take off your boots before you come in the kitchen. And wipe Keeper’s paws. The floor’s clean.”

They heard her voice, speaking affectionately to the dog, and after a moment the big lumbering mastiff trotted in with Emily behind. She carried an armload of heather in bloom, and her face was fresh and rosy from the wind. She greeted them all with a breezy hello and one of her rare smiles, and then dragged out a bucket for the heather. Her skirt was splattered with mud and wet at the hem from jumping ditches and bogs.

“Where’s yer bonnet, miss?” Tabby scolded.

“On the hook, where it always is.”

Tabby gave an admonishing shake of the head. “You’ll ruin yer complexion like that.”

“It’s after one. Dinner’s going to be late now,” Charlotte said with a hint of accusation.

Emily ignored them while she pumped water into the bucket. She looked over Charlotte’s shoulder at the stew meat browning in lard and said airily, “That’s not enough flour.” She reached into the bin for a handful and sprinkled it into the pot. “Did you save any scraps for Keeper?”

“There,” Charlotte said, indicating a pile at the side of the table.

“Ooooh,” she crooned to the dog. “Look what you’re getting for dinner.” She picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the browning mutton. She was in an ebullient mood. In the summer she came home like this, sweet-natured and impossible to perturb.

“Is Anne back yet?” she asked.

“No.”

“We must all go out this afternoon. It’s divine. A perfect day. We can take our sketchbooks.”

Charlotte cleaned her hands and then reached for the letter in her pocket.

“This came this morning. From Mrs. Busfeild. The vicar’s wife.”

Emily looked up with interest. “What did she say?”

At that moment they heard Branwell’s heavy-footed tread on the stairs, accompanied by a low groan. It was all quite dramatic and intended to draw their attention to his entrance, but his sisters kept their eyes stubbornly fixed on the simmering mutton, their backs to him.

Branwell paused in the doorway, looking ridiculous with his shock of bright red hair flattened against one side of his head, his eyes barely open. He had slept in his clothes, which smelled strongly of smoke. He steadied himself, shook his head violently to throw off the sleep, then rubbed his face briskly.

“Tea. I need some tea. Very strong and very black, thank you.”

“You may get it for yourself, thank you,” Charlotte said. She took Emily in hand and headed for the doorway. “Excuse us, please.”

“Don’t be so cruel,” he whimpered in their faces. “I’m a sad man. A lost man. And if you had ever loved like I love, you’d know how it feels.”

His breath reeked of sour beer, and the girls winced as he stumbled past them. He dropped into a chair and collapsed with his head on the table where the meat and flour had been worked.

“Oh, my head,” he muttered. “Oh, my heart.”

Emily and Charlotte stared at him in sheer disgust. Only Tabby came to his aid, waving them out of the kitchen.

“I’ll get the lad’s tea,” she said, and with slow, painful steps she hobbled to the stove to put on the kettle.

Branwell lifted his head a little. His cheek was white with flour. “You’re an angel, Tabby.” He smiled. It was a grotesque smile, with his eyes half-closed.

“Aye,” she said, “but it’ll take more than a crippled old angel to beat the devil out o’ ye.”

In the dining room, they found Flossy, Anne’s fat little black-and-white spaniel, nested on the sofa. Emily shooed him off and plopped down, stretching her legs before her. Her stockings were stained with mud and a toe peeked through a hole. She wiggled the toe triumphantly. Keeper followed her in, still panting heavily. He circled briefly and dropped with a thud onto the cool wood floor.

“Here,” Charlotte said, handing over the letter. “It’s the same thing we heard from the Whites. She believes our situation is too retired for a boarding school, that we’re too isolated, et cetera, et cetera.”

They heard the door handle turn; Flossy’s ears pricked up. Anne entered quietly.

“Tabby said I should find you.” She spoke softly, her large violet eyes swelling with curiosity as she untied her bonnet and laid it on the table.

Emily patted the sofa. “It’s a reply from Mrs. Busfeild. Come sit down.”

The two sisters read the letter together, their lean bare arms intertwined and their