Your Own Heroine - A Short Story

Hello, everyone! I hope all our dear readers are having a blessed 2026 so far. Here is a short story I wrote for a Creative Writing course a few years ago. Enjoy! 

- Grace Bertram

The year is 1851.

On the verge of starvation, she traipsed the moors. Breathing - barely; loving - sorely. “Mr. Rochester…” The sky rumbled, the air closed in around her. Her luggage left in the carriage, she stumbled in desperation, her cloak a blanket of loneliness. Why proceed? Who could help her? No relatives, no friends…

Charlotte drew her knees to her chin, wrapped her shawl close and pressed the pages, squeezing Jane’s hand. The evening sun sieved through the curtains, draped like a hidden mist shrouding her hibernation.

“Miss Bronte, it’s four o’ clock.” Rod tapped the sill. “Miss Eyre still a governess?”

“No, she’s fled Thornfield, you should read the book yourself and Rod - ” She gave him that sisterly look. “Why aren’t you helping Phil?”

“He’s on the till. Your father sent me to fetch you, said he thought you’d be squirreling away up here in a book or a reverie - or both.” Rod grinned. “I won’t tell, honest…”

“Out with it, Roddy. What’s the favour?”

“Baby-sitting. Please?”

“I say yes, no need for puppy eyes.”

He leaped and gave her a twirl. “You’re a legend. Betty’s out this evening and everyone from school’s heading to Owen’s… You know Miss Owen’s father - hmm, been to Crystal Palace, he’ll tell us all about the Great Exhibition. Father won’t be home till late, ask Lil to help you with supper, she’s quite old enough.” He sprang through the door and swept downstairs. “Oh and Lottie - thank you, I mean it. They love having you round.”

Lottie. It was Father’s pet name, but Rod and Phil were like brothers. Mrs. Chapman passed a few years ago and Charlotte’s own mother was a distant memory. All she had to keep her alive was the miniature portrait in her locket - and the way Father spoke of her.

So much alike, he said. The same expressive almond eyes. Same mouse brown hair, almost chestnut in the sun. Soft features, gentle manner - nothing striking. Charlotte was quiet, but firm. She didn’t race to meet challenges, but if they were asked of her, she didn’t shrink away. There was something admirable in this subtle, unflinching strength. Townspeople respected Miss Turner and those who knew her mother called her “Deborah’s child” with a wistful gaze.

The bookshop had regular customers, shelves bursting at the seams and always work to do. Rod was thirteen, like Charlotte. Teasing, playful, mischievous, but hard-working nonetheless. He earned a few extra shillings at Turner’s bookshop, but it was Phil - his older brother - who proved invaluable. Since her eleventh birthday, Charlotte had embraced the opportunity to help her father, too.

Her enthusiasm was kindled by a fondness for reading. Since she was a little girl, books had always been her escape. Adventure, solace, comfort, entertainment - besides education, of course… in a book, she could indulge her imagination, travel vast distances, learn new things, meet new people, reach destinations otherwise unreachable.

In this part of town, they all attended Miss Owen’s school. In between studies, she worked her shifts. If Betty Lawson was away, she baby-sitted the Chapman children. And when she had a spare moment, she read.

The danger - as everyone who knew her could testify - was that a book could transport her, carry her miles away. She would dive in the deep end, wholly captivated and losing track of time. To tear them apart was no easier than separating glue-pasted fingers from each page.

Currer Bell’s “Jane Eyre” was an old favourite - this was Charlotte’s third time embarking on that journey. Sheer delight, indeed. She loved to meet new novels - like meeting new friends. With her bookshop entitlement, new editions were often at her disposal. First publication was 1847, just that Autumn, yes, she remembered. Since then, Miss Eyre was a role model and her creator’s name was fuel for Rod to tease her by.

It was insider knowledge, the pros of working in a bookshop. Currer Bell was only Charlotte Bronte’s pen name, a fact not widely known beyond occasional rumours among suspicious critics that leaked to the suppliers of her novel. At Turner’s bookshop, it was great to provide the public with such gems of English prose. She treasured the privilege and relished Jane Eyre. It was such a vast success, she didn’t mind being called Miss Bronte. It was better than Miss Turnip: a pun on her own surname back when she was eight and the Chapmans had a vegetable garden. Rod really did like any excuse to laugh.

Now he was off and her shift was on. She rushed downstairs and into the shop.

“Lottie, there you are. Would you take over at the till? Phil needs a break, I’ll be checking the shelves out back. It’s quiet, won’t have many more tonight, I don’t think.”

“It’s ten past four. Father, I’m so sorry.”

“Never mind. I thought Rod would find you upstairs by the window.”

“He asked me to baby-sit the little ones tonight. May I go after closing time?”

“Course you may.” Father patted her cheek fondly. “Take care, my dear.”

The hour flew in a flash of smiling faces, friendly greetings, packaged volumes and flying numbers. She wasn’t much good at arithmetic - preferred words to sums. But she’d improved on the till and focused in class; besides, Father trusted her. That boosted her confidence enough to ensure competence when handling customers.

At five thirty, she flipped the sign on the door and hastened down the road to the Chapmans.

Lil met her in the doorway.

“Rod’s off to the Owens tonight, so I’m looking after you. Let’s get some supper fixed and I can read you a story. My, what’s the matter?”

Five little ones with no mother to tend for them usually bounced and bounded. Their cheerful brothers and busy father couldn’t see to proper orderliness, though Betty Lawson tried her best.

Today, however, they were silent. Whimpering a little, huddling at her skirts.

“Teddy.” Charlotte’s eyes implored him. He was ten, sensible for his age.

“It’s Missie. She’s gone sick and Lil don’t know what to do with her.”

The room was cold. At least it was June, but Missie’s hands were freezing. She tossed a little, her cheeks flushed.

“Missie, Missie, can you hear me? It’s Charlotte Turner, Rod’s out tonight, I’m looking after you, you’ll be just fine. Lil, boil the kettle, Ted, we need a fire. Hatty, you and Jake help me fluff these pillows. We need her in a clean bed. Fresh linen?”

Ted pointed. “We’re not meant to burn coal, if Father isn’t home. It’s expensive.”

“I know, but your sister is ill and we need to warm the house up.”

“But she looks pretty hot, she’s sweating.”

“Lil, I need some cold water, I don’t know what I can do, but a cooling compress might help draw the fever.”

“Fever!”

“Panicking won’t do any good, now, you be brave for me. Ted, I need you to run down to the bookshop, Father is home. Tell him to send for the doctor, Missie is sick.”

Lil prepared the cloth and the little ones whimpered. Missie was settled in bed and Ted left the fire ablaze.

Time ticked on. Charlotte nursed the child as best she could. At last, Missie calmed down and seemed more restful.

“I think she’s sleeping.” Charlotte tucked the duvet and rearranged her wild curls on the pillow. “She’s comfy. Now let’s get you some supper. Lil, watch your sister for me and call me if she stirs.”

In the kitchen, Charlotte noticed her hands were trembling. She steadied them and took a deep breath. Please God, the doctor would arrive soon! Truth be told, she didn’t know much. Missie’s breathing seemed peaceful now, but to properly evaluate or measure her pulse was beyond her. A much younger Charlotte had watched Dr. Halper once - only once - tending a much younger Phil when he had scarlet fever. The visit was cut short, she had to stay away. Infectious, apparently. And she’d never had it before. Missie’s wasn’t that serious, surely. She hadn’t hoped so earnestly in years.

A tray of goodies Betty had left readily stocked the tray. The children supped quietly, Missie slept on and the clock struck six.

“You need cheering up!” She smiled. “Here. I’ve got a book from the children’s section. See? It’s got lots of pictures. Would you like me to read it to you?”

Three pairs of widening eyes glistened at the prospect. They loomed over her shoulder to admire the illustrations. Charlotte stayed in Mr. Chapman’s armchair, ideally positioned between the bed and the window. The summer light remained, but the street was quiet. Still no sign of Ted.

Lil stoked the fire and Charlotte read on.

At six thirty, voices and footsteps grew nearer.

Ted rushed in, followed by her father, Phil, Rod and Mr. Chapman, who was just returned from work. They swarmed in the doorway with bustling concern, astonished at the tranquil scene they were met with.

“Her fever subsided a while ago, sir, after I sent Ted…”

Dr. Halper knelt by the bedside. Briefcase at hand, he examined his patient.

“You’ve marvellous presence of mind, Miss Turner. Ted said it was an emergency. Expecting a storm, I’m amazed to find smooth sailing.”

“They’ve had supper.”

“Lottie’s been reading to us,” Jake piped.

Mr. Chapman took him into his lap.

“I’m glad I came at closing time, sir. Lil said Missie wasn’t herself since dinner, but wasn’t sick when Betty was here. Good thing Rod asked me to come, I’m glad I could be here to help. But what took so long, Teddy?”

“Mr. Turner weren’t home, Lottie. I runned and found Doc myself.”

She winked. “Bravo.”

Mr. Chapman nodded at Charlotte. In the firelight, his eyes shone sincerity.

“Thank you.” He took her hand and squeezed it.

In Father’s eyes, there was something more than gratitude. There was admiration. Fatherly pride glowed from their depths.

“I wish I’d told you before setting off.” He read her puzzled expression. “Rod persuaded me to come to Owen’s talk… Phil was going, I knew you wouldn’t be home till late. Forgive me, my dear, I never imagined you would need me.”

Dusk crept at an ever-darkening pace. Missie was safe and sound asleep. They left the Chapmans in Dr. Halper’s care and headed home. Several doors, barely a minute’s walk to the bookshop. But father and daughter linked arms and strolled: slow and steady in the twilight. Above the rooftops, a silver moon rose like a cluster of pearls in a vast cloudless oyster.

“Mighty proud of you, Lottie.”

Charlotte beamed quietly. She wasn’t one to rise to such occasions - only read of them in books. She’d surprised herself tonight.

They strolled on.

“What did Mr. Owen have to say?” After a long silence. “Is the Great Exhibition as fascinating as it’s rumoured to be?”

“Even more so.” Father grinned. “No doubt Rod will tell you all about it in the morning and unless you really want to hear it, I shan’t waste my breath just now. Unimportant.”

“Unimportant? Her Majesty the Queen and Prince Albert… compiling new inventions, changing the world.” She smiled. “Unimportant, indeed.”

“Priorities, Lottie. You just saved the day, the heroine of your own novel. So tonight, I think of you.” He cuddled her close. “And can think of nothing else.”