The Other Cathy (3 page)

Half listening to her uncle and aunt, Emma’s thoughts
were filled with a delightful anticipation of the evening in
prospect when Mr Cliffe would come to dinner with them. She wondered what she could wear. Normally not over-
concerned about her clothes, for the first time in her life she had a wish to look beautiful and sophisticated. The idea that Mr Cliffe might dismiss her as a dowdy little provincial girl
was unbearable.

‘That makes covers for eight.’ Chloe was musing aloud. ‘I
am afraid we shall be rather short of gentlemen. Perhaps we
should ask Bernard Mottram to make up the number.’

‘Bernard? But you said it was to be just the family,’ Emma
protested.

‘As your Uncle Paget’s partner I think he can properly
be included. Yes, I shall invite Bernard.’

Emma knew it was useless to argue. Anyway, to allow
herself to be concerned whether or not Bernard came would
be to give him undue importance in her mind. As Uncle Paget’s junior partner, and the doctor who personally attended
Cathy, she inevitably saw a good deal of him. He was a young
man with whom it was difficult to find fault, which in her
private thoughts Emma sometimes attempted to do. His good
manners, his above-average height combined with sandy-fair
hair and intelligent hazel eyes, gave him a thoroughly pleasing
appearance, and he was agreeable to talk to. Bernard Mottram
would have made a most acceptable member of Emma’s
small circle of acquaintances if it had not been for one unwelcome circumstance – the look of tenderness he constantly
directed at her.

Cathy was staring at her rose-bordered plate, not eating,
still upset by her father’s reprimand concerning Seth. Emma
felt a quick rush of affection for her, touched with a sense of
guilt. If her own future was hazy and uncertain to her, poor
Cathy’s fate was patently clear to everyone; her young life
could not be prolonged beyond a few fleeting years at most.
On Cathy’s bad days, when she was racked with coughing
and left weak and gasping for breath, with a froth of bright-
red blood upon her lips, Emma always feared the end would
come very soon. She touched her cousin’s hand beneath the
tablecloth, and whispered, ‘I don’t suppose Seth minds help
ing out as footman occasionally. He always looks very smart
in his livery, and I shall make a point of telling him so.’

Emma was rewarded with a wan smile. Cathy took a sip of
the watered wine she was served at meals, and slowly resumed
eating the tender breast of duckling on her plate.

When Randolph set out for the mill after dinner he had
changed into a dark grey frock-coat of his own finest broad
cloth, with a cravat of Macclesfield silk at his throat; and
he took the dog cart for his drive over to Oakroyd House later
on. Chloe retired upstairs for her customary rest and the two
girls settled down in the conservatory to mount pressed
flowers in an album.

The house was quiet, and the servants too were taking their afternoon ease. With the green roller blinds drawn against the sun’s glare, Emma found the humid, earthy smell of the
greenery oppressive. She felt a longing to be up on the
moor, galloping fast and free across the wild solitary tracts of
heathland, with the wind rushing past her ears and the sun
caressing her face. But in this image the companion who rode beside her was not young Seth; it was Mr Cliffe, splendidly mounted on his fine Cleveland bay.

A tap behind the blind startled her.

‘Who is it?’ she called.

The glazed door to the garden opened and Seth looked in,
a sheepish grin spread across his swarthy gypsy features.

‘I come to show’ee my jacket, Miss Cathy, like tha telled
me to.’ He was pleased with himself but embarrassed too, his shoulders hunched, his fingers clutching the ends of his
sleeves.

‘Oh, it’s lovely!’ Cathy exclaimed, jumping to her feet. ‘What a gorgeous blue! Turn right round, Seth, and let me see
the back. Isn’t your grandmama clever with her needle -
isn’t she, Emma?’

Seth pointed to a motif embroidered on the left cuff. ‘She’s
sewed a sprig o’ heather on’t, see. Gran’mer said ‘twould
bring me good fortune.’

‘And so it shall ... lots and lots of good fortune.’ In her
innocent eagerness Cathy flung her arms round the boy’s neck. ‘Oh Seth, I do wish I could go to the Donkey Fair with
you – the way we always used to do things together when we
were children.’

‘But it wouldn’ be proper no more, Miss Cathy.’ He looked
flushed and anxious as he tried to draw away from her, and
glanced for help at Emma, who said quickly, ‘I think you’d
better go now, Seth. Aunt Chloe will be down in a minute.’

Reluctantly, Cathy released him and he departed in haste. Cathy breathed a long sigh, her lips slightly parted.

‘Will you read to me for a little while, Emma?’ she said
dreamily. ‘My eyes ache.’

‘Of course, dearest. I have got Mr Trollope’s new novel in
my room.  Shall I go upstairs and fetch it? I remember how
much you enjoyed
Barchester Towers.’

‘No, thank you. I – I find Mr Trollope’s work rather dull.’
From the pocket of her skirt she took a slim volume bound in red calf, which Emma recognised with dismay.

‘Not
Wuthering Heights
again!’ she protested. ‘You must
almost know it off by heart.’

A small secret smile flitted across Cathy’s face as she riffled through the pages. This is the part I want to hear, Emma.
Start here, if you please.’

As Emma began to read she felt distinctly uneasy. It was
six months ago, last February, that she had chanced to borrow
the novel from the Mechanics’ Institute library in Bythorpe.
Cathy was confined to bed at the time, and Emma  had hoped
the poetic descriptions of their own Pennine-moorland country
side would hold a special interest for her. But as Miss Emily
Bronte’s wildly tempestuous story unfolded, she had doubted
the wisdom of her choice. Cathy’s face, already flushed with fever, seemed to burn even more fiercely, while her unseeing
eyes gazed at some vision far beyond the bedroom’s four walls;
her breath came in short laboured gasps and her thin fingers gripped the quilt convulsively. Then Emma was afraid that
Cathy was reacting too deeply to the vivid prose, becoming too
disturbingly involved with the impassioned characters for
someone of her delicate constitution. But when she suggested
some lighter reading for a change, Cathy always beseeched her
to continue with
Wuthering Heights,
Emma’s own enjoyment
of the novel was ruined and it was thankfully that she reached
the end, and she returned it at once to the lending library. But to her surprise and dismay, barely a fortnight later a parcel came for Cathy containing the three volumes of
Wuthering Heights
which she had secretly ordered from
London.

Now, as Emma reached the end of a chapter, Cathy breathed
a sigh of deep contentment, and said, ‘It’s just like me and Seth, isn’t it?’

Emma was astonished. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Why, Cathy in the book and Heathcliff. It’s just like us.’

‘Oh no,’ said Emma with firmness, “there’s really no simi
larity at all.’

Without knowing why, she felt deeply troubled. But be
fore she could say any more the door opened and Chloe entered the conservatory, buttoning her black velvet cuffs.

‘I declare, those geraniums are wilting,’ she said fussily. ‘
That fool Brigg can’t have watered them properly. He
imagines he knows more about the care of plants than I do.’

She marched to the garden door intent on having it out
with the gardener forthwith. Then she paused, her head
cocked to one side.

‘Isn’t that the dog cart? It sounds as if your papa is back
already, Cathy.’

Seconds later the door from the house burst open and
Randolph strode in. His face was inflamed with anger.

‘Damn the man! How dare he come here under false pre
tences, tricking honest, decent folk into seeking his acquain
tance!’  Glancing over his shoulder, he shouted, ‘Hoad, where
the devil are you with that whisky?’

The butler, a short thickset man with bushy side whiskers, appeared bearing a decanter and glass on a silver tray. Randolph helped himself to a large measure and drank deeply.

His sister, looking bewildered, said in a thin, anxious voice,
‘You surely can’t be referring to that nice Mr Cliffe?’

‘Cliffe! That’s not his name, curse him! I hold you to
blame, Chloe, for letting me in for this. You met the wretched
man in the village, and you should have recognised him at
once, just as I did.’

‘But I cannot recollect ever meeting him before. And when
he was introduced to us in the bank, he behaved as if we were
complete strangers. Emma, you will bear me out in that.’ .

Emma nodded confirmation. Her heart was suddenly beat
ing painfully.

‘But who is he, Uncle? What is his real name? And what is
it that is so dreadful?’

‘You do well to ask his name, lass, and I’ll tell you. It’s
Matthew Sutcliffe – not Cliffe, but Sutcliffe. There, now you
know!’

In a daze, Emma heard her aunt’s shocked protest. ‘No, Randolph, it cannot be him. You must be mistaken. This man
is rich and respectable, a gentleman. And he is so much older.’

‘A man changes in fifteen years,’ Randolph grunted furiously as he refilled his glass with whisky and took a long
draught.

Emma clenched her hands together in an effort to stop
their trembling.

‘Uncle Randolph,’ she faltered, “are you – are you truly
saying that the man who has come to live at Oakroyd House
is the one who ... who ...’ She could not continue, her throat
would not allow the words to pass.

There was a silence and she was inconsequentially aware of
the rapid ticking of the cuckoo clock on the conservatory
wall. Randolph brought his gaze from the empty glass in his
hand, and looked at her. He drew a long, deep breath and
spoke with heavy reluctance.

‘Aye, that’s right, lass! He’s Matthew Sutcliffe, the man
who killed your father.’

Randolph left it to Cathy’s doctor to decide whether she should go to the Donkey Fair, and Bernard Mottram made a special visit on Saturday morning to examine her.

‘Will you promise not to get overexcited, and to wrap up
well against the night air?’ he demanded in a severe voice.

‘Oh yes, Bernard. Anything – as long as you’ll let me go.’

‘Very well then!’ Unscrewing his stethoscope and putting it
away in his bag, he whispered to Emma, ‘She is so eager, it
would do her greater harm to refuse.’ In a normal tone, he
went on, ‘As a matter of fact, I thought of going to the fair
myself. Perhaps we could join forces?’

‘Yes, that would be pleasant,’ Emma murmured politely,
and saw him frown at her obvious lack of enthusiasm.

As she was showing Bernard out he paused at the front door
and studied her face critically.

‘You’re looking somewhat tired today. Is caring for your
cousin proving too arduous for you? I could easily advise Mr
Hardaker that the time has come to engage a professional
nurse.’

‘No, please don’t! I can manage perfectly well, and bringing
in someone else would only alarm Cathy.’

Bernard looked down at the tall black hat he held, fingering
its silky brim absently.

‘Naturally, I have heard – I could not avoid it, going around
the district as I do – of the true identity of the tenant of Oakroyd House. It must have come as a great shock to you.’

‘Please, I would rather not talk about it.’

His hazel eyes, usually so open and candid, were clouded with distress on her behalf. ‘As you wish, Emma. I have no desire to pry.’

‘Goodbye, Bernard. I shall see you this evening.’

Dismissed, he climbed into his waiting gig, gathering the
reins in one hand and raising his hat with the other as he
drove off. Emma did not close the front door at once, but
stepped outside and down the portico steps to take a short turn
in the shrubbery walk.

The man she had declined to discuss with Bernard had not
been out of her mind for an instant since Uncle Randolph’s
revelation of yesterday. Sutcliffe – Matthew Sutcliffe, her
father’s slayer. The man who, out of blind unreasoning
hatred, had sought revenge for some imagined grievance and viciously struck her father down while he was alone at the
mill one evening adjusting a new power loom. She had been
only four years old at the time, yet with unbearable clarity
she could remember hearing his name on everybody’s lips,
her poor mother crying it out in agony; the servants whisper
ing it behind their hands. Tried and found guilty of man
slaughter, Matthew Sutcliffe had been sentenced to transport
ation to a penal settlement for a term of fourteen years; which
had seemed, then, the same as saying for all time. It was not
envisaged that he would be heard of again.