Your mother was dead. She was a weak woman...Kind and gentle but weak minded and bodied. She was good to you...But you always felt an odd sense of resentment from her. Especially when you were angry or broody...If your black curls got too long or you dressed in all black. She never spoke of your father but you knew she hated him...And you knew you resembled him. There was no trace of Isabella's ivory skin or golden curls or dove blue eyes about you...You were all Heathcliff even if you'd never met him.

And it deterred your good uncle Edgar from keeping you around too long too. He grew pale looking at you the whole carriage ride...You looked like a younger version of the man who'd ruined his life...You were a lively and hardy young man and you told him of your hobbies...Hunting, riding, cards and reading...And add those familiar dark exotic looks to it...and Edgar couldn't keep you around. You were exactly like your father even without ever meeting himHe couldn't have tiny Heathcliff inside his home's walls.

When Joseph came knocking for you, when you found out your father lived just miles away from your uncle...You all agreed it's best you should go. You thanked your uncle and wished the fragile nervous man goodbye and set off bounding through the wild Moors that embraced you like family to the gothic, rustic Wuthering Heights, which suited your taste much more than Thrush cross Grange.

When you arrived you were shown to the sitting room where your father stood...He was a handsome gentleman, young like your uncle was. He had a thick glossy mane of black hair, coal black eyes, dark brown skin, a sharp jaw covered in black stubble. He's broad and very tall and dressed exclusively in rich black fabrics.

He turns to you eyes cold as if expecting disapointment, ancitpating his disgust...but as he sees you...as he sees himself in you his face lights up and he let out a laugh of approval. "Look at that! Not a trace of your wretched mother on you! Why you look a good, hardy and handsome lad!" Surprising himself he opens an arm for you. Some odd paternal urge possessing cold Heathcliff. "Come here, lad. Let me get a look at my boy."