"The Winds Coldly Blow" A Withens Tale

I tell thee, it were bitter that January.  The day started fine: cold, blue skies an’ Stanbury Moor hoary wi’ a cracklin’ frost. Silvery needles of ice stiffened every sprig of heather and tuft of sedge.  Bonny enough, I grant you, though I grumbled as I trudged t’ well, shielding my eyes from the glare off Delf Hill and Withens Height.

The spring water still babbled, trickling o’er stone, through ice and fern, down into a rough trough.  I broke the surface with my pail and filled it to the brim.

The cows in’t mistal, an Nelly our pig, an the geese and pregnant yows hurdled in’t laithe porch, needed water and fodder, however cold it got.  And we needed our hot tea and porridge, and to wash an comb the fleece ready for weaving.

You know, it’s funny to think on’t, but we knew them, we knew her, long before they were famous; before the whole world came t’Haworth.

Jonas, my husband, remembered them as children: all six of them, coming up t’ farm.  Like little dolls they were, he said: small and pale as porcelain, wi’ big, big eyes, holdin’ hands wi’ young Sarah Garrs.  They might bide awhile on warm summer afternoons and take a cup of the ice-cold spring water and a morsel of oatcake, hot off the bake-stone.

Then, later on, after we were wed (Jonas a fair stripling and myself a rosy-cheeked wench) when Withens became my home, I come to know them too: grave, young women, learned and well-spoken; dainty like.  At least Charlotte and Anne were, but she, she wor different: tall and graceful, an allus silent.

I would invite them in, proud to have such grand folk visiting.  Imagine! T’Parson’s daughters!

“Miss Bronte,” I would say, “Step in for a cup ‘o tea.  Kettle’s on.  What a gradly afternoon.”

And, “That’s very kind, but no thank you, Mary.” Miss Charlotte might say.  “Tabby will have our tea waiting for us at home.”

It was always Charlotte who spoke.  Anne might smile, but Emily’s gaze was always on the horizon, or hidden by her dark locks, as she bent down to scratch the sow’s back, or fuss the farm dogs.

Occasionally, if they were caught by a sudden shower, or the roaring wind, they would step over the threshold and into the housebody.  I would draw up chairs before the fire, clucking with pride, and give them fresh mashed tea or hot milk.

If Mr Branwell was with them (Brany they called him) the girls would stay quiet and he would fill the room with such chatter.  Ee! I niver heard the like.  Jonas and Feyther would stop their work just to listen.  T’were like a magic lantern show: all lights, an gasps, an dazzle, and colour.  Folks thought he wor summat special, that Branwell, but, after all, it were those lasses, so mousy and ladylike, that made the world sit up.

Emily niver said owt.  Not then.  Not until that bitter, beautiful day.  As still as frozen water it were; until noontide, that is, and then we could feel it in the air, something gathering.  The clear sky gave way to a sullen, heavy light: yellowish and strange; “ower-kessen”, as we say.

An we knew what was coming.  Jonas and the dogs brought in the rest of the sheep, then he saw t’cows in New Laithe. I fetched and carried enough water to see us through. Feyther checked all doors an windows, and shut the pig in’t sty.  And John, my bonny bairn, barely four, drove the poultry into their hut.  And we all carried extra turf from the peat house and stacked it high in the back kitchen.

We knew what were brewing on the horizon.  We could see a girt, sickly shadow approaching.  With the first flakes of snow, spiralling an’ dizzy, in that biting wind, we retreated to the cosy, firelit interior, to spin and weave and weave and spin, safe in the path of the winter storm.

So, we wor fair staggered when came a loud knocking.  Wor it t’ wind gusting hard agin the front door?  But Pit and Ty, the shepherd dogs, were up, barking, fit to wake the dead.

“Lie down!” said Jonas.  At once the dogs were still: crouched, tense.

The knock came again, more urgent.

“Hearken,” said Feyther.  “Tis a lost sowl.  Mebbe it’s thy Mither come yam?”

John piped up, clutching at my skirts, his eyes round with fear, “Is it Gramma?  O’ Ma, is it us Gramma?”

“Nay, lad,” I hushed.  “Yer Grandsah’s jus coddin.”

“Gi’o’er, Da,” said Jonas, moving to the door.

“Well, tha knaws ah’ve seen ‘er,” Feyther muttered.  “E’en a boggard wants a wahm hearthstun.”

He were teasing, I’m sure.  But on that wild, dark afternoon his words shook us all, more than we’d like to say.

Another outbreak of knocking.

Jonas shot back the bolts and pulled the door open. A bitter blast howled in, and a figure, tightly wrapped against the cold, stumbled o’er the doorstones.  I recognised the dog, a powerful beast, who shook the snow from his tawny coat. In an instance Pit and Ty were up, hackles raised.  From the throat of the intruder came a menacing rumble.

“Keeper, down!” a sudden command.

Jonas slammed the board shut.  “I’ll put dogs in’t laithe,” he said and, giving a sharp whistle, ordered our collies through the inner door.

Keeper lay low and the visitor unwound the muffler and doffed a thick felt hat.

“Why,” exclaimed Jonas. “Of all folk‒!”

“Miss Emily,” I said, stepping forward. “Jonas forgets himself.  Tha mun be starved.  Gi’ me your coat and those wet things.”  I hung them by the door.

Jonas was still agog, “What brings you so far, Miss, i’ this weather?”

“Might I stay?” she asked.  She had this odd way of not looking at you.

“Child,” said Feyther, rising from his chair, “sit thysen b’fire.”

“I can’t take your seat, Mr Sutherland,” she said, a little stiffly.

“Nay,” Feyther insisted.  “Sit thysen dahn, lass.  What possessed thee to be aht i’ this snow-stoor?”

Emily sat on the rocking chair and Keeper settled at her feet.  Her face, I remember, was as pale as milk.

“I misjudged,” she said and gave an odd smile.  “I should have turned back.  I could see it coming over the tops, but‒”. And suddenly her gaze was far away and there was a strange light in her eye.  I had never heard her say so much.

“They’ll be fretting at the Parsonage,” I said softly. “Did they know you were headed this way?”

Emily nodded.  “Yes and I passed Tom Pighills, the groom at Ponden, out riding. I should get back, but the paths will be covered. Perhaps Keeper could find the way?”

Feyther gave a sudden gruff laugh.  “Yow’ll be lucky!  Not wi’ stowering this bad.”

And, as if in agreement, several flurries of snowflakes rattled hard against the window panes.

“Tha mun stay,” said Jonas.

“It’ll be days,” said Feyther, shaking his head.  “We’ll be all happed-in.”

Of course, he were raight.  You can’t live on top o’ world all your life, like Jonas and his Da, an not know weather when you see it.

T’were my job to get Miss Emily settled.  “You’ll have your own room, that goes without saying.”

“Please, don’t trouble.  I can sleep in a chair by the fire.”

“Nonsense, Miss,” I scoffed.

I set Feyther and John to fetch fleeces from the garret and blankets from the chest, an directed them to make up a pallet in the parlour chamber, where Jonas had the second loom.  I took her up the stairs to the house chamber.  This was where Jonas and I, and Da and the bairn slept, and where Feyther had his master loom.

“It’s just off here,” I said, opening the dividing door.

Emily, who had been stiff and white, actually smiled ‒ almost laughed ‒ when she saw her room.

“Oh, it’s perfect!” she said.

She moved to the wide mullioned window, with its five lattices, and gazed out at the wild tempest raging o’er the hills.

“Perfect,” she sighed.  There was a pause, and then, “Might I have Keeper with me?” For a moment her dark eyes met mine.

We don’t let dogs in the house, as a rule, and never upstairs.  But, I could sense her need.

“Yes, Miss.  I can see he’s a good creature.”

“And, a candle?”  She thrust her hand into her skirt pocket, withdrawing a silver threepence.

I hesitated.  Tallow was costly and though we had candles they were rarely used. We preferred rushlights.

“You’re all right, Miss,” I said, a little proudly perhaps.  “We can spare a candle.”

When I told Jonas, he said “’Appen she’s afeared of dark?”

But that weren’t it.

At night I could hear a faint scritch-scratchin’, like a mouse gnawing through sackcloth. And a gleam of light flickered under the chamber door.

In the morning she was late to rise.

“’Owd sleepy ‘ead!” teased Feyther. “Tha’ ‘as ter rise sharpish wi’ beasts t’ feed

She half-smiled and joined us at breakfast: a great dish of steaming waff was set in the centre of the table.

“I was up early, watching the storm,” she said eagerly.  “It’s coming straight down the moor!”

“Aye, tis blowin’ keen, an’ ah must clear the paths,” said Jonas, plunging his spoon into the waff and dipping it into his mess pot.

Emily watched him and inspected the blue-milky contents of her mug.

“Dunna fret abaht New Laith,” said Feyther.  “T’owd coos’ll not yield, tis that nithering,” then, turning to Emily, “eat up, lass, afore it’s all gone.”

She picked up her spoon and cautiously scooped a portion of hot porridge from the common bowl.

“Dip it in, lass, dip it in,” cried Feyther.  “Like this.”  He thrust his spoon into the steaming waff, dipped it into his skim and gulped it down.

“Yah mun put some meat o’ them bones if yow’re to graft.”

Vaguely Emily dipped the spoon into her milk and said, “I’d like to work.”

“Feyther,” I scolded, “You can’t expect Miss Emily‒”

“I’d like to,” she said firmly and, as Feyther chuckled into his pot, she swallowed her spoonful.

She was as good as her word.  She helped me to clear away and wash the pots, brush the hearth, stoke up the fire and sweep through house, with young John laiking at our heels.  Overhead we could hear the rhythmic clack-clack of Feyther’s loom.

In the dairy I showed her how to skim off cream wi’ a skenk and churn the butter.  She enjoyed this task: her arms were thin, but strong.  Then we washed and beat and salted the butter and stored it in stone jars.

Soon it was time for dinner.  John curled up on the hearth rug next to Keeper and played with his wooden soldiers.

“Can you mek oat cakes?” I asked, leading her to the back kitchen.

“I’ve watched Tabby do it,” she said, uncertainly.

I set a fire beneath the bake-stone then took the bowl of fermented batter, added a handful of fine oatmeal, beat it and poured a dollop on to the riddle-board.  “See now, this is the tricky bit. You ‘ave to reel it round, slip cake ont’ damp spittle, then flip it on t’ hot stone. Like this, see?”  The batter sizzled on the bake-stone. “Then, when the edges curl, turn it o’er.” She nodded, her eyes eager and alert. “Now, hang that one on’t fleak and you have a go.”

She picked it up in no time and soon the house was filled with the fragrant scent of hot oatcakes.  “Mek eight,” I said, “that’ll do us, and we’ll have some fried bacon and toasted cheese.”

“Mary,” she asked suddenly.  “Does anyone else live here?”

“What, Miss?”

“I saw someone last night, sitting by the fire.  I thought it was you.”

“Last night, Miss?” I cried.  “But we were all abed.”

“I came downstairs, for some water.  Someone was sitting in Mr Sutherland’s chair.  A woman.”

Despite the heat from the bakestone, I felt a sudden chill.

“You must ha’ been dreaming, Miss!”

“No.  Keeper saw her too.  I felt his hackles rise.”

I shivered.

A voice came from the doorway.  “’Appen tha’s seen ‘er too, then lass.”  It was Feyther, drawn by the smell of cooking. “Ah’ve seen ‘er mony a neet, lookin’ through lattice, ah’t ont’ moor, sittin’ i’ that chair. My Annie.  She wor a good woman.”

“O’ don’t, Da,” I said.  “We’re dismal enough without conjuring up ghosts. Think on’t bairn.”  I nodded towards John.

Feyther withdrew, but I could hear him singing, low: “Twas far in the night, and the bairnies grat, The mither beneath the mools heard that‒”

I hurried after him, muttering that I must cut the bacon slices.  I’m not superstitious, as a rule, but talk o’ the dead unnerves me.

Jonas came in not long after, shaking wi’ cold, and reported that the snow was as high as his shoulder.  We all gathered close to the fire to eat dinner.

After, Emily asked if she could be excused and, wi’ Keeper at her heels, ascended the stairs.

“Ah’ll be mekkin a raight rattle wi’ loom,” Feyther called up after her, “If yow’re wanting a nap.”

“Oh no,” she replied.  “I won’t be sleeping.”

Jonas settled down to wool combing and I sat spinning and the sound of Da’s loom clacked and clattered above our heads.

“She’s a strange ‘un,” said Jonas.

“Aye,” I agreed.  “But a canny lass.”

“Ah wonder what shoo’s up to?”

Time passed and niver a sound came from her room.  As the clock struck four, I mashed the tea, then climbed the stairs.

“Tea-time, is it?” said Da, as I appeared. “Ah can barely si’ t’ fettle.”

I knocked on Emily’s door, opened it and peeped in.

She hurriedly pushed something under the fleece and turned to me.  She was wrapped in the blanket.

“Come and get wahm, Miss,” I said.  “I’ve brewed some tea.”

“Thank you, Mary.” She shed her blanket and stood up, then gazing out of the window said “The wind is dropping, and the sky clearing.  I think there will be a moon tonight.  It will be so beautiful.” And half-dreamily she murmured, “The chill, chill whiteness covers all‒”

Her gaze lingered on the winter twilight.

“Come, Miss, you’re shivering.”

That evening after supper John climbed onto his grandsire’s knee and begged for a story.

“Ee, tha does claver, lad,” grumbled Da, but he petted the bairn’s head.

“Please do, Mr Sutherland,” said Emily.

So Feyther told us the story of poor Elizabeth Heaton who was seduced by a drunken scoundrel and forced into a shameful marriage and who, two year thence, thin and neglected, returned to Ponden with her baby girl, to die of a consumption.

“I remember that neet i’ March, nigh on twenty year since,” said Da.  “Ah wor mekkin an urgent delivery of cream an’ eggs f’ ailing lass: they wor trying to build ‘er up wi’ rich vittals.  But t’were too late. I saw through gloom, passing by garden, a ghostly lantern, carried by a grizzled owd man.  She wor done for. T’were the sign of doom f’ Heatons. Owd Greybeard, herald of death, folk call ‘im.  Poor Elizabeth died the next day, and, within ten month, her mother and her bairn wor dead too.”

John were fast asleep and Feyther carried him up to bed.

That night I heard the scratchy-scratchin’ sound and saw that dim gleam flickering under the chamber door.  It must a’ been well past midnight before the light went out.

Next morning, after helping me to milk the cows and carry brimming pails to the dairy, Emily offered to help Jonas clear the snow.

I took my chance.  With brush and pan in hand, I entered her room.

“A’ tha nebbin?” chuckled Feyther.

I gave the floor a few half-hearted sweeps, then went o’er to the fleece pallet and rummaged beneath.  I drew out a penny notebook, into which was tucked the stub of a pencil.

Inside, the pages were covered with cramped handwriting.  Some scribbled down and some set out like the verses and ballads you sometimes see in news-sheets.  I could just mek out some lines.

“…my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand!  The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, “Let me in – let me in!”

I shuddered and stopped reading.  I’d had enough of boggards and spirits!  I turned to the verses.  The close scrawl was almost impossible to read, but I persevered, my heart beating wildly:

“The shrieking wind sank mute and mild,

The smothering snow-clouds rolled away;

And cold ‒ how cold!‒ wan moonlight smiled‒”

And another,

“The night is darkening round me,

The wild winds coldly blow;

But a tyrant spell has bound me

And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending

Their bare boughs weighed with snow,

And the storm is fast descending

And yet I cannot go.”

“Weel, A’ niver,” I breathed, sitting back on my heels.  Ah wasn’t much of a scholar, but these words made me ache inside wi’ their lovliness.  My hands were trembling.  To think, that silent girl had such a pure, uplifting voice.

I could hear Emily outside, calling Keeper and laughing.  I returned the notebook to its hiding place and, standing up, leaned on the stone sill and peered through the window.  The world outside was white and Emily, shovel in one hand, was throwing snowballs for the dogs and laughin’ and laughin’.

And sometimes, all these years later, wi’ Emily and her sisters long dead, I look around this humble chamber, wi’ its loom and its view up t’moors and down o’er South Dean Vale, and I think o’ the name of Bell, an’ of Brontë, famous all o’er the world, mebbe.  And I remember that winter long ago: the little light flickering and the scratchin’ of her pencil, and reflect on how her poetry ‒ the poetry she wrote here in this very room ‒ made me ache, ache inside, wi’ its lovliness.

Copyright © Rebekah Clayton, 2023