I'm leaving the 4 stars NOT BECAUSE THE BOOK IS GOOD but because my 15 year old self thought so. I loved this Jennifer Wilde book so much that I wrote a book report for my American Lit class including the research I gleaned on Lola Montez--the real life woman on whom the heroine was based. And turned it in. Don't get me wrong, I knew it was tacky writing and over the top story line, but it was the night before it was due and I spent so much time reading bodice rippers that I couldn't get around to the recommended reading list. I didn't expect an A, I just wanted points.
Imagine my surprise when my silver-haired, van dyke-bearded, oh-so-intellectual literature instructor with his pipe and belted-sweater that had leather elbow patches
gave me an A,
AND pulled me aside to ask me more about the novel. He peppered me with genuine questions about the history, the characters and the plot. I was so flustered and embarrassed because I knew the book was pulp fiction. I told my instructor as much, and Mr. Penn (because he even had an English teacher name) waived all of that aside and asked me for my copy so he could read it over the weekend. A man who could match Hal Holbrook in his Mark Twain impersonation, who could hold all the girls (and probably a few of the boys) rapt with his mad read aloud skills, borrowed a bodice ripper from one of his juniors. I hope that Mr. Penn went on to be an authoress with an equally romantic pseudonym. If Tom E. Huff could do it, I'm sure Mr. Penn would have blown him out of the water.
This last read though? We can sum it up in one word: Sumptuous. I wish I had the energy to go back and do a word count for how many times the word sumptuous appears in the novel. There were sumptuous gowns, sumptuous dinners, sumptuous frames, sumptuous rooms, sumptuous music, sumptuous undergarments, sumptuous cracks in the pavement, sumptuous chamber pots, sumptuous nose picking, sumptuous______ <--fill in blank here.
Clue that Wilde is a man writing as a woman: Elena Lopez fucks her way across the Continent and up the coast of California without ever worrying, wondering, fretting, or falling pregnant.
Lola Montez didn't have children because she died of syphilis at 42. I'm not how Elena got that lucky.