He hitches a shoulder in my direction. ‘No problem. Let me know how you get on in room 9.’
We pack our bags, jamming in clothes and toiletries, and swiftly leave room 6. Klint is doubly keen to vacate it since it appears he now does believe in ghosts. Him freaking out would be amusing—if my bruised leg wasn’t aching.
Room 9 has a similar homely decor but is larger because it has twin beds, which Klint suggests we push together.
‘Fine, but can we do it later? I want to make a start on the Brontë catalogue,’ I tell him, feeling irritable. To be honest, I’m not fussed about making it into a double. I need a good night’s sleep without him thrashing around next to me.
I collect my laptop and head back down to the restaurant, giving him the room to work in. After setting up on one of the tables, I risk a look at my WhatsApp. Nothing from Dain. That’s good. If he’d sent a message, I’d be in a quandary about whether to reply or not.
Half an hour later, my eyes are blurry from peering at Charlotte’s tiny book manuscripts and poring over Emily’s illustrated diary papers, trying to decipher her writing. It’s all fascinating stuff, but it’s making me think about Dain more than ever. I check WhatsApp again. I can see the last time he was on there: thirty minutes ago. Pretty much when I was.
Was he chatting with someone else? Or revisiting our conversation and thinking about me?
Through the lattice window, the sky is clear, though the trees are swaying. The wind never seems to stop blowing here. But maybe a strong blustery breeze plus a visit to the parsonage are what I need to clear my head. I shouldn’t go there, but I’m feeling disinclined towards Klint, and I’m craving some kind of interaction with Dain. Anything will do, even if it’s two minutes before he gets whisked away by Brontë fans.
Pushing my laptop into my tote bag, I slip out through the side entrance, deciding not to message Klint. He’s busy, and I need some space. If he wants to know where I am, he can message me for once.
***
I’ve been wandering around on the upper floor of the house for twenty minutes with no sign of Dain. But when I venture down the stairs, I hear his voice coming from the kitchen. I linger on the bottom step, eavesdropping.
‘The sisters often read and studied while doing household chores. Take Emily, for instance. She used to knead bread dough while learning German ...’
I smile to myself. He does have a bit of a lecturer tone.
A woman asks, ‘Would she have writtenWuthering Heightsin here?’
‘She definitely would’ve been thinking about it and jotting down notes, but chores took priority during the day. She did most of her writing at night around the parlour table with Charlotte and Anne.Wuthering Heightsis approximately 110,000 words, and it was written in nine months, which is between 400 to 450 words a day—an amount that she feasibly could’ve written with her quill once Mr Brontë went to bed. Don’t forget they were also keeping their publishing efforts a secret from him—’
Another woman’s voice interrupts. ‘Areyoua writer?’
Dain pauses. ‘I dabble,’ he says, sounding self-conscious.
I prick up my ears at that.I bet he writes poetry. He looks the type.
A small group of middle-aged women file out of the kitchen, chattering, and turn left towards the parlour. I freeze; I shouldn’t be here. If Dain follows them into the parlour, I can sneak out the front door. I’m about to take a step. However, he comes out of the kitchen, turns right to go upstairs, and we almost collide.
‘Lizzy!’ he exclaims, looking surprised.
My retinas burn at the sight of him. This handsome dark-haired version with his eyebrows raised and lips parted is definitely better than the inanimate one in my imagination. I chew my lip, feeling a blush starting. ‘Hi, um, I was just ...’
‘Getting mileage out of your yearly ticket?’
He grins at me lazily, probably knowing I’ve sought him out after our messaging flurry last night, and my cheeks flush even redder. I shouldn’t have come. I’m making it pretty obvious I fancy him despite the fact I have a boyfriend. I grip the banister tightly, feeling awkward as hell. ‘I should ...’
‘Have you had lunch?’ he says at the same time, our sentences tangling.
I shake my head.
‘Want to join me? I’m happy to share my sandwiches. I usually make too many,’ he says lightly.
I relax at his casual tone, and my awkwardness fades away. ‘OK, thanks, if you don’t mind. I was getting peckish hearing you talk about Emily’s bread.’
Dain chuckles. ‘Oh, you heard that?’
‘I did. Not that I was eavesdropping or anything.’
He raises an eyebrow, and I laugh. ‘Well, maybe a little. You did say to follow the sound of someone lecturing ...’
