‘Don’t worry about it. It’ll go away in a few days,’ I reply stiffly. He’s apologised numerous times, and it’s bordering on overkill. Short of wearing metal armguards to bed, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.
I peer inside a café with a sage-green frontage. It looks homely, yet tasteful and not too busy. However, it is September, so we’ve missed the peak tourist season. I bet Haworth is heaving with Brontë fans during July and August.
‘Is here OK for lunch?’ I ask Klint.
He shrugs. ‘Sure.’
We step inside and silently queue behind a tall dark-haired guy who’s wearing an old-fashioned black silk coat with long tails and a high collar. From the back, his Victorian vibe is eye-catching enough to make me contemplate him and wonder what the deal is—maybe he’s attending a themed wedding? His confident stance and the timbre of his voice suggest he’s hot, but it’s not confirmed until he turns to extract a bottle of drink from the fridge, and I get a better look. Shortish dark wavy hair, perfect pale skin, classic bone structure, along with a pair of deep brown eyes and sculpted lips. I swallow. Hot indeed. Maybe he’s an actor who’s in a period film? He’s got that air about him. A guy like him could definitely inspire a Brontë book boyfriend.
Thankfully, he pays and breezes past in a cloud of mystique before I get too flustered. Klint hates it when I check out other guys, but it’s justlooking, and he looks at other women all the time. As my eyes have been wandering, I let him off the hook for perving at the café server since she’s attractive and for being enticed to order a gigantic slice of carrot cake. Klint loves cake almost as much as he likes steam and studying.
***
After lunch, we explore the main street of the village, which doesn’t take long since it consists of pubs, curio shops, and cafés. We walk back to the hotel, the tense atmosphere between us eased thanks to a good lunch.
‘The Brontë Parsonage is through there.’ Klint nods to a lane leading up to a car park and a leafy enclave. ‘You could go now if you wanted.’
I frown and stare at the road ahead, my stomach clenching.
‘Mum is calling around three, and it shuts at five,’ he presses.
‘Doesn’t give me much time,’ I say, feeling coerced into going before I’m ready.
‘Isn’t two hours enough?’
‘I want to have a good poke around, see if anything jumps out at me.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Why is his mother calling again? He spoke to her two days ago.I don’t voice that thought out loud, though. Klint and his mother, Lydia, have a special bond that requires regular communication. His dad is often away on business, so she calls Klint ‘for a little chat’ because she has nothing better to do, which is fine. But he doesn’t like me listening in. God knows why as their conversations are hardly scintillating. It’s mainly gossiping about people I don’t know. Then again, I’m probably just jealous he has a mother to talk to.
‘I’ll go and readWuthering Heightsdownstairs so I don’t disturb you,’ I tell him.
‘OK, thanks.’
I sigh quietly as we walk. Maybe Ishouldgo to the parsonage, though it does look like rain. The sky, which was clear blue before, is now filled with scudding grey clouds. The shadowy moors slope up behind the village, and below the road we’re walking on, lush green fields sectioned with stone walls stretch away into the distance.
‘It’s lovely here,’ I comment. ‘The air is so fresh and bracing. I can see why the sisters liked going for walks.’
‘Bet it’s bloody freezing in winter, though.’
‘Yeah, probably why they’re filming now before it gets too cold.’
‘Who’s filming?’
‘I got the impression there might be a period film happening.’
‘What makes you say that? I didn’t see any cameras or anything.’
I don’t want to mention the guy from the café in case Klint thinks I was checking him out (which I kind of was). ‘Oh, I thought I saw something happening up by the church, but it was probably just a tourist with a big camera.’
Back at the hotel, I ensure the sleeves of my cardigan are firmly pulled down, but Gareth doesn’t mention anything as he smoothly checks us in. We lug our bags up the flight of steep stairs and down an even narrower hallway to room 6.
Klint looks around at the blue-walled room, which is dwarfed by a double bed with a flowered bedspread, and purses his lips. He doesn’t say anything, but I know what he’s thinking: poky! But I like it; it’s snug. A high window lets in the cool breeze and displays a view of the darkening sky and a glimpse of the moors. I’m glad I decided not to go to the parsonage today. An hour downstairs with Cathy and Heathcliff is preferable to getting rained on or listening to Klint and his mother gossip.
‘I’ll just wash my hands,’ I say, heading into the en-suite, which contains a shower and a sink. I had a messy panini for lunch, and I don’t want to mark the pristine pages of my new book with greasy fingers.
Klint pokes his head in. ‘Not enough room to swing a cat,’ he comments, eyeing the small shower stall and the even smaller sink that are jostling for space.
