THE LOVE AND HATE OF ISABELLA LINTON

“Dear Ellen,

I came last night to Wuthering Heights, and heard, for the first time, that Catherine had been here lately. I shall not pretend to be sorry for it. Heathcliff’s behaviour to me is enough to make me wish to be rid of him for ever; but I will not trouble you with what he has done. I am sure you would not wish to hear it.

He is not a human being; and he has no claim on my charity. I despise him, and hate him; and I have done nothing but weep since I left him. You told me once that I should not be happy with him. I did not think you meant that he would use me so.

I assure you, a tiger, or a venomous serpent, would be as tender a nurse as he. He has an absolute pleasure in giving pain. He has no pity—no kindness—no patience with my weakness; and I have no courage left to resist him.

He says he hates me, and wants nothing from me but that I should keep out of his sight; and he will not let me go where I please. I wish I had died before I came here.

I do not want your pity; I only ask your advice. I would rather be condemned to a perpetual solitude than remain in this house. If I can get away, I will. If not, I must endure it as best I may.

Yours sincerely,

Isabella Heathcliff.”

From the book ‘Wuthering Heights’, by Emily Brontë

In her bedchamber, Isabella Heathcliff paced the narrow stretch of floor between the window and the foot of the bed, her steps uneven, her thoughts relentless. The room was well furnished, heavy drapes, polished wood, bedclothes filled with feather and down – but none of it offered her comfort.

This place – this estate – was not a home. It was a prison disguised behind ivy-covered stone and gilded gates. Doors closed too softly. Hallways swallowed sound. Curtains barricaded light. It was a quiet and lonely descent into madness, this house.

She stopped at the window and looked down at the grounds below. The staff moved along with careful restraint, their heads lowered and shoulders tense. No one stopped to share a laugh among chores. No one lingered a moment to daydream. They walked as though the earth beneath their feet might betray them if they stepped too loudly. They knew the rules: speak only when necessary, never question instructions, never draw attention. 

Even the land seemed wary of its oppressing owner. The gardens were meticulously kept, but the flowers bloomed with muted colors, their stems thin and fragile despite the care they were given. They bent easily in the wind, petals loosening too soon, wilting away before your very eyes.

Isabella pressed her fingers into the windowsill, her reflection faint in the glass. She scarcely recognized herself anymore. The woman who had arrived here had faded, replaced by someone quieter, smaller. Her smiles came slower now. Her breath often caught in her chest without reason, her heart hammering beneath her breast in anticipated fear. Like the flowers below, she survived – but she did not thrive. Wuthering Heights took something from everyone who lived within its walls. And day by day, Isabella could feel it taking her, too.

She couldn’t let that happen.

At her door, there was a loud knock, and she jumped at the sound. Healthcliff did not wait for her to answer before striding inside. 

Isabella often wondered what the cruel, calculating man would look like if he didn’t carry so much hatred in his soul. He had the features to be quite handsome, skin as rich as the night sky, obsidian eyes, thick brows, a physical presence that only comes from hard labor. Abstractly, he was a god among humans; realistically, he was nothing more than an alluring demon sent from Hell.

Heathcliff grabbed the decanter of wine near the fireplace and poured himself a generous glass. He stole a few pieces of cheese from the tray meant for her, and popped a grape in his mouth before turning to acknowledge her. There was no kindness in eyes as he looked at her.

“I was told you wished to speak to me,” he said, “Well, I am here now, so speak.”

She had many things to say to him. Alas, with Heathcliff sitting in front of her now, only one thing came to mind.

“I hate you.” She said, honestly. “You are cruel, and unkind. You relish in bending the will of others and creating destruction to get what you want. You are not a good man – a worthy man. I should have never married you.”

Heathcliff took a small sip from his wine glass, the ice in his stare trying hard to chip away at Isabella’s countenance. Instead, she squared her shoulders and curled her hands into fists. This man had taken everything from her – her innocence, her happiness, her freedom – he was not about to own her dignity as well. Besides, she knew how to deal with men like him.

“Is this why you asked to see me, wife? To insult me?”

“No. I wanted to see you because I want to make a truce with you.”

Interest had Heathcliff raising a brow. “A truce?”

“I am no fool,” she said, “I know you didn’t marry me for love, but I had hoped with time, maybe you could at least learn to respect me. You stood before the eyes of God and gave Him your word. Even a man as deplorable as you should still fear eternity in Hell for lying.”

Heathcliff gave a bark of humorless laughter. “Alas, I am already there. What does this diatribe of yours have to do with a truce?”

“I know people. Important people.” She explained. “You don’t grow up in London society without knowing your way around court. I was presented before the queen at just sixteen. I dined with the Baron of Yorkshire and his wife just last summer, and that same winter? I vacationed with the Earl of Kent’s daughter, Mary. With my help, I can introduce you to all of England royalty.”

He could try to deny it, but Isabella could see that he was ruminating over her words. There was nothing but silence for the next few minutes as he drank from his glass, so Isabella drove the nail deeper into the coffin.

“She doesn’t love you, Heathcliff,” she said; her voice cracking just ever so much with fear that he might explode in anger; when all he did was give her a sharp glare, she continued: “There is nothing left for you here. What are you going to do – shut yourself up in this manor for the rest of your life, or choose a different path?”

Heathcliff emptied the rest of his glass and stood to his fullest height.

“And, you? What do you want in exchange for this most generous offer of yours?”

“Peace,” she said, “no more scheming, no more deceit. You stop your lies, and your brooding, and you act like a gentleman I know you were taught to be. And, I manage the estate. The staff and the grounds here are as miserable as you — and I’m going to change that. Do we have a deal, husband?”

And with all the courage her body could muster, she held her hand out to take his. She kept her expressions neutral and her chin held parallel to the ground like she had seen her father do many times in these kinds of negotiations.

Her heart, however, was galloping like a prized racehorse. 

It felt like a hard victory won when he placed his hand in hers. His gaze never left hers as he shook it. “Deal, wife. But Isabella,” she let out a gasp of air as he yanked her closer. He slipped a hand around her waist, his large palm planted firmly at the small of her back. It was such an intimate act from a man who hadn’t touched her since their wedding night. 

“If I don’t get what I want, you will regret the day you promised me this, do you understand?”

Fear clawed at her throat and ice sluiced in her veins, but she would not let Heathcliff scare her into submission. Not this time. 

This is close to Heathcliff, so close that she could feel his chilling breath fan across face, and the warmth of his hand at her back. There was a weird, foreign feeling circling low in her belly. She couldn’t understand it, but she had the sudden urge to reach up and stroke the man’s stoic face. 

She didn’t, of course.

***

A YEAR LATER, 1803

Wuthering Heights no longer felt like a place endured.

 It stood solid and weathered as ever, but there was warmth where there was only coldness before. Windows were kept clean and open now, their grime and filth cleared away months ago. The once thick and oppressant curtains were replaced with those that allowed light to shine through and gleam against the polished floors. The air inside the walls was no longer stale and dry, but perfumed with the soft sweetness of rose bouquets. 

However, it was the gardens that had the clearest sign of change. Roses climbed willingly along trellises instead of sagging under their own weight, their colors deep and healthy. Irises stood strong in neat rows, their petals thick and vibrant, leaves green and unbroken. Bees lingered. Birds nested low in the hedges without fear of disturbance. Nothing was rushed. Nothing was forced.

Peaceful.

The staff at Wuthering Heights worked differently too. Heads no longer bowed out of habit. Conversations carried softly through the halls uncut by anxiety. Even laughter surfaced now and then. 

It wasn’t just the manor that changed for the better, but the man of the house himself, Heathcliff. The anger that once flashed so easily in his eyes had settled into something more calm and contained. The temper wasn’t necessarily gone but more so that he was learning how to control it, and Isabella couldn’t help but ponder if he did it for her. 

Isabella had been true to her word, of course. Heathcliff was now a prominent gentleman among London’s most elite nobility. Power, just as he craved, and she had given that to him; he was grateful even if he didn’t say it, and somehow along the way, he became less difficult to be around. 

Nowadays, she even found herself seeking out his company, often leaving her bedchambers that once felt both like a prison and a safe space just to find him in his study pouring over papers and important ledgers. And there she would sit in the armchair closest to the fire and pick up her needlepoint or read from a novel as he worked.

Heathcliff no longer thrives in the shadows of the past. There’s no pleasure in cruelty anymore, no sharpness in his tone meant to cut. If he’s displeased, he says so directly and leaves it at that. There’s a weariness about him that feels earned rather than bitter. Sometimes, she could still see it — the haunted look in his eye where Catherine’s absence still holds him, but it’s not as heavy as it used to be, and now when he looked at Isabella it often vanished altogether.

Like that evening in his study when the fire burned low and the room was quiet save for the rhythmic scratching of quill against paper or the turning of a page. Isabella sat under a wool blanket as she read from her novel, her eyelids growing heavy but she was too stubborn to admit that she needed sleep.

Suddenly, the quill stopped scratching. “Isabella,” he said, voice stern, “you are falling asleep in your chair. You need rest. It is time you retire to bed.”

“I’m fine,” she said, “besides, you are still awake. I will go when you do.”

Heathcliff rose from his desk suddenly and her eyes widened with surprise. Her gaze tracked his every movement as he approached her with heavy footfalls and a commanding presence. When he was right in front of the chair, he bent down and placed both of his hands on the armrests, trapping her inside his arms.

Inside her chest, Isabella’s heart raced and her face flushed. Even though they had acquired some sort of tolerable acceptance of each other, they had never been intimate before. She slept in her own rooms at night, and he in his down the hall from her. Every once and awhile there would be a slight brush of the hand or look that lasted longer than appropriate, but this felt different and it had her feeling unsettled.

But it didn’t feel wrong.

“You are a stubborn woman, Isabella Heathcliff. I should demand that when I tell you to do something, you do it, especially when you refuse to take care of yourself.”

“That’s quite the double standard, husband. You also stay up late into the night and then rise early for the morning. You are not taking care of yourself, either.”

Heathcliff’s hands gripped the tufted fabric of the chair. His temper flared behind his eyes and for one startling moment Isabella was reunited with the old version of the man. Agitation and something that was similarly close to concern flashed behind his eyes.

“Go to bed, Isabella.”

“Not until you do, Heathcliff.”

She didn’t fully understand why she was pressing this issue so much; why she didn’t just get up and leave, but this was the closest Heathcliff has been with her in a very long time and she was very curious as to what his intentions were.

Heathcliff’s finger brushed lightly across the apple of her cheeks where the color was the most noticeable. 

“Why are you blushing?” He asked, his eyes intense with conflict. He looked like he wanted to throw her from his presence out of annoyance, pin her to this chair for being defiant, or yank her into his arms and never let go. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” she answered too quickly. “Let me up, I will take my leave.”

He let her up, but not out of his reach. As soon as she was stable on her feet, he slipped an arm behind her and pulled her close. The last time he had done this was a year ago, but the circumstances have changed since then. 

Then, he had been intimidating and dangerous; now – the danger still lurked like a caged lion behind his eyes – but he was much gentler with her. Last year, she was scared and couldn’t wait for him to free her from his clutches, but now she couldn’t help but wish he would hold her just a little bit tighter.

“I … apologize for being cross with you,” he admitted, his words heavy with conviction. “I only wish that you take care of yourself more.”

She was moved by his honesty. It caused the coiled tension in her body to relax and for her to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “And, I wish the same for you. I… I like your company, Heathcliff. I don’t know when that changed, but it has, and now I find myself wary because I simply cannot sleep unless I know you are doing the same.”

“My sleeping habits matter that much to you?”

“You matter to me, Heathcliff!”

The two stood in stunned silence at her confession. So different from how she felt about him a year ago; a year ago she was writing letters to her dear friend Ellen about this deplorable, wicked man, and now she couldn’t sleep peacefully unless she knew he was, too. It was maddening, and she didn’t know what to do about it. She never imagined a world where Heathcliff was hers, not when his heart has always belonged to someone else.

As if reading her thoughts, Heathcliff said: “I was a pitiful child. Weak, unloved, I learned that the only way to get through life was to force your way through it. Power, money, name, that’s how you get people to respect you,” he tucked a hair that had slipped from its place behind her ear, “I will not make excuses for my past behavior. I know I was cruel and unkind; I married you out of spite for your brother and Catherine, however…”

“However?”

“However, I cannot say that that is my only reason, because you, Isabella, have found a way to burrow into this cold, twisted heart of mine in a way that no one — and I mean no one — has ever done before.”

Then, Heathcliff leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on her forehead, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. “Now, go to bed, Isabella, I will retire as well.”

Isabella nodded, though she didn’t immediately step away. The kiss lingered longer in her thoughts than it had on her skin. It was such a small thing, really—barely a touch—yet it had undone something she had kept carefully tied shut for months.

“Good night, Heathcliff,” she said softly.

Inside his study, Heathcliff remained where he was long after the door had closed behind her. The fire crackled low, its warmth brushing against his boots.

He exhaled slowly and turned back to his desk, though the ledgers blurred before him. Isabella’s words echoed louder than any accusation ever had.

You matter to me.

He extinguished the lamp not long after and left the study, something unfamiliar settling in his chest—not rage, not grief, not longing sharp enough to wound. Something quieter. Something dangerous in its own way.

That night, both of them retired to their separate rooms as they always had.

And yet, for the first time, neither of them felt alone within the walls of Wuthering Heights.