‘Are you wearing your landlord hat today?’ I asked, holding up the kettle. ‘I’m afraid I might need a plumber.’
‘I’ll have a look,’ he said, in the way that men do, assuming the problem is something straightforward enough for them to fix. Before I knew it, he had his jacket off and was down on the floor, wrangling with pipes under the sink. I didn’t even know there was a spanner and it seemed highly unlikely that he would carry one around with him. I almost asked him if he was quite sure what he was doing, but instead asked if he knew what the problem was.
‘Probably a blockage of some sort,’ he said, his voice straining. ‘I’ll have it fixed in no time. I’ll just switch off the—’
Before he finished his sentence, the tap flew off the top of the pipe and water began gushing like a geyser. I ran to it and shoved an old rag into the hole where the tap used to be, stemming the tide until he managed to turn off the mains.
‘Perhaps I should have called the plumber,’ he gasped, getting up from the floor and brushing his wet hair from his forehead.
We looked at each other and realised we were both soaking wet. I could feel a giggle slowly erupting from my ribcage but tried to suppress it … until I saw him wringing water out of the ends of his shirt. He looked so ridiculous, my shoulders began to shake with laughter. He looked up at me then, his cross expression melting into a broad smile.
‘Amusing you, am I?’ he said, as I bent over with laughter.
‘I-I’m sorry,’ I said, turning my back to him so that I might stop. When I turned around he was taking the wet shirt off and wringing it properly into the sink. He had a vest underneath, which was also wet through.
‘Might I hang this in front of the stove for a while?’
‘Of course,’ I said, and quickly added more wood to the fire. I hung his shirt on the back of the chair and moved it closer to the heat. He could have simply returned home, he only lived next door, but there was a silent understanding that the explanation that would have been required was too complicated. My clothes were wet also, but I couldn’t change while he was there, so I merely wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and stood beside him, watching the flames.
‘I’ll have someone come and fix it first thing tomorrow.’
His tone of voice had changed again. I knew I wasn’t imagining it, this closeness that he would temporarily allow, an intimacy, before pulling up the drawbridge again. I had to snap myself out of this silly attraction. It was some jumble of homesickness and loneliness – a misplaced focus for all of my mixed-up feelings. He was kind to me at a time when I needed comfort, but I knew this was dangerous and had to stop.
‘Thank you, Mr Fitzpatrick.’
A moment passed and as though he had heard some distant noise calling him, he grabbed his still damp shirt and put it on. I responded and jumped to action, picking up his jacket from the floor and handing it to him. Our fingertips brushed as he took it from my hands. I did not look him in the eye but kept my head level with the hollow where his neck met his chest. I did not think about touching him but found my hand was already on his chest, above his heart. The rise and fall of his breathing grew heavier and in one movement, he pulled me close to him and our lips collided – clumsily at first, then passionately, desperately. His mouth was soft and yet eager. The sudden realisation of how he felt about me set fireworks off behind my eyelids. Knowing that it shouldn’t, couldn’t ever happen again, neither of us wanted it to end. I don’t know how long we stood like that, buried in our embrace. We did not speak. Occasionally his hands would caress the back of my neck, but for the most part, he simply held me, enveloping me closer and tighter. I didn’t want to move. Or think. Or wonder what it meant. The intimacy was all I craved. And then, it was over. I wasn’t sure how or who had pulled away, but we were no longer touching. He thrust his arms into his jacket and buttoned it up. His eyes met mine briefly and the look was one of fear.
‘I’m sorry.’
I tried to respond but found I had no words. My mouth formed the word ‘I’， but no sound came forth. Then he was gone, the bell ringing with his departure. I sat at my little table, shivering. What was I doing? Matthew was a married man with children. I could not, would not, be that other woman. But there was something between us and I wasn’t sure how we could carry on suppressing it.
When I was in Paris, I had known Armand would break my heart, but Matthew – he would break my resolve, which was much, much worse.
The solution came with the postman the following morning. A letter with a return address printed on a gold label on the back of the envelope filled me with excitement – Honresfield Library. I had written requesting access to their vast collection of papers, manuscripts and letters, specifically those pertaining to the Bront? sisters. The owners, Alfred and William Law, were two self-made industrialist brothers, who grew up near the Bront? family home and had acquired some of their manuscripts from a literary dealer. I was taking my first tentative steps as a literary sleuth – thanks to Sylvia igniting the passion for a second Emily Bront? novel at Shakespeare and Company. There was just one problem: I would have to return to England to investigate further.
It was a risk, but now it seemed even more of a risk to stay. I had to put some distance between myself and Matthew. Besides, did I want to pour all of my energy into another doomed liaison, or concentrate on my work? I nodded in the affirmative. My work. That was where my true passion was to be found. I considered the logistics; The Honresfield Library was in Rochdale, near the Laws’ factory. That was over two hundred miles away from London, so I was unlikely to run into anyone I knew. I thought of Emily’s poem ‘No Coward Soul Is Mine’ and, without realising it, had already made up my mind to go.
I finally felt as though I were leaving Opaline Carlisle, the girl, behind. Miss Gray would become the woman I always wanted to be. As I glanced out into the street, I noticed that the stained-glass patterns had shifted and were now the shape of a vast and rolling moorland with a path leading up to a grand farmhouse.
‘Wuthering Heights,’ I whispered to myself.
Chapter Twenty
MARTHA
I began to read the book at night. There was something sacred about those quiet, dark hours that made it feel special. I lit some candles （despite Madame Bowden’s repeated warnings against it） and arranged some cushions on the floor. It felt a bit like a seance at times because the strange noises in the walls wouldn’t stop until I settled down to read. The branches spreading across the wall were now freeing themselves from the plaster and I half expected to find leaves growing. Instead, a new book appeared. Normal People by Sally Rooney, the book I had seen at the library.
It was Madame Bowden. I didn’t know how she was doing it, but with her theatrical background, anything was possible. It was quite sweet actually, her quirky ways of encouraging me to read. If only she knew that I was carrying someone else’s story on my skin. Another line had come to me that morning while I was polishing the floors. I knew my mind wouldn’t rest until it was inked on my skin permanently. I had no idea what the story meant, how long it would be or whose words they were but the biggest mystery was why they were being told to me. I could never tell anyone; hearing voices was definitely still frowned upon, as far as I knew. But that was just it, I wasn’t hearing a voice as such, the words just showed up.