Polar Vortex, a Brave New Year, and More!

Happy New Year! So wonderful to finally be sitting in front of my computer once more and giving some much needed attention to my poor, neglected blog. I truly intended to write posts over the holidays, even setting alarms to remind myself, but once I escaped regular life there was no hope for it. The good news is that I left the blog in a far healthier state than it had been in 2012. Generally, 2013 was the year I finally reclaimed my Jane time post baby. It took me a year and half to learn how to meld my identity as a Janeite with that of a mother, but I think I've finally figured out how to balance it all. I can't but look back on the past year with a great deal of pride. I feel like I've started to really find my own voice as a writer, and my productivity has been tremendous. The downside is that I was totally exhausted when we arrived at my in-laws in Indiana on December 19th, and from that point, through a trip to Texas, and continuing into a most slothful week at home, I barely touched a computer. Now I'm recharged and ready to rev back up. I think.

It's FREEZING outside! I laughed when I first heard the term Polar Vortex thrown about - I mean, to
what melodramatic heights will our weathermen not climb? - but my daughter cried as we walked into school this morning, it was so cold. 10 degrees colder to day in Wilmington, DE than Anchorage, AL. Crazy! I convinced my husband to take a car to the train for work, a thing I am almost always encouraging him not to do, but this weather is no joke. Thank goodness it's only one day, and I have a toasty warm house in which to hide from it. My heart goes out to those who don't. May everyone who needs it find shelter today.

As I said yesterday, "Whatever shall we talk about now the holidays are over? It will have to be the weather, which is very dull, indeed." Unfortunately, my 2 year old can't appreciate my wit, though we're working on it. The Pride & Prejudice play set (which I reviewed here) that she received for Hanukkah looms large amongst the favorite gifts she received. She also got a copy of the Cozy Classics Emma, which will have to be reviewed sooner or later. Another winner was the Fresh Beat Band costumes I made her (she loves them, it's a Nick Jr. show, if you've never heard of it think Glee for the under 7 set). I know these have nothing to do with Austen, but bear with me for a second. I got the idea from this blog post, found through Pinterist, and used a basic pinafore pattern, to make two reversible costumes, one for each member of the band. I got the iron on decals from Nick Jr. It was so easy, extremely cheap (I think I spent $20, mostly on iron-on paper), and one of the most preferred offerings, amongst far too many, that Eliza received. Excuse the wrinkles, for they stand testament to my motherly triumph. At the poor camera quality you are welcome to take offense.

But Eliza was not the only one to make out big this Christmas. I received, to my great surprise, an Austen book I had no notion existed. My quilting mother-in-law found  Jane Austen Quilts Inspired by Her Novels by Karen Gloeggler. The books appears part travelogue, focused on a trip to Chawton to see the quilt Austen made (a pattern to copy her quilt is included), and part sewing manual. More on this come? Perhaps. I think someone is trying to pass on the quilting bug. We'll see if works. Maybe I'll just do a post on the quilt ...

There is some business to which I must attend. Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah dah! The winner of my Jane Austen Christmas Cards is Luthien84! Congratulations! Also, my books received some attention while I was neglecting all and sundry. First, Holidays at Pemberley was reviewed on December 22nd at vvb32 Reads. It was then lauded by Mrs. Darcy herself on the 28th at Laughing with Lizzie. These were precious Christmas gifts, indeed. Thank you, ladies!

The only other item I feel must be shared is my discovery of a contemporary Regency Romance writer who is quite Heyer-esque in feel, if a bit more mystical. I cruised through three of Mary Chase Comstock short novels published, but  of them while traveling. Lots of fun. Probably wont review them, but I had to make a pitch in their favor. Easy reading for the cold nights ahead, and rumor has it she's working on a P&P sequel. I'll have to keep an eye out for that.

BURR! It's cold.

A Civil Contract by Georgette Heyer

Once again, my entire family was sick this week. I knew what I was signing up for when I put my daughter in day care (indeed, one of my stated reasons for enrolling her was for the sake of building immunities), but I do hope this is the last bout of rhinovirus I have to cope with for a while. The only benefit of being ill all toghether is the great family reading time it provides. How lucky I had just received two never before read Heyer novels! Today I will tell you about the first, A Civil Contract.

Adam Deveril, army captain and new Viscount of Lynton, must resign his commission in order to return home and see to his family's finances, as his father's death has left them on the brink of ruin. A practical, disciplined man, he takes his responsibilities seriously, doing all he can to save his ancestral home, including breaking off his engagement to the beautiful lady from a nearby estate. It is at her father's urging that Adam agrees to marry Jenny Chawleigh, the plain and awkward daughter of an enormously wealthy and decidedly vulgar Cit, allowing him to save his estate and devote his life to farming. A Civil Contract follows the progress of their union.

This novel is markedly different from Heyer's customary style, though not so much that it isn't completely apparent from the beginning that Jenny will, in time, prove the perfect wife for Adam. By marrying the hero and heroine off early, as she done in other novels, like Friday's Child (read my review here), Heyer is able to explore a different kind of love than she usually depicts. Adam and Jenny become thoroughly comfortable with each other, loving the peaceful harmony of their relationship. They do not attempt "to cut a dash" or indulge in fashionable pursuits like the main couple in Friday's Child, choosing instead to settle quietly in the country. Instead of folding immaculate neckties, Adam can be seen wearing a peasant's smock (to the great horror of his former fiancee) and Jenny, forgoing fashionable ringlets, arranges her hair in staid braids. The values, so at odds with most (though not all) of Heyer's characters, adopted by this couple make this novel feel far more Victorian than Regency Romance, despite the fact that it is set against the backdrop of Waterloo. But the biggest anomaly in this novel from the body of Heyer's works is that it portrays a successful union across classes. I have not yet read another one of her novels to allow this. Indeed, in Bath Tangle (read my review here), she fervently opposes such intermingling. It is as if she wanted to explore how such a relationship might be made to work, but the book's conclusion leaves one wondering if the author believed in her own end result.

The novel has a few structural problems. At the beginning, the manner of the late Viscount's death is cast into suspicion, but Heyer never returns to the issue. The third quarter of the book drags, and it would have been the perfect time to indulge in a little mystery. It is almost as if she forgot part of the storyline. There is also an uncomfortable, though thankfully brief, politically incorrect racial moment. Regardless, I recommend the book. It's a lovely departure from Heyer's usual formula, and I thoroughly enjoyed it, even though it was not as hilariously funny as Heyer's other novels. Most of the comic moments come courtesy of Jonathan Chawleigh, whose forceful and extravagant personality manifests itself in outrageous gifts to the married couple, like a shell shaped bathtub and a flock of peacocks. Good fun.

Lady of Quality by Georgette Heyer (vs. Black Sheep)

I'm surprised I did not previously review this book, especially becomes it pays such obvious homage to Emma. I thought I had, and intended this post to be more of a comparison of Lady of Quality to Black Sheep (which I did previously review here), rather than a review of either, but it now seems necessary. I will share my thoughts on Lady of Quality, the last book Heyer wrote, and then we may indulge ourselves in a quick comparison of the two books, for they are remarkably similar.

Miss Annis Wychwood, despite being beautiful and rich, has resigned herself to a life of spinsterhood at 29, attempting to content herself with a sociable life in Bath. While this arrangement is preferable to living with her brother and his wife - who Annis likes very well, particularly the latter, but prefers her independence - it does have its drawbacks. Particularly, Annis is bored, so when she comes across a broken down carriage that had carried a runaway girl and the boy she does not want to marry (the feeling is mutual), she is almost eager to embroil herself in the affair. This is how she meets Mr. Oliver Carleton, the girl's guardian, "the rudest man in London", and our hero:

"But am I not right in believing that your custom is to refer every request Lucilla has addressed to you to Mrs Amber's judgment?"


"Yes, of course you are," he replied impatiently. "What the devil do I know about the upbringing of schoolgirls?"


"What a miserable sop to offer your conscience!" she said.


"My conscience doesn't need a sop, ma'am!" he said harshly. "I may be Lucilla's legal guardian, but it was never expected of me that I should be concerned in the niceties of her upbringing! Had it been suggested to me I should have had no hesitation in refusing such a charge. I've no turn for the infantry!"


"Not even your brother's only child?" she asked. "Don't you feel any affection for her?"


"No, none," he replied. "How should I? I scarcely know her. It's useless to expect me to become sentimental because she's my brother's child: I knew almost as little about him as I know about Lucilla, and what I did know I didn't much like. I don't mean to say that there was any harm in him: no doubt there was a great deal of good, but he had less than commonsense, and too much sensibility for my tastes. I found him a dead bore."


"Well, I find my brother a dead bore too," she said candidly, "but however much we rub against each other there is a bond of affection between us. I had thought that that must always exist between brothers and sisters."


"Possibly you know him better than I ever knew my brother. There were only three years between us, but although that's a mere nothing between adults, it constitutes a wide gulf between schoolboys. At Harrow, he formed a close, and, to my mind, a pretty mawkish friendship with young Elmore. They were both army-mad, and joined the same regiment when they left Harrow. From then on I only saw him by scraps. He married a pretty little widgeon, too: she wasn't as foolish as her sister, but she had more hair than wit, and a mouth full of the sort of pap I can't stomach. I knew, of course, when he bought Chartley Manor that the bosom-bow friendship between him and Elmore was as strong as ever, and I suppose I should have guessed that such a pair of air-dreamers would have hatched a scheme to achieve a closer relationship by marrying Elmore's heir to Charles's daughter. Though why Elmore - or Iverly, as by that time he was - should have persisted in this precious scheme after Charles's death is a matter beyond my comprehension! Unless he thinks that Lucilla's property is just the thing to round off his own estate?"


"Well, that is what I suspect," nodded Miss Wychwood, "but it is only right that I should tell you that Ninian says it is no such thing. He says his father has never had a mercenary thought in his head."


"On the whole," said Mr. Carleton, with considerable acerbity, "I should think the better of him if his motive had been mercenary! This mawkish reason for trying to marry Lucilla to his son merely because he and my brother were as thick as inkle-weavers fairly turns my stomach! I never liked the fellow, you know."


Her eyes were alive with laughter. She said perfectly gravely, however: "For some reason or other I had suspected as much! Is there anyone whom you do like, Mr Carleton?"


"Yes, you!" he answered bluntly.


"M-me?" she gasped, wholly taken aback.


He nodded. "Yes - but much against my will!" he said.


That made her burst out laughing. Still gurgling, she said: "You are quite outrageous, you know! What in the world have I said or done to make you like me? Of all the farradiddles I ever heard that bears off the palm!"


"Oh, no! I never flummery people. I do like you, but I'm damned if I know why! It isn't your beauty, though that is remarkable; and it certainly isn't anything you have said or done. I think it must be your quality - that certain sort of something about you!"


"It's my belief," said Miss Wychwood, with conviction, "that you are all about in your head!"


He laughed. "On the contrary! But don't delude yourself into thinking that my liking you makes me think you are a fit person to have charge of my niece."

Yes, she does call him "abominable" before the end of this conversation, confirming in true Heyer fashion that this is a case of love at first sight.

There are some incredibly priceless moments in this book, many of them attributable to Annis' rather dim witted companion, an impecunious cousin named Maria Farlow (very Miss Bates-like). The tension that builds around her ceaseless chatter and the annoyance it causes to Mr. Carleton, particularly, punctuates the climax of the novel in an absolutely hilarious fashion. Between herself, an overly rigid suitor, and the antics of Lucilla Carleton and Ninian Elmore, the book remains in a constant state of silliness, our hero and heroine providing the sarcastic perspective through which the mayhem unfolds. It is a perfectly satisfying Heyer; one which improves on a second read.

So what if Georgette Heyer's novels are remarkably formulaic? They're hysterical. No matter if readers encounter the same plot reworked with slight variations - the humor remains fresh. Black Sheep and Lady of Quality both focus on an older heroine, established in Bath, who meets her match in a most inappropriate, though socially equal, gentleman. The catalyst for bringing hero and heroine together is a young lady, of feisty and impetuous nature, on the verge of her come out. Both heroines are left to contemplate the proposals of their respective heroes, puzzling over the social dilemmas of marrying these difficult gentlemen, and fall ill in the process. I like to think of this plotin the light of an Austenesque reimagining - what if Emma Woodhouse did not fall in love with the convenient Mr. Knightley and achieved her intention of remaining single? She would often have a niece (or some other convenient young lady of interest) with her.

Black Sheep was published in 1966 and Lady of Quality in 1972, just a few years before Heyer's death. My biggest problem with Black Sheep, which is really one of my favorites, is the terribly abrupt ending. Perhaps Heyer was addressing this issue when she revisited the scenario. The end of Lady of Quality is much tidier, but the characters in Black Sheep are far more dynamic. Furthermore, the language in Lady of Quality is more repetitive than one usually sees in Heyer. Both hero and heroine have favorite exclamations that help to define their characters, making up for a lack of development (particularly in the case of Mr. Carleton). I have not previously looked into the chronology of Heyer's novels, but I think I now must consider the order in which her books were published. I am curious to see if Heyer repeatedly reworked earlier plots, and, if so, whether she was fixing problems with her earlier novels, or if she was just running out of fresh ideas. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this, fellow Heyer fans. Perhaps someone has already done a study on this? Stay tuned for more, though I do not have the slightest idea when I will find the time to address the subject.

Sprig Muslin by Georgette Heyer

It has been a sick week in my house. First the baby had a fever, then a cold, and while I caught the fever, my husband caught the cold. We are very thankful to be able to share that burden rather than both suffering each ailment. The familial convalescence sent us scurrying for some light reading, and we ended up rereading Sprig Muslin by Georgette Heyer. I enjoyed the book far more this second time around than on the first read, and so I guess it is fortunate I had not previously reviewed it.

Sprig Muslin follows a variety of traditional Heyer conventions; the action takes place in the country, primarily in a series of inns, and the Corinthian hero struggles to keep a volatile young lady in line while falling for a mature heroine. No one, least of all her father and his sister, understands why Sir Gareth Ludlow would propose to Lady Hester Theale, "A woman who has been on the shelf these nine years, and more, and never took, or had countenance, or the least degree of modishness". Even more puzzling is why she would refuse such a wonderful offer. When Lady Hester tells her father of this decision, I was reminded of Sir Thomas Bertram's interrogation of Fanny Price following her rejection of Henry Crawford, only here the effect is almost Kafkaesque in its absurdity:

"Well, I don't scruple to tell you that I never thought to see such a piece of good fortune befall you, Hester! To think that you should make a better match than any of your sisters, and at your age, too! It is beyond anything great!"


"Beyond anything - oh, beyond anything!" she said, in a queer voice. "And he is coming here, with your consent! Could you not have asked me first what my sentiments were? I do not wish for this splendid match, Papa."


He looked as though he could hardly credit his ears. "Don't you wish for it?" he repeated, in a stupefied tone. "You must be out of your senses!"

"Perhaps I am." The ghostly smile that was at once nervous and mischievous again flitted across her face. "You should have warned Sir Gareth of it, sir. I am persuaded he cannot wish to marry an idiot."


"If," said his lordship awfully, "you fancy that that is a funny thing to say, let me tell you that it is not!"


"No, Papa."


He eyed her in uncertainty, feeling that in some strange way she was eluding him. She had always been an obedient, even a meek, daughter, but he had several times suffered from the uncomfortable suspicion that behind the cloud of gentle compliance there existed a woman who was quite unknown to him. He saw that it behoved him to tread warily, so he curbed his exasperation, and said, with a very fair assumption of paternal solicitude: "Now, what maggot has got into your head, my dear? You won't tell me you don't wish to be married, for every female must wish that!"


"Yes, indeed!" she sighed.


"Can it be that you dislike Ludlow?"


"No, Papa."


"Well, I was sure of that! I daresay there isn't a better liked man in England, and as for you ladies - ! The caps that have been set at him1 You will be te envy of every unmarried woman in town!"


"Do you think so indeed, Papa? How delightful that would be! But perhaps I might feel strange, and unlike myself. It wouldn't be comfortable, not to be acquainted with myself."


This baffling and (he considered) very nonsensical observation threw him out of his stride, but he persevered, saying with as much patience as he could command: "Well, never mind that! To be sure, I never thought he was trying to fix your interest, but I am sure I have seen him stand up with you at balls a hundred times! Ay, and sit talking to you, when one might have supposed that he would have been making up to one of the beauties that have been hanging out lures to him for ever!"


"He is very civil," she agreed....


He began to feel uneasy. It was impossible to read her countenance. It was mournful, yet tranquil; but in the tone of her vice there was an alarming note which recalled to his mind her contumacious behavior when he had disclosed to her the only other offer he had ever received for her hand. He remembered how meekly she had borne every manifestation of his wrath, how dutifully she had begged his pardon for disobliging him. That had been five years ago, but here she was, still a spinster. After eyeing her for a moment or two, he said: "If you let this chance of achieving a respectable alliance slip, you are a bigger fool than I take you for, Hester!"


Her eyes came round to his face, a smile quivered for an instant on her lips. "No, how could that be, Papa?"

As Sir Gareth journeys to Hester's home in order to make his already rejected proposal, he comes across an obviously genteel and extremely beautiful young lady, of schoolroom age, attempting to obtain lodgings for the night. As Amanda is unaccompanied and carries nothing but two band boxes, the landlord attempts to reject her as undesirable, but then Sir Gareth steps in. Determined to return her to her family, whose name she will not reveal, Sir Gareth carries Amanda to Lady Hester, not willing to leave her unattended. Thus begins the great adventure that Amanda leads her two self-appointed protectors upon. It is a convoluted tale, chock full of improbable occurrences, that culminates in absolute hilarity. The last few chapters of the book are priceless. It was the perfect sickroom read.  

Lady Caroline Lamb: Fiction vs. History

The "three or four families in a country village" which Jane Austen chose to focus upon did not allow her scope to include the grand personages of her day. This, however, does not stop writers of Austenesque from including those larger than life personalities, the celebrities that determined the manner in which the Regency Era lives on in our imaginations, in their reworkings of Austen's novels. People like the Prince Regent, Beau Brummel, Lord Byron, and Lady Jersey can all be found in the thousands of stories that Austen has inspired, both directly and indirectly, and I have recently been reflecting on the way in which fiction has determined my feelings about these people. The inspiration for this train of thought comes from Our Tempestuous Day: A History of Regency England by Carolly Erickson, which I just read, and her depiction of Lady Caroline Lamb. She writes:

Caroline's fashionable circle dazzled Byron, but her explosively original personality dazzled him even more. "She possessed an infinite vivacity of mind," he wrote, and in truth her quicksilver facility with words and love of wordplay was like him own, though more heated.


"My most sanative elixir of Julep, my most precious cordial confection," she wrote, addressing her cousin Lord Hartington as if he were a medicine chest, "my most dilutable sal polychrist and marsh mallows paste, truly comfortable spirit of hartshorn tincture of rhubarb and purgative senna tea!" Her letters were a quirky, eccentric jumble of exclamations, playful archaisms, deft verbal dodges and feints, the whole working together to scan like poetry. Sometimes they were in poetry, or rather light verse. Her conversation, it is safe to suppose, was as brilliantly eccentric as her writing, intense and full of curiosity and wit, with abrupt changes of mood and subject that kept her listeners enthralled.

This image conflicts with the assumptions I had made about Lady Caroline, almost entirely based upon the fictional accounts of her I have come across in novels. Suddenly she seemed a brilliant woman trapped in a restrictive world, just like Austen. Though familiar with her basic biography (summarized quite nicely at http://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com/2007/03/11/lady-caroline-lamb/), I had never taken any interest in her infamous novel, Glenarvon, and generally breezed over her role in history, content in my disinterest. Now I feel compelled to study her further, and I intend to read a biography of her (I'll let you know how that goes), and possibly peruse the suspicious novel. My prejudice towards Glenarvon is based almost solely upon the depiction Georgette Heyer supplies of both the novel and its author in Bath Tangle (which I reviewed here):

"Good God, no! It is the most absurd farrago of nonsense! But I prophesy it will run through a dozen editions, because none of us will be able to resist searching either for ourselves or our acquaintance in it. Could you have believed it? - Lady Caroline Lamb is the author? The Lambs are all in it, and Lady Holland-very well hit off, I imagine, from all i have ever heard of her, but Papa disliked that set, so that I was never at Holland House - and Lady Oxford, and Lady Jersey, and poor Mr. Rogers, whom she calls a yellow hyena? I must say, I think it unjust, don't you? Glenarvon, of course, is Byron, and the whole thing is designed as a sort of vengeance on him for having cried off from his affaire with her."


"Good God!" he exclaimed. "She must be mad to have done such a thing!"


"I think she is, poor soul! Never more so than when she tumbled head over ears in love with Byron! For my part, I was so unfashionable as to take him in instant aversion. How she could have borne with his insufferable conceit, and the airs he put on to be interesting, I know not - though I daresay if one could bear that dreadful Lamb laugh nothing would daunt one! Not but what I am extremely sorry for William Lamb, laugh as he may! If it is true that he stands by her, I do most sincerely honour him. I fancy she met to portray him in a kindly way, but some of the things she writes of him may well make him writhe. She is so very obliging as to favour the world with what one can only take to be a description of her own honeymoon - so warm as to make poor Fanny blush to the ears! It can't be pleasant for William Lamb, but it won't harm him. For she portrays herself, in the character of Calantha, as an innocent child quite dazzled by the world, quite ignorant, wholly trusting in the virtue of every soul she met! Pretty well for a girl brought up in Devonshire House!"

Needless to say, after reading the above, I felt I had knew enough of what sounds here like little more than a tabloid written by a spoiled girl in midst of a temper tantrum.

It is one of Heyer's great appeals to a Janeite that she ventures so far beyond the world of Austen. Pamela Aidan is another author to vividly portray the world of the ton in her Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentleman trilogy. After Heyer, it is Aidan's representation of Lady Caroline Lamb in the first book, An Assembly Such as This, that has most determined my negligence of her, for here she is an object of Fitzwilliam Darcy's abhorrence (I shudder at the thought):

A private entrance to the room lay open to Darcy's left, and from its secrecy he saw emerge the tawny-crowned person of Lady Caroline Lamb on the arm of a gentleman quite unknown to him. From where he stood he could see only her face, her delicate chin raised high, her eyes glittering in amusement and daring. As she and her companion made their way through the throng, it parted before them, and Darcy noted more than a few faces of both ladies and gentlemen color and turn away from the procession.


Suddenly, an older woman sank in a faint, the gentlemen nearest to her crying out in dismay. Several young ladies followed her example, and soon the floor was littered here and there with insensible females being coaxed into consciousness by alarmed young men who, nevertheless, craned their necks to catch another glimpse of the source of the uproar. More than a few women were being propelled from the room by insistent husbands or fathers amid shouts for carriages and cloaks.


"What the devil is going on?" Darcy demanded of the chaos around him. Dy tugged at his sleeve and solemnly pointed back down the room to where Lady Caroline and her swain had finally broken free from her mother-in-law's guests. Darcy's draw dropped in disbelief while his own face flooded crimson.

I felt the need not to include more, so as to not ruin the story for those unfamiliar with it, but you can see from this excerpt how the lady could make a poor impression. On a side note, I just read Ms. Aidan's contribution to Jane Austen Made Me Do It, entitled "The Riding Habit", and enjoyed it very much.

So compelled by Erickson, I now feel the need admit my prejudices and, in atonement, to reevaluate Lady Caroline. If she continues to hold my interest, you will be sure to hear more of her soon.

Venetia by Georgette Heyer

Still waiting on baby, but my husband and I were able to curb some of our impatience by indulging in yet another fabulous Georgette Heyer novel. Venetia, while not being quite as uproariously funny as some of Heyer's other novels, stands out due to its wonderful characters. Our heroine, Miss Venetia Lanyon has to be one of my favorite Heyer creations. Much in the style of Frederica Merriville of Frederica (read my review here) in her familial dedication, but with the charming benefit of possessing exquisite beauty and a streak of eccentricity, Venetia is certainly one of Heyer's more capable ladies, and her intelligence and charm captivates from the first page. Take the opening conversation, for example, between Venetia and her younger brother, Aubrey. I should admit that my interest in Greek literature adds to the appeal of not only this scene for me, but also much of the book, as Aubrey's pursuits as a classical scholar causes such references as the following to abound:

"A fox got in amongst the hens last night, and ravished our best layer," remarked Miss Lanyon. " A great-grandmother, too! You'd think he would be ashamed!" Receiving no answer, she continued, in an altered voice: "Indeed, you would! It is a great deal too bad. What is to be done?" 


His attention caught, her companion raised his eyes from the book which lay open beside him on the table and directed them upon her in a look of aloof enquiry. "What's that? Did you say something to me, Venetia?"


"Yes, love," responded his sister cheerfully, "but it wasn't of the least consequence, and in any event I answered for you. You would be astonished, I daresay, if you knew what interesting conversations I enjoy with myself."


"I was reading."


"So you were - and have let your coffee grow cold, besides abondoning that slice of bread-and-butter. Do eat it up! I'm persuaded I ought not to permit you to read at the table."


"Oh, the breakfast-table!" he said disparagingly. "Try if you can stop me!"


"I can't, of course. What is it?" she returned, glancing at the volume. "Ah, Greek! Some improving tale, I don't doubt."


"The Medea," he said repressively. "Porson's edition, which Mr. Appersett lent to me."


"I know! She was the delightful creature who cut up her brother, and cast the pieces in her papa's way, wasn't she? I daresay perfectly amiable when on cam to know her."


He hunched an impatient shoulder, and replied contemptuously: "You don't understand, and it's a waste of time to try to make you."


Her eyes twinkled at him. "But I promise you I do! Yes, and sympathise with her, besides wishing I had her resolution! Though I think I should rather have buried your remains tidily in the garden, my dear!"

Though you may not gather it from this episode, brother and sister get along famously, and Aubrey, for all his own oddity, is a great asset to the humor of tale. This unusual duo is plagued by the rather insipid company to be had in their Yorkshire neighborhood, particularly Venetia's two determined suitors: one an immature young  man wrapped in the throws of calf love, and the other, a far more determined and extremely Mr. Collins like man, Edward Yardley. Though certainly more presentable and far less groveling than Austen's most famous buffoon, the resmblance is uncanny, as is demonstraited in his inability to accept it when a proposal is refused, as well as in speeches of this ilk:

His smile was one of conscious superiority. He said: "I am afraid this is a subject on which you must allow me to be a better judge than you, Venetia. We won't argue about it, however - indeed, I should be sorry to engage in any sort of discussion with you on a matter that is not only beyond the female comprehension, but which one could not wish to see within it!"

To such insufferable condescension are Aubrey and Venetia subjected to until their illusive and rakish neighbor, Lord Jasper Damerel, arrives at his ancestral home to provide the excitement and mental challenge that has been so lacking in both the Lanyon's lives. There can be no doubt that he is our hero, for Venetia is quick, upon first acquaintance, to call him an "ogre", while he retaliates with "vixen", and there is nothing more romantically promising in Heyer than an exchange of insults. However, regardless of the inevitability of their eventual union, this book has more surprises in the course of its events than is customary in her books. I found it a joy to read, and an incredibly effective way to forget my discomfort. I am saving the next new Heyer I have on hand, Cousin Kate, for when the real labor pains begin.  

Friday's Child by Geogette Heyer

I recently reread Friday's Child for the third time, and I still enjoy it just as much as I did the first time around. It is definitely one of my favorite Heyer novels, a remarkable fact when I consider that the main characters are some of the most vapid, shallow, and ridiculous I have ever encountered. Somehow, and I have not yet quite put my finger on why, I adore them anyway. Perhaps it is just that Hero Wantage and Lord Anthony Sheringham (Sherry to his friends) are so childish that they trigger a sense of affection in me? I'm not sure. What I can say for certain is that I feel an almost parental indulgence for their antics. No matter what scrapes they find themselves in, even when they pose danger to the feelings, and sometimes well-being, of others, my perfect humor and sympathy with them never waivers.

Our story begins with a failed proposal. Sherry fancies himself in love with his neighbor and current toast of the town, Isabella Milborne, and offers for her hand, more with the intention of freeing up his inheritance, held in trust until he marries or turns twenty-five, than settling down. Though he has convinced himself of his passion, debt is his true motivation, the inevitable result of a rakish lifestyle, and when Isabella rejects him, he vows to marry the next woman he sees. This just happens to be Hero, his childhood companion and longtime worshiper, who is in rather a predicament herself. The cousins who have long housed her have presented her with an ultimatum: accept the curate's offer of marriage or be sent to Bath to train as a governess. Sherry proposes the solution to both their troubles, and in a bizarre take on the marriage of convenience the two run off to London together, Hero hiding on the floor of Sherry's curricle to escape local notice.

Thus does Hero, the dependent cousin, become a viscountess. She and Sherry are married by private license the day after they arrive in London, and this is when the real fun begins. Initiated into Sherry's band of boon companions - his cousin, the scatterbrained Honorable Ferdinand Fakenham, the romantic and volatile Lord Wrotham, and the brains of the group (no difficult or notable feat), Mr. Gilbert Ringwood - Hero is introduced into a world to which few ladies of quality are ever exposed. She and Sherry rack up endless amounts of staggering expenses (Sherry buys no less than nine horses in a single afternoon) and engage in the kind of adventures that would cause proper ladies to faint. However, the inappropriateness of the situation he himself has created eventually works upon Sherry's notion of respectability (this is, after all, his very own wife who is spouting phrases like "bits of muslins" and frequenting gaming hells), driving the couple towards a more unexceptional mode of life. Fortunately for the reader, before we find ourselves at this happy conclusion, the laughs derived from this most unusual couple's lack of propriety are nonstop.

This book is one of both my and my husband's favorite novels to read aloud because the dialogue is so ridiculously amusing. I have no wish to deprive any potential reader of the outrageous joys the story contains and so must be very selective about what passages I choose to quote, but I think you get a sense of the atmosphere Heyer creates in this phenomenal book in the following scene during which, on the evening of their wedding, the newlywed couple dine with some of Sherry's friends:

The Honorable Ferdy, who had been pondering at intervals all day how his cousin's wife came by such a peculiar name, now introduced a new note into the conversation by saying suddenly: "Can't make it out at all! You're sure you've got that right, Sherry?"


"Got what right?"


"Hero," said Ferdy, frowning. "Look at it which way you like, it don't make sense. For one thing, a hero ain't a female, and for another it ain't a name. At least," he said cautiously, "it ain't one I've ever heard of. Ten to one you've made one of your muffs, Sherry!"


"Oh no, I am truly called Hero!" the lady assured him. "It's out of Shakespeare."


"Oh, out of Shakespeare, is it?" said Ferdy. "That accounts for my not having heard it before!"


"You're out of Shakespeare too," said Hero, helping herself liberally from a dish of green peas.


"I am?" Ferdy exclaimed, much struck.


"Yes, in the Tempest, I think."


"Well, if that don't beat all!" Ferdy said, looking around at his friends. "She says I'm out of Shakespeare! Must tell my father that. Shouldn't think he knows."


"Yes, and now I come to think of it, Sherry's out of Shakespeare too," said Hero, smiling warmly upon her spouse.


"No, I'm not," replied the Viscount, refusing to be dragged into these deep waters. "Named after my grandfather!"


"Well, perhaps he was out of Shakespeare, and that would account for it."


"He might have been," said Ferdy fair-mindedly, "but I shouldn't think he was. Mind you, I never knew the old gentleman myself, but from what I've heard about him I don't think he ever had anything to do with Shakespeare."


"Very bad ton, my grandfather," remarked the Viscount dispassionately. "Regular loose-screw. None of the Verelsts ever had anything to do with Shakespeare."


"Well, I dare say you must know best, Sherry, but only think of Anthony and Cleopatra!" argued Hero.


"Anthony and who?" asked Ferdy anxiously.


"Cleopatra. You must know Cleopatra! She was a Queen of Egypt. At least, I think it was Egypt."


"Never been to Egypt," said Ferdy. "Accounts for it. But I know a fellow who was in Egypt once. Said it was a sad, rubbishing sort of place. Wouldn't suit me at all."


Hero giggled. "Silly! Cleopatra is hundreds and hundreds of years old!"


"Hundreds of years old?" said Ferdy, astonished.


"Good God, you know what she means!" interpolated the Viscount.


Mr. Ringwood nodded. "She's a mummy," he said. "They have 'em in Egypt." He felt that this piece of erudition called for some explanation, and added: "Read about 'em somewhere."


"Yes, but the one I mean is in Shakespeare," said Hero. "I expect it's the same one, because he was forever writing plays about real people."


A horrible suspicion crossed Ferdy's mind. He stared fixedly at her, and said: "You ain't a blue-stocking, are you?"


"Of course she's not a blue-stocking!" cried the Viscount, bristling in defence of his bride. "The thing is she's only just out of the schoolroom. She can't help but have her head crammed with all that stuff!"


"Anyone can see she's not a blue-stocking," said Mr. Ringwood severely. "Besides, you oughtn't say things like that, Ferdy. Very bad ton!"


Mr. Fakenham begged pardon in some confusion, and said he was devilish glad. A fresh bogey at once raised its head, and he demanded, in accents of extreme foreboding, whether the evening's entertainment was to consist of Shakespeare. Upon being reassured, he was able to relax again and to continue eating his dinner in tolerable composure.

Such is the style of anti-intellectualism that pervades this story, a thing I would typically deplore, yet incongruously I love every moment of it. For all those who compare Heyer to Austen, I offer this novel up as a demonstration of the absurdity of the notion. Austen could never (would never) create these characters, who are more caricature than anything remotely based in reality. I continue to be amazed at Heyer's ability to entrance me with those who I must deplore, in a manner most antithetical to Austen, and perhaps none more so than Hero and Sherry. I cannot recommend this book enough and plan to have my husband read it to me, once again, while I am in labor, for nothing else could provide such a perfect distraction. I only fear that my laughter will prove an impediment to my ability to follow the doctors instructions, but that, I fear, simply cannot be helped. 

Frederica by Georgette Heyer

This book had to be reread as soon as my husband and I got through the first chapter of The Corinthian (read my review here) and both remarked that it was very similar to the manner in which Frederica commences. However, that is where the similarities end. Instead of being importuned by relatives to marry at the start of this book, as our hero of The Corinthian is, this novel finds the Marquis of Alverstoke set upon by female relatives determined that he shall throw a ball for their daughters as they embark on their first season (his sisters are, however, rather unhappy that a cousin, Endymion Dauntry, stands as heir to his great fortune, and would be very happy to see the young man cut out by an appropriate marriage). Not being one to put himself out for anybody, Alverstoke promptly rejects any such notion, that is until he meets the Merrivilles, a family of distant cousins, of respectable but not large fortune, who come to London. The eldest sister, Frederica, requests Alvertoke's assistance in launching her sister into society, a favor he has little interest in bestowing until seeing said sister, Charis, who is "a diamond of the first water". It then occurs to him that a ball at Alverstoke house in honor of his niece and cousin would be precisely the place for Charis to make her debut as well, and that having to support such a beautiful girl would be exactly the scenario to most infuriate his grasping female relatives. Little does he know, however, that he will soon be irrevocably embroiled in the Merrivilles affairs and called upon to bail them out of repeated scrapes, which the two youngest boys, Jessamy and Felix, prove particularly adapt at falling into.

As the name of the book is Frederica, it can be no surprise which of the Merriville ladies captures the cold Marquis' heart (despite the fact that, at 24, she considers herself quite off the shelf and practically an old maid). While Frederica proves to be precisely the intelligent and endearing lady that Alverstoke never thought existed - on who never bores him - I think the true star of the show is Felix, an imperturbably curious and infinitely charming young boy who very soon has the Marquis wrapped around his finger. He wastes no time in requesting the most outlandish favors from Alverstoke, as demonstrated in this scene in which they are first introduced:

His lordship, acknowledging thier bows, found he was being surveyed: by Jessamy, whom he judged to be about sixteen years of age, measuringly; by Felix, three or four years younger, with the unwavering yet incurious gaze of childhood. He was quite unaccustomed to being weighed up; and there was a decided twinkle in his eyes as he looked the boys over.

Jessamy, he thought, was an exaggerated copy of his sister: his hair was darker than hers, his nose more aquiline, and his mouth and chin determined to the point of obstinacy. Felix still retained the snub-nose and the chubbiness of extreme youth, but he had the same firm chin and direct gaze which characterized his seniors, and even less shyness. It was he who broke the silence, blurting out: "Sir! Do you know about the Catch-me-who can?"

"Of course he doesn't! Don't be so rag-mannered!" his brother admonished him. "I beg your pardon, sir: he has windmills in his head!"

"Not windmills: railway locomotives," replied Alverstoke. He looked down at Felix. "Isn't that it? Some sort of steam-locomotive?"

"Yes, that's it!" said Felix eagerly. "Trevithick's, sir. I don't mean the Puffing Devil: that ran on the road, but it caught fire, and was burnt."


"Ay! and a very good thing too!" interjected Jessamy. "Steam-engines on the roads! Why, they would send every horse mad with terror!"


"Oh, pooh! I daresay they would soon grow used to them. Besides, I'm not talking of that one. The one I mean runs on rails - at fifteen miles an hour, and very likely more!" He turned his attention to Alverstoke again. "I know it was brought to London, because Mr Rushbury - my godfather - told me so, and how you could ride in it for a shilling. He said it was north of the New Road, and not far, he thought, from Montague House."


"I believe it was," said Alverstoke. "From some cause or another I never visited it, but I do seem to recall that the inventor - what did you say his name is?"


"Trevithick! The first locamotive he made has five wagons, and it can carry ten tons of iron and seventy men, but only at five miles an hour. It's in Wales - I forget the name of the place - but the one here has one carriage, and -"


"Will you bite your tongue, you abominable little bagpipe?" interrupted Jessamy. "Anyone would take you for a regular shabster, rattling on like that, and not allowing Lord Alverstoke to edge in a word!"


Abashed by this rebuke, Felix hastily begged his lordship's pardon; but Alverstoke, amused by him, said: "Nonsense! I can always edge in a word - when I wish to! There was such a locomotive, Felix, but I am afraid it's a thing of the past. I rather think that Trevithick hired some ground, near Fitzroy Square, fenced it in, and laid down a circular track. As I recall, it created quite a stir, but although a great many people went to see it, few could be persuaded to ride in it - and none at all after a rail broke, and the engine overturned! So it had to be abandoned. It must have been quite ten years ago." He smiled, seeing the look of disappointment on Felix's countenance. "I'm aorry! Are you interested in locomotives?"


"Yes - no - in engines!" stammered Felix. "Steampower - c-compressed air - ! Sir, have you seen the pneumatic lift at the foundry in Soho?"


"No," said his lordship. "Have you?"


"They wouldn't let me," replied Felix sadly. A thought occured to him; and, fixing his ardent eyes on Alverstoke's face, he asked, with pent breath: "If you wished to see it - could you?"


Frederica, who had resumed her seat, said: "No, no, Felix! Lord Alverstoke does not wish to! You mustn't plague him to take you there!"


She was right: Alverstoke had not the remotest desire to inspect a pneumatic lift, but he found himself unable to resist the pleading look in the eyes raised so hopefully to his. He sat down again, smiling a little ruefully, and replied: "I expect I could. But you must tell me more about it!"

Needless to say, when Alverstoke's associates spot him strolling down the street with a boy bound for a foundry, they are literally floored. This is man who doesn't know the names of his own nieces and nephews, but for the Merrivilles he finds himself bending over backwards.

This is such a charming story. It is a classic Heyer Regency, filled with romping antics and enchanting characters. Frederica is a must read for the Heyer fan. If the indifferent Lord Alverstoke can't resist Felix's pleading eyes, how can you?

The Grand Sophy by Georgette Heyer

I love this book! I think The Grand Sophy only improved with a second reading, firmly establishing Sophy Stanton-Lacy in my mind as Heyer's most admirable female character. While Heyer created many intelligent heroines, Sophy quite casts them all in the shade, being endowed with a degree of understanding usually reserved for the heroes of these books, and then only the most exceptional. Having spent most of her life on the continent in diplomatic circles, Sophy enters her aunt's household in Berkeley Square while her father, Sir Horace Stanton-Lacy, attends a mission in the Americas. In little or no time this remarkably self-possessed young lady has not only all her cousin's dancing on her strings, but a large swath of the London Ton as well. The most remarkable aspect of her maneuvers is that she never makes a misstep, quite in the style of the Duke of Avon (read all about him in my review of These Old Shades), but with completely benevolent intentions, even if her methods are the most audacious imaginable.

Now a terribly clever lady would not be so very charming if she failed to possess a devilishly biting wit, and Sophy uses her's to infuriate when the ends justify the means. I love this early encounter with her cousin, Charles Rivenhall, who has long acted as the patriarch of the family (his father having failed in this light), and, as result, has developed rather tyrannical habits which Sophy is determined to correct:

"I must buy a carriage, and don't know whether to choose a curricle or a high-perch phaeton. Which do you recommend, cousin?"


"Neither," he replied, steadying his horses round a bend in the street.


"Oh?" said Sophy, rather surprised. "What, then?"


He glanced down at her. "You are not serious, are you?"


"Not serious? Of course I am serious!"


"If you wish to drive, I will take you in the Park one day," he said. "I expect I can find a horse - or even a pair - in the stables quiet enough for a lady to drive."


"Oh, I fear that would never do!" said Sophy, shaking her head.


"Indeed? Why not?"


"I might excite the horse," said Sophy dulcetly.


He was momentarily taken aback. Then he laughed, and said: "I beg your pardon: I had no intention of offending you! But you cannot need a carriage in London. You will no doubt drive out with my mother, and if you should wish to go on some particular errand you may always order one of the carriages to be sent round to the house for your use."


"That," said Sophy," is very obliging of you, but will not suit me quite so well. Where does one buy carriages in London?"


"You will scarcely drive yourself about the town in a curricle!" he said. "Nor do I consider a high-perch phaeton at all a suitable vehicle for a lady to drive. I should not care to see any of my sisters making the attempt."


"You must remember to tell them so," said Sophy affably. "Do they mind what you say to them? I never had a brother myself, so I can't know."


There was a slight pause, while Mr Rivenhall, unaccustomed to sudden attacks, recovered his presence of mind. It did not take him very long. "It might have been better for you if you had, cousin!" he said grimly.


"I don't think so," said Sophy, quite unruffled. "The little I have seen of brothers makes me glad that Sir Horace never burdened me with any."


"Thank you! I know how I may take that, I suppose!"


"Well, I imagine you might, for although you have a great many antiquated notions I don't think you stupid, precisely."


"Much obliged! Have you any other criticisms you would care to make?"


"Yes, never fly into a miff when you are driving a high-couraged pair! You took that last corner much too fast."

Needless to say, Sophy gets her high-perch phaeton and pair and proves herself quite the whip. Many people in this book try to curb Sophy's behavior and provide direction she is entirely without need of, in particular Mr. Rivenhall's prim and sour fiancee, Miss Eugenia Wraxton. As I often seem to be unable to resist quoting large swaths of Heyer (her dialogue is just too funny!), allow me to cite the first of many moments in which Sophy puts Miss Wraxton firmly in her place:

"I am persuaded that you must find our London ways strange at first."


"Why, I imagine that cannot differ greatly from those of Paris, or Vienna, or even Lisbon!" said Sophy.


"I have never visted those cities, but I believe - indeed I am sure! - that the tone of London is vastly superior," said Miss Wraxton.


Her air of calm certainty struck Sophy as being so funny that she went into a peal of laughter. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" she gasped. "But it is so ridiculous, you know!"


"I expect it must seem so to you," agreed Miss Wraxton, her calm quite unimpaired. "I understand that a great deal of licence is permitted on the Continent to females. Here it is not so. Quite the recerse! To be thought bad ton, dear Miss Stanton-Lacy, would be very dreadful. I know that you will not take it amiss if I give you a hint. You will of course wish to attend the Assemblies at Almack's, for instance. I assure you, the veriest breath of criticism to reach the ears of the patronesses, and you may say farewell to any hope of obtaining a voucher from them. Tickets may not be purchased, you know. It is most exclusive! The riles, too, are very strict, and must not be contravened by a hairsbreadth."


"You terrify me," said Sophy. "Do you think I shall be blackballed?"


Miss Wraxton smiled. "Hardly, since you will make your debut under Lady Ombersley's aegis! She will no doubt tell you just how you should conduct yourself, if her health permits her to take you there. It is unfortunate that circumstances have prevented me from occupying that position which would have enabled me to have relieved her of such duties."


"Forgive me!" interrupted Sophy, whose attention had been wandering, "but I think Madam de Lievan is waving to me, and it would be very uncivil not to notice her!"


She rode off as she spoke, to where a smart barouche was drawn up beside the track, and leaned down from her saddle to shake the languid hand held up to her.


"Sophie!" pronounced the Countess. "Sir Horace told me I should meet you here. You were galloping ventre a terre; never do so again! Ah, Mrs Burrell, permit me to present to you Miss Stanton-Lacy!"


The lady seated beside the Ambassador's wife bowed slightly, and allowed her lips to relax into an infinitesimal smile. This expanded a little when she observed Miss Wraxton, following in Sophy's wake, and she inclined her head, a great mark of condescension.


Countess Lieven nodded to Miss Wraxton, but went on talking to Sophy. "You are staying with Lady Ombersley. I am a little acquainted with her, and I shall call. She will spare you to me perhaps one evening. You have not seen Princess Esterhazy yet, or Lady Jersey? I shall tell them I have met you, and they will want to hear how Sir Horace does. What did I promise Sir Horace I would do? Ah, but of course! Almack's! I will send you a voucher ma chere Sophie, but do not gallop in Hyde Park." She then told her coachman to drive on, included the whole of Sophy's party in her light, valedictory smile, and turned to continue her interrupted conversation with Mrs Drummond Burrell.


"I was not aware that you were acquianted with the Countess Lieven," said Miss Wraxton.


"Do you dislike her?" Sophy asked, aware of the coldness in Miss Wraxton's voice. "Many people do, I know. Sir Horace calls her the greatest intriguante, but she is clever, and can be very amusing. She has a tendre for him, as I daresay you have guessed. I like Princess Esterhazy better myself, I own, and Lady Jersey better than either of them, because she is so much more sincere, in spite of that restless manner of hers."


"Dreadful woman!" said Charles. "She never stops talking! She is known as Silence, in London."


"Is she? Well, I am sure, if she knows it, she does not care a bit, for she dearly loves a joke."


"You are fortunate in knowing so many of the Patronesses of Almack's," observed Miss Wraxton.


Sophy gave her irrepressible chuckle. "To be honest, I think my good fortune lies in having an accomplished flirt for a father!"

If any of you, dear readers, happen to be so uninitiated as to be quite in the dark regarding who the illustrious historical figures mentioned in the passage above are, let me urge you to both read this article on RomanceWiki and look at the wonderful images supplied of the exclusive club's most memorable patronesses at The Romantic Query Letter and The Happy-Ever-After blog posthaste.

I am afraid I cannot complete a review of this book without touching on a sensitive topic. As many readers of this blog have probably deciphered, I am Jewish, and there is a scene in this novel where Sophy visits about the most disreputable member of those money-lenders referred to at the time as "the Jews" imaginable. I did not think much of it, or take the slightest offense, when I first read the book - no more than I did upon reading The Merchant of Venice or Oliver Twist - but shortly afterward I read a very interesting review of the book by a fellow blogger, for whom I have the utmost respect, in which she expressed extreme and legitimate discomfort with Heyer's portrayal. We engaged in a bit of healthy debate over the issue, which I do not believe resulted in either of us changing our mind's on the subject, but in light of the recent controversy raging over Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn, and I feel the need to reiterate my perspective on this subject. Political correctness is a very modern notion, and while it does indeed help to foster a more civil discourse, I feel it often inhibits our ability to discuss the very real racism that continues to flourish in our society and to understand both the present and historical consequences of such intolerance. I urge readers to not allow this episode of The Grand Sophy to undermine their enjoyment of this otherwise delightful novel, but to use it as a means of understanding a very real aspect of 19th century society. The reason Jews historically functioned as money-lenders was because of ancient religious prohibitions against Christians acting in this capacity. Money-lending allowed a marginalized sect to carve a useful place for themselves inside a hostile society, and, as in any profession, there were those who abused their position. Heyer depicts the very worst of these, and I admit to thinking that her feelings on Jews were probably not what most of us would deem acceptable, but it does not change the fact that she was a marvelous and extremely historically accurate writer, and by expressing her own, relatively modern prejudices (this book was first published in 1950), she has inadvertently provided us with an opportunity to understand hatred and intolerance. Not reading this book because of this scene is like removing a very offensive word from a masterpiece of American literature because we are too timid to confront the reality it highlights, and on that note, I will bring an end to both my rant and to this post. Enjoy the remains of the weekend everyone!

The Corinthian by Georgette Heyer

The Corinthian is an extremely fun and lighthearted Regency romance, despite of the sinister quality of some of its subject matter. While comic antics create the tone of the novel, the plot relies on coaching accidents, familial betrayals, robbery, and murder. Nevertheless, Heyer always maintains her carefree style. I laughed as my husband and I made our way through this book for a second time, only dwelling in retrospect on the rather dire circumstances our heroine, Penelope Creed, confronts. Her attitude is so dismissive and nonchalant that it is extremely easy to underestimate the dangers she confronts.

Our story begins with the hero, Sir Richard Wyndham - one of Heyer's jaded, overly pursued gentleman, of the Mr. Darcy model - being coerced to marry by his mother and sister. The lady they have in mind is one Melissa Brandon, daughter of the improvident Lord Saar, whose family has long been affiliated with the Wyndhams, and with whom Sir Richard has long been considered to be unofficially engaged. The problem is, according to his brother-in-law George, that Melissa is "an iceberg". This, according to his sister, Louisa, is an asset: "To be sure, if you were in the habit of falling in and out of love, it would be a different matter. But to be plain with you, you are the coldest, most indifferent, selfish creature alive, Richard, and you will find Melissa an admirable partner." But her husband has rather different advice:

"Do you know what I'd do if I were you, my boy?"


"Yes," said Sir Richard.


George was disconcerted. "Damn it, you can't know!"


"You would do precisely what I shall do."


"What's that?"


"Oh - offer for Melissa Brandon, of course," said Sir Richard.


"Well, I wouldn't," said George positively. "I wouldn't marry Melissa Brandon for fifty sisters! I'd find a cosier armful, 'pon my soul I would!"


"The cosiest armful of my acquaintance was never so cosy as when she wanted to see my purse-strings untied," said Sir Richard cynically.


George shook hi head. "Bad, very bad! I must say, it's enough to sour any man. But Louisa's right, you know: you ought to get married. Won't do to let the name die out." An idea occurred to him. "You wouldn't care to put it about that you'd lost all your money, I suppose?"


"No," said Sir Richard, "I wouldn't."


"I read somewhere of a fellow who went off to some place where he wasn't known. Devil of a fellow he was: some kind of foreign count, I think. I don't remember precisely, but there was a girl in it, who fell in love with him for his own sake."


"There would be," said Sir Richard.

And so he goes to Lord Saar's house in order to propose to Melissa Brandon. Even her brother, the Honorable Cedric, whom he meets at the door, warns him off:

"Don't do it! There isn't a fortune big enough to settle our little affairs: take my word for it! Have nothing to do with Beverley! They say Fox gamed away a fortune before he was twenty-one. Give you my word, he was nothing to Bev, nothing at all. Between ourselves, Ricky, the old man has taken to brandy. H'sh! Not a word! Musn't tell tales about m'father1 But run, Ricky! That's my advice to you: run!"

Undaunted, Sir Richard meets with Melissa, who makes it very clear that it is entirely to be a marriage of convenience and that, if her family were not in such dire straight, she could do much better. They make an appointment for him to apply to her father on the morrow, and Sir Richard takes himself off to his club to drown his sorrows.

Though Sir Richard can well handle his drink, his predicament and relatively drunken state lead him to wander home that evening via a roundabout route, during which ramble he spots a young boy dangling from a window, the makeshift ladder he had fashioned out of sheets not being long enough to reach the ground. Sir Richard comes to his assistance, and upon catching the runaway in his arms, discovers that it is in fact a young lady. Miss Penelope Creed (or Pen, as she is casually called) informs him that a) she is an heiress and an orphan, and b) that her aunt is pressuring her to marry her "fish-faced" cousin, which is why she is absconding in the night. Perhaps it is the drink, or maybe Cedric's advice is sounding more reasonable all the time - either way, Sir Richard decides to accompany her on her journey to the region of her birth, where a childhood friend once promised to marry her, and whom she now depends on to be her deliverer. Transparently, the course of their adventures, which prove to be terribly convoluted, will lead this unlikely couple to fall in love. Mystery and suspense abound until they finally come to the inevitable understanding, facilitated, in fine Heyer style, by a long-delayed and crushing embrace.

I reiterate what I said at the beginning of this post: this novel is highly enjoyable and extremely amusing, in spite of the really very dark subject matter. Without giving away too many details, anyone with knowledge of Regency morals will instantly perceive the predicament that Pen and Sir Richard have thrust themselves into by traveling together, even though (or perhaps particularly because) our heroine maintains her masculine disguise throughout the story. Yet regardless of the lurking dangers, the book is uproariously funny, and Pen is a heroine to enchant even the coldest heart, as Sir Richard so aptly demonstrates.

Bath Tangle by Georgette Heyer

This is an out of print Heyer Regency (which will hopefully be reprinted by Sourcebooks in the not so distant future), that I decided I had to read after learning on some blog, somewhere, that an Austenesque story was partially based on Bath Tangle. I have been desperately trying to retrace my steps and figure out where I read this and what the title of the book in question is, but I have been thoroughly unsuccessful. So let me begin this review with a plea. If anyone knows what I am speaking of, I would really appreciate it if you would enlighten me. The mystery has left me feeling quite idiotic, as well as a bit insane.

This story begins with the funeral of the wealthy and eccentric Earl of Spenborough: "No one, least of all himself, could have supposed that the Earl, a fine, robust man in his fiftieth year, would owe his death to so paltry a cause as a chill, contracted when salmon-fishing on the Wye." His death displaces his hoydenish (but, of course, beautiful and charming) daughter Serena, as well as his youthful, innocent, and incorrigibly romantic bride, Fanny, from their home at Milverley Park. At first, they attempt to live in the Dower House, but as Serena finds the small rooms confining, and herself unable to help meddling in the affairs of the estate, now the property of a cousin who was not raised to his new role, they relocate to Bath to see out their year of mourning in a more congenial environment. But this is a Heyer novel, and such a straightforward plot will not suffice. The twist that makes these happenings interesting is the fact that the deceased Earl, instead of leaving his daughter's large fortune, including two estates, in the hands of an appropriate and respectable relation, has instead made the Marquis of Rotherham, Ivo Barrasford, her trustee until the time of her marriage, of which he must first approve. This is rather awkward, as Serena and Ivo were once engaged, an arrangement which she broke off, much to the shock and amusement of society.

Like almost all of Heyer's novels, the fate assigned to our hero and heroine is blatantly transparent. When two main characters show such antipathy for each other as Ivo and Serena display, it is certain that they will, eventually, fall in love. What makes the plot compelling, and the appropriately named "tangle" of the title, are the romantic fates of several secondary characters. First there is Fanny, whose gentle nature and immaturity make her a rather laughable chaperon to the willful and worldly Serena. Then we have Emily Laleham, the beautiful daughter of Lady Laleham (that "odious Laleham-woman", whose "beginnings must have been wholly vulgar", and prove to be a great comic addition to the tale), who is about to embark on her first season. Furthermore, we have one Major Hector Kirkby, a genteel young man of small fortune and estate who once offered for Serena's hand, when both were far too young to marry, and was deemed unsuitable by the Earl. He becomes reacquainted with Serena in Bath, having held her in his heart for all the intervening years, idealizing her into an angelic creature that she in no way resembles. The final component to our tangle is Gerald Monksleigh, the young, rather stupid, dandified ward of Rotherham, who has fallen hard for the lovely Miss Laleham. Each player becomes engaged to the wrong person, and our plot focuses on restoring them all to their proper mates.

While I very much enjoyed this novel, I found it to be extremely conservative when compared to most of Heyer's books, due to the fact that the end result returned each character to their proper sphere in society. Heyer is often compared to Jane Austen, and I have long argued that, while her books offer much to fascinate the Austen devotee, and that they certainly owe a debt of inspiration to to her, the two authoresses are really nothing alike. This is particularly apparent in this story, as Austen almost always has her heroes and heroines marrying across social stratification, a reflection of the weakening of class rigidity brought about by a rising bourgeoisie in the years proceeding the Industrial Revolution. In Bath Tangle, Heyer adamantly upholds the class divides: the aristocrats marry aristocrats, the gentry marry gentry, and the middle classes are confined to their appropriate sphere. The book was written in 1955, and while I am not overly familiar with modern British history, I cannot help but wonder if this is a reflection of the same kind of backlash against Communism that we saw in the United States at that time. I read this book twice, and while, on the first go round, I was highly amused by the comic elements of the story, the second time, which was my verbal recitation with my husband, I found myself frustrated by Heyer's inflexibility. Nevertheless, if you are a fan of Heyer's Regencies, the book is a must read, and I will attempt to counter my criticism by ending on this wonderful scene, perfectly emblematic of why I read Heyer, in which Serena makes a new acquaintance in the Pump Room:

Mrs. Floore poked a finger into the ribs of a mild-looking man seated in the chair beside her, and said: "I don't know where your wits have gone a-begging, Tom Ramford! Get up, and offer your place to Lady Serena, man!"


In great confusion, Mr. Ramford hastily obeyed this sharp command. His apologies and protestations were cut short, mrs. Floore saying kindly, but with decision: "There, that'll do! You take yourself off now!"


"Poor man!" said Serena, as she seated herself. "You are very severe, ma'am! Pray, how do you come to know my name?"


"Lord, my dear, everyone knows who you are! I'll wager you don't know who I am, though!"


"You would lose, ma'am. You are Mrs. Floore, a resident, I believe, of Bath," retorted Serena.


The old lady chuckled richly, all her chins quivering. "Ay, so I am, and I'll be bound you know it because you asked someone who the deuce that old fright could be, dressed in a gown with panniers!"


"I did ask who you might be, but I did not so describe you!" instantly responded Serena.


"Lord, I wouldn't blame you! I'd look a worse fright if I was to stuff myself into one of these newfangled gowns you all wear nowadays, with a waist under my armpits and a skirt as straight as a candle! All very well for you, my lady, with the lovely slim figure you have, but I'll tell you what I'd look like, and that's a sack of meal, with a string tied round it! Ay, that makes you laugh, and I see that it's quite true about your eyelids, though I thought it a piece of girl's nonsense when I was told about it: they do smile!"


"Good God, who can have told you anything so ridiculous, ma'am?" demanded Serena, colouring faintly.


"Ay, that's just it!" said Mrs. Floore. "I daresay you've been wondering what made me wishful to become acquainted with you. Well, I've got a granddaughter that thinks the world of your ladyship, and by all accounts you've been mighty kind to her."


"A granddaughter?" Serena repeated, stiffening suddenly in her chair. "You cannot mean that you are - But, no! Surely Lady Lale - the person who springs to mind - was a Miss Sebden?"


"So she was," agreed Mrs. Floore affably. "Sebden was my first, and Sukey's papa. I've had two good husbands, and buried 'em both, which is more than Sukey can boast of, for all the airs she gives herself!"


"Good gracious!" Serena exclaimed, wishing with all her heart that Rotherham could have been present, to share (as her certainly would) her own enjoyment. "Well, then, I am very happy to know you, Mrs. Floore, for I have a sincere regard for little Emily Laleham. She has often taken pity on our dullness this winter, you know. We - Lady Spendborough and I - missed her sadly when she went to London."


Mrs. Floore looked gratified, but said: "That's just your kindness, my lady, that makes you say so. I don't deny I'm uncommonly partial to Emma, bit I ain't a fool, and I can see who it was that took pity, even if Emma hadn't talked so much about you I was in a fair way to hating the sound of your name! Sukey - for Sukey she's always been to me, and always will be, let her say what she likes! - sent her to spend New Year with me, and it was Lady Serena this, and Lady Serena that till I'd very likely have had a fit of the vapours, if I'd been a fine lady, which I thank god I'm not, nor ever could be!"


"What an infliction!" Serena said, smiling. "I am astonished you could have wished to become acquainted with me, ma'am! I think, you know, that when she was only a child Emily thought me a very dashing female, because I used to hunt with my father, and do all manner of things which seemed very romantical to her! I hope she may be wiser now that she knows me better. I fear I am no model for a young female to copy."


"Well, that, begging your pardon, is where you're out, my dear!" said Mrs. Floore shrewdly. "You've done Emma a great deal of good, and I don't scruple to tell you so! She's a good little soul, and as pretty as she can stare, but she hasn't a ha'porth of common sense, and between the pair of them, Sukey, and that piece of walking gentility which calls herself a governess and looks to me more like a dried herring in petticoats, were in a fair way to ruining the poor child! But Emma, admiring your ladyship like she did, had the wit to see the difference between your manners and the ones her ma and that Miss Prawle was trying to teach her! Prawle! I'd Prawle her! 'Grandma,' Emma said to me, 'Lady Serena is always quite unaffected, and she is as civil to her servants as to Dukes and Marquises and all, and I mean to behave exactly like her, because she came over with the Conqueror, and is a great lady!' Which", concluded Mrs. Floore, "I can see for myself, though what this Conqueror has to say to anything I'm sure I don't know!"

Arabella by Georgette Heyer

Those of you who have already read the wonderful interview Laurel Ann of Austenprose posted today with Vic of Jane Austen's World ("Why we love to read and reread Georgette Heyer") are aware that today is Georgette Heyer's birthday. In light of this event, and inspired by Kara Louise's wonderful review of Arabella last Saturday, I 'd like to add my own thoughts on this fabulous book, which I have enjoyed even more on the second perusal than I did on the first. Since Ms. Louise has already provided an overview of the book's plot (read it here), I am not going to bother with basic summary, instead indulging in some of the most memorable moments and morals of the book, celebrating Heyer's birth by emphasizing her incomparable flair for comic dialogue.

In Arabella, Heyer teaches us the importance of proper familial feelings. I love his adoring children's fine appreciation of Mr Tallant's benevolence:

'Bertram, I had rather by far he had beaten me!' said Arabella earnestly.


'Lord, yes!' agreed Bertram, shuddering. 'What a shocking thing! I'm glad I wasn't downstairs! It makes me feel like the devil when he gets to blaming himself. What did you say?'


'I could not utter a word! My voice was wholly suspended by tears, as you may imagine, and I was afraid that he would be vexed with me for not being able to contain my feelings better! But he was not. Only fancy! He took me in his arms, and kissed me, and said I was his dear, good daughter, and oh, Bertram, I'm not!'


'Well, you need not put yourself in a pucker for that,' recommended her matter-of-fact brother. 'He won't think it above a day or two. The thing is that his dejected fit is at an end.'


'Oh, yes! But it was much, much worse at breakfast! He would keep on talking to me about the London scheme - teasing me, you know, about the giddy life I should lead there, and saying that I must be sure to write very long letters home, even if I cannot get a frank for them, for he would be so much interested to hear of all my doings!'


Bertram stared at her in undisguised horror. 'He did not!'


'But he did! And in the kindest way, only with that sad look in his eyes - you know! until I was ready to give up the whole scheme!'


'My God, I don't wonder at it!'


'Mo, and to crown all - as though I had not borne enough!' disclosed Arabella, hunting wildly for her handkerchief, 'he said I would want something pretty to wear in London, and he would have a pearl pin he wore when he was a young man made into a ring for me!'


This staggering intelligence made Bertram's jaw drop. After a moment's stupefaction he said resolutely: 'That settles it! I shan't come downstairs today after all. Ten to one, if he saw me he would blame himself for my frisk, and I should be driven into running away to enlist, or something, because, you know, a fellow can't stand that kind of thing!'


'No, indeed! I am sure all my pleasure has been quite cut-up!'

Furthermore, Heyer reminds us that persistence and loyalty have their rewards:

In pursuance of this resolve, Mr beaumaris sent for his curricle next morning. Ulysses, who had shared his breakfast, bundled ahead of him down the steps of his house, leaped into the curricle, and disposed himself on the passenger's seat with all the air of a dog born into the purple.


'No!' said Mr Beaumaris forcibly. Ulysses descended miserably from the curricle, and prostrated himself on the flag-way. 'Let me tell you, my friend,' said Mr Beaumaris, 'that I have a certain reputation to maintain, which your disreputable appearance would seriously jeopardize! Do not be alarmed! - I am not, alas, going out of your life for ever!' He climbed into the curricle, and said: 'You may stop grinning, Clayton, and let 'em go!'


'Yes, sir!' said his groom, obeying both these behests, and swinging himself expertly up on to the curricle as it passed him. After a minute or two, having twiced glanced over his shoulder, he ventured to inform Mr Beaumaris that the little dog was following him.


Mr Beaumaris uttered an oath, and reined in his reluctant pair. The faithful hound, plodding valiantly along, with heaving ribs, and several inches of tongue hanging from his parted jaws, came up with the curricle, and once more abased himself in the road. 'Damn you !' said Mr Beaumaris. 'I suppose you are capable of following me all the way to Wimbledon! It now remains to be seen whether my credit is good enough to enable me to carry you off. Get up!'

Ulysses was very much out of breath, but at these words he mustered up enough strength to scramble into the curricle once more. He wagged a grateful tail, climbed on to the seat beside Mr Beaumaris, and sat the panting blissfully. Mr Beaumaris read him a short lecture on the evils of blackmail, which sorely tried the self-control of his groom, discouraged him peremptorily from hurling a challenge at a mere pedestrian dog in the gutter, and proceeded on his way to Wimbledon.

Most importantly, in Arabella Heyer reaffirms the universally acknowledged truth that nothing is so likely to snare a man than a lady treating him with a hearty display of indifference:

Arabella approved so heartily of this arrangement, that he took the risk of saying in a melancholy tone: 'Yes, but if it succeeds, I shall be at a loss to think of a pretext for getting you to drive out with me.

'Dear me, have I shown myself so reluctant?' said Arabella, raising her eyebrows. 'I wonder why you will talk so absurdly, Mr Beaumaris? You may depend upon it that I shall take care to be seen every now and then in your company, for I cannot be so sure of my credit as to run the risk of having it said that the nonpareil has begun to find me a dead  bore!'

Happy Birthday Georgette Heyer!

Continue to enjoy the Heyer celebration at Austenprose throughout the month!