The Other Cathy Read Online Free

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