(Charlotte Brontë,Jane Eyre)
As I shower and dry my hair the next morning, I’m in a jubilant mood. Thanks to Klint’s amorous attention last night, we both had a decent night’s sleep; and no biting occurred, in dreams or otherwise. It feels like we’ve turned a corner, and we’re on the mend.
Dain will be the true test, though.
I step outside the hotel, expecting a patchy blue sky like we’ve had for the past few days; and instead, I am greeted with a dense grey fog. It’s a real pea-souper enveloping my body like a shroud. I can hardly see ten feet in front of me. Shivering, I zip my windbreaker right up to the chin, wishing I had my beanie. At this rate, the damp will play havoc with my freshly diffused curls. I speed up with the intention of arriving at the Black Bull five minutes early so I can defrizz and check for stray mascara streaks in the ladies’.
I’m not usually this concerned about my appearance, and really, my hair and make-up are the least of my worries. But I need to feel confident that I’m putting my best face forward since I’m throwing myself into the den of temptation. If I walk out unscathed, I’ll know that all the shit that Klint and I have gone through in the last few months has been worth it. It will prove that we’re meant to be together.
The square clock tower of Haworth Church comes into view through the fog as I approach the town. Shortly after, the soot-stone frontage of the Black Bull appears swathed in a moody swirling mist. I feel like I’ve stepped into the pages of one of the sisters’ Gothic novels and half expect Mr Rochester to come clip-clopping up the street on his horse. But there’s only an indistinguishable figure walking ahead of me with muffled footsteps in the eerie quiet.
The Black Bull is cosy and inviting after the wet chill of the fog. A quick glance around the pub’s dining area reveals a crackling fire and a few patrons enjoying the warmth and a meal, but no sign of Dain. I make a beeline for the ladies’.
I scrunch some life back into my limp curls with shaking hands.Calm down, Lizzy. It’s just lunch, not a date!Wiping a finger underneath my left eye, I attempt some deep calming breaths, but they come out more like shallow hacks.Breathe! You’ve grown as a person. You are now stronger, wiser, and more mature than three months ago. You will not succumb to the charms of Dain Whitmore!
After my freak-out in the loo, I pull myself together, order a sandwich at the bar, and sit composedly in the corner by the window, sipping a glass of apple juice.
Noon comes and goes, and my palms are a sweaty mess. But at 12.05 p.m., the door to the pub opens, and Dain comes strolling into the bar area. He greets the bartender. There’s a friendly but muted conversation I can’t fully hear, but I catch the stray end of it: ‘I’m meeting with someone ...’ He looks round and catches sight of me, and a small smile plays around his lips. I force myself to sit up straight and smile in return as he comes over.
‘Hi, sorry I’m late,’ he says.
‘You’re not,’ I reply, pleased that my voice shows no sign of the previous inner turmoil.
He’s as gorgeous as ever and wearing a long black overcoat and a deep-green scarf, which he unwinds from around his neck and hangs on the back of the chair opposite me. He unbuttons his coat, and underneath, I glimpse his white shirt and waistcoat attire. He stretches his fingers to the fire for a moment and breathes a sigh of relief. ‘That’s better. The fog is freezing.’
‘Do you have central heating up there at the parsonage?’
He laughs. ‘Unfortunately, we’re reliant on the same rudimentary heating system as the Brontë family, namely fires in all the grates. But I have been running up and down the stairs all morning, so it wasn’t too bad—we had a bus tour,’ he explains, seeing my blank expression.
‘Ah.’
He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the chair, covering his scarf. ‘Anyway, have you ordered? Are you OK for a drink?’
I indicate my apple juice. ‘Yes, thanks. And I ordered the torched goat’s cheese sandwich.’
Dain’s soulful eyes light with merriment. ‘That’s my fave. I call it “the tortured goat”. I’ll get that too.’ He smiles at me, and the effect is quite devastating on my attention-starved libido. Shit.
He goes off to order, and I slump back against the wall cushion, feeling blood rush to my cheeks and tingles in places I shouldn’t be tingling. Jesus, what was I thinking? If he can floor me with a smile, there’s no hope for keeping this professional in my head.
I take a shaky sip of cold apple juice and quell the urge to run.Tortured goat indeed.
He comes back carrying a tall glass of fizzing Coke, and I steel myself. If I can ignore his attractiveness, I should be fine. I’ll mention Klint as soon as I can; that should stop any potential flirting dead in its tracks—on my side anyway.
‘So how are you finding the hotel?’ he asks, placing his drink on the table and settling into his chair.
‘It was fine until I found out it was haunted.’
‘Mmm, yes, I didn’t think I should tell you that,’ Dain says. ‘Especially if you’re staying there by yourself?’ He phrases it like a rhetorical question, but it’s one that needs answering.
‘I’m with my partner, Klint. He’s doing some research in Haworth for his doctorate.’
Dain doesn’t react outwardly to this information. He takes a sip of Coke and says, ‘That’s good you’re not alone, especially at night.’ I breathe easier. Now he knows I’m not single. But I happen to see him glance covertly at my ringless left hand resting on the table.
Right. MORE KLINT.
By the time our sandwiches arrive, I’ve filled him in on Klint’s teenage obsession with trainspotting (notthe Scottish book, I add); his undergraduate degree in nineteenth-century history at Oxford, followed by a master’s with distinction on the Industrial Revolution; and his current DPhil on steam engines. Feeling like we’re running out of time to discuss the Brontës, I steer the conversation back to Dain, who’s tucking into his sandwich.
‘So how did you end up volunteering at the parsonage?’
