‘Hah, yeah. Lucky you’re not six foot six.’ Klint is a respectable five foot eleven, but reed thin. If he turns sideways in a certain light, he sometimes looks invisible.
Finished washing my hands, I carefully soap and rinse the wound as well while he watches. I’m not doing it to make him feel bad. I don’t want it to get infected, and a sticking plaster will pull off my arm hairs.
‘Do you think I should say something to Mum?’ he asks in a concerned tone. ‘It’s happening quite frequently.’
‘If you want to, but she’ll blame me and probably book you an appointment with her psychiatrist.’
Turning off the tap, I gingerly pat my forearm with the towel. There’s a hint of a purple bruise forming around the teeth marks.
I don’t care what Klint tells his mother about his sleep biting habit—I just hope it doesn’t happen again tonight.
Chapter 2
All through the night, your glorious eyes
Were gazing down in mine.
(Emily Brontë, ‘Stars’)
Maybe talking to his mother is good for something as there’s no reoccurrence. I leave Klint happily tapping away on his laptop in our room after breakfast and make my way up to the Brontë Parsonage. The sky is overcast with patches of blue, but it’s not too chilly. Last night, a high wind whistled disconcertingly round the eaves, making me glance up from my book from time to time. There’s something thrilling about reading a novel that was inspired by the landscape outside your window. I hope I get to do some walking on the moors. I want to be fully immersed in the Brontës’ world.
Charlotte, Emily, and Anne’s home is fronted by a neat strip of green lawn and faces Haworth Church and its dilapidated graveyard. The two-storey house isn’t manor-sized, but its brown brick frontage has an imposing quality. The fact that it’s liberally set with windows strikes me as macabre. For the sisters, there was no escaping that graveyard view or being reminded of their own mortality on a daily basis.
The gabled front door is wide open, but there’s no one on the doorstep to check my online ticket, so I head up the flagstone steps and go inside. Despite the cold look of the exterior, the light-blue-painted hallway is surprisingly warm. The home feels well cared for, beloved.
A girl around my age comes out of the room on the left. She’s pale with large eyes and shoulder-length brown hair. Apart from her modern clothing, there’s something antiquated about her face, like she could almost be a long distant Brontë cousin. ‘Hello, have you got a ticket?’ she asks.
‘Hi, yes.’ I show her my phone.
‘Great, that’s valid for a year in case you want to visit the parsonage again.’
‘I might actually, so that’s good to know.’
She smiles, revealing wonky front teeth that add to her wistful charm. ‘Well, feel free to wander around. It’s not too busy this morning, so you’ll probably have the house to yourself.’
This is what I want to hear. There’s nothing worse than trying to soak up the ambiance of a historical home whilst jostling elbows with other tourists. If something intrigues me, I might need a decent length of time to look at it, and I don’t like being forced to hurry. Klint hates going to museums with me because he’ll have whipped around in an efficient manner and be ready to leave while I’m still staring at the first exhibit.
‘Where should I start?’ I ask the girl, whose name badge says ‘Bridget’.
‘The parlour.’ She gestures to the room on the left. ‘That’s where most people like to go first. It’s where the novels were written. Oh, and look out for theEcarved into the table, courtesy of Emily.’
‘Thanks. Will you be around if I have any questions?’
‘Dain’s our on-site Brontë expert, but I should be able to answer anything as well.’
I note that her eyes widen, and her cheeks glow at the mention of him. Something’s going on there. Is he her boyfriend? Do they have illicit trysts up on the moors during lunch breaks? She doesn’t look the type.
The girl turns to greet a couple who are approaching the doorway, and I take out my phone to type ‘DAIN’ into my notes app. If he’s the Brontë expert, he’ll be a good person to hit up if I come across anything that requires further analysis.
After moseying around the downstairs rooms (the small neat parlour where the sisters wrote, Mr Brontë’s austere study, the tiny household kitchen, and the makeshift office for Charlotte’s husband, Arthur Nicholls), I make my way upstairs. There are five rooms. The one belonging to their brother, Branwell, is a mess—a jumble of sketches, poems, clothing, and even a (fake) beer spillage. It was part of the set of the filmTo Walk Invisible,so it’s been left to showcase him as the slovenly ragtag of the bunch. I have seen the film, and he definitely gets the short shrift in that. But judging by the proximity of the bedrooms, living with such a disruptive force in their midst must’ve taken its toll on the sisters. I’m guessing they escaped into their writing or headed out onto the moors to get some relief from his drama.
The other four upstairs rooms are labelled as belonging to the maid, Mr Brontë, Charlotte, and the children. I’m leaning against the banister on the landing, wondering which room was Emily’s, when I hear someone coming up. I glance over into the stairwell. As a mop of dark hair and clean profile bob into view, I realise with a shivery thrill it’s the guy from the café. The adrenaline rush is quickly followed by a strong urge to run away, but that’s a dumb move since he’s about to see me.
He reaches the top of the stairs, and I can’t help gawking at the full spectacle. In the blink of an eye, I’m back in the nineteenth century. He’s not wearing the coat but still dressed in formal suit attire: white round-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black pinstriped waistcoat with a gold fob watch chain, and slim black wool trousers. He has the look of a young curate. But back in the day, he probably wouldn’t have been coming up here since there are young ladies’ bedrooms.
‘Hello. You look lost in thought,’ he says. My eyes flick to the name badge on his waistcoat: DAIN. OK, so he’s the Brontë expert. That kind of explains the Victorian get-up and, since he’s stunningly good-looking, the blushing girl downstairs.
My pulse rate increases. I hardly know what to say. ‘Oh, I was wondering which bedroom was Emily’s. Was it the children’s room?’ I ask, blushing a little myself as it’s a lame question.
