Neo-Victorian Voices: The Wildes: A Novel in Five Acts, Louis Bayard (2024)

Welcome back to my Neo-Victorian Voices series, focused on books set in the nineteenth century, but written in the twenty-first. Today, I’m blogging about Louis Bayard’s 2024 novel, The Wildes, which delves into celebrated Victorian writer Oscar Wilde’s conviction for “gross indecency” for his romantic relationship with a man, Lord Alfred Douglas, and the impact of the scandal on his wife and children.

The novel is structured in five acts of uneven length. The first, longest, and, for me, the most compelling act charts the breakdown of the Wildes’ marriage as Oscar’s wife, Constance, becomes aware of the nature of his relationship with Lord Alfred during a family trip to the Norfolk countryside. In the second act, Constance and her young sons, Cyril and Vyvyan, are in Italy, escaping the press attention surrounding Oscar’s trial and subsequent imprisonment. By the third act (which is very different in tone from the rest of the book), Cyril is fighting in World War One. In the fourth, Vyvyan, now grown, encounters Lord Alfred in London. And in the fifth, Vyvyan imagines an alternate reality where his parents’ marriage survived Oscar’s infidelity and Constance accepts her husband’s relationship with Lord Alfred.

Looking at the novel’s reviews, the fifth act has been the most divisive, but for me it worked well as the fantasy of a child still impacted by the breakup of his parents’ relationship, even after he is grown. The whole novel seemed like an examination of how a specific event/moment can become a shared family trauma. In the world of the Wildes, as presented in this novel, “Norfolk” becomes almost a code word for everything that followed, and exact details of the trip, which would have otherwise seemed inconsequential, are seared into their collective memories. 

This isn’t the book I’d recommend if you are looking to learn about the Wilde scandal for the first time, but if you know the history and are interested in diving deeper, there’s a lot to enjoy. Just be warned: if your own family has dealt with divorce, incarceration, or another episode of extreme upheaval, this one may hit close to home.

Which novel should I read next as part of my Neo-Victorian Voices series? Let me know—here, on Instagram, on Facebook, or by tweeting @SVictorianist. Want monthly updates on my blog and writing? Sign up for my email newsletter here. 

The Historical Novel Society UK 2024 Conference: An Interview with Finola Austin

I'm currently in London en route to the Historical Novel Society UK 2024 conference in Dartington Hall, Devon, where I'm speaking on a panel alongside fellow writers Heather Webb and Kris Waldherr.

Check out my pre-conference speaker interview here! If you're also going to the conference, please connect with me, on person or online (on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, or by subscribing to my email newsletter). 

Neo-Victorian Voices: Circus of Wonders, Elizabeth Macneal (2021)

Welcome back to my blog and to my Neo-Victorian Voices series, in which I review books set in the nineteenth century but written in the twenty-first. Nearly three years ago I blogged about Elizabeth Macneal’s debut novel, The Doll Factory (2019). Today, I’m reviewing her second novel, Circus of Wonders, which was published in 2021.

Circus of Wonders tells the story of Nell, a teenage girl covered in birthmarks, who works picking flowers in a small English village in the 1860s. When Jasper Jupiter’s Circus of Wonders comes to town, she, initially unwillingly, leaves her old life behind to become a “wonder” in the troop.

The novel moves between the point of views of Nell, circus owner Jasper Jupiter, and his brother, Toby. And there’s also a cast of secondary, but colorful, characters, many of them “wonders” like Nell. Jasper and Toby share secrets from their time in the Crimean War, which threaten to undo them today, while a key backer of Jupiter’s venture, known as the “jackal,” is in hot pursuit of a return on his investment.

As in The Doll Factory, the setting and subject matter are dark—perfect for fans of moody Victoriana. There’s even a cameo appearance by Queen Victoria herself, who was known to take an interest in human “wonders.” Complex sibling relationships and obsessive romantic attractions are also common themes between the two novels. 

Macneal does a great job building multi-faceted characters and ratcheting up tension. And the denouement of the novel (during a performance at the circus, of course!) is surprising, yet satisfying. My one small quibble was that the revelation of the big secret from the brothers’ time in Crimea was delayed a little too long, straining my belief in their viewpoints.

The Doll Factory and Circus of Wonders feel like they belong to a nineteenth century that’s recognizable and well-researched, yet uniquely Macneal’s own. I look forward to reading what she does next to build out this Gothic universe.

Which historical novel should I review next as part of my Neo-Victorian Voices series? Let me know—here, on Facebook, on Instagram, or by tweeting @SVictorianist.

Neo-Victorian Voices: The Other Bennet Sister, Janice Hadlow (2020)

A few years ago, as part of my Neo-Victorian Voices series, I reviewed Katherine J. Chen’s Mary B (2018). Today, I’m writing about another twenty-first century novel centred on Mary, the plainest of Elizabeth’s sisters in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (1813)—Janice Hadlow’s The Other Bennet Sister (2020). 

Hadlow’s Mary is true to Austen’s original characterisation. She’s spectacle wearing, bookish and, oh so very, serious, rejected by her mother for her plainness and uninteresting to her father due to her lack of humour. Caught between two pairs of sisters—Jane and Elizabeth, and Kitty and Lydia—Mary seems totally alone, even at bustling Longbourn. The housekeeper Mrs Hill is one of the few people to show compassion towards her, while Elizabeth’s friend Charlotte Lucas tries to give her practical advice about how a woman without beauty can get by in a patriarchal world. The first section of Hadlow’s novel begins with Mary’s childhood, including her gradual realisation of her perceived inferiority to her older sisters. Then the book covers well-worn ground, rehashing the early events of Pride and Prejudice, up until Mr Collins’s engagement to Charlotte.

At this point, I was intrigued, if not delighted. It was interesting to see familiar scenes from Mary’s viewpoint, especially her disastrous piano playing. And there were great historical details, for instance regarding Mary’s reading material and early-nineteenth-century optometry. 

However, the novel really came into its own when we jumped forward in time to a few years after the conclusion of Austen’s book. When we rejoin Mary, she is the only unmarried Bennet sister. Of no fixed abode, she moves between the houses of her sisters and friends, trying to find her place in the world. Her father is dead. Her mother has despaired of her. The domineering Lady Catherine would like to see her packed off as an unfortunate governess. 

I have an especial interest in this plight of single upper-middle-class women in the period, who found themselves dependent on the charity of their friends and relatives. In my novel, Bronte’s Mistress, I depict what this might have been like for a widow, but unmarried girls like Mary had even fewer options. However, as she matures, Hadlow’s Mary turns these unfortunate circumstances to her advantage, using her methodical mind to assess the different households she visits—Jane’s, Elizabeth’s, Charlotte’s and her aunt Gardiner’s.

Other, non-canonical characters begin to take centre stage, including Tom Haywood, a London lawyer with a love of Wordsworth, who helps Mary discover her more poetic and feeling side. But I also enjoyed Hadlow’s on-going nods to her source material. Mary’s final confrontation with Miss Bingley recalls her sister Elizabeth’s argument with Lady Catherine. A well-described trip to the Lakes with the Gardiners brings back Lizzie’s truncated vacation. 

Overall, while I do agree with some reviewers that The Other Bennet Sister could have been slightly shorter, I’d highly recommend the book to fans who prefer their Austen-inspired fiction to be less radical and revisionist, and more thoughtful and additive. I was worried that spending another book with Mary might be tiresome, but she won me over by the end!

What twenty-first-century written, nineteenth-century set novels would you like me to review next as part of my Neo-Victorian Voices series? Let me know—here, on Facebook, on Instagram, or by tweeting @SVictorianist.

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October Articles About Bronte’s Mistress

After a crazy couple of months in August and September, October was a quieter month in terms of press for my debut novel, Bronte’s Mistress, which tells the true story of Lydia Robinson, the woman rumoured to have had an affair with Branwell Bronte, the Bronte sisters’ brother. Still, I wanted to share some of the publications that were good enough to feature the book last month!

In costume for Halloween Gothic panel!

I’m a double alumna of the University of Oxford, with a BA from Merton College and an MSt from Corpus Christi College, so I was delighted that the university’s North American office featured me as the Alumni Author of the month for October. Looking back at their other 2020 picks, I loved seeing the range of topics fellow Oxfordians have written about—from DNA to environmental policy in Vietnam to resilience—but was surprised to be the only fiction writer featured this year.

Clarissa Harwood published a great blog post in support of debut novelists who’ve had to contend with a 2020 release date. I loved seeing Bronte’s Mistress as one of her historical fiction picks. I read and enjoyed A.H. Kim’s A Good Family, one of her choices for women’s fiction, and Tonya Mitchell’s A Feigned Madness and Rita Woods’s Remembrance are definitely on my TBR list! 

Fall in Brooklyn

Writer C.P. Lesley also included my novel on her Fall Bookshelf roundup. I recently recorded an episode for her New Books in Historical Fiction podcast, which I look forward to sharing with you in the next week or so. And speaking of podcasts, check out my appearance on the History Through Fiction podcast, which also aired last month.

Finally, the Attic Girl blog had the distinction of being the first holiday gift guide to feature Bronte’s Mistress! If you’re buying holiday gifts for a literature lover I of course highly recommended getting them a copy of my book! Other novels recommended on the list are Natalie Jenner’s The Jane Austen Society, which I wrote about here, and Rachel McMillan’s The London Restoration.

Zoom on...

Thank you for another month of support, nice messages, and reviews. If you’d like to keep up with all news about Bronte’s Mistress and my writing, follow me on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter, and sign up to receive my monthly email newsletter below.

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Neo-Victorian Voices: The Confessions of Frannie Langton, Sara Collins (2019)

You may know me as the author of Bronte’s Mistress, but, when I’m not writing my own books, I’m reading other people’s. For five and a half years now, in my Neo-Victorian Voices series, I’ve been reviewing books set in the nineteenth century, but written in the twenty-first. 

So far in 2020, I’ve blogged about Sandra Dallas’s Westering Women (2020), Jess Kidd’s Things in Jars (2019), Syrie James’s The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Bronte (2009), Bella Ellis’s The Vanished Bride (2019), Dinitia Smith’s The Honeymoon (2016) and Sarah Shoemaker’s Mr Rochester (2017). This time, it’s the turn of Sara Collins’s stellar 2019 debut, The Confessions of Frannie Langton.

It’s 1826 and Frannie Langton is in the Old Bailey prison in London when Collins’s novel opens. She’s accused of murdering her employer Mr Benham and his wife, a crime she tells us she can’t have committed because she was in love with her mistress. Frannie was born into slavery in Jamaica, and the British press has dubbed her “the Mulatto Murderess.” She doubts the court will recognise her humanity in her upcoming trial, so she chooses to make her confession to us, the readers, instead.

But what exactly is Frannie confessing? Did she kill either or both of the Benhams? Was she a complicit in the dissections and vivisections of slaves back on the plantation? Should we see her as a victim of sexual abuse, a willing party to incest, or both? Or is her confession a cri de coeur about her romantic feelings for a woman, a union this society condemns as equally unnatural?

While the plot unfolds slowly (after all, we know from the beginning that murder will be our destination), Frannie’s voice is distinctive and interesting. This feels in keeping with the unusual circumstances of her life, and, while I’ve read a few reviews from readers who found the frequency of similes excessive, I enjoyed how Frannie’s images were always rooted in her frame of reference.

Emotionally, there are few moments of joy. This is a novel about righteous and unrelenting anger, and the reading experience can be exhausting. There’s no respite for Frannie, but she never acts the part of docile and pitiable victim. A line of advice the character is given early in the book really stood out to me: “[There are] only two types of white people in this world, chile, the ones doing shit to you and the ones wanting you to tell them ’bout the shit them other ones did.” Collins asks (especially White) readers to confront their own ideas of what a narrative about a former slave should be.

While Frannie is an utterly original creation, at times she reminded me of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. Like Jane, she’s overlooked and unfairly written off by those around her, and frequently thrust into the role of observer, although her perceptions are sharp and her words can be fierce. At the same time, she is also, of course, akin to Jane’s predecessor Bertha Mason, another famous Jamaican. As in postcolonial interpretations of Bertha, Frannie can be seen as an avenging angel, a personification of the White British man’s fears of his abuses abroad, the source of his wealth, coming back to haunt him.

I thoroughly enjoyed The Confessions of Frannie Langton and urge fellow Victorianists to add it to their reading lists. Do you have a tip for me about a great book for my Neo-Victorian Voices series? Let me know—here, on Facebook, on Instagram, or by tweeting @SVictorianist.

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Neo-Victorian Voices: Things in Jars, Jess Kidd (2020)

The crowded, murky streets of Victorian London. A detective. And a missing child. Pretty standard fare, you might think, for a historical mystery set in the nineteenth century, but Jess Kidd’s Things in Jars (2020), the latest novel under review in my Neo-Victorian Voices series, is anything but expected.

Things in Jars, Jess Kidd (2020)

First there’s her detective, Bridie—fearless, flame haired and ugly bonneted. Then there are the protagonist’s sidekicks—a seven-foot maid, with a penchant for a woman snake charmer, and a tattooed boxer, who may be either a ghost or a drug-induced hallucination. Christabel, the child Bridie has been employed to find, isn’t ordinary either. She has teeth like a pike. Snails, newts and other nasties trail after her. It’s said she can drown enemies even on dry land.

Things in Jars isn’t for the weak-hearted or stomached. But that doesn’t mean the novel offers only darkness. There’s a humour to the story, which is a wonderful complement to its macabre subjects, and an empathy to the shifting point of view, which plunges us into many characters’ motivations, feelings and desires, even those of a raven wheeling high above the scene. Kidd’s use of language is also astonishing. Her vocabulary is vast but her words always well chosen. Her Irish characters’ voices are expertly rendered—believable and lyrical without relying on cliché or non-standard spelling to convey dialect.

The fantastical elements of the story stood out for me in particular. I’m not a huge reader of historical fantasy, though I have reviewed a few favourites for this blog in the past (e.g. Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, Sarah Perry’s The Essex Serpent, and Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus). But Kidd’s creatures are unique and genuinely uncanny, as unnerving as any creation straight from the pages of a nineteenth-century Gothic.

Things in Jars is a wonderful book to read if you want to stray outside your normal genre choices. The novel takes a familiar historical setting and makes it alien, gives us a satisfying conclusion to its central mystery while leaving us with more, and gives readers a creature of the ocean depths that belongs in neither The Little Mermaid, nor The Shape of Water.

Which novel would you like to see me review next as part of my Neo-Victorian Voices series, on novels written in the twenty first century, but set in the nineteenth? Let me know, here, on Facebook, on Instagram or by tweeting @SVictorianist. And if you want to read about my novel, Bronte’s Mistress, which was edited by the same editor as Things in Jars, click here and/or sign up for my monthly newsletter below.

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Abridging A Christmas Carol

It’s been quite a year for the Secret Victorianist, and 2020 is set to be even more exciting, with the publication of my forthcoming novel, Bronte’s Mistress. Happy Christmas and, whether you’re new here or have been following along since 2013, thank you for reading!

In keeping with the festive season, in this post I recount a conversation with Jesse Kornbluth, a writer who recently took on abridging a seasonal classic—Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol (1843).

Jesse is the writer behind Head Butler, a website that aims to be your cultural concierge, covering books, movies, music and more. His abridged version of A Christmas Carol, created with children and those listening to the story aloud in mind, is now available on Amazon.

Me: Jesse, what made you want to take on the (formidable!) job of abridging one of the English language’s best-loved novelists?

J: I remember Arthur Bliss Perry, the aged and legendary headmaster of Milton Academy, reading A Christmas Carol to us in a dimly lit library before we left school in December. He didn’t read the entire story. Fifty years later, when I tried to read it to my daughter, she couldn’t bear it after five minutes. So I decided to do what Mr Perry did (and what Dickens himself did when he performed his stories): I abridged it.

Me: What was your overall approach?

J: I kept all the dialogue, but streamlined the description. Thanks to movies, readers already have a picture of what Victorian London looked like. Dickens would have been a terrific screenwriter. He moved the story forward with no digressions.

Me: Speaking of films, do you have a favourite adaptation of A Christmas Carol?

J: Hmm, it has to be one of the black-and-white films—probably the 1951 version, with Alastair Sim. [Note: This was released as Scrooge in the UK.]

Me: And any favourite Dickens quotes?

J: Yes, but from Bleak House, not A Christmas Carol: “Dead, men and women, born with Heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.”

Me: What is it do you think about Dickens, and A Christmas Carol in particular, that continues to resonate with readers, listeners and viewers today?

J: I think we all want to believe that there’s no evil in the world—only damaged people who can be healed. And if there is evil, we want to believe in a magical cure. That’s what A Christmas Carol offers.

Me: Thank you, Jesse, and merry Christmas!

If you’re interested in learning more about Jesse’s project, then check out his website. And if you have any ideas/requests/suggestions for content from the Secret Victorianist in 2020, let me know—here, on Facebook or by tweeting @SVictorianist.

I’ll be updating you on my publication journey here on my blog, but check out my author website to read early praise for Bronte’s Mistress and, if you want to receive news straight to your inbox, sign up for my email newsletter below.

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Neo-Victorian Voices: The Doll Factory, Elizabeth Macneal (2019)

My Neo-Victorian Voices series is dedicated to books written in the twenty-first century, but set in the nineteenth. Last time, I reviewed Marley, Jon Clinch’s 2019 novel about Scrooge’s business partner from Charles Dickens’s 1843 A Christmas Carol. This time I’m writing about Elizabeth Macneal’s debut novel, The Doll Factory, which is set in 1850s London.

The Doll Factory (2019)

The Doll Factory is the story of Iris, who spends her days painting dolls for a laudanum-addicted shop owner, and working alongside her disfigured twin sister. Her life changes forever after meeting two men—Louis Frost, fictional member of the real-life group of artists known as the Pre Raphaelite Brotherhood (PRB), and Silas, a lonely taxidermist and curator of curiosities. Iris has artistic aspirations of her own and so agrees to model for Louis, despite her parents’ and sister’s opposition and concern for her virtue. Meanwhile, Silas grows increasingly obsessed with her, fantasising about adding her to his morbid collection.

The novel is dark and certainly not for the squeamish, but there are moments of levity too. The PRB’s dinner and pub conversation is well wrought and believable, and their quirks add colour and interest. Macneal includes anecdotes both real and apocryphal about William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, Dante Gabriel Rossetti et al., from imperilling their models by posing them in bathtubs to killing an unfortunate wombat that ate a box of their cigars.

I also found a secondary point of view character, Albie, particularly compelling. He’s a single-toothed street urchin who brings Silas dead animals and dreams of one day earning enough money to buy a set of fake gnashers (that or saving his sister from prostitution). The conclusion to his story was one of the best paragraphs of a beautifully written book.

Elizabeth Macneal (1988- )

But the heart of the novel is how well Macneal paints Silas, with his delusions, fixations and obsessions. If you enjoy getting into the heads of creepy and amoral characters, this novel is a wonderful exercise in understanding a disturbed mind. If you’d prefer to stick with the heroes, this won’t be for you. In this regard, the novel reminded me of Catherine Chidgey’s 2005 The Transformation, which I also reviewed for this series and very much enjoyed. The denouement of The Doll Factory, which brings Silas and Iris together, keeps you guessing and is hard to put down. Warning: you might miss your subway stop.

There’s just enough time and space dedicated to the technicalities of painting for readers with a particular interest in the art. And the Great Exhibition provides a wonderful historical backdrop to the vents of the novel. If I had to quibble, I’d say the love story isn’t as successful as the rest of the book, but this may be a question of personal taste. No spoilers here, but I was longing to see Iris choose for herself vs. being chosen and yearned for an even greater contrast between Louis and Silas’s desire to own her, especially towards the end. Overall, The Doll Factory is more than worthy of the attention it’s received. If you love the Gothic and Victoriana that’s more macabre than Christmassy, this one’s for you!

Do you have recommendations for which novel I should review next as part of my Neo-Victorian Voices series? Let me know—here, on Facebook or by tweeting @SVictorianist.

And if you want email updates about my own forthcoming novel, Bronte’s Mistress, which tells the story of Lydia Robinson, the older woman who had an affair with Branwell Bronte, sign up for my mailing list below.

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