Chapter 1
It was an incident of no moment, no romance,
no interest in a sense; yet it marked with change
one single hour of a monotonous life.
(Charlotte Brontë,Jane Eyre)
As heritage steam trains go, the one that travels between Keighley and Haworth in West Yorkshire is a real beauty. Not that I know much about the mechanics. I’m excited by the shiny black paint and belching grey smoke, and thewump wump wumpas it chugs off down the tracks once we’re inside it.
My boyfriend, Klint, is somewhat less excited even though steam machines of nineteenth-century Britain are the subject of his doctoral thesis. Still, he’d seemed pleased this morning when I announced I’d bought us tickets as a treat. I was also sure I’d caught a glimmer of interest in his eye as we boarded, though he’d tried to hide it in his usual stoic fashion. I know I’m to blame for his stand-offish behaviour, and I’m trying to make amends, but it’s mentally draining.
After ten minutes of silence across the table, I nudge his ankle with my foot. ‘Having fun?’
He glances up from his laptop, peering at me through his round glasses. For the life of me, I can’t fathom why he’s working when we’re joyriding on a steam train.Probably to punish me.
‘Sure. It’s giving me time to write up yesterday’s notes from Bradford,’ he says.
I sigh to myself. ‘But this is your thing—steam and trains. Isn’t it getting your pistons pumping?’ Truly, I hoped he’d be bouncing off the carriage walls.
‘Yes, Lizzy, I’m having fun. And yes, my pistons are pumping,’ he says dryly, returning to his notes. Maybe they are, but quietly. Wow, I thought if anything could light our flagging flame, this would be it. It seems I’m wrong. Yet again.
I give up on him as a lost cause for now and glance out the window. We’re chugging along nicely; and soon, we’ll be in Haworth, where we’re staying for a few days. I’ve never been there, but I’m looking forward to it since it’s the home of the infamous Brontë sisters. I’m even re-readingWuthering Heightsin the hope it will inspire a thesis topic of my own. I stare at Klint’s thin absorbed face as he methodically types. Despite his outward lack of enthusiasm, he is fully into his subject. He lives and breathes steam.Like a man-dragon, I think, resisting the urge to giggle.
We rent a small flat in Oxford near Balliol College, of which is Klint is a member, but we’ve been on a two-week research trip across the north of England visiting museums and archives in various industrial towns. Now Klint has a lead on some historical documents in Haworth that he wants to follow up on. Having recently quit my job in town and at a loose end, Klint suggested I tag along for the ride. He said it might be more interesting than staying alone in the flat, but personally, I think he’s trying to keep me out of trouble. Bored, I gaze out the window again.
‘Why don’t you go to the Brontë Parsonage tomorrow?’ Klint suggests, as if he knows I’m brooding.
I look back to find him contemplating me. ‘Oh, I guess I could.’
‘I assume, since you’ve been readingWuthering Heightsfor the past couple of nights, that you’re looking for the catalyst?’
By that, he means the deep intrigue of a subject necessary to undertake a three-year doctoral degree. But I’ll require enough grit and determination to complete it as well. I’m not sure I have the stamina; my master’s was difficult enough. Besides, I’ve been working for a year in a menial office job to pay off a student loan. I’m out of practice in the brain department. My knife has gone blunt, if you will.
‘Hah, maybe. But I’m not expecting it,’ I reply, feeling disgruntled. Itwouldbe nice to be engrossed in a subject like Klint, but at least I’m having a small break from reality before I look for another job to pay the bills.
‘You never know, the spinster sisters might surprise you.Perhaps you could investigate why they created such roguish book boyfriends when there were perfectly suitable men in the village.’
I smile thinly.Men in the village are never as exciting as book boyfriends.‘Charlotte Brontë did actually marry one of those, to her detriment.’
I’m beginning to wish he would go back to his notes and stop trying to pressure me. You can’t force these things to happen. Sometimes they just do, out of nowhere.
At Haworth station, we grab a taxi; and it winds through the narrow cobbled street of the village, which is set on the side of a hill. I get a brief impression out the window: a jumble of quaint shops and an imposing beige stone church. Right next to the entrance steps is a pub with ‘The Black Bull’ in gold on its frontage.
The hotel that Klint’s booked for us—a low-slung two-storey stone-and-plaster building with an uneven slate roof—is in a valley near the village. Inside, it’s old and characterful with dark oak beams criss-crossing the ceiling and a flight of narrow stairs leading up to the rooms. A bar doubles as a reception desk, and an adjacent dining area has a number of empty wooden tables. I spy a couple of faded Brontë biographies displayed in a snug next to the bar, which could come in handy for a post-dinner read—though, as if we’ve arrived mid-morning, there’s a while to wait until dinner.
Before even introducing himself, Klint, ever the historian, asks the burly pleasant-faced guy behind the bar about the history of the place. Gareth Rumsey (as his name badge states) is barely older than we are, but he seems to have a ready supply of facts. Apparently, it was a sixteenth-century rest stop for horses to take a load off while their shoes were being shod. Then it was turned into a wayfarers’ hotel. After a few more minutes of chit-chat, Klint asks about the room; and Gareth admits, pleasantly, that check-in isn’t until two but we can relax and have a drink at the bar if we like. I look at the array of coloured bottles on the shelves. It’s too early to start drinking, though I could murder a G and T.
‘That’s OK. We’ll explore the town and have some lunch,’ I tell him. Klint glances over at the empty restaurant. I assume he’s about to ask if he can take his laptop in there later on to finish his notes, but then he notices Gareth staring at my forearm.
Damn, it’s warm in here, and I pushed up the sleeves of my cardigan without thinking.
‘Yes, good idea. I’m starved,’ Klint says. ‘Do you mind looking after our luggage?’ He hands Gareth his shoulder bag containing his laptop, which effectively distracts him. The mark on my arm, a crescent of teeth, looks worse than it is; and it’s not painful. But it’s not something I particularly want to explain to a stranger. Usually, if anyone asks, I say I had a run-in with a dog. But Gareth looks the discerning type, and I don’t think he’ll believe me.
We beat a hasty retreat to the village.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Klint unprompted, his voice thick with guilt as we stroll along the high street.
