Spotlight: The Mist on Bronte Moor by Aviva Orr (Excerpt)

The Mist on Bronte Moor

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Book Description:

When fifteen-year-old Heather Jane Bell is diagnosed with alopecia and her hair starts falling out in clumps, she wants nothing more than to escape her home in London and disappear off the face of the earth. 

Heather gets her wish when her concerned parents send her to stay with her great-aunt in West Yorkshire. But shortly after she arrives, she becomes lost on the moors and is swept through the mist back to the year 1833. There she encounters fifteen-year-old Emily Brontë and is given refuge in the Brontë Parsonage. 

Unaware of her host family’s genius and future fame, Heather struggles to cope with alopecia amongst strangers in a world completely foreign to her. While Heather finds comfort and strength in her growing friendship with Emily and in the embrace of the close-knit Brontë family, her emotions are stretched to the limit when she falls for Emily’s brilliant but troubled brother, Branwell.

Will Heather return to the comforts and conveniences of the twenty-first century? Or will she choose love and remain in the harsh world of nineteenth-century Haworth?

Aviva Orr

Author behind "The Mist on Bronte Moor"

Bio:

Originally from South Africa, Aviva now lives in Southern California with her husband, two daughters, and two Yorkie terriers (Lucy and Branwell).

Aviva holds a master's degree in English and has a keen interest in early British literature. The Mist on Brontë Moor is her first novel and will be released by WiDo Publishing on January 8, 2013.

"Check out the Excerpt Below"

Chapter 3

Come, walk with me–come, walk with me;

We were not once so few;

But Death has stolen our company

As sunshine steals the dew:

-E.J. Brontë

I had no idea how long I’d been crouching on the ground before someone tapped my arm.

I jerked my head upright, expecting to see Elsie.

The thick fog had disappeared, and a thin, pale girl, about my age, sat two feet away. A small, gray terrier panted beside her.

I blinked in surprise.

The girl looked at me as if I were a wounded animal. “You’re hurt,” she said.

Something warm trickled from my nose. I touched it and pulled my hand away. Blood and dirt smudged my gray glove. “It’s my nose. It sometimes bleeds in the cold.” I tilted my head back and pinched my nose between my fingers. After a few seconds, the bleeding stopped. I wiped my bloodied glove on my jeans.

The girl stared at me with a blank expression. “Where did you come from?” She brushed a strand of tangled, dark-brown hair from her face.

“London.”

“London?” The girl cocked her head. “Are you a runaway?”

“No, not exactly. I got lost, that’s all.”

The girl stared at me. I searched her face. I couldn’t tell if she believed me or not.

“I’m staying with my aunt at the moment. Her house is somewhere up there.” I waved behind me, trying to sound casual.

 “What’s your aunt called?” The girl asked.

“Elspeth.” I shrugged. “She’s really old.”

The girl glanced to her left. “There’s a house about a mile from here, but no one called Elspeth lives there.”

I looked to my left, a sea of green and brown land covered in a light mist lay before me. I turned to my right and saw the same thing. Truthfully, I couldn’t remember which direction I’d come from.

The girl fell silent for a moment. Her gray eyes fixed on my face. “What’s your name?”

“Heather.”

The girl frowned.

“Heather,” I repeated a little louder.

The girl rubbed her forehead.

“Heather Jane Bell,” I said slowly. Perhaps this girl was hard of hearing.

“Heather Jane Bell!” the girl said, squinting at me. “You? A girl? Why, I thought you were a boy with your short hair, dirty face, and trousers.”

Instinctively, my hands flew to my head. My beanie! Where had it gone? I scanned the ground in a panic and spotted it lying a few meters away. I lunged for it and pulled it on my head, feeling instantly calmer.

The girl watched me without reacting. She was difficult to read. I admired the way she kept her thoughts so well hidden. But her blank stare made me uncomfortable. My face warmed. “A boy!” I scoffed. “Don’t you know that short hair is the new fashion in London? All the girls have pixie cuts.”

Her face remained expressionless, as if she hadn’t understood or cared what I’d said.

I eyed her old-fashioned brown dress and red-riding hood like cape. Her clothes were beyond outdated and ugly. Obviously, she came from a very poor family. Shame washed over me. I sounded like a right snob talking about the latest fashion trend in London. No wonder I couldn’t get a reaction out of her. I changed tactics. “Your face is quite dirty too, you know.” I teased.

The girl smiled. 

“What’s your name?” I asked.

Instead of answering, she turned and patted her dog. “This is Grasper.”

“I love dogs.” I reached out and stroked Grasper’s scruffy head.

The girl’s eyes flicked from Grasper back to me. The expression on her face warmed, as if I’d gone up in her estimation a notch or two. “So do I,” she said. “Sometimes I think they’re better than people.”

I knew what she meant and nodded in silent agreement.

The girl stood up. “Emily,” she said. “Emily Jane Brontë.” Then she turned, whistled for her dog, and sauntered away.