‘I’m OK. It’s been a while coming, I think.’ I don’t elaborate on what went down. I’ll leave it up to Dain’s imagination.
He clears his throat. ‘I gathered things weren’t great from your message, and he sent that one afterwards.’
‘Oh, so you knew it was him?’
‘I suspected ... from the wording and the tone.’
‘That’s a relief. He confiscated my phone and wouldn’t give it back. I was worried about what he’d sent you. What exactly did he say?’
‘It was a thinly veiled threat to keep away from you. The wording isn’t important.’ Dain shrugs and looks out over the waving brown heather. After a moment, he glances down at me. ‘At least you’ve got somewhere to lie low and take stock.’ He squeezes my arm. ‘I can’t wait to show you my place.’
‘I can’t wait to see it,’ I say, smiling at him. Phew, I didn’t need to worry after all. This is turning out much better than I expected.
Dain leans on the wall outside in the lane while I collect my bags at the parsonage; he cites not wanting to answer questions on his day off as his excuse for not coming in with me. ‘If someone throws me a curly one, I could be stuck there for half an hour at least. Brontë fans are intense.’
No kidding, I think.
It takes me a little while to locate Bridget, but I find her in the back garden in front of the bronze statue of the sisters. She’s chatting with a couple of middle-aged men in Barbour jackets with expensive-looking DSLR cameras strung over their shoulders. I manage to catch her eye after hovering in the background, conscious of Dain waiting for me.
I wave at her discreetly. ‘Hi, my bags?’ I mouth from the doorway.
‘Excuse me, I’ll be back in a sec,’ she says to the men and comes over to me.
‘Sorry to disturb you.’
She laughs. ‘Don’t worry, you were rescuing me from being disturbed. They’re paranormal fanatics, and they were quizzing me on whether I’ve seen or heard any of the Brontës walking around lately.’
‘Oh. Have you?’ I say conversationally as we walk up the stairs and back into the main house to reach the broom closet. Gosh, this village is ripe for ghost hunters.
‘Dain and I stayed here overnight once,’ she says breezily, taking out her keys to unlock the cupboard. ‘But I’d never do it again. We didn’t see anything, but we didn’t get much sleep either. Did you manage to find him by the river?’
My gut twists, and I can barely give her my assent. They spent the night here together! He made it sound like he was alone. Was she the one who dared him to stay? Visions of Dain and Bridget snuggled up in Mr Brontë’s bed are now assailing my mind, especially as I was snuggling with him myself only last night.
‘Here you go.’ She hands me my wheelie and tote, and I take them silently. ‘Where are you off to now?’ she asks curiously, staring at my bags.
I want to say ‘I’m staying at Dain’s’ to gauge her reaction, but something stops me. ‘Ah, just moving accommodation. Thanks a lot.’
‘No bother.’
After she leaves, I check my WhatsApp messages because I can’t keep avoiding them. Sure enough, there’s an unread one sitting in there from Klint.
I groan silently, and Charlotte’s ghostly admonishment drifts out from the parlour:Well, Lizzy, you’ve done it now. You’d better read it at least.
Klint:I’m not going to try to change your mind or ask you to repay the £85 train ticket. Just let me know where you’re staying.
A needle of guilt pierces my heart. Well, if he wants to know ...
Me:I’m staying at Dain’s. He has a spare room. I’m heading there now.
He must be waiting for my reply because he’s instantly online.
Klint:Why am I not surprised?
(Klint is typing. Klint is typing.)
Klint:If you hadn’t broken up with me, I’d feel obliged to warn you, but I guess you’ll find out.
I click out of the app quickly, feeling even more disconcerted than my conversation with Bridget. Warn me? About what? He doesn’t know anything about Dain; they’ve barely spoken. I note there’s nothing about him being upset about my decision. He sounds as belligerent as usual, and it steels my determination to not believe a word he says.
