Passive Heroines: Pamela

Pamela by Samuel Richardson contains a great passive heroine/narrator.

Even at the time of publication, critics argued that Richardson's heroine was too passive. Why didn't she simply remove herself from Mr. B's house? (The critics weren't upset about her staying for feminist reasons; they were upset because Pamela didn't behave like a "good" servant.)

However, what even critics like Fielding failed to appreciate was how limited Pamela's options truly were. In the eighteenth century, female servants were supposed to be servile and impoverished or sluts (and impoverished).

Pamela doesn't want to be servile, impoverished, or a slut. Her constant calculation of expenses and belongings isn't manipulative; it is about survival. After all, this is the age of no credit cards, and no welfare where debts could land a person in jail.

But the thing that makes Pamela great is not the heroine's lack of options. Her lack of options is a given. What makes Pamela great is the heroine's wit and willingness to defend what she perceives as her core personality.

One of the difficulties with the book Pamela is how much of the wit is lost in the lecturing. But Richardson was a truly masterful writer. However much he loves to preach, he can't keep Pamela's character from creeping through--and what creeps through is consistent. Behind all the verbiage is a powerful voice that will not be shut up, NOT because Pamela is particularly aggressive (although she is far more assertive than she paints herself) but because her voice comes across as genuine and presents an intelligent, interesting, and passionately held point-of-view.

The genuineness of the voice, to me, is what makes the difference between good passive heroine fiction and bad passive heroine fiction. It isn't about a heroine who tells people off (which too many romance writers, unfortunately, assume). It's about letting the reader into the heroine's head, letting the heroine speak, letting us see her internal conflicts. And if she is witty about it--all the better. 

I am discussing Pamela in part because modern so-called well-rounded and edgy heroines often strike me as rather dull. They evince no more control over the world than Pamela BUT they say all the right things. They react in the ways we expect. Take away the onslaught of this-happened-then-this-then-this, and there's no personality there. 

Below is a list of well-written novels where the heroine is unable to control her circumstances due to conditions and/or personality (i.e. for part of the book, she is a victim), yet she manages to endear herself to the reader and make a life for herself because she has substance:

• Celine by Brock Cole
• Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
• Persuasion by Jane Austen
• Wyrms by Orson Scott Card
• Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett
• Beauty by Robin McKinley
• Deerskin by Robin McKinley
• Book of a Thousand Days by Shannon Hale
• My Happy Marriage by Akumi Agitogi 

The Problem with Cinderella as a Character

I discuss one of my favorite Julia Quinn characters on Votaries.

Here I discuss one of my least favorite. 

This is a repost from 2022. 

*** 

The thing that gets me about offended people and their "triggers" is not the way some of the noisier ones effectively (and quite honestly, abusively) hold other people hostage to their emotions and rationales and justifications--

It's how boring they are. 

And how boring their stories are.

Does anyone really want the story of a life to be, And I was completely and successfully reactive!?

In sum, I don't care much for the Cinderella character. 

I enjoy learning about the tale--the history of it--and I highly recommend this book: 

Glass Slipper, Gold Sandal: A Worldwide Cinderella by Paul Fleischman

But ultimately, Cinderella is a young woman who sits around and waits (patiently, kindly, nobly) for destiny. 

Cinder Edna is much better!

I learned how much I don't warm to the Cinderella myth while reading through the Bridgerton series again. The first, The Duke and I, is the first Julia Quinn I read. It is quite good and in many ways stands out from the rest. The second, The Viscount Who Loved Me, is hilarious (love the mallet of death!). 

The third, Benedict's story, An Offer from a Gentleman, is a Cinderella tale, and although I can acknowledge that the Cinderella, Sophie, inhabits a difficult position, I, ultimately, don't care. 

The problem is, Sophie is so entirely helpless. She doesn't write to distant relatives, like Jane Eyre. When she meets Benedict, she is more interested in having a nice evening out than, ya know, looking for a position, improving her lot in life, and gaining a benefactor, as Harriet Smith or Lucy Steele would do. Lucy Steele may have been a user but at least she looked after herself. Likewise, my version of Mrs. Clay knows exactly what she is up against and manages to play the game intelligently.  

For that matter, Sophie doesn't even decide to leave her negative circumstances of her own volition, as do numerous Georgette Heyer heroines. She doesn't take herself back to the Bridgerton house, ask for help, and stick relentlessly around, like the much younger Pamela, out of the firm and intelligent understanding that rushing off and taking whatever comes along next is a supremely stupid thing for any young woman in the 1800s to do. 

The idea that she is illegitimate and mistreated is used to excuse all this passivity and dumbness. The underlying implication is that trying to better one's life through networking--so one doesn't starve to death in a ditch--is tacky. Books contemporary to the time period addressed the ethics of ladder climbing. Yet even Jane Austen gave us Charlotte. 

Historically, Sophie's limited choices and mindset existed. But those choices become far more limited--and this is an important point--if Sophie wants to stay within a certain class. The truth is, young women in Sophie's situation did live fairly miserable lives. But they often did so because they lingered within the class structure that gave them grief. 

The others ended up with literary revolutionaries similar to Percy Shelley. And he died. Fanny Imlay, Mary Shelley's illegitimate half-sister, killed herself. In the meantime, Mary Shelley wrote a classic.

So unhappy women of that era and that class made do or broke cultural mores, or--and here is where things get truly unimaginable--they accepted a loss of status.

If Sophie willingly accepts that she'll have to spend the rest of her life as a maid, she could make that reality work for her. She could contact an agency. She could use contacts to track down work. She would rapidly learn that her stepmother has limited power and resources. 

But that's a lot of hard work and critical thinking, as Sara demonstrates in The Little Princess, and a change in mental framework. 

One of my favorite scenes from historical romances occurs in KJ Charles's A Gentleman's Position. Sir Richard falls in love with his valet. A good man, he considers any aristocrat who sleeps with his servant to be "taking advantage." So he well-meaningly offers David, his valet, the position of secretary. 

But David doesn't want to be Sir Richard's secretary. He wants Sir Richard to respect the job he does as a valet.  

It is a stunning request for true tolerance, not the fakey tolerance that states that people can only be respected after they have gained exactly the same jobs as powerful people (because the wealthy intelligentsia in America and throughout history has proved itself incapable of respecting anything it doesn't recognize). Instead, David's argument states that maybe the world would be a better place if the non-powerful jobs were actually respected in the first place. 

To be fair, David was born into the class that he defends. Sophie wasn't. 

She could make the switch. 

She doesn't. 

It's easy to feel pity for such a character. It's hard to like her. 

The above is not a dismissal of Julia Quinn's work, by the way. I think she does as well with the Cinderella trope as one can. But I recommend her other books first, especially, particularly, the delightful Romancing Mr. Bridgerton.

Great Laid Back Action Hero: Hugh Beringer

On Votaries, I have reached characters from "P" authors. Since Ellis Peters is one of those authors, I naturally started thinking about the Cadfael mysteries.

Hugh Beringar is a great character, and I realized, much to my delight, that he falls into the category of laid-back hero (see list below). He is the sheriff of Shrewsbury and the surrounding area for most of the Cadfael series. He is spry and lean with dark hair and eyes. He marries early on. Consequently, his life and family parallel Cadfael's--including their pleasure in meeting their sons (new born in Hugh's case; full-grown in Cadfael's case). He remains Cadfael's ally and friend through all the books. 

He is also quite laid-back. Cadfael does not know at first what to make of Hugh, who is observant, calm, and capable of playing a long game. Cadfael begins to trust him and is relieved to have that trust affirmed when Beringar is amused--rather than angry--at being out-maneuvered in One Corpse Too Many. 

In the first season of the series, Beringar is played by Sean Pertwee. The look is absolutely right. Pertwee plays Beringar's character as a tad more uptight--I suppose two entirely sanguine-y characters onscreen would be too much--but he captures the easy push and pull with Cadfael. And Pertwee has this marvelous low-pitched baritone which captures the character's contemplative side.

Other Laid-Back Heroes

• Lieutenant Pruden
  
• More about Loid
• Justin from Secret of Nimh
• Karasuma from Assassination Vacation (with a tribute to Arthur from Inception)
• Yuri from Yuri on Ice!
• Itami from Gate
• Sam Gillespie from Sister Boniface 
• Lieutenant Tao from The Closer and Major Crimes 
• Saitama from One Punch Man

 

Mystery Couple: Alleyn & Troy

Many, many mysteries have a romance--either the detective falls in love with someone or one of the suspects falls in love with another suspect.

Some of the most famous couples in literature come from mysteries. 

On Votaries, I discuss Ngaio Marsh's Alleyn. 

Here I'll discuss Alleyn and Troy. 

An artist, Troy meets Alleyn first on-board a ship and then when he investigates a murder at her workshop for students. Alleyn falls for Troy immediately. She takes longer to come around. Marsh rather half-heartedly puts Troy's uncertainty down to a dislike of Alleyn's job (the murder committed at her workshop is rather horrific). Marsh has Alleyn continue to believe that Troy hates his profession. 

As with Alleyn the character, Marsh is a better writer with Troy than she seems aware. That is, Marsh writes Troy as a solid character whose reserve and diffidence are ingrained. When she tries to explain Troy, she doesn't appear to know what she has created. Troy is a shy woman for whom marriage is not a necessity--due to an inheritance and a vocation. However, unlike Harriet Vane, who struggles with her options, Troy isn't opposed to marriage because of her past. Troy struggles because, hey, marriage is a big leap.

That is, in many ways, Troy's reaction is more similar to that of a Japanese manga character (relationships are HARD--do I really want to go down that path?) than to a Western character suffering from trauma.

I quite like Belinda Lang as Troy in the BBC series. Lang is now the adorable and amusing Mrs. Clam on Sister Boniface.  

Favorite Kleypas Couple: Sebastian and Evangeline

On Votaries, I am discussing characters. I've reached "K" authors. From romance novelist Kleypas...

* * *

In Devil in Winter by Lisa Kleypas, the hero agrees to marry the heroine for money. He then, of course, discovers that she is beautiful and charming and witty and great in bed (not necessarily in that order) although his distress--cash shortage and unhappiness/boredom--is still a factor. 

However, part of his new wife's dowry is her father's club, which has fallen on hard times. To protect his assets, Sebastian becomes directly involved in running the club and subsequently discovers he has a knack for business. 150+ years later, the guy would get an MBA and buy up a bunch of resorts: same principle.

I find the subsequent relationship satisfyingly believable on a psychological level. Running a club is a bit low-class, but the guy has nothing to lose and everything to gain by taking charge. His reaction to the challenge is also believable: his lovely wife doesn't inspire him to take an interest; he takes an interest because he (initially) wants to sell the club at a good price. The impulse comes from him, not her endearing example. 

In other words, he works to find a purpose for himself in life; he doesn't wait around for his wife to nudge him into finding a purpose.

And the spousal relationship moves back onto voluntary grounds and how Sebastian and Evangeline relate to each other. A redeemed rake who honestly falls in love, Sebastian is smart and self-aware enough to know that this time he had better make this relationship work. Evangeline is soft-spoken and gentle with a spine of steel. She has a sense of her own worth, to which Sebastian responds. 

Believable relationship--one of the more satisfying romance couples.

The Laid-Back Detective

On Votaries, I discuss characters from books by "G" authors.

One of those "G" authors is Dorothy Gilman, who wrote the Mrs. Pollifax books, A Nun in the Closet, and The Clairvoyant Countess, one of my favorites.

The Clairvoyant Countess is one of my favorites in part due to Lieutenant Pruden. Lieutenant Pruden is one of those laid-back heroes. In fact, he is quite a bit like Loid from Spy X Family. He is quiet, skeptical, straight-laced but willing to go outside the lines (consult with a clairvoyant). A tad like Hotchner from Criminal Minds but not quite so uptight. For most of my teen years, I was half in love with Pruden.

When I wrote Aubrey, my character Charles Stowe was inspired by Pruden and another Charles: Charles Parker from Sayers' Wimsey detective novels. 

I've covered the attraction of the laid-back hero in a number of posts (see below). Here, I will state that another attraction is the underlying skepticism. Pruden, Parker, and Charles Stowe are open to evidence. They don't make up stories about people and impose them. They go where the clues take them. Their inherent skepticism comes from knowing that where the clues take them might change. They are prepared for their initial reckonings to be wrong. 

For all their by-the-book attitudes, they are actually quite adaptable.

Other Laid-Back Heroes

• More about Loid
• Justin from Secret of Nimh
• Karasuma from Assassination Vacation (with a tribute to Arthur from Inception)
• Yuri from Yuri on Ice!
• Itami from Gate
• Sam Gillespie from Sister Boniface 
• Lieutenant Tao from The Closer and Major Crimes 
• Saitama from One Punch Man
  

Shakespeare's Jealous Couples: Imogen & Posthumus and Others

First of all, Cymbeline is a strange play. 

It is credited to Shakespeare, but it comes across as a kind of spoof play using bits and pieces of Shakespeare from Othello, The Tempest, Romeo & Juliet. Except it ends positively--with pure schmaltzy moralizing--not tragically.

It reads like Stargate having fun with its own tropes, except it is supposed to be serious. So more like a Hollywood production that is trying to capitalize on the latest trends by throwing them all into the screenplay and then demanding that the Oscars treat the result as an intellectual triumph.

Or something. None of the oddities are helped by people continually running off to Milford Haven in Wales (I'm serious). The whole thing sounds like a Greek tragedy set in Swansea or Staten Island. 

The biggest reason to doubt that Shakespeare was taking himself even remotely seriously is the cause of jealousy between the primary couple. It is one of those cases where the Iago figure, Iachimo, persuades the dopey husband that because he has a particular belonging from the wife, she must be guilty of adultery. The dopey husband immediately believes Iachimo--who isn't motivated by anything more than being Italian and something of a playboy (again, I'm serious)--and complications ensue. (The play also includes kidnapped brothers grown to manhood living in the wilderness--Wales--and Roman senators wandering around Briton trying to get tribute and an evil stepmother and an evil prince and...I'M SERIOUS.)

Consider the differences between Imogen/Posthumus and Claudio/Hero from Much Ado About Nothing, not to forget the classic jealous husband/innocent wife: Othello/Desdemona. 

Claudio believes Hero is faithless based on what he sees. His reaction is completely over the top and not all versions keep the couple together at the end. However, Shakespeare is fully aware of Claudio's overreaction. It motivates Benedict to challenge Claudio at the instigation of Beatrice, who is justifiably outraged by the humiliation of her cousin. It also underscores Shakespeare's theme, that words are more reliable than "seeing." 

"Here's our own hands against our hearts," Benedict proclaims at the end. 

In Othello, the behavior of all characters, while not entirely explicable, is grounded in personality. In part, Othello is worked on by Iago, who is jealous of the world and wants to tear others down (Iago is a pre-social media "troll"). In part, Othello is susceptible due to his own mindset.

Sarah Caudwell's Thus Was Adonis Murdered delivers an excellent explanation of Othello. Cantrip, who was forced to see a stage version of the play, is speaking:

I said afterwards I thought it was pretty silly, because the Othello chap's meant to have done frightfully well in the army and be a wiz at strategy and all that. And in that case, he wouldn't be the sort of twit who thought his wife was having it off with someone else just because she lost her handkerchief. And Julia didn't agree. Well, what she was actually said was that I was a semi-educated flibbertigibbet whose powers of dramatic appreciation would be strained to the utmost by a Punch and Judy show....You see, the way Julia saw it was that a chap who'd spent all his life in the army was just the sort of chap to get a bee in his bonnet about pure womanhood and so on, because he wouldn't get the chance to find out that women were more or less like anyone else and he'd start getting all idealistic about them. So as soon as he found out that Desdemona wasn't perfect--I mean, the first time she spilt coffee or dropped cigarette ash on the carpet--he'd start feeling all disillusioned and thinking she'd betrayed his ideals. And after that, making him believe she was having it off with some other chap would be absolute child's play.

The meat of what Cantrip states is in Shakespeare's script.

In Cymbeline, there's little character development and little thematic development. Posthumous gets jealous on cue. Feels bad on cue. Iachimo behaves badly on cue. Repents on cue. Things happen because the script says so. 

I can't help but wonder if Shakespeare was badgered by his shareholders into writing a play and said, "Fine! You want a play?! Here's all my ideas in a single script--I'll trot them out one after another."

Or, since Shakespeare wasn't adverse to making money, he said, "Sure! Let's trot out all my best ideas and make a bundle!"

 Or maybe Shakespeare was getting meta:

The Other Taboo: Humans and Animals and the Line

On Votaries, I have written about untamed horses and their connection to a human. 

Here, I am writing about the taboo: falling in love with an animal. 

Catherine the Great supposedly had sex with horses. According to Virginia Rounding and other historians, the event never happened, but "Catherine's sex life was...a common subject for ribaldry" in Petersburg and countries of Europe (Rounding). 

Ribaldry is the common response. According to my cursory research on the subject, falling in love with animals is apparently not the same as bestiality. People who actually get emotionally and romantically attached to an animal rarely have sex with them. Bestiality is more about, ah, convenience, and it is treated with amusement. 

As a character relates in A Prairie Dog's Love Song by Eli Easton--after the main male character informs the townspeople that he intends to bring a young male citizen of the town home and marry him--

"Then Old Jenks stood up. You know how crazy he is about Old West history. He said cowboys humped each other all the time, back in the day...and some of 'em even paired up for keeps...And about then Ike said 'better a good-looking boy like Ben than sheep.' And I swear that was aimed at someone in particular." 

The story of Catherine the Great was always told as a salacious "ha ha" story when I heard it growing up. And when Boston Legal had a subplot where a man wanted to marry a cow, the casting director chose Michael McKean to play the man--could (would) anyone else have taken the part? And of course, there's Bottom from Midsummer Night's Dream.

What fascinates me here is that generally speaking, having sex with an animal is considered taboo and funny. But having sex with a shapeshifter is entirely okay.  

Granted, I'm talking about romance/fantasy here. But the idea appears in mythology as well. Belle's Beast is humanoid enough to be non-taboo, even before he turns into a human prince. Sex with sirens and enchantresses, even those with cloven hoofs, also okay (if dangerous). Mer-people in general: okay. 

It's almost the opposite response to incest. With incest, the appearance of a sibling connection calls the relationship into doubt. With bestiality, everything is okay until the beast actually turns into a non-speaking, non-sentient animal. 

Humans are mammals after all.

Absolute Equals: Two Appealing M/M Couples

One of my favorite Bones-Booth moments is when Sweets

insists that they do an outside exercise together. Bones & Booth

behave like mature equals, more than Sweets & his partner.

On Votaries, I discuss characters in books, good, bad, and...eh. 

Lately, I reached "C". I analyze Alice from Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll and Bren from C.J. Cherryh's Foreigner series. 

On this blog, I often comment on the same characters' love lives. Alice--despite various opinions about Lewis Carroll and Alice Liddell--doesn't have a romance, and Bren--who has an Atevi partner--is mostly concerned in the later books with politics and survival and friendships. 

So I am reposting about two romance couples, one created by KJ Charles!  

* * * 

Many romances employ rescue missions whereby one character decides to rescue/save another. The romances are about what one character can do for the other.

I'm not necessarily opposed to these plots, so long as I am left believing that the relationship is reasonably functional. Everybody got what they signed up for.

However, I admit, I absolutely adore those relationships where I believe that the relationship is equal, that the oddities of each partner have been taken into account and dismissed or fully accepted, that the author has in fact achieved a 50/50 balance (which is difficult in fiction and in real life):

Possible cover from Goodreads

Dominic-Silas

From KJ Charles's Seditious Affair, Dominic and Silas are equals despite the differences in background, education, and money. They both adore books. They both admire each other's honesty and goodwill, even if they utterly disagree over the other man's politics. And it all comes down to their ability to stand outside themselves objectively and accept the other person as he is.

Dominic likes to be dominated during sex. If Silas was an even slightly different personality, this aspect of their relationship would also be their downfall. If, for instance, Silas allowed politics to bleed over into the sexual arena, if he used dominance to bully, if he perceived Dominic's needs not as an individual quirk but as an opportunity to mock and deride, the relationship would falter and die within a few months. Silas would be the opposing side to Lord Richard's overly patronizing coin (Lord Richard is a good, flawed character).

Instead, to Lord Richard, Silas barks, "I said, you won't [make Dominic behave]. You've hag-ridden [him] for fifteen years, and I won't have you giving him another dose of what's wrong with him. It's not his doing I'm mixed up in this [seditious affair], and you, friend, you aren't making me into a stick to beat him with because you don't like his ways."

He defends Dominic. Dominic defends him. In the end, Silas will get his bookstore back. And he'll honor the person loaning him the money. And they will have the companionship they both desire.

The younger versions.

Diego-Mark

Many of L.A. Witt's Anchor Point novels revolve around military men with problems: PTSD, physical ailments, alcoholism, etc. Generally speaking, I appreciate how she often solves the issues without solving them. That is, the couple learns to deal--the issues don't vanish.

Diego and Mark have their issues. What I liked about Once Burned specifically is how willing Diego and Mark are to allow the other person to be different. Diego is not religious; Mark is. Diego is not military anymore (against his wishes); Mark is. Good grief, they even like different sports teams!

The issue at the end is not Hey, can you deal with my crap? The issue at the end, interestingly enough, is forgiveness, not of each other but of the past. Crappy things happened to me. Am I going to let that control my relationship with you? 

Individually, they both decide, No. 

Redemption in Romance: When It Works and When It Doesn't

Two books about redemption by the same author, Eliot Grayson, point to the problem of redemption and romance. 

In The Alpha's Gamble, Blake is a self-entitled playboy who once harmed Declan, hotel owner. Now, Declan is forcing Blake to a reckoning. And they fall in love--after a number of misunderstandings. 

In Lost and Bound, animal-shifter Jared once tried to take control of his pack by betraying and using various people. Trapped by someone who was using him, he ends up meeting Calder. They become lovers. Jared comes to a personal reckoning and eventually reunites with the people he betrayed, who forgive him. 

The difference has to do with experience. In The Alpha's Gamble, at one point, Blake tries to tell Declan that he is being watched, possibly stalked. Declan doesn't entirely believe him and later states, "It's like the boy who cries wolf..."

And here's the thing: Declan isn't wrong. He is wrong in this instance, but he isn't wrong to use past experience as a guide. 

Calder, however, doesn't have that baggage. Jared doesn't lie to Calder about what he did to other people, and Calder objectively assesses Jared's level of culpability. He doesn't have any personal reason to distrust Jared. 

Experience matters. Trusting one's past judgment matters. Being able to trust those instincts matters. 

Consequently, I don't entirely believe in the Blake-Declan relationship. I'm not saying forgiveness isn't possible. But, again, forgiveness doesn't automatically annihilate experience. Cesar Millan's willingness to go back into the "ring" with red-zone dogs isn't the product of naivety but a willingness to try again without holding the dog's state against the dog. 

Asking humans to do the same is an ideal--I'm not sure, however, that it makes for a comfortable relationship for either party.

That is, Blake can, in fact, redeem himself. Declan can, in fact, forgive him.  

That doesn't mean the relationship will work. It doesn't mean that Declan won't forever associate a particular set of memories and feelings--(Give me a break; you just make stuff up, you weasel)--with the person before him. Whether or not he should is a separate question from reality: we know what we know because of things that happen. Age and experience do matter. The "what" of our personalities--what we do, what we see, what we choose--does matter. 

Defending the Indefensible Relationship: Austen's Mrs. Clay & Mr. Elliot; Richardson's Mr. B & Pamela

On Votaries, I discuss unliked characters who end up with their own books. 

Unliked relationships are a little less likely to be defended. P.D. James did defend Withers in her Death at Pemberley but not because his relationship with Lydia had substantially altered. 

I defend two classic relationships, one negative in the original text; one negative according to later critics.

In Persuadable, Mrs. Clay pursues and married Mr. Elliot. I basically make them low-key grifters who recognize each other's nature. They are attracted to each other, mostly because the people around them are so comparatively boring. 

Interestingly enough, although Jane Austen quite often ruthlessly goes after opportunists, she lets Mrs. Clay do whatever Mrs. Clay does. There's an entirely unspoken acknowledgement that women who marry for money or position or protection are, in fact, saving their skins. She treats Charlotte from Pride & Prejudice coldly but with understanding. 

The second relationship is Mr. B and Pamela in Mr. B Speaks! When Samuel Richardson's book was published, this couple was...think Brad & Jennifer, Taylor & Burton, the Twilight stuff. HUGE. Real churches rang real bells in celebration of the marriage. Sure, Henry Fielding mocked Pamela with Shamela, but most people were totally on-board. Mr. B and Pamelay WERE the eighteenth century's favorite couple.

Now-a-days, we look askance. Mr. B appears to stalk Pamela; he kidnaps her, harasses her, nearly (but doesn't) rape her, plans to fool her with a fake clergyman, and then, finally, marries her. 

However, I think that Richardson is a great example of a guy who thought he was writing one book but got too interested in something else. He gets too interested in the debate/repartee between Mr. B and Pamela. 

Those conversations, when shorn of their eighteenth century verbiage, strike me as something one hears on The Thin Man. 

So I set out to explain and justify that relationship. 

(Persuadable & Mr. B Speaks! will be republished by Aurora & Bob Press in 2025.)

A-Z Romance! Enoch and Anachronisms

Suzanne Enoch's books strike me as modern people doing stuff in Regency dress. Independent young women take risks that not even Bronte would defend.

And if people enjoy that kind of thing, they should read it! 

I don't much. Many of the historical romances I read use modern-ish language and avoid some of the more unpalatable attitudes of the past. Yet I accept many of them as true-to-the time period.

And I asked myself, How does a contemporarily-written historical romance avoid sounding too modern?

The solution, I determined, comes down to the characters' mindsets.

In one of the many Jane Eyres I've watched, Jane Eyre and Helen are introduced as two giggling girls with beautiful hair. They bond when they both have their hair cut off (the event is borrowed from a minor character in the book). The haircutting is preceded with a show of bravado as they both coyly offer up their hair to the bad headmaster. It's the equivalent of the obnoxious junior high girls who say, "Oh, absolutely, whatever you say" to the teacher in fake compliant voices.

Lowood is a horrible place, and the headmaster is a horrible guy. But the confident, quirky, sarcastic behavior of the girls does not fit the time period.

Consider that Jane is inwardly defiant and Helen is dying. What do they actually say to each other in Bronte's novel?

[Jane said,] “Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a liar?”

“Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard you called so, and the world contains hundreds of millions.”

“How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said?”

“Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: nor is he even a great and admired man: he is little liked here; he never took steps to make himself liked. Had he treated you as an especial favourite, you would have found enemies...Besides, Jane”—she paused. “If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends.”

“No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough: if others don’t love me I would rather die than live—”

“Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are too impulsive, too vehement.”

Helen's response here is Daria coupled with religious fervor while Jane's is pure passion and anxiety. Both are entirely appropriate to the time period. Yet Jane, Helen, and Miss Temple do nothing to risk Jane or Helen actually being expelled.

In sum, in believable contemporarily written historical novels, characters are aware of the real risks of their setting and try to handle them.

KJ Charles's Band Sinister is a great example. A young man and his sister, Guy and Amanda, end up in the house of a man, Philip, with a bad reputation. It turns out that the supposed rake doesn't have orgies and consort with Satan-worshippers. He does consort with Deists and early Bohemians. 

The characters are mostly all members of the gentry, but unlike the others, Guy and Amanda are reliant on a stingy and censorious aunt for their allowance, Amanda's marriage prospects, and their overall acceptance in genteel society. A scandal would massively hurt that relationship. 

Consequently, towards the end of the novel, Guy and Philip have a raging row about Guy bowing to "proprieties," but then, Philip can afford to shrug his shoulders at society while Guy is thinking about the future and survival. Guy and Amanda do want to be free of the aunt. They consider selling their books and furniture and setting up on their own. That decision would entail a total change in lifestyle for the siblings, which Philip doesn't understand until some of his more Bohemian friends point it out to him.

When Philip returns to clear the air and offer Guy a better alternative, Guy still doesn't thumb his nose at his aunt. He is as courteous as he can be. As Philip states,

"[M]erely listening to that conversation [between you, Guy, and your aunt] just now, I wanted to leave that room a pile of smouldering wreckage. Whereas you didn't, despite far greater provocation. You thought; you were kind; you at least made a reconciliation possible in the future...I'm already notorious. I can't prevent any of that, so the question is whether you are prepared to accept a certain amount of unwanted attention of ill-natured gossip [by becoming Philip's secretary]."

Guy replies, 

"I daresay I can learn not to mind being talked about, if you don't mind trying to be talked about a bit less."

The language is somewhat modern. But the acknowledgment of real choices and real consequences and real risks within the milieu makes the book "historical."

Capturing the mindsets of the past may not be entirely possible--it should be attempted.

A-Z Romance! Drake

I picked up Olivia Drake's The Duke I Once Knew. Although I found the main character engaging, and I appreciated her desire to head out on her own, I found the premise somewhat unappealing:

She goes to work as a governess for the sister of a man with whom she lost contact years earlier. They blame each other for the ceased contact, and she never wants to see him again!

Yet she goes to work for his sister...

Right.

I think Elizabeth Bennet visiting Pemberley is allowable because (1) it is one day; (2) she is honestly curious about Darcy. She is shocked to encounter Darcy but accepts his appearance as an acceptable possibility. They use the encounter to reach a friendly peace, before Darcy determines to court her again.

But going to stay on an estate owned by a man whom one supposedly loathes because he broke one's heart--with the excuse that he won't ever visit--makes me roll my eyes. Even though the main character has limited options and is afraid her family will change her mind if she doesn't move rapidly (one of her more believable motivations), she does have other options.

Take Jane Eyre:

Jane spends eight years at Lowood as a student where she "had the means of an excellent education" and two as a teacher. However, once Miss Temple leaves, she finds she is tired of the "uniform" life.

I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space: “Then,” I cried, half desperate, “grant me at least a new servitude!”

So she places an advertisement in the paper.

"A young lady accustomed to tuition is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children are under fourteen. She is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good English education, together with French, Drawing, and Music.”

She only receives one reply--from Mrs. Fairfax--but here is a young lady at the age of eighteen showing more careful thought and activity about her future than a character who is near thirty. She later uses her education to help at St. Rivers' school. 

I don't much care for female characters who treat every encounter as an opportunity to argue; however, I do rather like them to use their heads. I don't care for heroines who are maneuvered into situations they would never have brought upon themselves: oh, my, how did that happen? 

Elizabeth and Jane comes across as more modern than some contemporarily written historical characters.  

The issue of lovers who previously fell out beginning over--see Austen's Persuasion--will crop up again.

A-Z Romance! Ashford

On Votaries, I have several A-Z Lists where I work my way through fiction and non-fiction books, usually in some type of alphabetical order (though non-fiction was by Dewey Decimal number).

I decided to approach new paperback romance authors in the same manner.

I started with Jane Ashford and was impressed enough to look up a second novel.

The book was A Gentleman Ought to Know, the fourth book in a series. Generally, the writing is solid though in a few places the point of view shifts unexpectedly--disconcerting though not enough to disconnect the reader.

The characters have substance. I was especially impressed by the family-feeling amongst the Deepings. Some contemporary historical novels feel a little too modern; some feel a little too "mannered." The family in this novel struck me as natural. They are gentry, rather than aristocrats, so the kind of people Darcy would know and they behave like Darcy at home (as opposed to Darcy in London or Netherfield).

Darcy at home.

The main characters also have distinct personalities. Charlotte is a very independent, outspoken woman etc. etc. (This character type will come up many times on this list.) However, Ashford does a decent job making the independence and outspoken prickliness part of the character's personality rather than some kind of laid-on set of character traits. Charlotte comes across as a full person.

And there's a mystery! It is more suspenseful than clue-laden--though the Sherlock-like character, Merlin, appears in a later book--but I'm a fan of romance novels resting on something other than the courtship. An actual "case" helps.

Unexpectedly good start to this list!

Ellis Peters' Romantic Couples

In Golden Age mysteries, it is customary to have a courting young couple--so much so in Ngaio Marsh's mysteries that her courting couples (with the exception of Peregrine and Emily) tend to blur together.

Agatha Christie was exceptional, in part because she had the capacity to imagine different types of relationships. Still, the custom is such a strong one that several mystery writers remark wryly on it.

 

The custom has continued into the present day. It is apparent in Ellis Peters' books. Nearly all of Ellis Peters' books have a courting couple, helped quite often by Cadfael. However, one major difference to other courting couples in mysteries is that the Peters couple is almost always directly connected to the problem: the young squire who wants to marry his lord's fiancée; the young woman who is courted by a possible sociopath; the young monk who realizes he doesn't really want to be a monk after all and stays in Wales.

 

The couples don't particularly stand out but they fulfill their purposes within the narrative arc. Excellent Mystery is an exception in that it directly tackles loyalty within a marriage. Hugh Beringer and his bride are also notable since for all her quiet supposed meekness, Aline is a dignified aristocrat who knows her rights. In fact, many of Peters' brides-to-be are more canny and tough-minded than their idealistic mates.

 

A non-consummated, non-young relationship is Cadfael & Sister Magdalen (formerly Avice of Thornbury) who meet in The Leper of Saint Giles. They both came to the religious life after a life in the world, and they tackled worldly pursuits with eyes wide open. They took on their religious avocations in much the same way. They are kindly, pragmatic, and natural leaders, though Cadfael sticks to a more independent style of leadership. 

 

The book and television series both do a good job implying a natural bond between the two.

 

Ellis Peters's "modern" mysteries (they take place from the 1950s to 1970s), give readers George and Bunty: the solid, mutually respectful relationship of two people with distinct personalities, interests, and experiences.

Villainous Lovers

Many romances--mild, tame, spicy, hot, and steamy--include villainous heroes. These are heroes that for all intents and purposes act not too differently from the bad guy: they kidnap the heroine, occasionally threaten her, and behave ruthlessly. Oddly enough, they rarely stalk (take that, Edward!) though they aren't adverse to interfering in the heroine's life when they believe themselves justified.

Naturally, in real life, one would question the advisability of pursuing a man of this type. In fiction, however, the villainous hero can be a lot of fun.

However, even in fiction, the villainous hero can prove problematic. I've read novels where the villainous hero won my endorsement, and I've read novels where the villainous hero caused me to roll my eyes: Oh, please, how on earth is the heroine supposed to know the difference between him and the bad guy?

I think it comes down to a matter of writing. Here are characterizations that distinguish the worthwhile villainous hero from the ridiculous villainous hero:

1. The villainous hero undergoes a change.

That is, by the end of the novel, the villainous hero has recognized the inappropriateness of his earlier behavior. In Prince of Dreams by Lisa Kleypas, the hero actually undergoes a Scrooge-like dream sequence which teaches him a new way of relating to others.

However, in another novel by Kleypas, Tempt Me at Twilight the hero is not only the same person when the novel ends, but . . .

2. The writer acknowledges that the villainous hero should change his behavior.

. . . the writer seems to justify the villainous hero's behavior.

I do mean the writer, not the narrator. One problem with the Twilight series is that Meyers seems unaware that she created a stalky, dysfunctional hero. If she just didn't care, eh, c'est la vie (this post is aimed at approaches to writing, not politics or social behavior), but she tries to justify Edward's behavior: always a mistake.

This issue of writer disconnect also arose in Buffy where Spike was treated like a villainous hero (a character capable of change and of being loved by Buffy) by the writers who then wanted to pretend they weren't doing precisely what they were doing: "Spike's a bad guy! Girls, don't you realize how bad Spike is?!"

Once the rules are established (some vampires, like Angel, can be forgiven), writers need to keep them.

3. The villainous hero is a bad boy--but not egregiously so.

That is, his faults fall into the forgivable range (I am excluding recently souled vampires). In the above mentioned Kleypas books, the villainous hero in Prince of Dreams confronts and scares off the heroine's current boyfriend. This is bad but not unforgivable. The boyfriend is a shallow Wickham-type character. Plus, the villainous hero does the confronting himself.

In the second book, the hero scares off the heroine's current boyfriend, but the boyfriend is just a waffling putz, and the hero doesn't do the confronting himself; he manipulates events into forcing the boyfriend to retreat. Setting aside the badness of a relationship built on manipulation, it's completely underhanded and not at all heroic.

Frankly, Kleypas did a better job with this particular plot device the first time.

Everett isn't the villain in this movie--

but he has the right qualities.

4. The villainous hero is more interesting than the other characters.

Part of what makes the villainous hero so much fun is his sarcastic humor. (In a total aside, Britishers do sarcastic lovers better than anybody else; in the first Pirates movie, Jack Davenport as Norrington comes across as attractive and heroic ex-boyfriend rather than baffled and bumbling ex-boyfriend precisely because of his dry sarcasm and wry raised eyebrow. At one point, after he has declared that Sparrow is a terrible pirate, Sparrow gets away. A sailor exclaims, "That is the best pirate I have ever seen!" Instead of looking embarrassed or outraged, Davenport as Norrington just looks completely miffed.)

A villainous hero who can't outwit everyone else is a dead-loss. What's he the villainous hero for?

I place Mr. B of Pamela and Mr. B Speaks! (my personal tribute) into this category. As one of my characters states, "Mr. B is a very funny guy." Without Mr. B as a sparring partner, Pamela would be a good deal less interesting and interested.

5. The reader believes at the end that the heroine is with the right person.

To refer again to Kleypas's books, the heroine in Prince of Dreams is exactly and precisely with the right person. She is strong-minded, tough, and more than capable of handling the hero.

Attached to review of Kleypas's Devil in

Winter, which book contains

a great reformed rake!

However, I doubt the heroine in Kleypas's second book, who just wants a peaceful life but ends up with an alpha-needy-dominant husband, will have everlasting happiness (by the way, I feel the same way about romances where a highly opinionated, constantly challenging-the-man, pushy heroine marries a man who really just wants some peace and quiet).

As for Pamela, Richardson is quite convincing regarding Pamela's ability to handle Mr. B. Not only do readers get the impression that Pamela can handle a man approximately 9 years her senior, readers also get the impression she would be bored out of her skull with anyone else.

6. The true villain still needs to be worse!

Moral and ethical standards should never be entirely abandoned. A heroine who marries an absolute villain, no matter how attractive, will lose the support of the reader. "My man right or wrong" only works as long as the man is weaving his way towards the right OR the heroine knows what she has signed up for. "My man must be right because I love him" only works if the reader knows the heroine is correct (by getting inside the hero's head). Otherwise, the heroine will come across as a vapid moron, the hero as a scoundrel, and nobody will be respected in the morning.

The Partner Who Learns to Trust: Not Enough of a Plot

The plot arc of the significant other who is learning to trust again is very relatable. 

And not much to go on. 

I've encountered the arc numerous times in romance literature, all romance literature in every culture: one member of the couple (or both) has been hurt in love: turned down repeatedly, abused, mocked, dumped, and so on. 

Everyone can relate. Consider the magnificent "Rose." People get hurt, creep away, consider whether or not to risk their hearts again. 

I'm not against the theme. I'm just not particularly impressed by the storyline. 

The problem? It is rather like a happier version of the Titanic (a ship is heading to New York...and goes down!). The main character doesn't want to trust again...and does!

So? 

It is far better if the point of trust is connected to something else, to a larger arc. 

For example, in Dorothy Sayers' Harriet-Peter romance, Harriet--who lived with a jerk and then got put on trial for murdering him--is justifiably untrusting of relationships in general. She feels wrung out, fearful of being taken advantage of, wary of Wimsey's strong personality that might overwhelm hers. And what she goes through is powerful but by itself, it would be...honestly, like a lot of naval-gazing contemporary literature. And some manga that never seems to go anywhere. 

Luckily, Sayers wrote mysteries! In Have His Carcass, Harriet is forced to face the gap between her strong personality, which motivates her to investigate despite the potential negative fall-out, and her fears. In Gaudy Night, Harriet finds balance in her life and makes a choice to leave a safe haven--which Wimsey has restored to her--in order to tackle the ups and downs of an emotional relationship.

In manga, the Never Let Go series by Saki Sakimoto produces an omega who has every reason to distrust relationships (his family kicked him out of the house when he was a teen). The second volume almost goes too far down that rabbit hole (how many times can people run away from arguments?) but stops short because the non-trusting character is able to take a stance on how the relationship should function in terms of what the couple does: take trips, visit parents, divide up chores. Concrete events are on the table.  

Here is the dirty little secret of this problem: reassurance, protection, support is wonderful. But it will never be enough to conquer the fears. The protagonist has to make it happen, and in literature (and film), "make it happen" = action.

Have a character learn to trust by all means--but make sure they learn while they are doing other stuff or by doing other stuff.

Are Soulmates Possible in History? Yes!

On Votaries, I review Gary Corby's series in which a young Athenian man at the beginnings of Athenian democracy, which lasted about fifty years, investigates crimes. He, Nicolaos, is helped by his soulmate, Diotima. He finds her beautiful. He also likes her intelligence and her fierceness. He takes for granted certain prerogatives of his culture, but he also prefers to work with Diotima rather than treat her as an adversary whose biology makes her someone to pat on the head and/or control. 

So, is Corby being historically accurate? The books are impressively accurate in terms of setting and history and attitudes. Is his couple possible? 

Yup! 

These couples exist all over the ancient world. There are in the Bible, for one. And in myth, including Osiris and Isis. And in historical accounts which discuss husbands consulting and relying on their wives. Tiye in Ancient Egypt was "The Elder Lady" and clearly a kind of power broker. Before he locked her up, Henry II put Eleanor of Aquitaine in charge of his entire kingdom on several occasions. He locked her up because she sided with their sons, not because he ever viewed her as incompetent (quite the opposite).

The characters in Corby's series are lower middleclass (modern terms but the closest I can get) rather than high society power brokers. But in truth, high society tends to be more reactionary and conservative than classes in which men and women work side by side on a daily basis. Consider debutantes and other such roles that linger even today.

Antonia Fraser's The Weaker Vessel, which covers what we would term "middleclass" couples, points to this truth. Men and woman had as variable relationships in the past as they do now. Women in bad situations who wanted to leave and women who wanted to, say, go to college and become lawyers didn't really get those chances. But that doesn't mean that all couples were composed of a domineering man and a fragile obedient woman. That dynamic did exist. And so did many, many other dynamics! 

Lovers of Valdaro

People are people--which means that in the past in a relationship some people wanted a helpmeet. Some wanted a soulmate. Some were overwhelmed by emotion and lust. Some married because somebody told them to (both men and women married for this reason). Some because of propinquity. Some because of friendship. Some because they wanted to escape scandal. Some because they wanted money. Some because they wanted position. Some because they wanted kids. Some because they were escaping something else. Some because it was just the next thing that one did. Some because...

Nicolaos and Domitia are entirely possible!