In 1801, Mr Lockwood, the new tenant at Thrushcross Grange in Yorkshire, pays a visit to his landlord, Heathcliff, at his remote moorland farmhouse, Wuthering Heights. There he meets a reserved young woman (later identified as Cathy Linton); Joseph, a cantankerous servant; and Hareton, an uneducated young man who speaks like a servant. Everyone is sullen and inhospitable. Snowed in for the night, he reads some diary entries of a former inhabitant of his room, Catherine Earnshaw, and has a nightmare in which a ghostly Catherine begs to enter through the window. Woken by Lockwood's fearful yells, Heathcliff is troubled.
Lockwood returns to Thrushcross Grange in heavy snow, falls ill from the cold and becomes bedridden. While he recovers, Lockwood's housekeeper Ellen (Nelly) Dean tells him the story of the strange family.
Modern cynicism meets Georgian melodrama. The antidote to Jane Austen, not the supplement.
Hilarious to read all the furious, inarticulate 1-star reviews because people must have been expecting some sort of engaging 'historical mystery romance'. Yes, WH is confused/ing, yes, it is full of abusive people, yes, the story is pretty much told in chapter 2, but you don't have to know that it was written by a small, poorer, Emily Dickinson-type recluse doomed to die at 30, to appreciate its depth of razor-sharp, cold-eyed observation and timeless depiction of passionate, weak, and generally horrible people. Guess what? In the 1800s, families were just like us! Heroes? Pah!
As a romantic melodrama, WH fails completely, because it pulls no punches. As a description of human characters and their interactions, it's been the mine of countless tributes and imitations since it was published. The Bronte sisters were amateurs and pioneers, and like pioneers, were in the presence of death every day; you don't complain because an old forest trail that some lost explorer blazed isn't paved over.