Be with me always – take any form – drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!"
With his back to her and his intent to depart clear, she all but threw herself towards him, hands resting atop his shoulders and standing on the tips of her toes so her mouth was adjacent as could be to his ear. Her voice was quiet, but sweet as she nuzzled into that wild and ferocious hair, it’s tones matching her own.
“I’ll come to you…once this matter is done with. I’ll come to the Heights, give myself totally to you, but first I must deal with this unholy mess. Mr Fairburn will be perturbed no doubt. He is however, a sympathetic man. I will explain our union was not meant to occur, that it is my choice, under influence of no other”.
Her eyes closed as she pulled herself tighter to the broad expanse of his back, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around his waist and beg him to take her now, this instant. That would not be neither wise nor advisable given the current location.
“Will you wait for me Heathcliff? Will you accept me when I come to you?”. Her questions…..the things she HAD to know, hung in the air and flooded the charged atmosphere around them.
It took quite a bit of will-power for him to restrain himself from turning, taking her into his arms, and taking her, will-power he hadn’t had most his life. He was an irrational man, he did things as he pleased but for once in all his life, something that had taken him just as long to develop, he was thinking about someone other than himself; Kit.
Realising that he loved her, he also realised that he wanted to protect her and her reputation, wanted more than his own selfishness, but he wanted her to be happy. Genuinely so. And as with his Cathy, he knew that marrying Mr Fairburn would never make her happy. Not that he could ensure his own company would do anything more, but he was certain that this marriage would bring her nothing but shallow comforts. He could offer her nothing, no great fortune nor even great company, but he would offer all that he had; himself.
Her grasp and words were unexpected, but breath-taking, and a shiver ran down his spine. He didn’t look at her, only listened to her, his dark eyes falling shut, feeling the warmth of her pressed to his back, knowing it was only a short while before she was his, and properly so. No more pretence between them, no silly games or denial. Just the two of them, and the Heights, and the moors around them.
He exhaled through his nose, turning then to face her once more, and he told her seriously: ‘Don’t spare the horses.’ Though his face remained serious, something sparked in his eyes, something almost playful–which looked foreign in his gaze. He was gone from the room a moment later, as if he had never been there at all, hobbling away from the church, cane in hand, towards the black carriage that awaited him.
The wedding bells were ringing, the sun was shining, and the spring birds were singing gaily in the pale blue sky. The day, thought Heathcliff, looked brighter than it had any day before.
A mind still reeling from her own turbulent thoughts was plunged into complete disarray at the sight of him. Not, blessedly, for once due to a scowl, sneer or snide remark she’d come to expect from the man; but how his face was all at once the same, but so markedly different.
Gone were then stern eyes and snarling lips, gone too was heaviness that belied his relatively young age. Instead, he appeared somewhat contrite, speaking hushed yet loud enough for her to gauge his intent. He meant to warn her, to have this whole silly charade at an end. Drawing in a quick breath that was far too much of a gasp for Kit’s liking, her actions were swift.
She placed one hand on his thick forearm, tugging him through the door as the other closed it behind him. Such an act was the highest form of impropriety, as was his visit to her at that moment. Yet she didn’t give a care in the world for what the waggling tongues would waggle.
It took but a second to recompose herself, head inclined to look up at him helping to regulate her breathing and as she licked her suddenly all too arid lips, she enquired “What is it you regret Mr Heathcliff?”.
He allowed himself to be pulled into the small chamber, the door closing heavily behind him, leaving them in relative silence as the crowd back in the church was reduced to distant, muffled murmurs. He had never been one to care about what others might say of him, and people did speak, they said all manner of things; that he was a bastard, a criminal, a devil even. And now, in that moment, with Kit standing there before him in her lovely green ensemble, he couldn’t have cared no matter what rumours might have had, because he had seen the tear on her cheek, and knew that it was a tear of regret. Brides didn’t cry of elation locked away on their own, and they didn’t have the loneliness in their eyes that Kit currently held.
They were looking at each other then, there in the quiet of the room, and their gazes remained locked as he spoke, his words firm and earnest. ‘…That I haven’t done this sooner.’
His lips were on hers in an instant in a kiss so rushed and fervent it brimmed over with feeling. It was impatient, and passionate, not the soft kiss of a lover but rough and wild like the moors he was raised on. His arms were around hers, capturing her there, so that he might show her how desperately he had wanted this, needed this. But, as quickly as it had happened, he pulled away from her, brows furrowed, his intense gaze focused on hers. And then, realising what he had done, and that he had effectively spoken his peace, he turned around and made to open the door, save what reputation she had from being tarnished by being seen alone with another man on the day of her wedding, no less.
Standing in front of a dusty mirror in a small ante-chamber to the side of the chapel, she studied her reflection with a pleased visage. Having already been widowed at an early age, a woman like her would never be so trite as to wear the traditional white this day; opting instead for a gown of light green velvet with cream lace embellishments. It suited her well and along with the small posy of white rosebuds (crafted silk of course, the actual flower wouldn’t naturally bloom for some time yet) and her dark, curled hair twisted loosely atop her head, she believed she looked the part.
One thing was missing of course; that small but knowing secret smile a bride should display. But she could conjour it, and would, when the time was right. Kit turned and placed her hand on the doorknob, only pausing for a moment of consideration before she took the enourmous step of opening the portal. But it was an important moment. A full one.
Her head spun, rampant with thoughts of what ifs and why-so-evers. Roger was a good man, an upstanding man. There were no qualms about his suitability as a husband as like her, this wasn’t his first time. He’d also tragically lost his true hearts owner many years hence. Admittedly, she didn’t love him, not that way, the way she was supposed to. Nonetheless, he’d care for her, ensure she had anything and everything she needed….and he’d already confirmed he wouldn’t be seeking solace in her bed, preferring instead to repose in the chamber he’d shared with the first Mrs Fairburn. So, all things considered, their future together looked amicable enough and it was the most a woman of her years and position could have hoped for.
Then why oh why, was a lone tear sliding down her cheek?
There were a number of reasons why Heathcliff found himself unable to sit; he was always uncomfortable in churches, plagued by memories of his childhood, with whispers among the pews about the bastard gypsy boy of Mr Earnshaw, but that wasn’t really it. Something felt wrong about this, being here in this church amongst a crowd of the provincial “good folk” all there to support to happy couple, Mr and Mrs Fairburn. And that was another thing, Mrs Katherine Fairburn. The name didn’t suit her, and it never would, so long as Heathcliff was concerned.
What he wasn’t, and perhaps never would, admit to himself was that his nausea and discomfort was caused by one simple fact; he was in love with Kit. Yes, and there was exactly one other woman whom had ever stolen his heart, a woman who was now bones in a tattered dress six feet beneath the earth. He had thought that as long as she was dead his own heart would remain frozen, but like the thawing ground it was beginning to melt, and he could feel once again. More emotion than he had allowed himself to feel in all those years was now churning within his breast, and it made him sick; sick, because as before, the woman he loved would marry another man. As before, she would slip between his fingers like grains of sand.
This was the thought that kept him from sitting, the thought that guided his legs towards the small chamber where he knew the bride-to-be sat preparing herself, no doubt thinking of the man she would soon become betrothed to. But it would be Heathcliff she saw as she pulled the door open, and he was as surprised to see her as she was him; he took note of the glistening tear on her cheek, and it only encouraged him further. The words in his head were dizzying, maddening, and yet got stuck in his throat. His normal façade of smugness ceased to appear on his countenance; a much softer look took its place, one that made him look years younger, the wild young gypsy boy that had once been so in love it had carved him from the inside-out and turned him haggard.
There was no pretence, no reason to hold back. He was here, and so was she. And so, he spoke.
‘Though you’ve never heeded my words once in all these years we’ve known one another, bull-headed woman that you are, take these now as my last and only testament: marry him only if you love him, Kit.’ It was the first time he had ever really used her preferred name, that he could remember, and the intense look in his eyes was sincere. ‘…So that only one of us lives in regret.’
a-kitten-with-claws said: ❝You are cordially invited to the Nuptial Mass of Mr Roger Fairburn and Mrs Katherine Jackson (nee Prince), this Sunday, 31st January, in the year of Our Lord 1797, at St Mary of the Fields Church.❞
Heathcliff ran a dark finger across the script of the invitation he had received as the carriage approached the church, the clip-clopping of hooves all that accompanied him. The bells were ringing as guests made their way inside, wearing their Sunday finest; he, in comparison, was rougher and unrefined, dressed in black as if attending a funeral, and in a way he was. The funeral of the poor sod who decided to marry Kit, of course. And he was a miserable bastard, really, if Heathcliff knew the dreadful woman, the woman he loathed, and who loathed him… the woman who inspired feelings within his breast he hadn’t felt since his own Catherine.
Damn her to hell and back, this dreadful bitch, and she should take her Mr Roger Fairburn with her.
He lowered his hefty form from the carriage as soon as it had stopped ahead of the lovely countryside church, already bustling with attention and livelihood, and left without more than a grunt towards the driver. But he stood outside the old building, one hand on a lacquered cane, the other inside the pocket of his cloak, thumbing over the now-worn letter which lie crumpled in his palm. He was hesitating, as if doing so would yield any other result than the obvious; she was to marry Mr Fairburn, and he would bid them a great congratulations and be on his merry way.
With a grimace rarely seen at such an event apart from on the faces of upset young children, Heathcliff stepped through the open doors and into the murmurs of the already-seated guests.
“If you INSIST on wriggling about in such an ungainly manner I shall be forced, through no desire of my OWN, to draw you a CROOKED nose. Surely, a portrait for your most cherished one is worth an OUNCE of patience. You are, after all, paying OUT OF POCKET for the privilege of a sitting. Now…STILL your BONES and present a profile…I am nearly finished.”
‘I should hope so. I’m afraid if you weren’t you might be forced to forget the nose altogether.’ A smile crinkles at the corners of his lips, but it’s slightly antagonistic. Playfulness is a veneer that rarely graces Heathcliff’s countenance, just one of a thousand cracks in the façade of a gentleman he presents. ‘My drawn nose might suffer so that my bones will not. I am not accustomed to staying still for so long even in sleep, child.’
“Do not speak of her to me. She is nothing.” Edgar replied, his tone dripping with bitterness for the actions of his wretched sister. Blue eyes glanced at the taller and brawny man before him. “It was never my intention to come here; I was out on a stroll.”
A lie, of course. He may have hated Isabella’s actions for marrying this boorishman, but she was his sister, and there was always a part of him that still cared.
‘A stroll,’ responded Heathcliff gaily, his smile not quite touching the intensity in his dark gaze. ‘Well, quite careless of you then, Mr Linton, to stumble across my property–and it is my property now, Hindley’s recklessness has assured me this, from those trees there to the heath and the valley, all in my name.’
He lets things settle on that note a moment, falling into stride beside Edgar and gesturing towards the Heights in the near distance. ‘I am certain your sister, even damned as she may be to you, would love to set her eyes upon your face, that angel’s face. And, even damned, she certainly would take more pleasure in it than I.’
Heathcliff has a knack for spouting his hatred in a manner that almost seems complimentary–perhaps only because all genuine niceties in him had long since died.
‘Well, Edgar Linton… To say I was expecting you here would be vastly indulgent. Have you come for your sister? Or perhaps to marvel at the reality of the imagined squalor you might have presumed I keep her in?’ In either case, he hasn’t moved an inch, like a great stone wall, revelling in the satisfaction of the fairer man’s approach.
