The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [343]
Our feet crunched on the fresh snow as we approached the front door and rapped upon the gnarled wood. It was answered, after a very long pause, by an old and sinewy man who looked at us both in turn with a sour expression before recognition dawned across his tired features and he launched into an excited gabble:
“It’s bonny behavior, lurking amang t’ fields, after twelve o’ t’ night, wi’ that fahl, flaysome divil of a gipsy, Heathcliff! They think I’m blind; but I’m noan: nowt ut t’ soart!—I seed young Linton boath coming and going, and I seed yah—yah gooid fur nowt, slatternly witch!—nip up and bolt into th’ house, t’ minute yah heard t’ maister’s horse-fit clatter up t’ road!”
“Never mind all that!” exclaimed Miss Havisham, to whom patience was an alien concept. “Let us in, Joseph, or you’ll be feeling my boot upon your trousers!”
He grumbled but opened the door anyway. We stepped in amidst a swirl of snowflakes and tramped our feet upon the mat as the door was latched behind us.
“What did he say?” I asked as Joseph carried on muttering to himself under his breath.
“I have absolutely no idea,” replied Miss Havisham, shaking the snow from her faded bridal veil, “in fact, nobody does. Come, you are to meet the others. For the rage-counseling session, we insist that every major character within Heights attends.”
There was no introductory foyer or passage to the room. The front door opened into a large family sitting room where seven people were clustered around the hearth. One of the men rose politely and inclined his head in greeting. This, I learned later, was Edgar Linton, husband of Catherine Earnshaw, who sat next to him on the wooden settle and glowered meditatively into the fire. Next to them was a dissolute-looking man who appeared to be asleep, or drunk, or quite possibly both. It was clear that they were waiting for us, and equally clear from the lack of enthusiasm that counseling wasn’t high on their list of priorities—or interests.
“Good evening, everyone,” said Miss Havisham, “and I’d like to thank you all for attending this Jurisfiction Rage Counseling session.”
She sounded almost friendly. It was quite out of character and I wondered how long she could keep it up.
“This is Miss Next, who will be observing this evening’s session. Now, I want us all to join hands and create a circle of trust to welcome her to the group. Where’s Heathcliff?”
“I have no idea where that scoundrel might be!” declaimed Linton angrily. “Facedown in a bog for all I care—the devil may take him and not before time!”
“Oh!” cried Catherine, withdrawing her hand from Edgar’s. “Why do you hate him so? He, who loved me more than you ever could—!”
“Now now,” interrupted Havisham in a soothing tone, “remember what we said last week about name-calling? Edgar, I think you should apologize to Catherine for calling Heathcliff a scoundrel, and Catherine, you did promise last week not to mention how much you were in love with Heathcliff in front of your husband.”
They grumbled their apologies.
“Heathcliff is due here any moment,” said another servant, who I assumed was Nelly Dean. “His agent said he had to do some publicity. Can we not start without him?”
Miss Havisham looked at her watch. “We could get past the introductions, I suppose,” she replied, obviously keen to finish this up and go home. “Perhaps we could introduce ourselves to Miss Next and sum up our feelings at the same time. Edgar, would you mind?”
“Me? Oh, very well. My name is Edgar Linton, true owner of Thrushcross Grange, and I hate and despise Heathcliff because no matter what I do, my wife, Catherine, is still in love with him.”
“My name is Hindley Earnshaw,” slurred the drunk, “Old Mr. Earnshaw’s eldest son. I hate and despise Heathcliff because my father preferred Heathcliff to me, and later, because that scoundrel cheated me out of my birthright.”
“That was very good, Hindley,” said Miss Havisham, “not one single swear word. I think we’re making good