Gareth corks the bottle and gives him a small smile. ‘I wouldn’t worry. Dain’s much too busy with the Brontës to run off with anyone.’
He walks off before we can say anything.
‘As I suspected,’ says Klint cheerfully, attacking his steak once more. ‘Go and meet your Brontësaurus with my blessing. And say hi from me.’
I look over at Gareth where he’s pouring a pint for a local with a grim expression. What’s his problem?
Chapter 11
Oh, how different from the love I could have given,
and once had hoped to receive!
(Anne Brontë,The Tenant of Wildfell Hall)
The next day finds me walking into the village, my annotated copy ofThe Tenant of Wildfell Halltucked into my tote.
The weather has cleared up, but there’s a chill wind. Dain messaged earlier, saying he’d meet me in the Black Bull so we didn’t freeze to death. That suits me. There’s less chance of our fingers colliding over the thermos cup if we’re seated opposite each other with a sturdy table in between.
Not that I’m entertaining thoughts of physical contact with him at this current moment. Klint was a little amorous after three glasses of red wine last night, and as the beds were pushed together, we ended up having sex. This morning, we were both a lot more relaxed and connected.
It’s strange that Klint is always interested in sex before I meet up with Dain. It’s like he has a sixth sense that I’m straying mentally, so he’s marking his territory. Maybe it’s an inbuilt male thing. But he has nothing to worry about. Like he reminded me again as I was getting ready, a few more days, and we’re gone. How can I forget when he’s etching it onto my brain?
I spent the morning doing some online digging into the schools of thought around Emily’s second manuscript. However, I couldn’t find anything of solid merit to back up my theory that it wasn’t destroyed. There’s so little evidence that it’s difficult to piece together what really happened. Trying to write a thesis on it could be like attempting to weave gossamer threads into a substantial woollen blanket. I may have to ditch the idea entirely, unless I can find evidence that points to Charlotte hiding the novel. Maybe Dain’s aunt knew something? Her grandmother was friends with the Brontës’ maid after all.
Adjacent to the pub, there’s a wedding party having their photos taken on the church steps. The bride and her bridesmaids are shivering in thin silk and smiling brightly for the camera despite their arms being covered in goose pimples.
In contrast, the pub is toasty warm, and there’s an aroma of steak pie wafting around. Breakfast was a while ago, so I’m starving. Should I order at the bar or wait for Dain? I poke my head into the dining area; and to my surprise, he’s sitting at the same table and looking through a notepad, which, I can see from here, is filled with writing. I gulp. He wasn’t joking when he said he was going to take notes! I hope I can hold my own in this discussion.
He’s watching the bride and groom out the window as they get into a classic car festooned with white ribbons.
‘If I ever get married, the ceremony is going to be somewhere warm, not on the verge of winter in a remote English village,’ I say by way of greeting. I sit down and rub my arms briskly, looking at the scene. ‘Brrr, someone fetch the bride a fur coat!’
Dain grins at me. ‘Haworth isn’t known for its balmy temperatures this time of year. If you want pneumonia on your honeymoon, this is the place to come.’
We watch as the car moves off down the street, followed by the rest of the wedding party snapping photos.
Dain shifts his gaze to mine, and our eyes lock for a second, making my heart convulse. ‘How are you?’ he enquires without breaking eye contact.
‘Hungry.’ I stare down at the menu intently, but I sense him still looking at me. ‘I think I might have the fish and chips.’
‘Sounds good. Me too. Brain fuel.’ He taps his notepad with the tip of his pen. It’s green jade and has gold edging.
‘That’s cool,’ I say, staring at it. ‘Is it vintage?’
He nods. ‘Yes. I usually write with a quill, but I ran out of ink.’
‘Haha,’ I say, but from his expression, I get the feeling he’s being serious.A quill!Is he into calligraphy or something? ‘Um, I’ll go and order for us.’
Upon my return to the table, Dain remarks, ‘So I’ve got a couple of questions for you to get the ball rolling.’
I take my copy ofThe Tenant of Wildfell Hallfrom my tote and place it on the table.
‘Fire away,’ I say, feeling like I’m onMastermind: ‘Elizabeth Doyle, your specialist subject is the Brontës. Your time starts now.’
‘What do you think of the structure of the story? Does it work as a narrative device?’
‘Yes, definitely,’ I say. ‘In the first part of the novel, Gilbert relays the story through letters to his brother-in-law. Then in the second part, it’s relayed through Gilbert reading Helen’s diary, but it’s told from her point of view. The first person tense used for both characters gives the reader full immersion. It’s cleverly done.’
