I had high hopes for this book. On page five, the MC – I hesitate to call her a ‘heroine’, for reasons which I will explicate at length – Georgiana is described as ‘reclining in a gloomy alcove in an empty hallway, tying and untying little knots in her second-best ribbon and thinking wistfully of Viking funerals’. The potential for her to be an overlooked but acute observer of human folly, in the mould of Elizabeth Bennet, was moderate to high. Unfortunately, by page fifteen Georgiana is, with baffling cruelty, equating bridge engineers and ‘utter bores’, in a presage of what is to come.
The book is clearly riding the tails of the Netflix adaptation of ‘Bridgerton’. This is fortunate, because only people whose only reference point for the Regency era of England is the Netflix adaptation of ‘Bridgerton’ would find this satisfying as a historical novel. In ‘Pride and Prejudice’ – and hell yes I’m going to invoke the shade of Jane Austen, because who else are all these pretenders trying to be if not Jane Austen, or at least the Austen of Colin Firth period dramas? – Mr Collins is considered unforgivably impertinent for saying ‘what’s up’ to the nephew of his employer simply because they haven’t been formally introduced. Mr Darcy considers the wider Bennet bloodline to be low-bred and crass because they do things like ‘approach him in conversation’. This very issue of manners comes up in his proposal – you know, the legendary one where he’s rejected for being too proud and forms one half of the famous title?
Yet from the first moment Georgiana does things that are not just period-inappropriate, they are jaw-droppingly rude by any century’s standards. She gallivants everywhere without any sort of chaperone. She and Frances go on solo picnics, attend mixed-gender parties, take drugs, and drink copiously. I’m not for a minute suggesting that this sort of behaviour didn’t happen at all in this era – it certainly did – but at the very least, people paid lip-service to the rules they were supposed to live by. Where else does the title of this novel come from if not an understanding by Croucher of this basic concept? Yet the idea that a middle-class girl in 1812 could get falling-over drunk on a regular basis and not be treated with at best contempt, at worst an assumption that she’s a paid-up sex worker in an era when – to quote Mr Collins again – ‘death was preferable’, is to ignore the historical facts of the case. And she’s plain rude all the time: to Betty, to her aunt and uncle, to her love interest, to the people she considers friends. I think this is the unusual case of an Unintentionally Unlikeable Heroine, who is even more insufferable than the garden variety version.
Then there’s the attitude to rape and sexual assault, which had me making all sorts of gif-worthy faces. Let’s be real: rape has, in fact, always been considered a Bad Thing. It was an acknowledged crime for as long as there’s been crime. The reason is that virginity was prized as a marker of bloodline purity, not because it’s a terrible thing to happen to a woman, but it was still very much wrong. The circumstances that were considered rape were of course much narrower in the past, but ‘seduction’ also fell under the province of rakes and fuckboys. Consider Willoughby in ‘Sense and Sensibility’; he’s disinherited for seducing a girl of ‘respectable’ family, similar to Annabelle Baker in this novel. ‘Seducing’ implies a level of consent lacking from rape, but it’s clear that people understood that sheltered young girls like Eliza Brandon (junior and senior) and Georgiana Darcy were at risk of it through innocence, and brazen young girls like Lydia Bennet or Isabella Thorpe ‘deserved’ it due to their lax morals. Does Willoughby recover from this assault on his reputation? Yes. Does he have better prospects despite it than Eliza Brandon? Again yes. I’m not saying the punishment was just or proportionate, or outweighs the fact that the victim also shared in it. I’m merely saying that the judgement that ‘rapists are bad’ did very much exist, albeit in a different form to the late 2010s, post-#metoo cultural moment. So when I read passages like this:
“A selfish, spoilt boy who had never faced consequences for his actions and reaction like a squalling infant when they came to call”
I’m just like … wow. Why are you writing a historical novel? You can set a comedy of manners in 2021, you know, which allows for heavy drink and drug use and the women’s freedom of movement. I mean, I still don’t like the drink and drug use and its portrayal as Cool and Edgy, and nor do I have much interest in stories about assholes who learn to be slightly better people. But it could be done. That way, you don’t have to consider that Georgiana’s parents and relatives would be very concerned about her marriage, as she clearly isn’t intended to go out and work for a living as if she were one rung lower on the social ladder. The idea that her parents wouldn’t give a shit is astonishingly ahistorical. Georgiana has one job prospect, one line in her CV, and she’s doing the career equivalent of getting facial tattoos while pursuing a job in retail.
Then there are words like ‘crossdressing’ and ‘sex cellar’ in Georgiana’s own narration. She simply. Would not. Think them. In a similar vein, Frances confesses to knowing little about sex in a sapphic scene in bed with Georgiana, but towards the end of the novel tells Thomas that Georgiana isn’t going to fuck him because he’s sad. This boastful pretense at knowing more about sex theoretically than you experience practically is a very late twentieth-century social more, one that is totally out of place among the ill-prepared, gently-bred ladies of the 1800s. I know Thomas is cool dude – in fact, he acts like a time traveller from this century – but I’m pretty sure the type of words Frances used would be enough to sink him with her forever, regardless of their content.
Georgiana’s title should be No Sense and Minimal Sensibility. She’s a Nick Carraway character, hating the richies while admitting they throw good parties. She is sniffy that they don’t give a few pence to a beggar like she – Virtue Signaller Extraordinare – does, yet is gasping to be included in their latest revels. She wonders early on if her friends ‘hunt commoners for sport’ – her friends – yet she is surprised when Frances destroys a working class man’s livelihood out of spite. The narrative also doesn’t appreciate that Betty wittering about houses is indistinguishable from Georgiana rambling about shoelaces, even though the first is presented as the indelible mark of a dullard and the second as delicious, sophisticated banter. In the end, the book resorts to the tired trope of ‘crude = funny’ by having a walk-on character shout about ‘bum-fodder’.
The one thing that Crouch is correct about is that the Regency era wasn’t exclusively inhabited by white people with the odd brown or black servant. However, the inclusion of two wives of colour – one dead off-screen, one effectively silenced by her husband – is literally skin-deep. It also carries the unfortunate implication that being out-of-kilter with society like Frances, or to a lesser extent Thomas, is linked to your family being ethnically diverse.
To conclude: there’s a reason most alcoholics in literature are anti-heroes, not heroes. Rather than recasting Austen characters in Mean Girls, this reads as a (hugely misguided) attempt to rehabilitate Arthur Huntington and Co. It was like being a sober person listening to a drunk one tell them a ‘really, really funny story’. As I’m sure Croucher would have a character say (given she’s got lines cribbed from Regina George and Tina Belcher, and probably others I didn’t catch), ‘Thank you next’.