‘Are you crazy? Don’t shut it up again. Why are you keeping it in there?And why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
He sighs. ‘I wasn’t ever going to tell you.’
I gape at him. ‘Never? Did you seriously think you could keepEmily Brontë’s lost novel from me?’
He doesn’t say anything.
‘Fine, play dumb. But I need to look after it from now on.’
Before he can stop me, I pluck the parcel from the drawer and crawl onto the bed, holding it to my chest protectively like it’s a newborn child.
‘Lizzy ...’
‘No, I almost died trying to find this, and you never said a word,andyou said there was nothing else you were keeping from me!’ I exclaim. ‘Spill, buddy!’
Dain puts down the board and chews his bottom lip. ‘I didn’t lie. There is nothing else—nothing that will affect us. This is different. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it’s for a good reason.’
‘There had better be,’ I say accusingly. ‘Well?’
‘There’s ... there’s a curse on it.’
I scoff at that. ‘Curse? Who from?’
‘Charlotte.’
‘Oh.’ Actually, I can quite believe that. ‘OK, you’d better start from the beginning.’
‘Can I sit?’ Dain asks. I nod, and he gingerly perches on the edge of the bed, as if he’s trying not to startle a nervous deer. ‘You were on the right track when you went digging on the moors,’ he says quietly. ‘I thought the same thing after readingVillette, that she’d buried it. But those trees by Top Withens are sycamores. Remember what you said? About her burying the jar in a hollow beneath a pear tree?’
I nod. ‘I remember.’
‘Well, I knew there were ancient pear trees at Ponden Hall. One of the sons who lived there planted them because he liked Emily. It’s an Airbnb now, so I stayed there and did a little secret digging in the garden one night and discovered the manuscript. It was buried quite deeply in a lead-sealed casket ...’
Dammit, trust Dain to get it right. Being a local, he knows background stuff like this.
‘And there was a letter from Charlotte included with it,’ he continues. ‘She said she didn’t want the manuscript published. But she hadn’t been able to destroy her sister’s hard work either, even though she’d “pruned” a few of her poems. She was in a moral dilemma and had decided this was the best solution. Yet her restless conscience wouldn’t let it go, and a version of the truth came out in her writing. She said that if anyone pieced together the clues, found it, and published it, she’d heap ill will on them and come back to haunt them.’
‘Surely, she was joking?’
‘Maybe. But she also said her motivation wasn’t jealousy or selfishness—it was purely an effort to keep the family’s reputation intact, or words to that effect.’
‘Ooh, she must’ve thought Emily’s book was quite scandalous. But surely, it can’t be any worse than what you write.’ Dain pulls a face at me. ‘You know what I mean,’ I say hurriedly. ‘I doubt it’s that bad, and Charlotte’s letter is 175 years out of date! No one would care if it’s a little bit spicy or something. They’d probably enjoy it more because Emily was ahead of her time.’
Dain shakes his head. ‘I can’t go against her wish, Lizzy. Emily must’ve written about things in there that were too close to the bone. I can understand why Charlotte did it. Some secrets are better kept hidden.’
Wow, that’s nuts. Dain is more superstitious than I thought he would be. He’s really spooked that she’s going to haunt him from beyond the grave. But I can’t fault him for having a strong loyalty to Charlotte—that’s him all over. My heart sinks. I can’t believe this. We have Emily’s lost novel, and we can’t publish it or even tell anyone. The Brontë fans would be screaming if they knew.
I touch the package reverently. ‘Have you read it?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. Of course it’s going to be fantastic. I don’t trust myself not to get it published if I do.’
‘So if I read it, I’d be the first person since Charlotte and Anne?’
Dain nods. I feel hot, cold, and hot again. I stare at him with pleading eyes.
He sighs. ‘Go on then. I guess the curse doesn’t apply to reading it, but it doesn’t change anything. It’s still not being published. Look at what happened when you went digging around for it. I’m not taking the risk in case something happens to you.’ He reaches for my hand and squeezes it tightly.
‘OK,’ I say, feeling disappointed. Isn’t heburningto read it like I am?
