What had come over me? Was I so shallow that my heart and mind could be turned by such nonsense?

Of course not.

But I had seen that very first night what money could do. And I’d seen in Heathcliff’s eyes what being poor and powerless was. I was a girl. I could not fight battles or plough fields. I could not make my own fortune. But perhaps I could marry one. I was twelve years old, but already I could feel there was a power in my looks. I saw it in Edgar Linton’s puppy dog eyes every time he looked at me. It is not vanity but a mere statement of fact to say that I was superior to Isabella in face and figure. I intended to use what God had given me to my advantage.

It was Christmas Eve when I came back home. I thought Heathcliff would come running to meet me. But he did not. My brother lifted me down from my pony, admiring my looks and saying I’d become a lady. If I impressed Hindley, why then, I could wind anyone around my finger.

We went into the house where Heathcliff skulked in the shadows. I flew across the floor when I saw him and flung my arms around his chest, kissing him so hard I made my lips bleed. I’d been starved and now I could not have enough of him.

And yet Heathcliff stood as stiff as a post. His arms hung useless at his sides, he did not hold me hard to his chest and did not return my kisses.

What was wrong? I pulled back a little.

And suddenly I was embarrassed by my own happiness. Confused by his coldness. A gasp of hysteria came out of my throat that sounded almost like a laugh.

“Have you forgotten me?” I asked.

Heathcliff didn’t answer. My blasted brother told Heathcliff he was permitted to shake hands with me, to greet me like the other servants had done. Hindley stood there smiling, sneering at Heathcliff’s awkwardness. Frances was beside Hindley, holding back her giggles behind her hand. It was like a red rag to a bull.

“I’ll not be laughed at!” Heathcliff said, and turned, but I caught him by the hand.

He was so filthy, so unkempt, I wondered what in the name of God my brother had been doing to him. I wanted to bathe Heathcliff’s face, untangle the wild mane on his head. I said, “Have you not washed nor brushed your hair these last five weeks?” They were such stupid words. Heathcliff thought I was mocking him too.

He shouted something – I don’t remember exactly what. Some nonsense about liking to be dirty. Heathcliff snatched his hand away and ran from the room, with Hindley’s laughter ringing in his ears. I would have followed, had I not been in that stupid dress, with skirts so long I could not run in them. I’d not a hope in hell of catching him. He’d run all the way to the crags, I thought. How long might it be before he came back?