Mansfield Park Janeicillin: Part One

Many pens have been charged with dwelling on guilt and misery, so I shall not lament the fact that it falls to my lot to take up that well-honed task, my explicit purpose being to thwart impatience and explore precisely how everyone – those not greatly at fault and those who are thoroughly guilty – might be punished or restored to tolerable comfort, as befits their fate. Along the way I will have the fortunate gratification of exploring how the truly worthy might discover something a bit better than mere contentment, giving me the pleasure of consigning them, instead, to perfect happiness, but first I must confront those players who are fully deserving of all the misery I can dole out.

I begin with those unfortunate creatures who will never again enjoy the comfort and niceties of life at Mansfield Park. Some might consider such banishment from that house's hallowed halls ample punishment for any crime, no matter how extreme, but the world has its ways of making the sinful pay two fold for their misdeeds. Mrs. Rushworth, deprived of those honors conveyed upon her by marriage and having forsaken those that, as Miss Bertram, she had been born into to and so long taken for granted, was certainly responsible for her own downfall. While no one could rightly argue that she had not only brought this fate upon herself, but also magnified it by her refusal to abandon her lover, as her father most urgently begged her to, some pity, as difficult as it might be to excite, must be reserved for the greatest sufferer in this tale. Regardless of her misdeeds, when comparing her lot to that of her partner in iniquity, we must acknowledge that an unfair bulk of the consequences were to be endured by her alone. No matter how much credit we give to a man of sense, such as Mr. Crawford, to provide for himself no small portion of vexation and regret for having so lost the woman whom he had rationally as well as passionately loved, his exemption from the punishment of public disgrace, which should in a just measure attend his share of the offense, must go a long way in providing him with undeserved consolation. Indeed, as his cohabitation with Mrs. Rushworth proved increasingly unendurable, he made ready use of those resources of society that were available to him, yet not her, in order to escape the discomforts of his home. As he fled her presence with increasing frequency, and her obstinate and fruitless hopes that he would someday marry her began to evaporate, her wretchedness became unquestionable. She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his happiness in Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving him than that she had divided them. What can exceed the misery of such a mind in such a situation?

As if rejection and exile were not sufficient sources of mortification, Maria Rushworth's woes were further compounded by that of uncongenial company. For who was to be her chaperone in disgrace but that most vile creation of our beloved authoress: the abhorrent Aunt Norris. Although admittedly an altered creature by the tragedies that had befallen the Bertram family – quiet, stupefied, and indifferent to everything that passed – she was not so very changed as to have learned to improve her temper and ways, rendering her departure from Mansfield, though not conducive to Maria's comfort, a great relief to those who remained at the house. No compassion will be invoked for this character, who never herself thought to feel a twinge of sympathy for those whose concerns were not her own. That desperately valued regard from Sir Thomas which had so long provided her with place and position was deservedly withdrawn, rendering the aging lady embittered and discontent. She was forced to fruitlessly pursue a similar place in the heart of her favorite niece, with whom no amount of flattery and favor had ever succeeded, at the best of times, in creating a reciprocal attachment. Shut up together with little society, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment, it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual punishment. Let us now leave these gloomy considerations . We have more deserving destinies to contemplate.

If pity can be justly apportioned, let the lion's share be conveyed upon Sir Thomas. Poor Sir Thomas! So determined to be a good father, yet so mistaken in his methodology. And worse yet, rational enough to accept his share of fault when the consequences of his approach were made manifest. No one remaining at Mansfield evoked such sympathy, for Lady Bertram lacked the mental powers to agonize longer than her own discomfort remained, Tom Bertram only ached in body, not mind, and if Edmund endured heartache at the loss of Mary Crawford, it was to be of very short duration indeed. But for Sir Thomas, as a parent, and conscious of errors in his own conduct as a parent, it was rather inevitable that he be the longest to suffer. Nevertheless, his was not to be an inconsolable fate. Relief was found in Julia's match proving a less desperate business than he had considered it at first. She was humble, and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates, desirous of being really received into the family, was disposed to look up to him and be guided. There was comfort also in Tom, who gradually regained his health, without regaining the thoughtlessness and selfishness of his previous habits. He was the better for ever for his illness. And let us not underestimate the good to be derived from Mrs. Norris' departure. Her removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary comfort of Sir Thomas's life. To be relieved from her was so great a felicity that, had she not left bitter remembrances behind her, there might have been danger of his learning almost to approve the evil which produced such a good.

So cheer was not forever banished from Mansfield Park. Though the bulk of the residents were, for a time, as unhappy as they had ever been, solace was not unattainable, and for at least two members of the household, happiness was available in abundance. Shall we blame the two Price ladies for being merry amidst such despondency? Susan, whose lack of previous attachment to the family at Mansfield provides ample exoneration for her feelings, was elevated to a state of bliss she had never previously known. Her escape from the bad environment that was her Portsmouth home fully explains such spirits, and those who would accuse her of lack of familial duty I dismiss as either blind or unfeeling, particularly as those relatives who should have held such prominence in her heart certainly did not mourn for her lost presence. In regards to our heroine, of whom it has often been suggested by the critical that she is a creature too good to be attractive, let this moment counter that argument, for Fanny was, at this desolate time, very happy in spite of all that she felt, or thought she felt, for the distress of those around her. She had sources of delight that must force their way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was useful, she was beloved, she was safe from Mr. Crawford, and when Sir Thomas came back she had every proof that could be given in his then melancholy state of spirits, of his perfect approbation and increased regard. Furthermore, happy as all this must make her, she would still have been happy without any of it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss Crawford. Of course, she had the sensibility to not demonstrate her peace of mind, particularly to that gentleman whose concerns she most valued. To have openly rejoiced would have been to alienate Edmund, thereby depriving him, and us, of the joyful ending about to unfold.

Two Weeks of Parenthood ...

C.E. Brock's illustration for Emma - mollands.net

... and though I'm a bit sleep deprived, I am loving every moment (well, perhaps not the dirty diapers and aching mammaries). Recovery from the cesarean I ended up having is a bit more difficult than I bargained for, but I feel stronger everyday. I'm almost as amazed by my rapidly shrinking stomach (and it's cottage cheese-like texture) as I am by little Miss Eliza herself! Those of you who are parents know all too well how much there is to stand in awe of at this unprecedented period of life. She was born on her due date of 6/10 at 6:10 PM, coming it at 9 lbs 1 oz (hence the cesarean). Such a prompt and orderly little lady! Needless to say, we find her excessively diverting.

Even at this time, Austen cannot be far from my thoughts. I am reading (slowly) the newly released Annotated Sense and Sensibility by David M. Shapard, whose work I adore, and my thoughts inevitably drift to those Austen novels where babies play a role. Most prominently, I keep pondering that scene at the end of Emma in which the Woodhouses meet Frank Churchill upon visiting little Ana Weston. It suddenly strikes me in a manner it never has before, and I wonder if Austen set it up this way on purpose. As you will recall, Mr. Churchill gives a speech in which he praises Jane Fairfax's previously disparaged complexion to Emma, all while the "others had been talking of the child". He says: "Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness! such delicacy!--and yet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair--a most distinguishing complexion!" As I have spent the better part of my time staring at a newborn lately, I must marvel that anyone could make such a statement with a baby in the room, an immediate example of far better skin, with greater smoothness and delicacy than any lady, no matter how beautiful, can ever hope to possess. Is this is yet another intentional example of Mr. Churchill's extreme egocentricity, or could Austen's childless state have possibly rendered her oblivious to the irony of these lines? I certainly prefer the former explanation to the latter, especially as Austen was certainly no stranger to the charms an infant possesses. Her familiarity with the concerns and cares of the new parent are made abundantly clear later in this scene when Mrs. Weston relates her alarm over the baby's health and having considered calling in Perry for consultation:

She believed she had been foolish, but it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of sending for Mr. Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had been almost as uneasy as herself.--In ten minutes, however, the child had been perfectly well again. This was her history; and particularly interesting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her very much for thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that she had not done it. "She should always send for Perry, if the child appeared in the slightest degree disordered, were it only for a moment. She could not be too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was a pity, perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though the child seemed well now, very well considering, it would probably have been better if Perry had seen it."

Yes, this is a great opportunity to once again laugh at Mr. Woodhouse's hypochondria, as well as the paranoia of the new parent, just as Austen has poked fun at Isabella Knightley's motherly concerns throughout the novel, but only familiarity with the realities confronting new parents could have allowed Austen to leverage her wit so effectively on this subject. In fact, Austen was so well acquainted with the less pleasant realities of child rearing that she seemed to find great satisfaction in not having to take such cares upon herself. She certainly attributes such feelings, or rationalizations, to Emma, as in this explanation to Harriet Smith regarding her feelings on marriage: 

"And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in not marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!—I shall often have a niece with me."

Undeniably, such an arrangement would be more comfortable, but could Austen have experienced such warmer and blinder sensations she certainly would have adapted herself to them, just as Emma surely will upon her marriage to Mr. Knightley. Little of my experiences in these two weeks of parenthood can be described as comfortable, but never have I embraced discomfort so willingly, nor has it ever been more felicitous.

Such are my musings as we approach my daughter's  two week birthday. I'm sure there are many more to come. Poor little girl! To be so quickly subjected of my Austen obsessions.

Jane in June and Baby Update

For the interested, I'm still waiting for this baby to make her appearance. I've had a multitude of false alarms, but my doctor told me yesterday that I will be induced next Tuesday if she hasn't arrived prior to that point, so it is now just a matter of days. In the meantime Jane in June, hosted once again by Misty of Book Rat, is in full swing and I urge you all to check out the excitement. A piece I wrote a few weeks ago, rushed towards completion as I had my first false alarm, discussing the "What If?" genre and providing an excerpt from Second Glances (read it here), the continuation of First Impressions, made its appearance yesterday, and I hope it is to your liking. There are a multitude of giveaways, a read along, and all things Jane going on, so please don't miss out on this fabulous celebration. 

The Mistress's Black Veil by M.K. Baxley

Still no baby. While the wait seems interminable, it has given me the opportunity to plow through some neglected reading. One of the books I had sitting in the TBR pile is The Mistress's Black Veil by M.K. Baxley. I have avoided Ms. Baxley's books in the past because I knew that they were racier than what I typically enjoy (the fact that I usually don't go for modernization, and that is what was previously available, had something to do with it too), but this book had received so many great reviews, and in such a short amount of time, that I decided to check it out. I think if the product description of the book had been more accurate, I probably wouldn't have bothered. However, that being said, I'm not sorry I read it. A discussion of the story's plot will help illuminate this somewhat mixed reaction.

This is basically a tale of Elizabeth Bennet becoming Mr. Darcy's mistress. Five years after the proposal at Hunsford, the Bennet family, following a multitude of deaths, are horribly impoverished, driving our heroine to make that most desperate of decisions by joining the demimonde. Mr. Darcy, meanwhile, continues to mourn for the lady who inadvertently stole his heart, losing himself in his business interests, which has resulted in his accumulation of a fortune surpassing the Duke of Devonshire's. At the urging of his cousins, he finally concedes to the need for female companionship and attends the ball at which Elizabeth, disguised as Sofia Molina, a Spanish lady who never removes her mask and veil, makes her debut. As she reminds him of Elizabeth, the two quickly enter into a contract, and soon this "business" relationship blooms into love.

Now had I read such a synopsis before buying this book, I would never have made the purchase, and as I began to read and discovered what the plot actually was, I admit to fearing for the very worse. But besides a few scenes, the storyline really isn't as lewd as you would expect, especially considering the subject matter. I have read many far more sexualized Pride and Prejudice reimaginations that follow much more innocent story lines. I was actually rather impressed by how Ms. Baxley took these dramatically altered circumstances and manipulated them so that the course of Darcy and Elizabeth's relationship remained remarkably true to the original tale. That being said, the obviously episodic writing of the story (I believe it was first published at A Happy Assembly) was a little frustrating. Each chapter begins and ends with a first person narration recap and conclusion, while in between the level of dramatic content almost overwhelms. Putting that aside, I was pretty entertained. I read the book in a single day, it was light and compelling, and it succeeded in keeping my mind off the elephant in the room - my enormously bulging belly. If you enjoy darker and more sexual Pride and Prejudice retellings, you will probably greatly enjoy this book. If the notion of Elizabeth selling herself to the highest bidder makes you want to scream, I would probably look elsewhere for your next read. With so many great "What if?" stories out there these days, we readers have the luxury of picking and choosing precisely those which cater most to our individual tastes.     

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.  

A Pemberley Medley by Abigail Reynolds

Some of you might be wondering, after a somewhat frantic Facebook update three days ago, if I have had the baby yet or not. Sadly, though I am experiencing contractions, they are not yet strong enough to get this show on the road. So here I am, left in limbo, trying to ignore the discomfort by distracting myself with a little bit of Austenesque. Thankfully, I have a fresh supply of unread books on hand, including Abigail Reynolds' recently published collection of short stories, A Pemberley Medley. This book was exactly what the doctor ordered, to employ a rather apropos cliche. Despite my well documented discomfort with more sexualized portrayals of Austen's characters, I can never get enough of Ms. Reynolds "What if?" tales, my qualms easily overlooked in the face of some of the most delightful reimaginations of Pride and Prejudice that it has been my pleasure to encounter. Her short stories were no exception, and I will briefly describe and respond to each one in this post.

I think the first story, Intermezzo, was my favorite. A classic example of Ms. Reynolds' typical style, this story explores what might have happened if Mr. Darcy sent Mr. Bingley back to Hertforshire after learning of Jane's affections at Hunsford. Because of the disastrous results of his failed proposal, he does not accompany his friend, allowing wedding plans to proceed for the happy couple without his own courtship advancing. As a result of the timing, Lydia never goes to Brighton, and Elizabeth does not again encounter Darcy until the day of her sister's wedding. Fortunately, Georgiana, perceiving that someone in the neighborhood of Netherfield had caused her brother great heartache, proceeds him into the neighborhood in an attempt to locate the lady in question and attempt to rectify whatever problems stand in the way of his happiness.

The reason I said that I think Intermezzo was my favorite story in the collection is because I can't really decide between it and the second tale, Such Differing Reports. Also very much in Ms. Reynolds usual mode, this story takes place at Hunsford and questions what might have happened if Elizabeth had taken to heart Charlotte's intuitions regarding Darcy's affection for her. Instead of making his infamous first proposal, the couple have the opportunity to address the issues which arose during that confrontation in a more diffuse manner, leading up to a letter of a far more romantic nature than the one which Darcy pens in Austen's original tale. Be warned: swooning is highly likely when reading it.

The third story is Reason's Rule, a variation on the course of events in one of my favorite books by Ms. Reynolds, Impulse and Initiative, but you do not need to be familiar with that novel to enjoy this alternative ending. However, because of this fact, the action begins after Darcy and Elizabeth have already come to an understanding and focuses upon Lydia's disappearance from Brighton, Wickham's motives now being attributed to her new relationship with the Darcys. A bit of a spoiler: before entering into negotiations with Wickham, the players all agree to hurry along the betrothed couple's wedding date, so as he cannot use their undetermined state as a bargaining ship. This leads us to the only wedding night scene in this collection.

The Most Natural Thing is our forth tale, and while I entered into it with some reservations, the result of Ms. Reynolds introducing the story as "dating from a time when 'Dark Darcy' stories were popular", a phenomenon which I do not particularly care for, I ended up very much enjoying it. The premise is that, shortly following her departure from Hunsford, Elizabeth's father dies, and when Lydia absconds from Brighton with Wickham, Mr. Collins throws the entire Bennet family out of Longbourn. Feeling that she has few options, Elizabeth presents herself at Darcy's door in London, offering herself to him as a mistress in return for his interference with Mr. Collins on her family's behalf. A bit of a disturbing start, and definitely in that "Dark Darcy" mode, but I love the way he responds, confirming all the best attributes Darcy possesses rather than diminishing his character to that of a rogue.

Finally we have A Succession of Rain, a thoroughly sweet story that follows what would have happened if inclement weather prevented Darcy and Elizabeth from taking that detrimental walk, after Lady Catherine's visit to Longbourn, during which they reach an understanding. Those who have read my novel will understand my desire to see everything work out for the couple with relatively little angst and impediment, and Ms. Reynolds definitely caters to that urge in this tale.

All in all, I think this book is a necessary addition to every Austenites library. Sometimes we need quick reads, when life deprives us of an extended attention span, and this collection perfectly fits the bill. I could not be more thankful for its extremely timely arrival in my life.       

Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters by Ben H. Winters

Let me begin by explaining why I have not, in my title for this post, credited this book as a collaborative effort, as is done on the cover. You see, while the basic framework for the tale is undoubtedly that of Jane Austen's original book, the story is so fundamentally altered, and in such a thoroughly bizarre manner, that we really must, in all fairness, put the entire burden of both its triumphs and tribulations solely upon Ben H. Winters. And yes, that was an admission that the book does have moments of triumph, despite the  extreme skepticism with which I approached it. I first began to read Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters two years ago, when it first came out, but only one chapter in I abandoned it in fury, a thing I have only done three times in my life - that's how horrible I thought the book was going to be. I decided to pick it up again in fulfillment of the Sense and Sensibility Bicentenary Challenge, hosted by Austenprose, as it was already sitting on my bookshelf. Maybe this is just the happy pregnancy hormones speaking, but I was pleasantly surprised. The same elements that filled me with disgust when I first tried to read the book were no less present than before, but this time around I was able to discern in the book a satiric critique of Austen that I can't help but acknowledge as justified, even though it does rankle.

The fact of the matter is that Jane Austen strictly wrote about the tranquil lives of genteel men and women, never allowing the turbulence of the outside world to interfere with their relatively peaceful existences, despite the fact that she lived in a time of massive social upheaval. This is actually one of the essential elements that makes me love her novels so much: they are an excellent means of escapism. In Mr. Winters' tale, on the other hand, the hostility of the world is ever present. All the characters live in a constant state of imminent peril, such as to render the relatively mundane concerns of society, particularly love and romance, trivial in comparison. Is this a fair critique of Austen? Absolutely, but to take such an approach while billing the novel as a collaborative project (surely for no better reason than that having Austen's name on the cover is publishing gold) seems rather misleading to me.

Instead of the honorable world of Austen's gentlemen and ladies, Mr. Winters takes the reader to a savage place - part fantasy, part horror, and part steampunk - in which humans are engaged in a constant struggle for survival against the creatures of the water. Now one might think that, if all the fish in the sea were determined upon inflicting bodily harm, that people would avoid interacting with them at all costs, but in Mr. Winters' world such logic does not prevail. The humans in this story spend far more time in nautical pursuits than their original counterparts, tempting fate at every turn by embarking on underwater explorations, pleasure boat rides, and even going so far as replacing the role that the metropolis of London played at the time with an underwater city, entrapped in a great glass dome, called Sub-Marine Station Beta. This disregard for life and limb extends to the manner in which servants are treated, who are far more like slaves than freemen, and an unquenchable blood lust, expressed through bloody public spectacles resembling those in which the ancient Romans so greedily indulged. While I am able to rationalize such elements as a deliberate reversal of Austen's portrayal of the world, what I have a far harder time coping with is the insensibility Mr. Winters' attributes to her (I suppose I should say his) characters. Both Marianne and Eleanor constantly ignore blatant signs of danger, consumed instead in their own petty cares, an attribute of obliviousness totally at odds with the characteristics that define not only these two, but all of Austen's heroines. Of course, no one in Austen, regardless of their moral fiber, would pick their teeth, let alone with a cuttlefish bone just hacked up out of one's throat, in the manner that Marianne is here portrayed doing, but perhaps such qualms ignore the spirit of Mr. Winters' project.

Overall, I must admit to thinking this a far better book than the more profitable Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, as Mr. Winters, unlike Seth Grahame-Smith, at least displays a creditable knowledge of Austen original work, his commentary displaying a legitimate engagement in the text rather than a random insertion of desperate elements for the sole purpose of marketing power. However, even disregarding the aspects of the novel that are inherently repulsive to me, it would have been much more successful if some of the newly inserted side plots came to some sort of fruition in the end. Elements such as the Devonshire Fang-Beast and Margaret Dashwood's strange story (neither of which I will elaborate upon, so as to avoid spoilers) prove to have little purpose in the end. Yet as far as monster mashups are concerned, this could have been far worse than it was, and I do not regret, as I feared I would, reading it. A rather lukewarm recommendation, I know, but remarkably generous considering my previous feelings on the genre.