Page 57

Bonus Scene

A House on the Yorkshire Moors

As houses go, Wuthering Heights is a desolate one.

I have always felt more at home outside its walls than within them—one of my many oddities, which my brother Hindley is anxious to correct.

He says I will never find anyone to marry me unless I curb my boisterous spirit.

I tell him I’m glad of my odd nature, that I never wish to marry.

Such speeches vex Hindley terribly, and I enjoy watching him fume and fester.

Lately I have to be more careful how I bait him, though, because when Hindley is furious at me, he often turns his anger on Heathcliff, our adoptive brother.

Not really my brother , I remind myself every time my gaze is drawn by the breadth of Heathcliff’s shoulders, the packed muscles of his chest, or the surging of his biceps as he labors around the house and the yard.

I say it under my breath when I notice the length of his strong legs and the powerful grace of his body as he pitches hay for the livestock.

I repeat it quietly as I listen to the cadence of his deep voice as he soothes a restive horse.

Heathcliff is not my brother.

Since Hindley returned with his new wife, Frances, he treats Heathcliff worse than ever—worse than a servant.

He still cuffs and kicks Heathcliff like he did when they were boys, even though Heathcliff is the taller of the two, with a more powerful build.

Yet Heathcliff does not fight back, no matter how badly Hindley berates or abuses him.

Every day, Heathcliff and Hindley circle each other in a terrible dance.

Hindley knows that without Heathcliff’s strength, his quiet intelligence, and his uncompensated service, Wuthering Heights would quickly fall into disrepair.

Heathcliff knows that if he goes too far and indulges in an overt act of rebellion or vengeful violence, he will be turned out of the house.

Hindley’s vanity is a balloon, stretched taut, filled with hot air, easy to puncture. Heathcliff’s pride is like the dark rocks in the soil beneath the moors…patient, solid, and unshakable.

Heathcliff is waiting. And in all our conversations about this and that, about the world and its vagaries, I have never asked him what he is waiting for. I’m half-afraid of the answer.

I’m waiting, too. Waiting for something wonderful to happen.

Waiting for the gray, windswept skies to realize I belong up there, with them, and to grant me the wings of a reckless bird so I can leave the moors and sail on the breeze to mystical, faraway lands.

Waiting for a faerie ring to transport me somewhere tragically beautiful.

Waiting for a great cataclysm to crack open my monotonous world.

But I do not have Heathcliff’s patience. If no cataclysm arrives soon, I shall have to invent one.

Today, I’m pondering what sort of cataclysm I might like the best. I rather favor the idea of an earthquake that splits apart continents, creating new boundaries and channels. Something to carve apart the bones of the world and end the old wars.

“What if an earthquake split Wuthering Heights right down the middle?” I say, only half-conscious that I’m speaking aloud.

“Good gracious, what a terrible idea!” exclaims Nelly, our housekeeper. “I declare, Miss Cathy, you are a shock to the nerves. Go and find something to do, there’s a good girl. Perhaps a little embroidery…” Her voices fades at the expression on my face. “No embroidery, then. A short ride, perhaps?”

“I ride every damn day,” I reply, just to watch her eyes flare wide and her lips tighten.

“You really must stop using such language, Miss Cathy. It’s the influence of that rogue Heathcliff.” She clucks her tongue. “Don’t be gone long, now. Edgar and Isabella Linton are coming to lunch, and you’ll need to be clean, tidy, and well-dressed by the time they arrive.”

“Why are they coming?” I pout, flicking a spoon on the table, sending little blobs of breakfast porridge across the wooden surface. “I don’t want to entertain them. They’re both so dull.”

“But Edgar Linton is rather handsome, don’t you think? He would make a fine husband.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s pretty as a porcelain doll, and he looks as though he would break if handled too roughly. I want a husband who appreciates a little rough handling.”

“Miss Cathy!” gasps Nelly. “Enough of that talk. It’s indecent. Take a quick ride, and then I’ll help you bathe and dress. Go on, off with you. I have work to finish.”

As a child, I would have taken a selfish delight in continuing to distract her. I spent my younger years annoying everyone in the house and being a veritable plague among the poor servants, charming and irritating them by turns, always interfering with their tasks.

As a young woman of marriageable age, I am expected to behave differently now.

When I torment the servants, it’s no longer out of peevish boredom but more out of sheer, panicked desperation—the kind of despair that drives one to yearn for a disaster, to ache for a violent rending of the world.

The despair of an animal trapped in a cage.

When Nelly shoos me away again, I wander outside reluctantly.

Much as I love to ride, the glorious wind and speed never lasts long enough, and in the end I must always return to Wuthering Heights.

During a ride, my heart is temporarily lightened, only to be crushed between ponderous stone walls again.

The dread of returning home steals much of the joy from the brief escape.

If only I could find a new diversion, a new adventure to ease my mind.

As I approach the stables, I spot Heathcliff standing by the pump, shirtless, dousing himself in water until his brown skin gleams and his shaggy, black hair glitters. I have no idea why he is washing up in the yard at this time of day, but I thank God and all the angels for the sight.

Or perhaps I should thank the Devil because the thoughts in my head are anything but holy.

I slow my steps, wanting to enjoy the view for as long as I can before Heathcliff notices me—which he does almost instantly. Sometimes I swear our two minds are linked. The way we can sense each other’s presence is uncanny.

He cups more water in his hands and splashes it onto his neck and chest, while I swallow a lump of need in my throat. I remember a time, just a few years ago, when he was a gawky boy who preferred being dirty. When did that dark-eyed boy turn into a strapping man with an affinity for cleanliness?

Heathcliff shakes back his wet hair and swipes the water from his face. Droplets cling to the dark scruff cloaking his jaw. The glistening sheen of water on his chest is mesmerizing—I cannot rip my gaze away from the contoured muscles.

“Going for a ride?” he asks. “Shall I saddle your horse?”

For a second I forget what words are and how to form them.

Only when Heathcliff’s full lips quirk upward at the corners and his eyes turn warmly bright do I clear my throat and say, “Ride…yes, I am going for a ride. Saddle my horse. And…come with me.” The last three words escape me in an impetuous rush.

He sobers, glancing toward the house. “The last time we rode together—”

“Hindley was furious, I know. But he is off to London with his wife today. And if Joseph or Nelly sees us, I can persuade them not to tell him. I have my ways.”

“Of course you do.” He laughs a little, shaking his head and snatching his shirt from a nearby post. “Wait here, my lady, and I’ll fetch the horses.”

I’m too excited to let him do all the work himself, so I follow him into the stable and assist with the horses while discussing all the routes we might take on our ride.

I was a fool not to seek him out earlier this morning, and I chafe at the lost hours.

Then again, Hindley’s trip to London was unexpected, so I had no chance to scheme any sort of lengthy outing—which was no doubt my brother’s plan all along.

I’m sure he also orchestrated the Lintons’ visit to prevent me from spending time with Heathcliff.

And now, I’m faced with a dilemma. Heathcliff and I could take a short ride and be back in time to prepare for Edgar and Isabella’s visit—and perhaps manage to conceal the whole thing from Hindley.

Or I could defy Hindley outright, skip the lunch with the Lintons, and spend the entire day on the moors in the company of my best friend.

I know which one I prefer, but I fear the consequences for Heathcliff if I defy my brother and spurn the Lintons.

“You’ve been chattering like a magpie, and now you’re quiet,” Heathcliff comments as we ride down the lane to the gate.

“I’m thinking,” I reply.

“Of course. But you usually think aloud.”

“A lady should keep some thoughts private.”

He chuckles, then swings down to open the gate. He lets me through first, then leads out Hindley’s horse—a fine, sensitive animal who seems to bear far more affection for Heathcliff than for his actual master. It’s a risk, taking Hindley’s horse. Heathcliff has been beaten for far less.

When Heathcliff has closed the gate and mounted again, we continue down the lane, keeping our horses at a walk. I steal glances at him now and then. He’s wearing an old greatcoat of my father’s, and despite it being worn in places and too tight in the shoulders, Heathcliff cuts a fine figure in it.

“I’m very curious about these private thoughts of yours,” he persists. “What indelicate ideas are racing around inside that pretty head?”

“I never said they were indelicate ,” I protest, while heat floods my cheeks and a burst of glittering excitement sparkles in my chest, like a sudden splash of water from the pump.