[9/10]
Miss Darracott, an intelligent girl, now perceived that in harbouring for as much as an instant the notion of marrying a man who fell so lamentably short of the ideal lover she was an irreclaimable ninnyhammer.
Georgette Heyer could show a thing or two to the master of the genre, P. G. Wodehouse, about how to write a country manor farce, a screwball comedy of manners set in Sussex a few years after the defeat of Napoleon. I believe this is called the Regency Period, and that Heyer can definitely claim ownership of the historical period in literature.
Stiff-rumped, that’s what he was, always nabbing the rust, or riding grub, like he had been for months past.
In other words, Lord Darracott is one grumpy customer, making everybody staying at Darracott Manor tremble in their boots in apprehension when they notice one of his moods descending like a dark cloud over their lives.
Currently, the cause of Lord Darracot’s ire is the impending visit of his nephew, Major Hugo Darracott, raised in a workman’s house in Yorkshire and recently elevated to the status of heir to the Darracott Estate.
Everybody, from the Lord down to the lowest scullery maids and stable boys, is in dread of this uncouth presence, a young man raised in a commoner’s house who may have distinguished himself in the War, but could not possibly fit among the gentry, the Gentlemen of Fashion, the Ton who set the London scene buzzing.
Among the inhabitants of Darracott house are Mrs. Darracott, widow of the other son of the Lord, dead in a recent accident, her beautiful but headstrong daughter Anthea, who came back from her debutante season in London still single and young Richard, a spoiled brat who dreams of joining a horse regiment. Also present are Lady Aurelia, a formidable matron, wife of another Darracott scion, with her two older sons, Vincent and Claud, both famous dandies on the London scene.
Authoritarian Lord Darracott plans to educate young Hugo in the refinements of high society, with help from Vincent and Claud, to shape him into a malleable and harmless man by marrying him to his niece Anthea. The young lady protests loudly against having her life being arranged thus without even consulting her own wishes:
‘Twiddlepoop!’
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This is not my first novel from Georgette Heyer, so I knew what to expect. Even so, I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the present offering. The cast of characters is more extensive, the personalities are more nuanced and the plot more complex than the usual misunderstandings in love.
In Kent and Sussex almost everyone has to do with smuggling in some way or another.
I thought the novel will be focused on Anthea, but the title should have given me warning that the main attraction will be the unknown element, soon to be nicknamed Ajax by his sophisticated cousins. I had to look up sartorial solecism when cynical Vincent and effeminate Claud first lay eyes on Hugo’s wardrobe : apparently this refers to ‘a breach of etiquette or decorum’ , the vilest crime a true gentleman can commit. I believe Jeeves himself would concur with this assessment, based on previous rows he had with Bertie Wooster over his fashion choices.
Major Hugo, a bumbling simpleton whose imposing height dwarfs everybody else in the manor, confirms all the worst fears of his relatives, by playing up to their expectations of a country bumpkin without a clue about the Ton. Anthea is quick to give Hugo the cold shoulder, intent of crashing her grandfather’s plans from the very start, but she is too intelligent not to notice that cousin Hugo appears to be playing all of them for fools.
Every scene in the novel sparkles with wit and with local colour, a true celebration of the English language that puts to shame my own airs of being fluent in this second language. I could more or less, follow the Regency slang deployed by the Darracots, but once Major Hugo slips into Yorkshire brogue I could only laugh and raise my hands in recognition of being thoroughly fribbled!
‘I wouldn’t let you shab off, you pudding-hearted fribble, if you had given that light-skirt a slip on the shoulder!’
I actually welcomed this exuberant, playful approach to language, even as it gave me the slip and I had to rely on context to deduce what the gist of the conversation was. Once we approach the denouement though, such considerations about language fade away and let the romance shine brightly in ever increasing barbed dialogue between two young and sharp minds. It’s pretty clear that the harder they fight with each other, the harder they fall in love:
‘Well, what I mean is, it’s as plain as a pikestaff! You can’t go about smelling of April and May, the pair of you, and then expect to gull people into thinking you don’t mean to get riveted! A pretty set of gudgeons you must think we are!’
‘That’s dished me!’ said the Major fatalistically.
A regular romance novel would have been satisfied with this resolution, but the author has something more screwball in store for the Darracotts, when young Richard’s impetuousness lands him in the soup with the local constabulary, who are convinced he is breaking the law.
Mayor Hugo must drop the bumpkin mask and reveal his true mettle, saving the whole Darracott family in the meantime and making a decisive play for the hand of his lovely cousin Anthea.
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For all the frothing comedy, I cannot finish without a few words about how well the story is anchored in actual historical context. In this, I believe Georgette Heyer is one class above Wodehouse, whose escapist fare is rarely concerned with real world events.
Involuntarily or not, life at Darracott house serves as a sharp reminder of the deep division between gentle society and the rest of the England’s population, either dismissed as uncouth or relegated to the role of devoted servants, whose only ambition in life is to make their masters shine on the public scene. This would have left a bitter aftertaste in my republican heart, if not for the suspicion that the author is well aware of this and has chosen to remain authentic to the prevalent opinions of the period.
Anthea’s mother has the last word on this question of wealth versus intelligence. Of course it’s much easier to be philosophical when you have a big pile of money:
‘Well, my love, it is a great piece of nonsense to pretend that life is not very much more comfortable when one can command its elegancies, and always beforehand with the world, because it is!’
For me, as an engineer, I was also interested in the few clues about the rise of automatic looms in Yorkshire, starting with the Cartwright patents, another example of how well the author did her research. I actually went and read more on the subject online.
‘There’s only one thing for it, and that’s mercury.’
This is another casual remark that made me dive for Wikipedia. Claud refers to the toxic metal as a medical palliative, and I came indeed across some references that it was used thus at the end of the 18th century, yet I failed to understand clearly how mercury applies to Richard’s case of youthful exuberance.
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This novel convinced that it will be worth my time to add more romances from Georgette Heyer to my future reading lists.