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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?

All was silent, but as Emily held a lamp aloft, she could see a trail in the deep, deep snow and imagined her sister stumbling through it, her skirts slowing her down, the trail leading towards the cover of the woodland that enclosed the grounds. Beneath those woods were the secret caves and passages, the follies that had been built there long ago. Emily hoped that they would be a good place for her sister to hide, for following the trail there was a set of hoofprints. It seemed Lady Hartley had given Charlotte a head start while she mounted her horse, and as the trail reached the edge of the woods, all Emily could do was pray that her sister had not yet been caught.

49

Charlotte

It was utterly black in the woodland, and every sound seemed amplified by the pristine snow. Very soon Charlotte realised that her skirts in the snow revealed her path, no matter how fast she should run, which was not fast at all. The heavier and wetter her skirts became, the slower her frantic progress, and yet when she dared to glance over her shoulder, it seemed Catherine was taking her time in following her. Well, there was no need to hurry—her escape route was well signposted.

She had managed to travel quite far amongst the trees, to where the canopy was thick enough to prevent snowfall from betraying her, before she heard Catherine gee on her horse, and saw the snow-topped branches tremble at its gallop.

This could not be the end of her life, Charlotte determined. This would not be her fate, not now before she had even made her mark on the world. She had so much to do, so much greatness to shine forth. No longer would she feel so small and insignificant. She refused to succumb, no matter what it might take. She had been so afraid that she was not brave, that she had no strength for a battle. But in this moment Charlotte discovered that Lady Hartley was right about one thing: she was made of courage.

Charlotte knew that there were entrances to the caves in amongst the trees. If she could find one, then she could evade Catherine in the tunnels and perhaps find a way out. It was an imperfect plan, but she had had to run away from the village road when she had made her desperate bid for escape, and beyond the tree line there were only moors.

“Oh, Charlotte.” Catherine’s voice rang out in the clear night, sounding much closer than Charlotte had hoped. “Do stop running, my love. Come and greet me with your arms outstretched, and let me cradle you as a mother would.”