Wuthering Nights

by Emily Bronte, I.J. Miller

Genres: Historical Fiction; Mashups; Gothic

Synopsis

WUTHERING NIGHTS

Romantics everywhere have been enthralled by Emily Bronte's classic novel of the tragic love between beautiful, spirited Catherine Earnshaw and dark, brooding Heathcliff. The restrained desire between these two star-crossed lovers has always smoldered on the page. And now it ignites into an uncontrollable blaze. In WUTHERING NIGHTS, writer I.J. Miller reimagines this timeless story to reveal the passion between Catherine and Heathcliff--in all its forbidden glory.

Set against the stark, raw beauty of the English moors, Heathcliff, an abandoned orphan, recognizes his soulmate in wild, impulsive Catherine, the only woman who can tame his self-destructive nature. And Catherine cannot deny the all-consuming desire she feels for him, despite his low birth. Together they engage in a fiery affair--one that will possess them, enslave them, and change their destinies forever...

Release date: January 29, 2013

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 324

Sample

Prologue

You venture to the northern part of England to a county called Yorkshire to visit its unspoiled, beautiful countryside and picturesque villages. You make it to the moors, an isolated area often victim to the atmospheric tumult of stormy winds. You come to a rough stone pillar where the road divides. The cut letters T.G. point to the north, toward Thrushcross Grange, an eighteenth century estate completely modernized as a hotel with square, drywalled rooms, central air, cable television, and free Wi-Fi. You choose to follow the arrow labeled W.H., walking the two miles southwest—passing stunted firs bowed by the wind—until you come upon the strong, sturdy entrance of a fine bed-and-breakfast. Pass through the gates and witness a quantity of exquisite carvings depicting fiery griffins and dancing children along its wood frame. In sight of the main building, it is clear the architect had the foresight to build it strong, the narrow windows deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones. A sign greets all who pass: WELCOME TO WUTHERING HEIGHTS.


Good fortune be with you and a warm, friendly greeting shall be made by one of the proprietors, either Mr. or Mrs. Earnshaw, a comely couple, the seventh generation of Earnshaws to call the Heights their home. There is a hearty meal of roast lamb finished off with the appropriate pudding, and the most delightful conversation around the main floor fireplace, cavernous and open, its ventilation ideal for roaring flames. After extracting a promise of fried eggs with bangers and mash for breakfast, you retire to your room.

As fate would have it, you are shown to the HeathCath suite, a chamber so quaint one half expects to be led there by candlelight. The space is bare, with a wood chair, a small table, a reading lamp, and a large four-poster bed headed by two enormous pillows. The bathroom is down the hall and shared by all on the floor, although on this night only HeathCath is occupied.

There is no telly, no Internet, no room phone, and no cell service. After a rousing windswept hike, a splendid meal, a warm fire, amicable company, and a promise of a rich breakfast, what else is there to do but turn in? Stripped to underwear, hand above the light switch, you notice—carved deeply into the wooden wall in a childish, crooked scrawl—a small clue to the unusual name of the suite:

HEATHCLIFF & CATHERINE.


Room dark, nearly naked, you hurry to climb under the thick, colored quilt, to rest head on pillow, to escape the cold rush of noisy air seeping through the nooks and crannies of the walls, to find some welcome warmth. Resting peacefully, finally, there still remains a rush from this glorious day. But the room is too chilled, the wood floor too cold to venture out from under the soothing comfort of the quilt to read a book, or make a note.

The hand wanders straight down the body, perhaps impatient for either satisfaction or sleep, and begins a gentle teasing between the thighs. Mmm, yes. For if there is joy there, then it is truly a coupling with someone loved. The eyes close. The hand picks up pace. There is a flush of heat to the chest. Fingers caress an erect nipple. The contentment inspired by this robust isolation, this wonderful, familiar touch, encourages a quick, deep arousal. And perhaps it would all be over soon if not for the sudden, startling crash of sound filling the room. Hand quick to retreat, eyes dart open. Was it a thunder of wind against the glass that made such an explosive noise? A fir bough banging against the outside walls? You listen carefully, wondering if Mr. or Mrs. Earnshaw have been awakened and are surveying the house for damage. No additional sounds. But then it is as if the window has been flung wide open as a quick cannonball of gust bursts through and funnels about the room like a dark tornado, lamp and table to the floor, your hair on end. Then stillness. Then silence.

Pleasure far away now, fear arises, because you realize that the window is completely intact, still shuttered closed. Nothing more happens. You hope to write it off to the rich food, or the mysterious state between full consciousness and sleep, or the naughtiness of pleasuring yourself in a strange bed used by others, but you are again startled, this time by the sight of two unearthly figures hovering near the ceiling: a man and a woman, translucent, completely naked. She has long flowing dark hair, thick and wild, a perfectly symmetrical face, and full breasts, capped with lovely delicate nipples. He is tall, athletic, very well formed, darkly complected, with eyes full of black fire. Although fright is the first order from this apparition, it is quickly replaced by curiosity, as the figures float down and settle comfortably in bed with you.

You are not sure of the exact state you are in. It could be a retreat to the borders of sleep, a yielding to the heat of fantasy, a search for the full passion of a sensual dream. Regardless, a certain serenity settles upon you while lying not besides, but within these two kindred spirits. With serenity comes vision; with vision comes full emotions, from bitter hate to intense love, from warm acceptance to cold revenge, from fiery anger to perfect joy. You must not fight, but welcome this possession at the moors. To those of a welcoming nature, all the secrets and passions of Wuthering Heights, of Heathcliff and Catherine will be revealed…


Chapter One

One fine summer morning—it was the beginning of harvest—Mr. Earnshaw, the old master, came down the stairs, dressed for a journey. He turned toward Hindley, his son of fourteen, and Catherine, his daughter of eight.

“I’m going to Liverpool today. What shall I bring you both? You may choose what you like, only let it be little, for I shall walk there and back, sixty miles each way.”

Hindley named a fiddle and Catherine, a lass who could ride any horse in the stable, chose a whip.

It seemed a long while, the three days of his absence, and often little Catherine asked when he would be home. Mrs. Earnshaw expected him by supper time of the third evening. She put that meal off hour after hour. At just about eleven o’clock, the door latch was finally raised and in stepped the master. He threw himself into a chair, laughing and groaning, and bid them all stand off, for he was nearly killed and would not have another such walk for three kingdoms.

“At the end of it, to be frightened to death!” he said, opening his greatcoat, which he bundled up in his arms. “See here, wife, you mustn’t take it as a gift from God, although it’s as dark almost as if it came from the devil.”

The family crowded around, and, over Miss Catherine’s head, was a peep of a dirty, ragged, black-haired child, big enough to walk and talk, with a face that looked older than Catherine’s. Yet it stared blankly and repeated some gibberish that nobody could understand. Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling the child out the door. She did fly up, asking how could he fashion to bring that gypsy brat into the house when they had their own young ones to feed and fend for?

The master tried to explain the matter, but he was really half dead with fatigue, and all that could come across, amongst the scolding of his wife, was a tale of his seeing the young one starving, and homeless, and as good as dumb in the streets of Liverpool. Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said, and his money and time, being both limited, he thought it better to return home with him, at once, then run into vain expenses there, because he was determined he would not leave the boy wandering the streets.

The mistress finally grumbled herself calm and the master called for Nelly, the housekeeper, a lady just eight years Hindley’s senior, with fiery red hair and ample bosom, to wash it and give it clean things and let it sleep with the children.

Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listening till peace was restored, then both began searching their father’s pockets for the presents he had promised them. When the former drew out what had been a fiddle, crushed to morsels in the greatcoat, he blubbered aloud. Catherine, when she learned the master had lost her whip in attending to the stranger, showed her humor by grinning and spitting at the stupid little boy, earning for her pains a sound blow from her father to teach her better manners.

The boy was christened Heathcliff, the name of a son who died in childhood and it served as both his Christian and surname.

Despite the rough start, Miss Catherine took an immediate liking to him, but Hindley outright hated the lad, and went at him shamefully, Heathcliff’s stoical response inspiring even more ill-treatment.

Old Earnshaw became furious when he discovered his son persecuting the poor, fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff strangely, believing all he said, although it was precious little, and petting him up far above Catherine, who was too mischievous and wayward to be a favorite.

Over the next several years, the bad feeling between Hindley and Heathcliff multiplied, Mrs. Earnshaw passed, and the master, too, began to fail. He had been active and healthy, yet his strength left him suddenly. When he was confined to the chimney corner he grew monumentally irritable. The littlest thing vexed him, and suspected slights of his authority, or any ill turn directed toward Heathcliff, threw him into fits.

One morning, Catherine announced she was throwing a tea party that very afternoon and the entire household was invited. Hindley smirked. The master grumbled unintelligibly from his corner. Heathcliff asked what he could do to help.

Catherine, growing faster than her years, tested everyone’s patience at least fifty times a day. From the hour she came down the stairs, till she went to bed, there seemed not to be a minute’s security without her mischief. Her spirits were always at high-water mark, her tongue always wagging—singing, laughing, and plaguing everybody to do the same. But she had the bonniest eye, sweetest smile, and lightest foot in the parish. After all, she meant no harm, perhaps. Once she made you cry in good earnest, it seldom happened that she would not keep you company and offer soothing remarks until you quieted.

It was agreed by all, except perhaps the master, that Catherine was much too fond of Heathcliff. The greatest punishment she could receive was to be kept separate from him. Then her mood turned dark, her countenance sullen, and all knew it wise to leave the lass to her room. For Heathcliff, separation from his companion, was about the only thing that could etch misery onto his dark brow and he would refuse to take food, or exit his room until the pair was, once again, united.

“All assemble,” proclaimed the young lady on the designated afternoon. She had donned her Sunday’s best and carefully arranged the house’s finest china around the table, places set for five.

A new round of grumblings from the master and he refused to move.

“I’m done with such playthings, sister,” said Hindley. “And you might learn from that.”

“Pooh,” said Catherine. “This is not a child’s party. Do you see any of my pets? It is for gentlemen and ladies. Perhaps you do not count yourself among that group.”

“The setting is lovely, miss,” said Nelly, hoping to prevent an altercation, which would surely provoke the master into one of his coughing fits. She sat at the table.

Heathcliff arrived wearing his Sunday’s best as well, but it had been many Sundays since he last attended church, ever since the parson had called him a “bastard child” and threatened to baptize him on the spot. The lad of thirteen had grown mightily in the last year and the top of socks were clearly visible below the hem of his trousers, his cuffs flowered from the shortness of his jacket sleeve, and all buttons looked ready to burst.

“There’s your gentleman, Catherine,” said Hindley, “a true squire if there ever was one, looking gift wrapped for Christmas and smelling mightily of the barn.”

“Hush,” said Catherine, but she could not contain her giggles and this caused Heathcliff to turn red as the fire’s embers, for it were only Catherine’s opinions that seemed to carry true meaning to the young lad. He sat, lowering his head toward the table.

“Look, Father,” said Hindley, as he approached Heathcliff and began a forceful pinching along his arm that the lad bore without blinking or shedding a tear. “Here sits the ragamuffin you prefer so to your own flesh and blood. And perhaps he is, at least that is what Ma believed.”

“’Tis a lie!” cried the old man, finding the strength to rise to his feet with the aid of his walking stick. “And you were born a heathen to repeat it.” The stick came crashing down on Hindley’s back, as he crouched before the blow. Tears formed in his eyes as he left the room in shame.

Heathcliff’s own eyes rose from the table and he could not hide the joy in seeing his oppressor get his due. That was when Catherine slapped him boldly across the face, leaving a mark of rouge. “Do not take pleasure in my brother’s misery.”

Heathcliff did not lower his eyes, nor voice a complaint. He could not take his eyes from Catherine, like a puppy staring at his mistress. He knew all that was Catherine: the dainty lady, the generous riding companion, the thoughtful playmate, the wild rogue who could turn harsh as quickly as milk left to the sun. Heathcliff knew this and it still did not sway his affections.

“Children, please,” said Nelly.

“I’m not a child,” said Catherine.

“True,” said Mr. Earnshaw, falling back into his chair, a deep wheeze escaping his chest. He looked toward the fire. “The devil.”

“You’ve ruined my party,” Catherine said plainly, then left the room, though there were no tears from this young hellion. Nelly cleared the table. Heathcliff sat on the floor, next to the old man, near the fire, and was rewarded with the master’s hand resting fondly at his shoulder.

At last the curate, the one who taught the Earnshaws and the Lintons (the family north at Thrushcross Grange)—who had witnessed the elder son’s many manifestations of scorn toward both his father and Heathcliff—suggested that Hindley be sent to college, and Mr. Earnshaw agreed, though with heavy spirit, for he said, “Hindley was not born to thrive at the Heights, but who knows if he will be happier to wander?”

Hindley rejoiced in this opportunity to further his education, be rid of an oppressive, ailing father, a sister who seemingly felt no love for him, and, most significantly, be banished from the presence of a gypsy knave who had brought nothing but a dark cloud over Hindley’s own head since the day he arrived with the gift of a crushed fiddle.

With Hindley gone, Nelly just able to keep order at the house, the young pair aged into teen adolescence and ran like wild, rude savages. Often, even Catherine would not be seen at Sunday church. Nelly, at the request of the old master, who now rarely left the bed, would deny Catherine supper and order the stable hand, Joseph, to thrash Heathcliff until his own arm ached. The curate took on the cause, banning Heathcliff from his lessons and setting many chapters for Catherine to learn by heart. The boy bore any degradation well, unfeeling toward the beatings, happy that Catherine taught him what she learned. Young Catherine would laugh at any punishment the minute the pair were together again, at least the minute they had contrived some naughty plan of revenge: the curate found his notebook misplaced, Joseph mysteriously fell off a horse while galloping on a loosened saddle, and who could have snipped a long lock of Nelly’s hair in the middle of the night?

Their chief amusement was to run away to the moors in the morning and remain there all day. That was where they discovered Black Rock Cragge.

Well hidden, the place was a perfect union of height and depth, just about centered between Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights, inhabited by clutters of black rock that sharpened at the top like arrows pointing toward the sky. They provided strong shelter from the ever-present winds and offered a multitude of hiding places from any stray traveler who happened to wander this far off the road, which was rare. Below the precipice on which the rocks lay was a sixty-foot drop into a pool of black water, surrounded by more sharp rocks, the liquid surface seemingly reflecting all of its surrounding stone. It was said, that in a long time past, there was volcanic activity at this site and these rocks the last remnants. The pool itself was supposed to have had warm healing powers for all who bathed there, but now it was completely fresh cold water that funneled itself to a river serving most of the farms in the region.

On this day, dress already slightly torn, face blackened with the grime of play, while walking along the dirt road, Catherine challenged Heathcliff to a race and was off to the rocks before such challenge was accepted.

“Unfair!” shouted Heathcliff, although he knew that no protest would be favorably received, so he dashed off after her.

Being much bigger and stronger, Heathcliff could have overcome Catherine before the rocks, but he reduced his strong pace, allowing her to win, knowing this left a much better chance for her mood to stay sweet, as she was.

If Catherine knew of his yielding, she certainly gave no indication as she flopped in the tall grass by the first group of rocks. “A fine strapping lad you are,” she said, “losing to a lass like me.”

He dropped down beside her, breathing far less heavy than she. “No shame in losing to one as beautiful as you.”

“Oh, Heathcliff.” She took his hand in hers. “When I am with you, everything seems perfect.”

He nodded, staring into the lovely face of his friend. There were so many words he wished to speak, ones that mouthed his gratitude for her welcoming him so warmly into the fold of Wuthering Heights; that revealed the ever-present thoughts that dwelled on her beauty; that expressed the joy he felt every time she graced him with her company. But he felt that he might fumble, say the wrong thing, or use an incorrect word, and would risk the brunt of her mockery, or, even worse, her displeasure. Pleasing her was all he wanted. He was nothing compared to her, but when he was with her, he felt a reason to live.

She brushed the wild hair from his face. They were on their sides now, faces just inches away, staring into each other’s dark eyes, their breath mixing as they spoke. “Will you promise never to leave me?” she asked.

He could not meet her gaze. He turned away and formed his words carefully. “Will you promise never to forsake me?”

“I would never do such a thing.”

He turned back to her. “Then I promise never to leave you.”

“What would I do without you, my love?”

Her tender expression caused his heart to soar and his words to flow with greater ease. “The Heights would be hell if it were not for you, dear Catherine, even with Hindley gone. It is for you that I wake each morn.”

“I, too.”

There was a pause in speech as their eyes locked again, a heated moment forming where it seemed that they would press forward for their very first kiss. Instead Catherine said, “Will you swear your love for me?”

“What would such a swearing mean?” replied Heathcliff.

“It might relieve my dark dreams.”

“I hear your cries at night and lay awake full of sadness.”

“I feel so alone sometimes.” With her mother passing, father ill, brother turned cold, Catherine was not always the free spirit upon whom Nelly doted. “In the morn, I can’t wait to see your face and then it is like I am reborn.” Without a mother to prepare her, the prospects of a future with a proper gentleman were slim. Only Heathcliff could bring sense to her world and make the sun shine in a sky full of heavy, dark clouds.

“Sleep is death for me until I see you,” said Heathcliff.

Though she believed his words, they did not seem enough to quell her apprehension. “Then don’t you see how important it is to swear our love, how important that we seal it in a way that cannot be broken?”

“Aye. Then I will swear it.”

“As do I.”

“But how shall we seal it?” he asked, for he did not just want their moments, he wanted their lifetime, together.

She dropped her hand from his face and turned on her back, thinking. Then finally she remarked, with hard decisiveness, “The pool.”

“There is no way down from this cliff.”

“We jump.”

“Madness.”

“It is there for us, at this place, our place,” said Catherine. “It calls us.”

“Who knows of its depths? Any error means doom against the rocks.”

“Is death not worth a risk for true love?”

Heathcliff felt compelled to nod agreement.

“Let’s,” she said.

Catherine stood up, took his hand, pulled him to his feet, and led him to the edge of the precipice.

Below them lay the pool of black, a circle no more than five yards in diameter.

Hands still held, their eyes locked.

“You first or me?” asked Heathcliff.

“Together,” said Catherine, knowing full well this choice made death even more imminent.

That was when Heathcliff steeled his nerves…for he realized that death with Catherine would be no different than life, as long as they were together.

They jumped.

And fortunately for them, their aim was true and the pool was deep.

They plunged hard, but straight, the blow of water nearly knocking them unconscious. But they surfaced together, bodies atremble from the rush of feelings.

“A true test,” declared Heathcliff, spitting water from his mouth.

“I know now our love can survive anything.”

With a half stroke she was closer to him. Treading water, at the center of the pool below Black Rock Cragge, they kissed, for the very first time, deeply, arms hugging tightly, bodies wrapped together, catching their breath with the help of each other’s mouth, as the warmth of their sweet love stifled the chill of the water and soothed any unease in their souls.

Catherine broke away suddenly with a nervous lurch. “A snake, a serpent has brushed against my leg.”

Heathcliff turned crimson with embarrassment and ducked his head underwater.

It became clear to Catherine that the serpent was the growth, the hardness of Heathcliff’s uncontrolled male feelings. How thrilling it was that the touch of their lips could raise such a powerful surge through her body and inspire such a potent reaction in Heathcliff. She longed for the heat of his mouth again, and perhaps another brush with the well-formed power of the serpent. But was this what a lady should desire from a gentleman?

He resurfaced and she struck as quick as any cobra, raking her nails across Heathcliff’s cheek, drawing blood.

“Godless knave!” she cried. “You have tainted the purity of our love with your base passion. Must you always be the son of a gypsy whore?”

Heathcliff remained on the surface this time, unblinking, as he met her cold gaze, a tremble within him, not from the chill of the water, but from the betrayal of his body, which had ruined the most perfect of unions.

She turned and swam toward the river. He followed.

He wanted to explain that his erect feelings had come without thinking, uncontrolled, inspired by her brave leap and warm lips, and that nothing could taint their love. But it would risk another dose of her venomous wrath, a fury he deserved after proving, once again, that she was right, that he must be the son of some gypsy whore or the unwanted bastard of a thief or a peasant; that he was impure, an animal, who had fallen in love with the most elegant and lovely of human creatures.

Proven even further—as their swim to the river turned into yet another race—because no other thoughts flooded his brain except how to obtain another sweet kiss from his beloved.

Chapter Two

The leap, the cold swim, the walk back to the Heights did Catherine in. She immediately took to her bed, where she remained for several days, feverish and weak. Nelly was the one who brought light toast and tea, a cold cloth for the forehead, but it was only Heathcliff who could bring comfort.

Moving in and out of consciousness, Heathcliff at her side, she had deeply troubled and passionate dreams where she felt close to death, but even worse, ones where she saw herself separated from her closest companion. Upon awakening in a cold sweat, seeing Heathcliff, she was immediately brought back to earth in a joyful return. She thought of sharing her ominous dreams, full of large venomous snakes, purplish and red in face, spitting and lunging, that both repelled and beckoned her at the same time. She felt compelled to run but always remained fixed, unable to resist the lure of the hypnotic swaying of the large serpent.

“It is sweet to see your face,” she said to Heathcliff. She could not bring herself to reveal to him that in her dreams she understood Heathcliff completely, as she understood herself, and that she was he, and he was she. Had full strength been present, she would have expressed deep regret for scratching his face after their dramatic leap from the precipice of Black Rock Cragge, followed by the even more spectacular kiss. She wanted him to know that all things between them, whether small or large, meant the world to her because of the everlasting vow they had exchanged. In her dreams—though she was still unsure about the serpent—she longed for his strong arms enveloping her body and his soft lips pressed against hers.

“I am here, my love,” he replied. “I will always be here.”

Heathcliff felt pained by her illness, but welcomed this chance to be by her side and share the profound tenderness he held for her in his heart. Under this duress, she lost her brazen, mischievous side and seemed more the vulnerable girl who was in need of his love, an emotion he lived to share only with her.

“Remember your promise,” she muttered, needing this assurance after a dream that had separated her from the one constant in her life.

“I will never forget,” he answered, as her eyes closed and she drifted off again.

  

It was late October and a high wind blustered around the house and roared in the chimney. It sounded wild and stormy, yet it was not cold. The family was all together in the main room. With Joseph’s help, Mr. Earnshaw had been carried to his chair by the fire. A little removed from the hearth, Nelly sat knitting. Catherine, nearly fully recovered, leaned against her father’s knee, and Heathcliff was lying on the floor with his head in her lap. Her fingers caressed his cheek in the very spot where she had inflicted the scratches. The master, nearly dozing, stroked her bonny hair—it pleased him to see her so gentle—and said, “Why canst thou not always be a good lass, Catherine?”

She turned her face up to his and laughed and answered, “Why cannot you always be a good man, Father?”

But as soon as she saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and said she would sing him to sleep. She began singing very low, until his fingers dropped from hers, and his head sank to his breast. Nelly told Catherine to hush, and not stir, for fear she should wake him. Everyone kept as mute as mice a full half-hour, and could’ve gone on longer, except Catherine stood to bid her father good night, and when she put her arms around his neck the poor thing discovered her loss directly and screamed out, “He’s dead, Heathcliff, he’s dead!”

And they both let out a heartbreaking cry, the pain running through them like a hot brand upon their hearts. Catherine held his hand and duplicated her kisses over and over, her inner fear of abandonment rising even more strongly to the surface. Heathcliff stood and embraced Mr. Earnshaw across the shoulders. He planted a kiss on his cheek—something the master had shied away from when alive—for Heathcliff truly believed that the old man had saved his life and had shown him nothing but kindness. The pair wept bitterly.

Nelly joined her wail with theirs, loud and painful, but Joseph asked what they could be thinking of to roar in that way over a saint in heaven.

Nelly put on her cloak and ran to Gimmerton for the doctor and the parson, not sure what use either would be of, then. She went through wind. . .