by Alison Case
When we wake from a nightmare, there is a moment or two when the heart still pounds and the terror still holds us in its grip. Then gradually the real world reasserts itself, and we experience the sweet relief of knowing that the nightmare was but a nightmare, that its horrors cannot touch our waking life. But for me, that moment of relief would be quickly followed by the returning knowledge that my waking reality was but another version of my nightmare, so that I knew not which was worse: the shadowy horrors that came to me in my sleep, or the solid, daytime horror I woke to.
You must understand, Mr Lockwood: they put him in my arms still wet from the womb. I would have sold my soul to keep breath in his body. Indeed, there were times when I thought I had done so, in sober truth. How could I bear to leave him?
Contrary to custom, the wedding breakfast was held at Thrushcross Grange, it being more convenient to the church, and better suited to supply the elegance deemed fitting to the event. Both Hareton and I were expected to attend, but Hareton understood all too well what the event portended, and howled so at the prospect of seeing it that I was able to beg off for both of us, and spend our last morning together quietly at home. The wagon was to come for Cathy’s things at two o’clock, and I, and the trunk that contained all my worldly possessions, were to go with it.
Our parting was not a pretty one. Hareton clung to me and wailed that he would not let me go, so that Joseph had to come and prise him from me, then hold him while he struggled, screamed, and tried to bite him. I could not manage the cheerful smile I hoped to wear for his sake, but promised Hareton through my tears that I would visit him soon and often. Then Joseph carried Hareton inside, still struggling, and I climbed up onto the seat next to the wagon driver and slumped down with my shawl over my face, sick with misery and unable even to sob, let alone speak or move. The wagon moved slowly off. After a time, the driver spoke.
‘We’re out o’ sight o’ the house now, if ye’d like to put yer head up,’ he said kindly. ‘The fresh air might do ye some good.’ I lifted up my head, but then felt so sick that I asked him to stop the wagon. My throat was so tight I could scarcely speak above a whisper, so I had to ask twice before he understood what I wanted. He stopped the wagon and hopped off to help me out of it. I climbed down and whispered my thanks, then knelt in the grass beside the road and vomited up all the contents of my stomach, choking and sobbing all the while. The driver knelt beside me and rested his hand gently on my back. He said nothing until I sat back on my heels, quivering and gasping for air, but apparently finished. Then he dug out a small flask from somewhere in his clothes, removed the cork, and offered it to me.
‘Take a mouthful of that and swish it around to wash out yer mouth,’ he said. I obeyed. The contents were some sort of strong spirits – I could not tell what – that burned my mouth and tongue, but they took away the taste of the vomit, anyway. I tried to hand the flask back, but he waved it away.
‘Take a swallow or two first,’ he said. ‘It’ll settle your nerves a bit.’ Again I obeyed, though the strong liquor made me cough, and brought tears to my eyes. The driver took a swallow himself, then recorked the flask and tucked it back into his clothes.
‘I can see you’re a kind-hearted lass,’ he said, ‘so I know you’ll not mention that to Mr Linton. He wouldn’t approve.’ I nodded, and then let him help me to my feet, and back into the wagon.
‘Keep your head up now, miss,’ he said, when we were underway again, ‘and breathe deep. That’s the best way to keep off the sickness.’ Then, when we had gone on a little further in silence, he spoke again. ‘That were Mr Earnshaw’s child, that’s Mrs Linton’s nephew, is that right?’ I nodded. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Hareton.’
‘How old?’
‘Almost five.’ I kept my answers short, hardly trusting my voice.
‘And you’ve had the rearing of him, since he were born, is that what I heard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Eh, that’s hard,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But he’s a likely lad enough, anyone can see that – a lively little monkey, and he knows what he wants, don’t he?’ I nodded again. ‘He’ll do all right, miss, you’ll see,’ he said consolingly. ‘He’s a little man in his own eyes, you may be sure, for all he still seems a babe to you. He’ll find his feet well enough.’ I said nothing, but only let the tears stream down my face unchecked. The driver lapsed back into silence, then, and so we continued for some time. But I was grateful to him, for he was the first person I had spoken to who had seemed to understand something of my pain and my fears, and tried to ease them.
When we were within half a mile of Thrushcross Grange, he pulled out a small earthenware jug from under the seat, and handed it to me.
‘This here’s just water,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got a clean pocket handkerchief, you’ll want to use some to clean up your face a bit, for what with the dust and the tears I think it’s not the face you want to show your new master and mistress.’ I did as he said, and then dabbed my eyes with the cool cloth to take away some of the redness. ‘Now show me a smile,’ he said, smiling himself, and I managed a ghost of one. ‘Ah, you’re a brave lass,’ he said. ‘You’ll do well enough here. Mr Linton is a bit of a cold fish, between you and me, but he’s a good master and a fair one, and there’s many a lass hereabouts would be overjoyed to get the place you’re stepping into. You don’t feel it yet, and I don’t blame you for that. But you will, I promise you.’ I nodded, not feeling equal to speaking.
‘Now I’ve the advantage of you, for I know you’re Nelly Dean, but you don’t know me. My name’s Thomas Overton – call me Tom – and I’m a groom here.’
‘Thomas was my father’s name,’ I ventured.
‘Well, ain’t that a coincidence, for I’ve a daughter named Nelly, too, though she’s a deal younger than you,’ he said. ‘My wife Bessie and I live hard by the stable, and we’ve two other little ones beside our Nell. If you ever find yourself in need of a cup of tea and a shoulder to cry on, look us up.’
‘Thank you, Tom, you’ve been very kind.’
A manservant came and took up the trunk, telling me to follow him. We came to the back door, and the housekeeper, Mrs Phillips, was there to greet me. She introduced herself to me and suggested that we take a cup of tea in her sitting room, so we repaired to there. She struck me as a woman of middling sort, in every way: neither short nor tall, thin nor stout, kind nor hard, and of middle age, though more elderly than not. I found out later that she was nearly sixty, and had been a servant at Thrushcross Grange for forty-five years, and housekeeper for thirty.
‘You are younger than I expected,’ she began. ‘How long have you been working for the Earnshaws?’
‘All my life,’ I told her. ‘I grew up in the house, and have been in service since I was fourteen – that is eleven years now.’
‘You don’t look much like a lady’s maid, I must say,’ she said bluntly. ‘How long have you been one?’
‘I haven’t, really,’ I said. ‘I helped Cathy to dress, but most of my work was elsewhere, in the kitchen, and the dairy, and in managing the household generally.’ I did not trust myself to mention Hareton yet.
‘So you were housekeeper there?’
‘In practice, if not in title.’
‘And how many servants were there in the establishment?’
I explained how the household had declined after the mistress’s death, until it was composed of only Joseph and me.
‘Dear me! From housekeeper to maid-of-all-work – I wonder you put up with it! Why didn’t you leave as well?’
‘I was – I am – very attached to the family. I grew up there, as I said. Mr Earnshaw was my foster-brother. And there was – a child.’ The last word came out in a whisper. Mrs Phillips appeared to take no notice – perhaps she already knew that this was like to be a sore subject for me. Instead, she proceeded to interrogate me minutely on my skills: could I wash and dress hair, mend lace, sponge silks and furbish up drooping bon
nets? I answered as best I could, but in truth my skills in this area were not far advanced.
‘Well, you’re a strange choice for a lady’s maid – that’s all I can say. But you are Mrs Linton’s choice, so we must make do. We must get Wilson – she’s Miss Linton’s maid – to teach you what you need to know.’
‘Please, ma’am,’ I said, ‘must I be Mrs Linton’s maid? I could do more good, I think, in the kitchen or the dairy. Perhaps one of the housemaids would like the place instead?’
‘It’s not my decision, nor yours either. Mrs Linton asked to bring you here as her maid, and she is mistress now. Besides, with the wages I’ve been told we must pay you, I could not put you in any other place in the household without causing resentment among the others. Thirty pounds a year for a kitchen maid! Why, the cook herself makes barely more than that. However, when your mistress doesn’t need you, we will ask you to turn a hand to other work in the household. I suppose you’ll be more useful than most ladies’ maids at that.’ I thanked her.
‘You will need to dress more smartly,’ Mrs Phillips went on. ‘Do you have any better clothes than you are wearing?’
‘These are my work clothes,’ I said. ‘I have a Sunday dress too, in black silk.’
‘You must wear your Sunday dress for now, then, to wait on your mistress. When you are finished dressing her in the morning, and finished tidying her dressing room and making any necessary repairs to her clothes, you will change into a housemaid’s uniform to help out downstairs, then back to your good dress for your evening service to your mistress. You had best set to work on a new Sunday dress for yourself – something a little brighter and smarter in style, though not so bright or smart that it looks as if you wish to ape your mistress – a blue or green stripe, with a plain collar, would do nicely. The uniform we will find for you.’ Mrs Phillips continued on in this vein for a time, explaining the order of the household, the times of rising and going to bed, meals, and so forth. I tried to listen, but I was still dazed and shaken from my parting with Hareton. Now that I was not expected to form coherent answers to questions, I found it increasingly difficult to attend, or to hold back the rising tide of sorrow that threatened to engulf me. At last she came to the subject of holidays and half-holidays, and my attention was roused again.
‘On Thursdays you may take the time between finishing the morning dressing and beginning the evening undressing for yourself. On the first Thursday of every month you may take the whole day, and Wilson will do for Mrs Linton. The second Tuesday of every month is Wilson’s day, so you must do for Miss Linton then.’
‘So this Thursday will be my first half-holiday?’ Today was Saturday.
‘Well, we’d be in our rights to wait until you’d worked at least a week, but if you work hard until then I will let you take it.’ Five days until I could see Hareton again! It seemed an eternity, but it gave me something to aim for, at any rate. Mrs Phillips then led me up to the attic to show me my room – a tiny one, but as the mistress’s own maid I was to have it to myself. The trunk was already in it, and Mrs Phillips left me there to unpack it and change into better clothes, after which I was to report to my mistress. As soon as the door was shut, I sat down on the bed and cried heartily, but I was not accustomed to indulging my feelings, so I soon roused myself to put away my things and complete my simple toilette. Thus began my work at Thrushcross Grange.
On Monday morning, I was helping Cathy to get dressed for a morning ride, when she discovered that she had left her whip at Wuthering Heights.
‘I am sure there are spares in the stable,’ I said, ‘or Miss Isabella would let you borrow hers – she rarely rides.’
‘But I am used to that one,’ Cathy pouted. ‘It’s the one the Thornes gave me, that matches Heathcliff’s, and it always reminds me of him. I will ride with no other. I will have to send a boy to fetch it – I am sure it was left in the stable, on the nail where it is usually hung.’ I was struck with a sudden idea.
‘Send me instead, miss,’ I said eagerly. ‘The whip may not be where you think, and I know my way about the place, so I will be better able to work out where to find it than a stranger would be.’
Cathy looked uncomfortable. ‘That won’t do,’ she said.
‘Why not? I promise I’ll be as quick as any lad.’
Cathy took a deep breath, and then spoke quickly. ‘You are not to go back to Wuthering Heights. Edgar and Hindley think it best for Hareton not to see you.’
I felt the blood draining from my face. ‘For how long?’
‘For good – you must not go back ever.’ The words were like a blow. I gasped and swayed on my feet. Then my mind failed, my head swam, and I fainted dead away.
TWENTY-FIVE
When I came to, I was lying on my little bed in the attic, and Bodkin was holding my hand.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked gently. With returning consciousness came the memory of what had caused my collapse.
‘They say I am not to see Hareton ever again,’ I said dully.
‘Is that why you fainted?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Do you feel able to get up now?’
I took stock of myself. I felt drained of any power to move. What parts of me were not racked with pain felt merely dead. ‘No,’ I said simply.
Bodkin felt my forehead. ‘There is some fever,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I examine you?’
‘Leave me alone,’ I said. I turned my back to him and faced the wall.
And now I must tell you something that may shock you: I had never weaned Hareton. Oh, he ate regular food with the rest of us – there was nothing wrong with him in that regard. But he still nursed in secret. There are children – little Cathy would prove such a one – who wean themselves not long after they start taking solid food: the wide world is so full of interesting objects, and their new diet so wholesome and pleasant, that they will no longer take the trouble of suckling. Others are pushed off the breast by a younger brother or sister, or else the mother refuses it because nursing interferes with her work – or if nothing else, because other mothers tell her that is what she ought to do. But none of these things had occurred with Hareton. Nursing was a sure comfort to him, in that house of terrors, and it would quiet him when nothing else would. It was precious to me, too, and perhaps he sensed that: he was a loving, thoughtful child, even then.
When I had learned I must go, I knew that I ought to wean him off gradually before I left – for my sake more than his – but I could not bear to deny him anything – and perhaps I wanted the pain of my overfull breasts, to counteract the deeper pain within. I did bind a cloth tightly around my bosom, as I had overheard women advise for cases where nursing must be left off suddenly, and in the privacy of my room – when I could get there, which was not often – I would press out what I could, to relieve the pressure, but even so, it was not long after my arrival at Thrushcross Grange that they grew painful, and began to trouble me. I could no longer press anything out – evidently they were blocked, as I had sometimes seen happen with cows’ teats, so that the milk built up and festered within. If they could not be unblocked, I knew, milk fever was likely to follow – had probably followed already, if what Bodkin said was true. But I was not going to confide in him – my nursing of Hareton was a secret so deeply kept that I could not imagine sharing it, nor could I explain how it had come about without other confessions still more disturbing. And so I turned away.
‘Nelly, please,’ said Bodkin gently. ‘I cannot help you unless I examine you.’
‘You cannot help me anyway,’ I said. ‘I am never to see my baby again. I promised him I would visit him. I said goodbye to him, and I thought I would see him again in a few days, and now – he will think I have abandoned him. He has no comforts, no safety, even. He could die out there, and I would not know!’ Sobs overtook me.
‘Dear God in Heaven,’ I heard him say under his breath. ‘That was cruel,’ he said to me softly, ‘and I am very sorry for it. But you a
re ill, Nelly, and I must examine you, or you may get worse.’
‘I don’t care. I cannot live this way. I want to die.’
‘Come now, there’s no such thing as “never” while there is life and hope, you know that. People change their minds; children grow old enough to wander from home – there is no telling what may happen.’
‘Please leave me alone.’
‘I will then, but I will be back soon. I am leaving some willow bark powder for the fever, and some drops that may ease you a little. Try to rest.’
Bodkin left and closed the door behind him, but evidently Mr and Mrs Linton were waiting outside to hear what he had to say, for I soon heard the three of them talking. Perhaps the Lintons were accustomed to the thicker doors downstairs, or perhaps they wanted me to hear – at any rate, they were loud enough for me to hear their conversation distinctly.
‘She has become ill from strain and grief,’ said Bodkin. ‘The separation from Hareton was very painful for her, and hearing that she was not even to visit was too much to bear. There is a collapse of the whole system. She must have complete bed rest, for a week at least, if she is to recover properly.’
‘I hope you see now, my dear,’ said Mr Linton to his wife, ‘how wrong it is not to maintain a strict division between servants and family. You can see that it has been harmful to both her and the child.’
‘Nelly is only sulking. I don’t see why we should indulge her further,’ his wife replied.
