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Back The Diabolical Bones Save as PDF
Chapters (63)
  1. Cover
  2. BRONTË SISTERS MYSTERIES
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. Haworth Parsonage, April 1852
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. "Music on Christmas Morning"
  60. Author’s Note
  61. Acknowledgements
  62. About the Author
  63. What’s next onyour reading list?

“What is it, Tabby?” Charlotte asked as the others gathered nearer.

“Some do say . . .” Tabby began, lowering her voice as if she was afraid she might be overhead, “that on the night his wife was taken from him, Clifton Bradshaw was so full of fury and grief that he sold his soul to the devil, as vengeance against the God that robbed him of his love, and that’s why he’s had the luck of the devil ever since.”

4

Emily

There are many who would not be able to fathom that what Emily Brontë loved most about the moors that surrounded her home was that at any moment they might bring one’s existence to a sudden end. A single misstep, an unplanned detour, one careless moment on a clifftop path, and the likelihood of unwittingly delivering oneself into the jaws of death was remarkably high. This was never truer than in the grip of wintry weather, which had held dominion over their little corner of the world for more than three weeks now, as it continued to snow with no sign of a thaw. Bitter it was, but also sublime, all the noise and clamour of the world muted to a hush of peace and soundless calm. Emily would be sorry when spring eventually broke the deadlock, but even then the thaw would cause a deluge of meltwater to flood down the hills and valleys into the villages. For in Yorkshire even the onset of summer could be treacherous.

All four of them had dressed as wisely and as warmly as they were able, given their means. Even so, after just a few minutes of walking, the cold had wormed its way in under every layer of Emily’s clothing. It was as if it were a living thing that sought to feed upon her warm blood, steadily permeating her entire being, until she believed she could feel its icy touch even in the marrow of her bones.

Despite his self-inflicted fragility, Branwell led the way, and on this one occasion, Emily was content to let him. Before the Mrs. Robinson business, her brother had seen nothing in walking twenty miles in a day, and he knew the footpaths just as well as she. These days he was made more of gin than he was of flesh, and his pace was slower and a great deal more laborious than it would once have been, but he had not lost his goatlike agility or unerring sense of direction. If only he could have utilised those attributes in his personal life, Emily thought, then perhaps he would not still have been wondering, waiting for news of Mrs. Robinson, certain that somehow at the right moment she would summon him to her side, when it was quite clear to everybody else that Lydia Robinson was doing her very best to erase her brother’s existence from Robinson family history.