Withering Heights

my full ration of slumber. That left Ben to take the hint and graciously bid Freddy adieu. But that didn’t happen.

“Sure, I’ll come along.” No sign of a yawn anywhere close to his face now. He exuded energy. “You don’t mind, do you, Ellie?”

“Of course not! I’ll be happy knowing you’re having fun.” And then I’ll go to bed and look at the ceiling, I thought.

“ ’Right then! We’ll be off.” He kissed the top of my head. “Ready, Freddy?”

Did he have no idea that I wanted to pull off his ears? In all fairness, probably not. The sunny smile I gave him would have done wonders for my acting career, had I had any aspirations to go on the stage. As Mrs. Malloy had so profoundly said, it didn’t do to be a spoilsport.

“Are you sure you’re all right with this, Ellie?” He had turned around and taken hold of my hand.

“Absolutely.” I prodded him toward the door. “I’ve got a book, Lord Rakehell’s Redemption, that I’m dying to read, if I can just lay my hands on it. I’m hoping there’ll be a murder. That’s always the best part, isn’t it, Mrs. Malloy.”

When would I learn to keep my mouth shut?

3

Shortly after Ben and Freddy left, Mrs. Malloy headed upstairs-supposedly to prepare mentally for her reunion with Melody but probably to lose herself in machinations that would ultimately result in Lord Rakehell’s transformation from villain to devoted husband. Ha! I stomped into the kitchen to bewail the treachery of men in general and Ben in particular.

Feeling abandoned and heartily sorry for myself, I got busy at the sink, sloshing cups and saucers around in water both too hot and too soapy. My children were gone. My husband had left me. Even my cat had turned tail and gone outside, refusing to come back in when I called, in spite of the rain. Why hadn’t I gone with Ben and Freddy to the Dark Horse?

The answer rumbled down from the thunderous night sky. Because I’d relished cutting off my nose to spite my face. Having laboriously dried the last plate, I was left with nothing to do beyond kicking myself in the shins. To go up to bed leaving Tobias outside was not an option. After another futile endeavor to lure him back inside with the promise of taking him to see Cats for his birthday, I trailed disconsolately back to the drawing room, where I was made further despondent by finding the dismembered feather duster buried under a chair. Reflecting that with my luck it would turn out to be on the endangered species list and I would be whapped with an enormous fine should word leak out to the Chitterton Fells Council on Conservation, I rearranged some ornaments that had been perfectly fine as they were. Then I straightened some magazines and plumped a couple of pillows. Had there been a fire in the grate, I would have poked it.

The mantelpiece clock was chiming seven P.M. when a pitiful meow sounded at the window and, feeling that life was marginally improving, I crossed the room to let Tobias in. Far from being grateful at being rescued from the elements, he shot past me in a streak of wet fur to deposit himself on a chair and assume his most ill-used expression. If it’s true that misery loves company, I should have been elated. Had I been kinder, I would have told him to finish off the feather duster and forget the consequences. Instead, I turned off most of the lights, leaving only one rose-shaded lamp glowing, and sank down on the sofa facing the windows.

Immediately I found myself weighed down with fatigue. It wasn’t the pleasant lassitude that is often the precursor to drifting off into untroubled sleep; I felt heavy and lumpish, beset by physical discomfort. The cushions would not conform to my back. The floor became unreachable to my feet. My shoulders wouldn’t hold my arms up properly. I thought about going up to bed, but not only was it too early, there would be that slog up the wooden mountain. Added to which I wasn’t entirely sure I was awake and wasn’t about to take up sleepwalking. Offstage, the thunder had transformed itself into an overture for Cats, with a more than permissible number of wrong notes. I could hear the audience rhythmically clicking its teeth. No, that was the clock ticking away like a metronome inside my head, growing increasingly louder until it, along with the Chitterton Fells Philharmonic Orchestra, got pushed into the background by a more imperative intrusion. A bird, sent by the Endangered Species Commission, was tapping at the windows.

“Tobias, do something about that,” I murmured huffily.

No meowed response. As I struggled to sit up and reach around for my feet, which I was almost sure I’d had on when I sat down, the noise got louder. The room was in shadow, adding to my foggy state of mind. Even so, it occurred to me that there might be someone-a person sort of someone, not a blackbird or thrush-trying to get my attention.

“Who is it?” I asked, through lips that didn’t belong to my face.

“It’s me,” said a spectral voice.

“Who?” I crept forward without so much as the poker in hand to protect myself. Against the dark sweep of curtain, a wedge of open window was revealed. Realizing I must have failed to close it when letting Tobias in was not cheering. It was my own fault that I was about to die wearing an elderly bra and no earrings.

“Oriole!” At least that’s what I thought the voice said.

My heart pounded and my throat squeezed shut. Here was no ordinary everyday intruder with a bad back and a wife or mother waiting at home, eager to present him with a cup of tea before hearing how he had done on the job and whether the proceeds would allow for a little extra being set aside for Christmas. Lurking behind that pane of glass was the nastyminded child ghost from The Night Visitor. My mouth went dry. Ice prickled down my spine. I regretted never having learned to fall without hurting myself, this surely being an acceptable moment for a Victorian-style faint. No need for a breath-constricting corset. It took Tobias, looking at me with whisker-twitching contempt, to bring me back to reality.

“How clearly do you think when you’re half asleep?” I asked him defensively. Then I again addressed the window. “Say again who you are?”

“Ariel.”

“Ariel Hopkins?”

“Yes.”

This was a stunner, but I didn’t waste time gasping; I hurried into the hall, opened the front door, and ushered her in. She was a pitiful sight, wet and bedraggled; her feet in inadequate sandals, her sandy plaits looking as though they had swabbed decks.

“Hello, Ellie.” She sized up my welcome through rain-fogged spectacles, as I peeled off the sodden raincoat and tossed it over the banister. Her face was a pale pinch-lipped blur. I envisioned Jane Eyre’s friend Helen Burns and held my breath against the pathetic eruption of a consumptive cough.

“Sorry to burst in on you like this.” She didn’t sound regretful.

“Why tap at the window, instead of ringing the bell?”

“I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot by waking the children if they were in bed.”

“That was thoughtful, but they’re with their grandparents in London.”

“What about Ben?”

“He’s at the pub with my cousin. Let’s get you into the drawing room where it’s warmer.” I led the way, still in something of a dream state.

“You won’t believe the horrible time I had getting here. Sometimes life can be too cruel,” she said, as I settled her on the sofa. “Would you believe, Ellie, there wasn’t a buffet on the train? It almost made me wish I hadn’t come.”

“And where would that be from?” I asked, switching on extra lighting before closing the window against more visitors.

“Yorkshire.”

Why was I not surprised?

“I had to wait ages for a taxi after my train got in.”

“Ariel”-I sat down across from her-“do your father and Betty know you’re here?”