I was deeply moved by reading poor Catherine’s pleas for help, not least because it seemed certain that Hareton had been prevented from delivering her final letter. I could not see how else it could have ended up with the others. I presumed that they had all been collected together by Nelly Dean because it was she who had never sent the letters to Lucy Wright and who would have been able to access Edgar Linton’s correspondence with Catherine. What I could not understand was why Nelly had not destroyed these letters. Had she taken some strange delight in being able to read the torment that she had helped inflict? I was sure no normal woman would have aided and abetted Heathcliff Earnshaw’s crazed behaviour in the way that she had. Or was the explanation simpler? Was it possible that Nelly had not been able to read? If so, she might have had no idea of the contents of what she kept. That might also help explain why she had retained Cathy’s manuscript, though I could not fathom how that ended up in her home whilst Catherine’s letters had remained at Thrushcross.
Reading the letters left me more determined than ever to discover what had happened to Catherine Linton, but unfortunately my investigative journeys across Yorkshire in the harsh weather of January and early February led to me catching a severe chill. For a time it was feared my life might be in jeopardy. News of this reached Charlotte and, towards the end of February, she broke her silence to write to me, wishing me a speedy recovery. I gratefully received this olive branch and our regular correspondence was soon after resumed. However, neither she nor I broached the subject of what I had found in Nelly Dean’s trunk. Charlotte wrongly thought that I had long since destroyed it in line with her original wishes and I had no desire to disillusion her.
Our renewed correspondence made me realize just how much Charlotte was viewing Mr Nicholls as a serious potential husband. After leaving her father’s employ he had taken up a curate’s position in the village of Kirk Smeaton, near Pontefract, but he had not lost hope of making Charlotte his wife. In July 1853 he had secretly gone to stay with the Rev. Joseph Brett Grant, the incumbent of Oxenhope, which is but a few miles from Haworth, so that he could contact her without her father knowing. The two men had long been friends because of their shared interest in education. Mr Grant was the schoolmaster of the Free Grammar School and Mr Nicholls was a prominent supporter of the National Schools Society. Once contacted, Charlotte had agreed to enter into a secret correspondence. The announcement of Mr George Smith in November that he was marrying another undoubtedly had removed the one thing that had still held Charlotte back from committing herself to Mr Nicholls – her hope of a more distinguished husband.
Charlotte told me how in December she had gone to her father and confessed how she and his former curate had been writing to each other for six months. She then demanded he give permission for them to meet. With bad grace he had conceded to her request and, in January, Mr Nicholls had spent ten days staying with Mr Grant so he could easily travel to Haworth and see her as her official suitor. The fact that I had no wish to risk damaging our renewed friendship did not prevent me voicing my unchanged opinion that Mr Nicholls was unworthy of a woman of her talents. For that reason Charlotte stopped informing me of the progression of their relationship and I chose not to enquire. This was the situation until the end of March when Charlotte mistakenly put a letter to Mr Nicholls in an envelope addressed to me and a letter to me in an envelope addressed to him. This revealed that although I had received no invitation to visit her at the parsonage at Easter, he had. Embarrassed by what I had inadvertently discovered, Charlotte belatedly invited me also, saying that Mr Nicholls would be staying at Mr Grant’s. I thought it safer to decline.
The outcome of Mr Nicholls’ visit was relayed to me in a letter dated 11 April. Charlotte told me that her father had assented not only to their engagement but also to Mr Nicholls becoming his curate again. She said she recognized that, in my eyes, her fiancé lacked talent and congeniality, but she felt this was more than made up for by his high principles, his conscientiousness and his affectionate regard for her. For that reason she trusted that she would love him as a husband. She said their marriage was likely to take place in July. What could I say? I still thought she would regret her decision. How could a woman who had written so powerfully of the passionate love of Jane Eyre and Caroline Helstone and Lucy Snowe resign herself to a marriage of convenience? Had she not years ago rejected my brother as a suitor on those very grounds and my brother had been a far better man than Mr Nicholls.
Given my desire not to cause her further pain or disrupt our renewed friendship, I am not sure what my next step would have been had I not received, a week earlier, a letter from Mr Opie. He had been delighted with the success of my visit and given considerable thought to the matter of how I might follow up what I had found. His letter suggested that I should consider examining the parish records because they would supply details of any births, marriages and deaths. I had thanked him profusely while inwardly cursing my own stupidity in not thinking of that idea for myself. My dilemma had been to see the records without alerting Charlotte’s suspicions until I discovered quite by chance that there was a copy in the new church of St Mary the Virgin, which had been built at Oxenhope in 1849. Armed with the news provided by Charlotte, I wrote to Mr Grant saying how pleased I was that his friend was to marry Charlotte and that I would love to see his church because I had heard much about it. As I had hoped, he replied, inviting me to come to the two hamlets that comprise Oxenhope whenever I liked. I instantly accepted this offer, confident that I would be able to engineer a look at the parish records during my visit.
I knew that I would be a rare tourist because few ever make their way through the marshy land that surrounds Near Oxenhope (so-called because it is near Haworth) or Far Oxenhope. There is nothing picturesque for them to see because for centuries neither hamlet has acquired any prosperity from the many surrounding hill farms. I chose not to travel by the turnpike road but by the older paved road that is aptly named the ‘Long Causeway’. I refused to let the dour and rather depressing nature of the hamlets affect me because it was one of those beautiful days in late April when you finally feel the dark and grey sombre hues of winter are giving way to the happier tints of spring, when you can see the fields and hills are turning a warmer green. Beneath an almost cloudless sky, I ignored as best I could the ugly slum buildings built to house the workforce for the textile mills and took pleasure instead in the blackthorn bushes that were dappled with white blossom, the hawthorns that were splashed with the first vibrant green of the coming leaf, and the occasional horse-chestnut tree that was proudly displaying its swollen and ready-to-burst sticky buds. All around I could hear birdsong – the raucous cawing of rooks and the deep hollow bass sound of wood pigeons intermingled with the more delicate chirping of sparrows and the call of the first finch and, high above my head, a spiralling lark. Hopeful that my mission would prove fruitful, I could not help my heart singing with theirs.
My mood was only dampened when I arrived at the vicarage and was greeted warmly but rather officiously by Mr Grant. He was a man of middling age and rather pompous authority who seemed to delight in trite conversation – a rather worthy companion, I thought, for Mr Nicholls! Looking at his red turned-up nose, which bore all the signs of a fondness for drink, I could not help but wonder whether he was more influenced by spirits than the Holy Spirit. I found it disconcerting that in almost everything he said he found a way of condemning his parishioners. He repeatedly told me that all those born and bred in Yorkshire lacked manners and respect for their betters and he constantly bemoaned the lack of any civilized society in Oxenhope. He said his church was the only building of elegance and style in the entire valley and that it had been created only because for three years he had almost single-handedly raised the money to build it. This I knew to be true because I had heard from Charlotte that he would not leave a person alone until he or she had made a contribution. She had nicknamed him ‘the champion beggar’ and made him the basis for the Rev. Joseph Donne in her novel Shirley, just as she had used Mr Nicholls as the model for another clergyman in that same book. I knew Mr Nicholls had laughed at his caricature but I doubted that Mr Grant had.
I cannot say the new church was a building that pleased my eye because it was built in an old-fashioned Norman style. Its tower was terribly squat and its windows were unattractively small and plain. I suspected that Mr Grant had built the church and vicarage more to satisfy his own needs than to meet those of his parishioners. He took pride in the fact the church could seat over 400 people, even though, from what I gathered elsewhere, his preaching did little to fill it! This did not prevent him describing to me in nauseating detail the latest sermon he had given from the pulpit that dominated the right-hand side of the nave. Not surprisingly, my mind easily wandered and I began imagining what scene I might like to see engraved in the glass of the round window which acted as the main feature behind the altar. Fortunately, before he could notice my inattention, one of his parishioners came into the church seeking advice. He was going to rudely turn the man away but I insisted he should attend to his needs.
I volunteered to retire into the vestry whilst they concluded their business and this gave me the opportunity to fulfil the real purpose of my visit. I quickly found the copy of the parish records among a few other books that sat on a shelf. You can imagine the trepidation with which I turned page after page, scanning its columns and looking for any entry in the name of either Linton or Earnshaw. To my delight I first found the entry for the wedding of Edgar Linton and Cathy Earnshaw and next put my finger on the burial of Cathy and subsequent baptism of her daughter. There was, of course, no reference to her other child, the one taken to Cornwall and baptized there as Maria Branwell. Then I found three entries that totally astounded me – the burials of Catherine, Hareton and Linton all on the same day, 12 August 1801. Against all three was listed ‘death by fire’. Turning the page I found listed the burial of Edgar Linton just a couple of weeks later. The cause was listed as heart failure. There was no happy ending as depicted in Wuthering Heights, only an appalling tragedy. I knew Nelly Dean had not died till years later and it seemed likely that, in the absence of his name in the register, Heathcliff must also have survived.
Hearing Mr Grant returning, I hurriedly returned the book to its shelf and, despite the deep shock I had experienced, resumed listening to his interminable account about his work. After some twenty minutes of excruciatingly dull conversation, I tentatively asked him whether any of his parishioners had had anything to do with Wuthering Heights or Thrushcross Grange in years gone by. To my surprise he replied in the affirmative, saying, ‘Yes, there were a few but they are all long dead, except for an old man called Walter Hodges, who in his youth was a stable boy. He is now old and frail and in his seventies, but he has a keen memory and an even keener love of talking about the past. He has often tried to speak with me about the fire that destroyed Wuthering Heights over forty years ago, but to be honest I’ve not chosen to hear the tale in its entirety. I have better things to do with my time.’
‘Where does this man reside?’ I asked, trying to hide my intense excitement.
‘He lives in a tiny ramshackle cottage just as you head out of Near Oxenhope towards Haworth. You cannot miss it because it looks more like a cowshed than a house but it’s been his home for many a year. Not that he will stay there much longer. He is already reliant on charity and I am in discussion with the authorities to have him moved for his own good to the nearest workhouse. I can assure you that a lady like you has nothing to gain by talking to a wretched man like him.’
‘I’m sure you are right,’ I replied, and proceeded to draw our meeting to a close as rapidly as courtesy permitted. I thanked him for showing me his church, made a number of compliments about his work that pleased him but made me feel ashamed at my untruthfulness, and then took my leave.
Needless to say, I headed straight to find the small cottage in which Walter Hodges lived. I felt it was just possible that this old man might have the answers to what exactly had happened all those years ago. I easily identified his house and, to my delight, Hodges was outside it, trying to do some work in what remained of what had once doubtless been a fine vegetable plot but was now largely neglected. He returned my greeting as if I was some long-lost daughter. I suspect that my arrival was a welcome relief in what was probably a rather lonely existence. He was a tall, well-built man with the large hands that one associates with those who have worked manually all their lives, but his back was now terribly bent and his grizzled white head and deeply lined face bore all the traces not just of age but of a hard life. Nevertheless, his blue eyes had a kindly twinkle that indicated he had a warm heart, even if his voice was gruff and unrefined.
I told him the reason for my visit and he beckoned me to enter his home, cautioning me to bow my head and avoid the heavy beam that crossed the low ceiling. The room I entered would have been oppressively dark if he had not kept the door open because the narrow dirty panes of the small window admitted little light. The room was shockingly bare. Its grimy walls contained not a single picture frame and its uneven and damp stone floor was only partially covered with a carpet, which had long since lost not only its colour but also most of its threads. The furniture comprised just a large but very aged and badly scarred oak table and two of the commonest horsehair chairs. He invited me to sit down and I obliged, though part of me feared what dirt might transfer to my dress. He sat in the other chair with his back to a partition that partially obscured some worm-eaten wooden steps. These I assumed led up to his bedroom. The partition had once been whitewashed but was now grey with age and spotted with unidentifiable dirt. As far as I could tell, the only other room was a tiny kitchen that could be glimpsed through an open doorway.
I think my face indicated my disgust because he commented, ‘Aye, miss, it’s not now a place of which one can be proud but it’s far better than the workhouse to which most are condemned in their old age. At least here I am still my own master and I can potter a little in my garden and still produce a few vegetables. I wish I could still do the odd job but the truth is I cannot work anymore. My strength is all but gone and my eyesight is now so poor that it can no longer guide my hands.’
I felt embarrassed and muttered something about how difficult it must be for him to manage on his own. To this he replied, ‘I cannot complain. I’m now in my seventy-eighth year and, if truth be told, I’ve lived too long – long enough to see every member of my family gone, most to their last home. One of my two sons enlisted in the army and I’ve heard naught of him since. The other perished from a fever ten years ago. My three daughters all married but two died in childbirth and the other left with her husband to live in York so I have not known the love of any grandchildren. My wife died just over twelve months ago and I had to watch her body go into a nameless grave.’
‘I’m sorry to hear of your loss,’ I said.
‘Thank you, miss, but I still daily give thanks for the life I have lived and the people I have loved.’
‘And did you love any connected to the Linton and Earnshaw families?’ I asked, not wishing to prolong my visit beyond what was necessary.
He looked surprised but answered, ‘Not love, miss, but I liked the young Hareton Earnshaw well enough. There was not a touch of evil in the lad even though he worked for the devil himself. By rights he should have inherited his father’s farm, but instead he was treated like a labourer. Nay, worse than a labourer for he received neither wages nor thanks for his work from Master Heathcliff, who was a cruel, hard, unforgiving man. It was the talk of the farms round here how from the grey of dawn to the onset of night and in all weathers, wind and wet, ice and snow, Hareton did all that was demanded of him, foddering cattle, milking cows, feeding pigs, repairing walls, sowing and reaping in harvest. Yet Master Heathcliff despised him for the meanness of his existence and took pleasure in thrashing him at the slightest excuse.’
‘What kept him then at Wuthering Heights?’
‘At first it was just his youth but when he came more of an age when flight was possible, there was another cause. On the rare occasions that Hareton saw me he would sometimes speak of how his love for his cousin Catherine kept him at the farmhouse. He told me she was the first person in his family who had ever spoken a kind word to him. Not that he ever thought she would love him. He knew he was far too ungainly and ill-educated to attract a lass of her beauty and upbringing.’
‘What was Catherine like, Mr Hodges?’
He smiled as he recalled her. ‘She was the prettiest of things. Hair the colour of newly cut straw and eyes the colour of blue butterflies. And she had the sweetest of natures. Everyone said she took after her mother, though I never knew her. Mrs Linton died giving birth to her daughter and that was long before I took up my post as a stable boy in the service of the family.’
‘And what of Mr Linton?’
‘He was a true gentleman. I never knew him say an unkind word to anyone and, unlike most masters, he treated his servants with kindness. However, his wife’s death left him a broken man and in all the time I worked for him I never heard him once laugh. I was not surprised when what happened at Wuthering Heights killed him. The news of the fire broke what little spirit he had left to live.’
‘Was the fire at Wuthering Heights what destroyed Catherine?’
‘Aye, and it killed Hareton too and Catherine’s cousin, Linton Earnshaw.’
‘Do you know much about the fire, Mr Hodges?’
‘I should do. I was there and the memory of it still sometimes gives me a sleepless night.’
The news that he had actually been present at the fire was far more than I had ever expected in my wildest hopes and I could not believe my very good fortune. There were many digressions along the way but over the next hour or so I extracted from him all that had happened. He told me his tale with a number of lengthy digressions but what he said totally captured my imagination. Looking back, I now appreciate my visit was truly a timely one because had I waited even a month longer I would never have met him and discovered the truth of what happened on that August night in 1801. Not long after my visit Mr Grant had his way and Walter Hodges was taken into the workhouse that he had so long dreaded. I gather the poor man died within a few days of being within its unsympathetic walls. What follows is not his account but one that I have better worded for my readers, omitting the things that he said which were of no import. I dedicate it to his memory.