I came to this novel for the Brontë connection, hoping for a really good historical fiction about real-life people. I got a powerful tour de force about the limited lives of even upper class British women in the mid 19th century.
This book is so well written. I have more highlighted passages on my Kindle for this one than for any other book I’ve read recently. Gorgeous and lush prose, obviously meticulously researched, fascinating and intoxicating. It was nearly impossible to put down once I got started—first because of the tension between Lydia Robinson and Branwell, later just to see what Lydia would do next.
Neither Lydia nor Branwell are very likable characters. Lydia Robinson is complex: lonely, sad, passionate, desperate, selfish, shallow… she made me so mad at some points in the story, but at other points I realized she’s very much a product of her time and place. She’s a smart, emotional woman who is oppressed and limited, judged and neglected. Branwell is really a secondary character, and that’s just fine—he’s the tortured, struggling soul that does sort of get chewed up and spit out by his Mrs. Robinson, but I love the way he’s written here. The slow building of the romantic tension between these two is palpable and their inevitable relationship is scorchingly hot.
Despite being the titular mistress, Lydia is much more than an older, married woman dallying with a younger, freer artistic type. She’s a wife who very much loved her early relationship with her husband, is mourning the loss of a young child and her own mother, has a complicated relationship with her teenaged daughters, and is dealing with her own aging and loss of relevance. I couldn’t stand her, I was rooting for her, I wanted her to get on with her affair, I wanted her to go to her husband, I wanted her to be a better mother, I wanted her to find what she needed… and I mainly felt horrible for her and the limited options she had. Just listen to her:
‘It was tiring, always calculating how I might appear best, but what other options were available to me? If I had to tie myself to a mast—and I had to—it might as well be to the grandest, proudest ship.’
and…
‘He saved me and destroyed me all at once, taught me I could still feel so I could discover that I needed more than him.’
and especially:
‘There were women from here to England, crying over curtain fabric, scolding their children, and aching for change and love or, at least, excitement. And most, if not all, of them would be disappointed. Their fate and mine was too common to be the stuff of tragedy.’
I can’t finish this review without also mentioning how starstruck I was when the Brontë sisters were mentioned or appeared. Especially Charlotte, of course.
This book is an astoundingly good debut. I can’t wait to see what Finola Austin does next.