In this novel, Georgette Heyer largely dispenses with having a plot and just goes full on in enjoying her supporting characters. And I enjoyed them too. I bought this at the last minute when I made the discovery that books about solitary confinement (SOLITARY) and rape (THINGS WE DIDN’T TALK ABOUT WHEN I WAS A GIRL) were not the most ideal for when you are trying to relax on holiday. You really shouldn’t be lying in your hotel bed blubbing gently about systemic racism in Louisiana while on vacation. There’s plenty of time to do that at home.
So I went to Heyer, as I so often do at such times, and she provided just the gentle cheering up I needed. Apparently this was her last Regency romance, written in 1972, and I think it shows: she can hardly be bothered to go through the motions. Oddly, I read her first, REGENCY BUCK (written 1935, and which invented the genre) the last time I was on holiday. By the end, apparently she was only churning them out to pay the bills (mostly tax) while she worked on what she thought would be her ‘magnum opus’: a medieval trilogy covering the House of Lancaster from 1393 to 1435.
She died before she could finish this, which she thought would be her most important and serious work. Perhaps there’s a lesson for us there, that we better get busy with what’s important before it’s too late. Though on the other hand, apparently what she did manage to finish of the trilogy was totally panned when it came out. Her romances, trash though she clearly thought they were, solider on: REGENCY BUCK is nearly a hundred years old and still in print. So perhaps there is still a lesson there, but it’s going to take a little thought to find out what it is.