An American, I happened to be visiting England when this novel was a best-seller there (it must have been the summer of 2002), bought a copy, began reading, and could not put it down. Reviewers who have dwelt on the romance/scandal/politics involved in the plot miss the main point, it seems to me, which is an encomium and celebration of the ever-fragile and threatened Anglican tradition of cathedral music. Too few such apologias exist nowadays, whether in fiction or in fact. Ms. Trollope wrote as absolutely passionately on this subject as it deserves, a fact apparent from the opening pages clear through to the closing words: "Henry sang."
Actually I bought three copies, suspecting that no matter how celebrated it might be in our mother country across the Atlantic, a book on this theme would be as unobtainable, and indeed unheard of, at home as if it never existed. And, except for a world-class online dragnet like Amazon, so it proved. Now, Americans like to read about romance, scandal, and politics as well as anyone. But the most exquisite sacred music? There's no market for that from sea to shining sea. I rest my case.