Then I took the flint and used my knife to start a fire. I watched the flames lick the fabric of the frock and turn the edges black, before catching more thoroughly. The smoke was thick and black due to all of the leaves on the branches, and the wood still wet with sap. For a time the fire was obscured by its own thick fog. The wood hissed and crackled. But then the smoke cleared and the wood stopped hissing. Big red flames consumed the pile. I could feel the heat burn from where I was standing.
I walked back to the carriage. As I climbed up to the driver’s seat and took the whip in my hand, I looked back at the grave for the last time. The fresh mound rising up as though the earth was pregnant. ‘You have not died in vain,’ I said. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’ And I allowed hot tears to prick my eyes once more.
The fire was raging. I cracked the whip. The horses galloped. It was over. It had begun.
1783
You have been travelling for nearly a week. Last night you stayed in a coach house and feasted at an eating establishment of the highest quality. You dined on a leg of boiled mutton and caper sauce, turnips, broccoli, a roast duck, a semolina pudding, cheese, punch and brandy. You are travelling along a coach road in a brand new chaise. You have been on this road before, three years since, only that time you were heading west, now you are heading east. You are wearing your new black leather boots. They have been specially designed so that each heel has a cut-out piece.
In the distance, on a steep hill, you see the silhouette of a gibbet cage suspended from a gallows. You beckon the coachman to halt and you dismount your carriage. You approach the tarred corpse that hangs in the gibbet cage. The stench of rotting flesh is pungent. You stare at the black figure within, mesmerised by this mummified form. The wind is gentle and the gibbet rocks like a cradle. The bough of the gallows creaks. Iron rungs bind the corpse. Its arms pinned to its side. Its head fixed by metal plates, so that as the corpse swings in the breeze, its face stares across the moor unseeing. The tar hasn’t reached the top of his head, so that one eyeless socket peeps out. Flies dance around the hole.
Two farm labourers, carrying scythes, walk by. You urge them to stop.
‘Excuse me, I don’t suppose you know how this poor unfortunate wretch met his end, by any chance, do you?’
The labourers bow deferentially and doff their caps. ‘Why, good sir, he was hanged by the neck, three weeks since. Then he was tarred and transferred here shortly after.’
‘And for what crime?’
‘Treason, sir,’ says one.
‘He got caught,’ says the other. ‘He organised a meeting in the woods. He wanted to raise wages and improve conditions for the mill workers of Keighley. Haven’t you heard?’
‘And for that he hanged?’
‘Oh yes, sir. It is a capital offence to organise labour round these parts.’
You thank the men for their information. You hand them a shilling each. They trundle down the hill with the blade of their scythes jutting out behind them. You stare at the corpse swaying in the wind. You think about Sticks. Running to something or running away from something, that’s what he said all those years ago. You wonder if he ever stopped running and if so, where he is now. You place your hand on the cage to stop it from rocking. You are aware that you should feel something but you feel nothing. You let go of the gibbet cage and it starts to sway once more. You climb back into the coach and shout from the window to the coachman to carry on up the road. There are many miles yet to go and the roads are slow going.
As you ride there are two moments you return to again and again. The first night at Wuthering Heights. Mr Earnshaw had collapsed in his chair by the fire, fatigued by his long journey over marsh and moor. His boots by his side clagged with mud. Mrs Earnshaw had supper prepared for him but he was too tired to eat it. He complained about his feet. He soaked them in a bowl. He had a blister on his heel. Mrs Earnshaw gave his supper to you instead. And you sat by the fire watching the flames turn the peat black and the coals orange. You chewed through a crust of bread, a slice of ham, a wedge of cheese and a boiled egg, and as you did, you thought, maybe it won’t be so bad after all.
Hindley was standing in a corner, watching you. ‘It’s his fault,’ he said to Nelly. ‘What’s his fault?’ she said. ‘This.’ And he’d held aloft a fiddle that was snapped nearly in two at the neck. ‘It was an accident,’ she said. ‘Accidents happen. It’s no one’s fault.’ ‘It’s his fault,’ Hindley repeated. ‘If Father wasn’t with him he’d have been more careful. It’s his fault it’s broken.’ You are glad that the fiddle is broken and you look across from your plate of victuals and smirk at this Hindley. He’s glaring at you in the darkness of his corner with just the flame from a lamp to light his features. But you know that look. It says, I’ll pay you back for this.
And he did pay you back. Many times. So that now you are his debtor. It is your turn to pay him back. Everything runs in a circle, the river and the rain, the moon around the earth, the earth around the sun, even revenge. You noticed Cathy looking at you curiously with none of the malice of Hindley. She had spat at you earlier when Nelly was scrubbing you, but now she has returned with renewed interest. When you make eye contact she looks away, but as you chew the crusts, you see her watching you. Later, after you have finished eating and the dog is licking your empty plate, she comes closer. ‘Do you want to play?’ she says, producing a box of wooden soldiers. You don’t play games, but for her you make an exception. She opens the box and lays the toys on the ground. A dozen men in uniform, carved out of wood. You pick one up and turn it around. It is engraved and finely painted. ‘That one’s a foot soldier,’ she says. ‘You can keep it if you like.’ You soon become friends. Till Linton gets in the way.
Which brings you to your other abiding memory. Cathy cosy in Thrushcross, sitting by the fire, a goblet of brandy in her hand. You outside in the dark and the cold. The many candles of the chandelier, casting warmth and light all around the room. She’d hurt her leg. Just a cut. She hadn’t broken a bone, just the skin, and yet she spent five weeks there. It didn’t take five weeks for the skin to heal and for her to recover from that injury. Five weeks. Just an excuse. You suspected that then and you know it now. She had wanted to be there. She’d made out the injury was worse than it was so that she could stay in that palace of crimson and gold. Velvet and silk, cut glass and cut flowers. Fine bone china, silver platters, crystal glasses. You’d stayed at the pane for a long time that night, until the chill went into the marrow of your bones. As you walked back, you came across the corpse of the dog you’d throttled earlier. You prefer dogs to people, and yet you felt no sadness for this beast. It was Linton’s pet and therefore it was a part of Linton. It felt good to destroy something that he owned.
Now you are returning after three years away, a changed man. You are travelling in a one-horse chaise along a coach road, but the chaise has no value to you. Once you’ve reached your destination, you’ll sell it and pay the coachman off. You have no attachments. Perhaps you’ll burn it on the moors to show how little it means to you. You are wearing a suit cut in the latest fashion, but of dark brown woollen cloth. You have forgone any trimmings or embroidery. The waistcoat is styled short and single-breasted with small, neat lapels. Your breeches are high-waisted. Long over the knees, and tailored for a slim silhouette. You wear a plain muslin scarf around your neck, knotted at the front. The look is ‘no frills’. In your waistcoat pocket is a gold watch, but it means nothing to you. The watchmaker asked if you wanted it engraved with your name. But you still don’t know your name. You might give it to a beggar, or a thief, or else throw it in the bog. The things you want can’t be bought.
As you are driven through a familiar landscape other memories come back to you. How Hindley’s already apparent hatred of you had soon grown bitter and brooding. That time Mr Earnshaw had brought back two colts from the market. He gave one to you and one to Hindley. But your colt had fallen lame and you had gone to Hindley and told him he must exchange ho
rses, and if not, that you would tell Mr Earnshaw about all the thrashings. You had bruises as proof. Hindley had called you a dog but given you his horse anyway.
You think about Emily. You want to feel something. But you feel nothing. You are in mourning for an absence of feeling.
You have imagined the day you would come back to Wuthering Heights many times. You imagine the look on Cathy’s face. But as you get closer to home, it is not that look that possesses you, but rather the feelings that the thought of seeing her again brings forward. You are surprisingly nervous. Your stomach turns over and your heart aches. Your guts feel as though they are being ground in a quern. It’s just as Sticks had said all those years ago. Like in all the songs, where some temptress puts a spell on a man that he can never break. Somehow Cathy has put a spell on you, and despite what you feel, the anger that is still raw, you want to be the apple of her eye, not Linton. You want her to say that she loves everything you touch, loves every word you speak, loves everything about you. Three long years and you feel the familiar sickness rise inside your stomach, a sense of helplessness, a feeling you can’t control or assuage; instead, it boils up like unattended milk. You thought after all this time the wound would have scabbed over and healed, leaving just a faint scar in its place. In fact, it is as open and as raw as the day you left, and as fresh, and as wet.
Once it would have degraded her, but now you are a gentleman and a man of wealth. Just maybe. It’s as much as you can think before you kick the thought out. To feel is to weaken. But perhaps. You can’t bear to think about it now. Your love must be a black-hearted one. And like a bird of bad omen you are returning to the nest that once cast you out into the storm. To crush the eggs beneath your feet. You are the devil Hindley named you. Half-man, half-monster. Between Aire, Wharfe, Nidd and Swale. Between shrike, snipe and ouzel. Between dipper, piper and wagtail. Between martin, stoat and weasel. Between shank, coot and teal. Between gout-weed, goat’s beard and witch hazel. The devil has his own spells.
You are wearing your new black leather boots. They have been specially designed by a cordwainer in York. He’d laughed at your audacity, when you’d instructed him on the design, but carried out your wishes anyway, asking you again to be sure . . . A cleft in the heel, you say, sir? All your boots now have cloven hooves.
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the help, encouragement and expertise of many people. To these people I offer my thanks and gratitude. They are:
My editor, Clio Cornish at HarperCollins, who has been a massive help in getting the story ready for publication and made many valuable creative contributions along the way.
Lisa Milton at HarperCollins, who first showed interest in the book and set the publication wheel in motion.
The rest of the team at HarperCollins, who have worked so hard to bring this book to life.
My agents, Jemima Forrester (literary) and Clare Israel (script), who have both offered so much help and advice throughout the process and gone way beyond what a writer can expect from an agent. Much respect.
Lisa Singleton, who read the first draft and encouraged me to persist with it.
Amanda Whittington for the reading suggestions.
Fellow writers who read drafts at various stages and gave me invaluable advice: Gary Brown Simon Crump, Steve Ely, Jim Greenhalf, Anne Heilmann, Matt Hill, Christina Longden, Leonora Rustamova.
I would like to thank the following people for their help and expertise: Zoe Johnson at University of Huddersfield Library; Harriet Harmer at the archives and special collections, University of Huddersfield; Paul Ward, Historian; Mary Chadwick, Historian; The Liverpool Maritime Museum; the slavery archives at Liverpool City Library; Margaret Daley at the Liverpool Record Office; Alexandra Mitchell at the Peel Group; Michael Powell at Chetham’s Library in Manchester.
And the following publications:
Aldred, J. The Duke of Bridgewater
Ashton, T.S. An Economic History of England: The 18th Century
Ashton, T.S. The Industrial Revolution: 1760–1830
Atkins, W. The Moor: A Journey into the English Wilderness Baines’ Flora of Yorkshire
Basker, J.G. (ed.). Amazing Grace: An Anthology of Poems About Slavery 1660–1810
Billett, M. Highwaymen and Outlaws
Brandon, D. Stand and Deliver!: A History of Highway Robbery
Brears, P. and Wood, S. The Real Wuthering Heights: The Story of the Withins Farm
Brontë, A. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
Brontë, E. Wuthering Heights
Cameron, G. and Crooke, S. Liverpool: Capital of the Slave Trade
Carrington and Miall. Flora of the West Ridings
Costello, R. Black Liverpool: The Early History of Britain’s Oldest Black Community 1730–1918
Gifford, T. Pastoral
Goddard, C. The West Yorkshire Moors
Green, J. Slang Down the Ages
Griffin, E. Liberty’s Dawn: A People’s History of the Industrial Revolution
Haining, P. The English Highwayman: A Legend Unmasked
Hart, A. and North, S. Historical Fashion in Detail: The 17th and 18th Centuries
Hett, C.L. A Glossary of Popular, Local and Old-fashioned Names of British Birds
Hochschild, A. Bury the Chains: The British Struggle to Abolish Slavery
Lynch, J. (ed.). Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary
McFarlane, R. Landmarks
McFarlane, R. The Old Ways
Mingay, G.E. The Agricultural Revolution
Rhys, J. Wide Sargasso Sea
Ribeiro, A. Dress in Eighteenth Century Europe
Sutherland, J. Is Heathcliff a Murderer?
Taylor, G. The Problem of Poverty
Thompson, E.P. The Making of the English Working Class
Walvin, J. The Trader, The Owner, The Slave
Whitaker, J. The History of Manchester
Wilson. E. G. Thomas Clarkson: A Biography
The 18th century travel writing of Arthur Young
The online version of The Oxford English Dictionary
During the writing of the book, I have walked hundreds of miles across the Yorkshire Moors. I also walked from Top Withens, the inspiration for the location of Wuthering Heights, to Liverpool docks, re-enacting the walk that Mr Earnshaw took in 1771, which resulted in him returning with Heathcliff. The moors surrounding Haworth and further on have been a massive inspiration and continue to be so. They are a place of freedom and refuge.
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