Note to readers: This chapter contains some sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.
The journey to Wuthering Heights was made in silence: Mrs. Catherine Heathcliff (as all had now to call her) glowering at her new husband every few steps; Heathcliff himself in an easy mood, apparently without anything he felt needed saying.
Joseph and the new maid, Zillah, kept quiet upon Heathcliff's orders; whilst Hareton Earnshaw, though outwardly mute, had plenty to listen to, as half-formed thoughts screamed through his head, just as they had all day. He had hoped that when the wedding was over, and his hopes quite lost, his thoughts might tame themselves, but he was wrong: indeed they seemed to him louder and harsher, as though the gathering wind gave them greater voice, and the vast expanse of the moors accorded more freedom for them to run wild and angry.
The weight of her new nuptials pressed ever heavier upon the young bride, the burden of the duties she bore growing harder to bear with each step she took towards what would now be her home: this well-built prison of a house, with its small windows and thick walls that seemed, to her fearful mind, to have been designed with nothing in mind but her own capture and imprisonment.
What freedoms now? She had been kept from the world by her father, and yearned for freedom the more for it, but having had such a small, small taste of it, was she now to be trapped once more? Would the expanse of these moors be hers now that she was no longer under the control of her father, now that everything he had feared had come to pass? Or would she be kept in the house, under lock and key, with none of the liberties she had craved while living with her father, and only new nightmares to plague her in her new confinement?
Edgar's health worsened noticeably even as the carriage travelled back to Thrushcross Grange, as though some power that had spurred him to maintain his vigour had been suddenly lost, leaving him drained and spent. Perhaps it was his angry outburst in the church: Nellie privately wondered whether it had taken more out of the man than she could have expected; or if not, whether some sinister art were perhaps at work upon him.
But she dismissed such silliness as fit only for Joseph, not right-thinking women such as herself. Doubtless Edgar was simply taking a turn for the worse. He ought not to have made such a move at the wedding, and now, she supposed, he was paying the price for it.
Hareton's thoughts grew more hostile as they progressed. Perhaps it were just his fancy, but Heathcliff's face looked more relaxed, since leaving the church: the faint lines that had developed over the past week had vanished, and the look of continual effort he had noticed was now replaced by a calm that Hareton could only envy. Bitter feelings of jealousy and betrayal echoed in his head, and he fancied now that they took on voices: the gloating of Heathcliff; the sharp tongue of Catherine; half-understood recriminations in Joseph's harsh dialect, none of which made sense to him.
Amongst the cacophony, only his own voice was silent.
Dinner at Wuthering Heights was a sombre affair: Joseph's stentorian pronouncement of grace before they commenced were the only words spoken.
Catherine had hoped to talk to Hareton, to reassure him that she had not meant to reject him by turning aside his hand at the funeral, but his face was dark and unreadable, and she could not find words to speak.
Joseph was stoically silent: Catherine could only assume he felt words of prayer would quite suffice at the table. She hoped he may have found some room in his heart to pray for her; though she frankly doubted at there being any divine providence that might aid her, now that she had wed this man who sat at her left hand, and who now gazed upon her with a strange, disconcerting look in his eyes. It was quite the same look he had had the morning after his nightmare, when he had cried out her name, over and over, and yet not looked once upon Catherine herself.
She could not tell what emotion lay behind those eyes. It looked oddly like hunger, though that may have been something to do with lack of food rather than emotion, for he seemed paler and leaner than when she had seen him last; or it could have been a kind of longing, though in truth, that was an altogether less welcome thought.
Edgar refused dinner. He said he was not hungry, and wanted only to sleep.
Nellie ate alone, deep in thought.
It was as Zillah began to clear the plates that Heathcliff spoke, for the first time since leaving the church. His voice was gentle, but thick, as though his tongue were swollen from lack of use. "Come on, Cathy, it's time for bed. You'll be tired, no doubt, though I'm sure you shall find some vigour from somewhere."
And before Cathy could protest at having her own bedtime dictated to her, or complain about the early hour, he had taken her wrist in his hand and pulled her firmly from the table.
Hareton was left with Joseph and Zillah, the former reading zealously from his Bible, the latter busily scrubbing dishes with a dreadful clatter.
Heathcliff and Catherine's footsteps echoed from upstairs as they travelled across the hall, directly overhead; and when the echoes from the door slamming shut had died away, Hareton rose silently, and made for Hindley's old room.
Heathcliff's room seemed to Cathy to be fitted only for a batchelor: a single desk stood against the wall, and the bed was too narrow for a couple to comfortably lie together. Still, this did not seem to trouble Heathcliff, who all but pushed her through, closing the door as he followed.
The click of the latch sounded in her ears like the closing of the gates of Hell.
Hareton stumbled through the door of his father's old room half in a daze, looked about him for a moment, and headed to the writing-desk in the corner. Wrenching open the doors at its base, he saw just what he had expected: several bottles of various shapes and sizes, arranged across the bottom, just as Hindley had arranged them when he was alive.
Doubtless the old sot had considered it convenient to be able to sit at his desk when he drank, so as to have some support for his wretched head once he collapsed in a drunken stupor.
Hareton reached in, and chose a bottle at random.
Heathcliff was gazing at her again, the same glassy look in his eyes that had made her so uneasy before.
"Cathy…" he breathed.
"Yes?"
And then, with one quick stride, he was upon her, his lips pressed to hers, her breath taken away by the force of the violent kiss he bestowed upon her. His hands came to her face as she tried in vain to pull away, holding her still as he passed her lips and tasted her.
When he released her, she was panting for breath. He was smiling, staring past her eyes as though there were something in her soul that only he could see. She tried to meet his eyes as she regained her strength, but something in them left a cold feeling in her soul, and she was compelled to look away.
Perhaps he found such coyness pleasing, for he snatched her in his arms again, the kiss snatching away her breath once more, and he bore her towards the bed.
Her legs gave way as they collided with the bedstead, her body – weakened through lack of breath – failed to right itself, and her head spun as she fell back, with an audible thump, upon the mattress.
Hareton paused, his hand upon the cork of the whiskey bottle. Would he really turn to drink as a solace, as his hated father had? No, he resolved, I am not so weak as he was. His hand reached out to replace the bottle. Perhaps he would take to his bed, and retreat into the comforts of sleep instead.
From the room next door came a gasp, a few heavy breaths, and the sound of a girl falling prone upon the bed.
Hareton snatched away the cork, and drank a quarter of the bottle in one.
The candle was lit: Cathy wished it were not. She did not want to see those black eyes, gleaming in the flickering light as they gazed hungrily upon her, just as a cat stares at an injured bird.
His shirt was open, and beneath the collar hung several medallions of silver on scarlet and black threads, shining like lesser moons, swaying as he moved. And he moved now, his lithe form pressing against her, his muscles twisting with feline grace, his manner that of a wild animal, his eyes still so empty, so cold…
She could not think, could not understand what she should do. Was this part of being a wife? Nellie had told her a few things – some of which had left her not a little shocked – but had never so much as hinted at such a violent display.
Should she fight, resist him? Should she lie still, and let whatever happened happen? Was she even safe? or might Heathcliff, blank-eyed and primal as he was, go so far as to take her very life? He had stolen her breath from her with his kisses, and that had been frightening enough, but now she feared the approach of his hand, could well imagine those strong fingers at her throat, choking her last gasp from her.
But he did not reach for her neck. Instead, one hand crept down to her petticoats, whilst the other stroked her side, caressing her hard enough that she could feel him even through her stays.
She had tied her petticoats at the front, and it was the work of a moment for Heathcliff to snatch apart the knot, then wrench away the front of them with a triumphant flourish. Her breath caught in her throat, as she found his intentions thus confirmed, and he pressed his mouth against her once more, as though her breathlessness enticed him to cruelly prevent her recovery.
The sounds from the room beyond the wall were too much for him. Hareton grabbed the bottle, now half-empty, took another from the desk, this time a bottle of brandy, and staggered out of the room.
He would rather drink in the kitchen, cold and bare though it was, than hear one more minute of that carrying-on.
Heathcliff tasted like nature at its most feral, like the air upon the moors. His hand had moved from her side to her breast, and the caress of his palm against her tender skin left her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
He broke his lips apart from her and whispered in her ear. "Cathy. My love…"
A shiver ran down her spine: she had never heard such a sound in his voice. It was a note of passion, some strange symphony of anger, lust and longing, and it rose a warm feeling in her chest even as it filled her with fearful anticipation.
His touch was surprisingly tender, she thought, for such a rough character. Whilst one hand explored the skin of her breast, the other stroked across her thigh, leaving a trail of gentle sensation as it travelled inexorably upward. His lips moved to her neck, his soft black hair cascading down across her shoulder, bringing with it the scents of wildflowers and of cold clear streams.
Joseph looked up from his Bible at Hareton's unsteady approach, words of reproach already on his tongue; but they were silenced before they could be said by the look on the boy's face.
Hareton sat down heavily next to the old man, looked about for a tankard or glass, and finding none within reach, merely sighed and picked up a bottle, then swigged it as though it were water.
Joseph slid a little further along the bench, away from the dedicated drinker, and returned to the solace of Isaiah.
Heathcliff's hand did not stop when it reached the top of her thigh. It proceeded onwards, and Cathy, compelled to action by fearful contemplation of his deeds to come, protested awkwardly.
"Heathcliff, I… No, not yet…"
She was silenced by his hand, which flew from her breast to her mouth, covering her lips tightly so as to deny her any further privilege of speech.
"Shh," came his voice in her ear, his breath warm on her neck. "Don't speak, my love; no words now, this is what we've always waited for! Just feel this…"
And his fingers tightened across her lips with every sound she made, as his other hand, deft as only a Gypsy's could be, stroked and touched and enticed her, growing wet with her reluctant surrender to his seductive invasion.