I need hardly remind you that Emily Brontë was not a Catholic, nor was she particularly fond of us. We have inherited no writing from her year teaching young ladies in Brussels, but her refusal to return there while her sister Charlotte did suggests she despised the spell. If Emily did not hate the foreignness of what her elder sister termed the “Romish system”, she was far from charmed by it. It’s no surprise then that the sole novel she produced before her death, aged just 30, has become synonymous with the mystical, windswept moors adjacent to the West Yorkshire home she so hated to be away from.