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“Her?” said Branwell shakily. He froze at Parker's words. The long pregnancy was suddenly a living thing. Yet so soon dead. He held on to Milly's hand. She still sobbed softly. He shrank away from himself in a kind of guilty misery, at the knowledge that his baby was dead. His little daughter was dead! But where was she now? He didn't dare think just then what Parker had done with her.
“She lived but minutes,” said Parker, in a low unfeeling tone. “I've laid her out i' there. I've swaddled her.” He nodded to a second bedroom.
Leaving Milly, Branwell took a lighted candle from the dresser next door. Just for an instant as he did so, the candlelight flickered on the wooden bangle Michael had made for Milly, which lay on the top. It was a beautiful shining thing. What it represented now though, made him wince. Struggling to calm his nerves he went to the second bedroom. The door was open. Through it he saw the pitch black nothingness of night. Cautious and fearful, he stepped quietly into the darkness.
Such light the candle offered was thin and vaporous, disappearing then glowing again, as if searching. Compared to the rest of the house, the room smelt oddly fresh, with a peculiar scent of spring. The air was light and clean. He moved the candle around the room, peering about, though he dared not imagine what he searched for.
A linen box stood in a corner. Branwell's heart pounded. On top of it he made out a tiny bundle of what looked like some wrapped up linen. He stumbled closer, then stood for a moment trembling, weak with sadness. The candle shook in his hand. He could not cope with the feelings that flooded his mind; they burst from his skin in sweat. He steadied himself against the wall.
After several agonising moments, he moved in further. It was just a tiny bundle ... A tiny, tiny bundle ... Some wrapped up bread perhaps ... Yes, people kept bread wrapped up like that in Haworth ... He gripped the candle, bending over to look. For a moment he felt as if his body had turned to stone. He feared to look any further, yet his fingers went before him, touching and opening the cloth. A sweet and gentle fragrance issued from inside. Little by little he parted the cloth, till his fingers touched the bony head of his child! Just now he didn't want to see, only to feel! The soft tenderness of her lips kissed the tips of his fingers. He ran them across the fragile tiny nose and the soft closed eyes. The top of the head was covered in what felt like cotton grass. His limbs trembled. Moving forward, he dared to look closer.
Branwell
Brontë’s
Creation
From Chapter 21
© Wendy Bardsley 2014