Chapter Text
“For God’s sake, listen! I tell you I have work to do. I cannot endlessly indulge every last wretched whim of yours. We’re not children anymore, Cathy. Surely you understand that now. I cannot play with you.”
Cathy had found Heathcliff chopping wood, his expression dark and sullen. Her excitement at seeing him again, at showing off her new dress and hairdo had been replaced with hurt and humiliation. The pressure behind Cathy’s eyes built and tears threatened to spill out at any moment. Cathy hated how readily she wore her emotions on her face. Her inability to hide them had left her feeling ashamed and vulnerable countless times. Now was no different. Her mind quickly conjured a retort. The words rose in her throat like hot, bitter bile. Once unleashed, they could never be taken back. As though I could crave your company, after so many weeks with Edgar and Isabella. They would slide into Heathcliff’s heart as easily as a freshly sharpened knife and would do similar damage. With one sentence, she could make him hurt the way he had just hurt her. She could hide her shame with anger and scorn.
But something stopped her tongue and she swallowed the words hard. Perhaps it was the sadness she saw hidden behind his own eyes. Or maybe the pull of him - her Heathcliff - after being apart for so long was simply a stronger force than her own temper and defensiveness.
A few tears fell and Cathy quickly wiped them away. She attempted to project an air of casual practicality, though her voice continued to betray her emotions. “Well, if you’re so busy then you won’t mind my helping for once.”
When Cathy and Heathcliff were younger, Cathy would help Heathcliff with his chores, but Heathcliff often became frustrated with her when she wasn’t strong enough to split a log or when she didn’t get the horse tack clean to his standards. He said she slowed him down and he was right. He was more conscientious than she, his hands stronger, more capable. Eventually, his frustration had combined with her own inherent laziness and sense that manual labor was beneath her and she stopped helping him altogether. This was the first of many forks in the road for the pair, the beginning of a distance between them that would be compounded over time by the strict boundaries of gender and class.
Cathy began gathering up the scattered pieces of split logs and stacking them neatly on the log pile. Still embarrassed about her tears, she avoided Heathcliff’s eyes, but she felt them on her. There was a long, awkward pause before Heathcliff wrenched the hatchet out of the splitting stump and resumed chopping. The two worked side by side in silence until all of the logs had been split and stacked. When that was done, Cathy followed him to the well where Heathcliff drew up three buckets of fresh water for the horses and begrudgingly handed one to her. Then, they cleaned the stalls and tack. Cathy willed herself to be thorough, to complete the tasks the way Heathcliff would want them done. The afternoon wore on and the tension gradually began to dissipate like the fog on the moors. The silence continued, but it became more comfortable. Cathy’s new dress grew filthy and her perfume was washed away by the ever-present drizzle of rain and her own sweat. To her surprise, Cathy found she didn’t mind. And besides, she knew she deserved no better after calling Heathcliff dirty and smelly.
The chores finally finished and it not yet suppertime, the pair wordlessly walked to their special place on the bluff where they could overlook the moors and sank down side by side. Amid the ever-changing patterns of clouds, Cathy felt surprisingly content, her body pleasantly warm and tired. The sting of Heathcliff’s earlier words had faded with the hours and the good, simple work. Finally, Heathcliff turned to look at Cathy. In his dark brown eyes, Cathy now saw guilt, uncertainty, and something else. Something like longing, like a desperate, barely-dared hope.
“I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” he said, picking at a tuft of grass.
“So am I,” said Cathy, and after a pause, “I missed you, Heathcliff.”
“Then why did go to Thrushcross Grange? Why did you stay for so long?” Heathcliff shot back. “And don’t blame it on a sprained ankle when you know I would have carried you home that very night!”
Cathy felt a surge of irritation. “How can you blame me for wanting to escape from here? If you only knew what it felt like to be warm, to have all the food you could ever want, to have six blessed weeks of quiet and peace.” Cathy’s traitorous tears sprang up again. “No screaming, no smashed bottles, no vomit, no oceans of pig’s blood. Thrushcross Grange is heaven compared to this miserable place,” she finished bitterly.
Heathcliff was quiet for a long moment. “And what of Mr. Linton?”
“What about him?” asked Cathy testily, wiping her eyes.
“Do you… Do you love him?” Heathcliff was looking down, continuing to pick at the grass.
There was a long pause, then Cathy said quietly, “One could not help but love Edgar.” Her eyes shifted to gaze over the moors, her expression unreadable.
Heathcliff’s posture stiffened and his face hardened. “Well I’m terribly happy for you, and as much as I’d love to hear more about cream cake and chocolate, we’d better get back.” He stood. “Supper will be on soon and though it may not be up to your standards, I'm hungry.”
“Heathcliff, wait…” cried Cathy. But his long strides carried him towards the house while the whipping wind wrenched her voice in the other direction, far out into the moors, away from Wuthering Heights.