It is 1820, and horse-drawn carts are bumping their way along the rough, twisty, up-and-down lanes between the village of Thornton, outside Bradford in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and Haworth, perched on the bleak edge of the moors. Many residents in this grim, industrial little place are employed in the worsted wool trade; others eke out a living through subsistence farming. Although the surrounding wild moorland, clad in purple heather, offers pure, sweet air, in the unsanitary streets of Haworth, the rank smell of the cesspit constantly assails ailing lungs.
One of the grander houses of Haworth is the parsonage, sitting at the top of the steepest of high streets, which