Another incomparable book from Jayne Davis, an author who always seems to come up with a unique look at the Regency era, without ever stepping outside the bounds of proper behaviour.
Here’s the premise: Joanna Stretton isn’t looking for love, filling her days with caring for her sick mama and helping her papa, rather secretly, with his investment projects. But when she meets handsome and charming Captain Alfred Bengrove, the younger son of a viscount, she can’t resist. He’s only visiting for a week before returning to his regiment in Spain, but he asks Jo to wait for him to return from the war, and she agrees. It’s not a betrothal, but it is a commitment, of sorts. But his family assume it’s a definite betrothal, and then comes the devastating news that Alfred is missing in action.
Happily, he’s only injured and captured by the French, but it’s his writing hand that’s out of action, so he ropes in a fellow captured officer, Captain Robert Delafield, to write his letters home, including those to Joanna. And even when Alfred is well enough to write his own letters, somehow Rob finds a reason to continue to write to Joanna. A most improper correspondence!
And so the stage is set. The reader sees the worst of Alfred, during his time as a prisoner of war in France, and understands that he’s only chasing after Jo for her dowry and the inheritance from her father (she’s an only child and he’s very rich). His obnoxious and snobby family make it obvious, too. And Rob, of course, the hero, is everything that a hero should be – honourable, kind, thoughtful, intelligent and poor. Wait, what? But that doesn’t matter, since she’s so rich… and no, this is not that book, that founders because she’s rich and he’s poor. The only question is how long it will take Jo to switch allegiance once the prisoners return to England. Spoiler: not very long at all. In fact, it all seemed a bit sudden to me. Not the part about wanting to dump the obnoxious Alfred, but the speed with which Jo decided she wanted to marry Rob. But it was a wonderful moment, so let it stand.
If I have a quibble at all (and it’s a minor one), it’s that Jo’s mother, who’s the daughter of an earl, chooses not to use her courtesy title. She could be Lady Frances Stretton after her marriage, but she chooses to be Mrs Stretton, which of course is entirely her right. But given that she’s so conscious of rank, and so keen for Jo to move in the ‘higher society’ of the aristocracy, it seems an odd choice. And then it’s confusing for those who don’t know her. I’m a great believer in everyone being aware of the exact rank of everyone else (or how else is one to know the precise depth to which one is expected to curtsy?). I’ve read several books where the hero introduces himself as simply {Name} and he’s assumed to be Mr Name, when he’s really the Earl of Name (or similar). It’s misleading and potentially embarrassing.
Now in this case, it does lead to some glorious set-downs, such as when the obnoxious Alfred’s even more obnoxious mother patronisingly asks Jo how she would address the daughter of an earl, and she perkily replies, “The one I know, I call Mama.” Which is lovely, but I still think the obnoxious mother ought to be told this sort of thing upfront. And later, when she (a mere viscountess) says she outranks Mrs (or Lady Frances) Stretton, she’s plain wrong. They both have the rank of a viscountess. A daughter of the aristocracy married to a commoner retains her birth rank from her father, leading to the non-intuitive result that of two sisters, both daughters of earls, the one married to a commoner outranks her sister married to a baron, who takes her rank solely from her husband. But that’s a huge digression, and not really relevant.
In summary, another wonderful five-star read from the author. Highly recommended.
Well, that was a slog, and no mistake. 673 pages, according to Amazon, and I felt every single one of them. And the worst of it is that nothing happens for most of them, it’s just Mary agonising about about herself, life and everything. There’s a little burst of action right at the end, but really, it was too little, too late.
The third part of this series, and the routine is well established now. An unlikely debutante is chosen to make her entrance to society under the aegis of one of six ladies who had no daughter of their own. Said debutante gets into a multitude of trouble, falls out with the hero (a relative of the sponsoring lady) who then rescues her from even worse trouble and a happy ending hoves into view.
A fine read – why have I never come across this author before? There’s a lot of sex in it, but it’s appropriate for the story and the characters.
This is the first of a series of novellas, but they’re so interconnected, with the same set of characters running throughout, that I’m going to review the series as a whole. Suffice to say that I practically inhaled these over a long weekend of travelling – they are near-perfect bite-sized Regencies. Here are the five books:
This is such a hot mess of a book. Joan Smith is always a bit hit or miss, but this one was a spectacular miss, without a single likeable character or plot event.
A much better read than the first book in the series (The First Snowdrop, to which I gave three stars – for a Mary Balogh book!). This one has a vastly improved hero, and two possible brides for him, both trying to do their best in difficult circumstances.
I don’t know why, but I felt like I’d read this book before. The grumpy heroine, the eccentric lord who courts her (sort of), the even more eccentric companion and the smuggling subplot – it all felt a bit familiar. But the tetchy arguments between hero and heroine (I won’t flatter them by calling them banter) and the not-quite-sure-what-he’s-up-to hero are classic Joan Smith, and it was all very enjoyable.
Well, here’s a thing – a Kate Archer book that failed to make the 5* grade. What went wrong? Well, technically nothing. The book’s as entertaining as the previous ones, but somehow it felt very samey. The country girl brought up to London to be launched into society by a high-ranking lady with no daughter of her own, the business of planning gowns and public appearances, the (male) relation of said high-ranking lady who is immediately drawn to the country girl, the balls and misunderstandings and comic servants and so on. There are differences, but there’s a strong air of deja vu about it.
One of the things I most admire about Mary Balogh is her ability to look unflinchingly at her characters and their behaviour. This is one of those cases where I rather wish she had flinched, and given the hero at least one or two redeeming features. This was her first published work, so perhaps one should make allowances, but it’s difficult. This is a fairly ranty review so it’s quite spoilerish. Don’t read unless you want to know most of the plot.