Damsel Under Interrogation

Chapter 6 of Aubrey: Remnants of Transformation has been published.

Read all about a damsel under interrogation on my novel page!

Dulcibel : A Tale of Old Salem, by Henry Peterson

Damsel as Witness

Chapter 5 of Aubrey: Remnants of Transformation has been published.

Read all about a damsel as witness on my novel page!

Tabitha Ann Holton

Damsel in Custody

Chapter 4 of Aubrey: Remnants of Transformation has been published.

Read all about a damsel in custody on my novel page!

Old Police Station (Built 1879) 

Alexander P. Kapp

A Damsel in Flight

Chapter 3 of Aubrey: Remnants of Transformation has been published.

Read all about a damsel in flight on my novel page!

E.P. Samokish-Sudkovskaya
Girl's Flight from Cow



A Damsel Detained

Chapter 2 of Aubrey: Remnants of Transformation has been published.

Read all about a damsel detained on my novel page!


Hugh Welsh Diamond
Melancholia Passing into Mania

A Damsel in Distress

Chapter 1 of Aubrey: Remnants of Transformation has been published.

Read all about a damsel in distress on my novel page!


Julie Manet with Cat by Renoir from Wikimedia 

I Go Dickens! Serialization of a Novel

Over the next six months, I will be taking a page out of Dickens and publishing chapters from my fantasy novel Aubrey: Remnants of Transformation.

Prospective Cover

In the aftermath of a spell-gone-bad, Aubrey discovers herself in perilous surroundings troubled by inexplicable scars and grisly memories. Initially at the mercy of deceitful fraudsters, she must outwit politicians, police detectives, and aristocrats to escape danger for safety. But is safety her true desire? As the agendas mount, Aubrey must literally as well as figuratively transform--or die.

Chapter 1 will be posted August 16, 2013 on my Novel blog (linked to Votaries of Horror).

Thanks to Eugene for providing feedback on several Aubrey drafts!

Don't Entail Smentail, Me! The Difficulty of Entails in Persuasion and Persuadable: Last Chapter

The last chapter of Persuadable is a rebuttal to the ending of the Persuasion (2007) film.

At the end of Persuasion (2007), Captain Wentworth buys Anne's family home. The film correctly indicates that part of Anne's attraction to Mr. Elliot, or at least her attraction to marrying him, is that she will be able to live in her family home. By buying her family home, Captain Wentworth resolves that dilemma (Anne doesn't have to give up anything for love!).

Unfortunately, having Captain Wentworth buy Kellynch Hall makes mincemeat of the plot.

A possible Kellynch Hall from JASA.

If selling Kellynch Hall was this easy, why didn't Sir Walter sell it to begin with? That would be an easy way to clear his debts.

An argument could be made that Sir Walter's vanity won't allow him to give up the manor; this still begs the question: Why would he suddenly be willing to sell at the end of Persuasion (2007)? (There is a possible explanation; the film just never supplies it.)

In Austen's tome, Mr. Elliot wants Kellynch Hall because he is tired of being "Mr." and wants to try out being "Sir." He will be "Sir" without Kellynch Hall, but not to the same degree. And, in the book at least, there's no financial reason for him to give up the hall.

To explain Mr. Elliot's behavior, many movies make him (relatively) poor/in need of funds. This, of course, begs the question of why a poor Mr. Elliot would be chasing after women with small dowries and an estate encumbered with debt. However, even if we assume that Kellynch Hall, unencumbered, could bring in a decent income, there is still an underlying problem:

THE ENTAIL.

Sir Walter's vanity is not the sole block to a sale anymore than Mr. Bennet's passivity is the sole block to his disposing of Longbourn. Both estates are entailed; they can only be passed on to the nearest living male relative: Mr. Elliot or Mr. Collins. And entails in the 19th century were rather difficult to break.

They can be broken, which the passage below discusses in some detail. However, Persuasion (2007) makes no effort to explain how the entail was broken, leaving the viewer to wonder what everyone has been fussing about for 120 minutes. Captain Wentworth just, you know, walked into an estate office one day and, like, said, like, "Oh, hey, I'll buy that."

My primary problem with Persuasion (2007)--which does have some redeeming points--is this assumption of dumbness. I don't feel as if the writers were real Janeites. Instead, they come across as people writing for Austen fans, who they have imagined much the same way people imagine romance writers and readers: silly airheads who only read Austen for the cutesy romance and the girl-talk and don't pick up on anything else.

Sites like The Republic of Pemberley and JASA (above) disprove this cynical painting of such fans. Jane Austen fans (and romance writers/readers) are remarkably well-informed.

(Despite my annoyance, this kind of stereotyping is fairly typical between fan groups: one group perceives another group's interest as monolithic. I've heard classical music fans say, "All country music is the same." And I've heard country music fans say, "All classical music is the same." In fact, a professor once said the the former to me in class; when I balked, he automatically assumed I was a country music fan! Truth is, I just know too many die-hard fans of [fill in the blank]. Nothing is monolithic to the fan.)

I would have preferred Persuasion (2007) to have been written by true fans rather than by people-trying-to-make-the-fans-happy.

Setting aside the film, if you want to know how to really break an entail, keep reading!

Captain Wentworth eyed [Will and Penelope] as they entered [the drawing room of their house]. Anne curtsied; Penelope responded quickly. Will returned Captain Wentworth’s curt bow, then stood behind Penelope’s chair. His stance mirrored Captain Wentworth’s. His use of mimicry, Penelope had learned in the last three years, was a protection against outsiders. She was an insider.

“You received my letter,” Captain Wentworth said to Will.

“You wish to discuss breaking the entail to the Kellynch Hall property.”

“Sir Walter’s health is failing. He has moved permanently to Bath. He is willing to break the entail for his daughter’s sake.”

Penelope scarcely believed it—the man’s self-love was so bound up in his ancestry—but then she realized that his self-love had always been as much for the form as for the substance. All said and done, Kellynch Hall was a means to an end.

Besides, attempting to break the entail would spite Will: Better his daughter in Kellynch Hall than the despised cousin.

“Are you committed to inheriting Kellynch Hall?” Captain Wentworth asked Will.

“It’s a pleasant area,” Will said.

“You don’t strike me as a countryman,” Captain Wentworth said.

No. Will was no countryman. After all, Penelope remembered, Captain Wentworth manages men on his ship; he isn’t lacking in perception.

Captain Wentworth continued: “Are you sure you would be accepted in Kellynch?”

His eyes didn’t flicker towards Penelope, but Will said sharply, “I believe the populace would be well-satisfied with the Hall’s lord and lady.”

Across from Penelope, Anne tilted her head. For the first time in their acquaintance, she looked at Penelope with real interest. Her eyes drifted to Will who slouched, half-sitting, on the arm of Penelope’s chair. So, her gaze seemed to say, you are not just opportunists.

Penelope said smoothly, “Town life certainly has more to offer.”

“We are country-folk,” Captain Wentworth said and settled into one of the armchairs. Apparently, he had decided that Penelope and Will were sensible people who would listen to reason. “Once I leave the navy, my wife and I would prefer a country residence. Kellynch Hall would be very much to our taste. We want to acquire it.”

Penelope silently applauded Captain Wentworth. Any other husband of a baronet’s daughter would have kept up the pretense of a friendly, non-financial visit for hours. The horror of appearing vulgar!

Captain Wentworth continued, “Since the entail has to be renewed in your lifetime, Mr. Elliot, this is a chance to review your options. And since renewal may not be possible—”

Because Will and Penelope currently had no son, and Jennie [Will and Penelope's daughter] could not inherit. The Wentworths weren’t fools; they were going to press their advantage now, even if it meant dancing around their dislike of Will and Penelope. At least, Captain Wentworth disliked them. Anne seemed more curious than disgusted.

“My husband will not give up the title,” Penelope said.

She felt Will’s bright gaze on her, but she didn’t look away from Captain Wentworth’s speculative stare.

“Do you think of yourself as a baronet?” Captain Wentworth said to Will in a tone that suggested he didn’t think Will merited any title, including “captain.”

“Of course Sir Walter’s cousin should inherit the title,” Anne said quickly. “You are my father’s heir, Mr. Elliot.”

To give the Wentworths credit, Penelope doubted they cared about the title. In the City, however, a title could open doors for Will. And Penelope saw no reason why he should give up what was rightfully his.

Will said, “Penelope’s father, Mr. Shepherd, should be kept on as manager.”

“He’s too good to let go,” Captain Wentworth said. His tone added: Despite his daughter’s scandalous behavior.

Penelope resisted rolling her eyes. She knew how to play this game. Everyone brought deficiencies to the table and every deficiency had a cost. My scandalous behavior versus Anne’s non-male gender. Anne’s lack of maleness cost her more than scandalous behavior ever cost Penelope; Penelope didn’t see why she should allow anyone to forget that.

She said, “Since only my husband can break this entail, we expect to be compensated. The property is nearly disencumbered of debt. It will make a tidy profit in a few years’ time.”

Anne leaned forward, her eyes filled with the quiet speculation that marked this middle Elliot daughter. Anne knew that Penelope had no real tie to or love for Kellynch; Anne would remember how quickly Penelope left it behind the first time.

For Will, Penelope might endure it. But Will had no interest in playing squire. However much he liked the idea of a country estate, he’d never bother with the day-to-day. He would hire a qualified agent (who only skimmed slightly off the accounts) and move on to another endeavor.

Penelope could direct his energies better elsewhere. The Wentworths would get all the unpleasant noblesse oblige of being estate landlords while Will and Penelope stayed in London and watched its neighborhoods grow. The Wentworths would thrive, Penelope assumed. Kellynch Hall was their type of place.

She thought fiercely: I only want Will to thrive.

She turned back to Anne. Anne, still leaning forward, gave her a seraphic smile, and Penelope realized, Sir Walter’s unappreciated daughter is getting everything she wanted. Well, well, Miss Anne Elliot. Good for you.

Captain Wentworth said, “It is still encumbered, however. That should be a consideration.”

Will laughed. He tapped Penelope’s shoulder as he crossed to the decanter and poured himself a glass. He held out another to Captain Wentworth who took it after only a slight pause.

Détente.

A Non-Romantic Proposition in Persuadable: Chapter 13

In Chapter 13 of Persuadable, Mr. Elliot makes his (first) proposition to Mrs. Clay, suggesting that she become his mistress.

In my commentary on Mr. B Speaks!, I discuss why an eighteenth/nineteenth century woman might choose to become a mistress. Penelope Clay is now faced with this choice. On the one hand: shame, rejection from good society (carrying serious long-term consequences), poverty, and stagnation. On the other hand: short-term security, greater prosperity than she would have as a single woman, and the potential (if she is clever) for long-term savings.

As I mentioned in my prior post, many mistresses tended to live like their benefactors and not a few had to scramble desperately for a new protector when rejected by the last. However, Mrs. Clay is clever; she would protect herself far more effectively.

Mr. Elliot's proposal is not romantically delivered despite Colonel Wallis's belief that his friend is a romantic at heart: Mr. Elliot of Persuadable falls into the category of jaded romantic, a type that Austen generally eschewed but would have recognized.

Gothic literature--discussed in Persuadable's Chapter 11 post--commonly used jaded heroes. Lord Byron, often considered the creator of the jaded romantic anti-hero, was extremely popular during Austen's lifetime. Persuasion, which centers around 1814, references Byron although most of his works were published later. Byron also heavily influenced romantic poets from Wordsworth to Coleridge, many of whom seemed to suffer from dark tangled locks and early deaths. I obtained the drawing of Keats (ill, near death) when I was on a study abroad program in London as an undergraduate. At the same time, I viewed (but was less impressed by) the overwrought statue of Shelley by Edward Onslow Ford (1892) .

Austen falls between the Classicist era and the Romantic Movement. Consequently, alongside her romantic impulses she provides a heavy dose of pragmatism. Many modern romances--set in the Regency era--have adopted this same approach. Although Charlotte Bronte, a devotee of a Romantic era (and a favorite author of mine), poured scorn on Austen, modern writers have recognized Austen's pragmatism as a perceptive and forward-looking acknowledgment of how difficult women's choices could be--as Mrs. Clay fully knows:

[Penelope Clay and Will Elliot meet at Bath's Abbey.]

They sat together and contemplated the warm light on the near-white stone.

“You know I don’t want you to marry Sir Walter,” Will said finally.

“For fear I will give him a son.”

Will didn’t reply immediately. She kept her eyes on the pew back before her.

He said, “I would hate to lose the baronetcy at the eleventh hour.”

“You never wanted it before.”

“People change—well, not really. But our desires do. We become more ourselves. Or less. Or something. More of what we’ve been heading towards.”

“You’ve been heading towards a baronetcy?”

“Towards stability—money, land.” He paused. “A helpmate.”

“Helpmate?”

“I need company. I’m too old for frivolity. Too young for dourness.”

She supposed his late wife had been frivolous. She never thought of Anne as dour but likely Will was referring to Elizabeth.

She questioned the unspoken elimination: “What about Anne?”

“She discovered that I married for money.”

“Everyone knows that you married for money.”

“But I kept it. That’s the real sin, you know. Sir Walter can be pompous and proud and his insolvency embarrasses Anne, but at least he isn’t stingy. That would truly mortify her. Me, I kept my wife’s money, invested it—for her sake as well as my own—and held onto it when she died. I didn’t fritter it away on her friends or invest in useless legal actions. It’s positively . . . bourgeois.”

“It’s intelligent,” Penelope said.

“See, I knew you understood me. I think we could get on well together. I would give you a home.”

She started. She’d anticipated seduction, not anything as long-range as the suggestion that she become Will’s mistress.

“And I’d support your sons.”

She nodded. A mistress was not as secure a position as a wife, but a clever mistress bartered for certain benefits. Though Penelope wasn’t much of a mother, she was enough of one to get her sons situated where they could make connections and obtain good employment.

She sighed, aware that Will watched her.

She said, “How long would our affair last?”

“I don’t know. I never think that far ahead. Long enough for me to enjoy you.”

Penelope flushed and stood. “I should get back.”

He also rose, his hand at her elbow.

“You’re supposed to be on the road to Thornberry,” she said with only slight asperity.

“I’ll walk you out to Stall Street.”

As they left the Abbey, Penelope resisted the impulse to lean into the hand that still hovered at her elbow. Will might not be the best solution to her future, but he was a kind of solution, and she wanted to be done with scheming.

She said abruptly, “And if I took your offer?”

He halted, turned her towards him by the shoulders. “You’d come with me. Right now. All the way to London.”

“We would miss the card party tomorrow.”

“We will both become personae non grata with the Elliots . . . should you accept,” Will said. “Personally, I can bear to give up their company. Can you?”

She was beginning to believe nothing would please her more.

It's Okay to Write About Marriage and Domestic Problems--Persuadable's Take on Mrs. Smith: Chapter 12

1995 Mrs. Smith--she does an excellent job

conveying Mrs. Smith's pleasure in life.

In Chapter 12 of Persuadable, Will Elliot visits Mrs. Smith.

Mrs. Smith is one of Austen's most interesting minor characters. She is a resilient widow whose once well-off late husband lost all his money to extravagance. Although her husband owned property in the West Indies, which could give Mrs. Smith a respectable income, that property is "encumbered" (used to pay off debts), and Mrs. Smith can't touch the "rents."

Based on this slim information, some literary analysts have criticized the Mrs. Smith character for her willingness to live off the slave trade (the West Indies property would likely use slaves); Jane Austen herself was not a supporter of slavery, and I was tempted to give Mr. Elliot noble reasons for not helping Mrs. Smith recover the property.

West Indies Map

That approach, however, would have been something of a cheat. One, Mr. Elliot is not the type of guy to invest himself in abstract causes overseas (anymore than he is the type of guy to lay out cash for what he considers an iffy proposition at best); two, Austen's text makes clear that Mrs. Smith's purpose is to convey information to Anne, not stand as a symbol of colonialism.

Of course, this brings up the issue of Austen's supposed ignorance of political and social issues. Frankly, this is such a stupid criticism of the writer that I have difficulty taking it even momentarily seriously; plus, at the risk of sounding like a ticked-off feminist, it is not an argument one often hears about male writers who focus on domestic plots. In any case, excellent biographies of Jane Austen, including Paula Bryne's The Real Jane Austen, have effectively disputed this characterization. Jane Austen was not only well-aware of currently political and social issues, she had immediate familial investments in many of them.

Setting aside the obvious refutation that fiction is deliberate creation and writers will focus how and where they choose, why do such analysts suppose wars and revolutions are carried out? Despite the unnerving and tunnel-vision attitudes of many activists, they are generally NOT carried out for the sake of more wars and revolutions. Rightly or wrongly, they are usually carried out to create a better life somewhere for someone. In other words, they are carried out so people can get married and not have to worry about soldiers cluttering up their living rooms.

In any case, I have always considered literary analysis that insists that all literature have an IMPORTANT MESSAGE to be trite to the nth degree. Well-fashioned prose has done more to keep the world turning than any so-called IMPORTANT bumper sticker.

A passage from Mr. B Speaks! addresses this issue from another perspective. An excerpt from Persuadable, Chapter 12 can be found on the Persuadable homepage. 

Gary (the literary analyst) rolled his eyes. “And, of course, romance novels always have perfect weddings.”

“Of course.”

“This whole novel [Pamela] is nothing but trite and shallow pandering,” Gary declaimed. “What about death, disease, poverty, slavery, racism—all the terrible issues of the eighteenth century? Hmm? I mean women couldn’t even vote! But no, we’re fixated on watching an inconsequential couple tie the knot.”

The judge glanced towards the characters’ table. Mr. B was still smiling faintly. He hadn’t flinched at being called “inconsequential.” Presumably, people of the eighteenth century were less obsessed with getting their “day in court” than people of the twenty-first.

The judge reminded himself not to chuckle at his own pun.

“People hid their heads in the sand,” Gary was still declaiming. “Just like they do today.”

The romance writer reviewer, Deborah, said, “That sounds like the end of a lecture,” and Gary reddened.

She was probably right—the man certainly loved to carp about stuff—but the judge didn’t want audience members giving the Committee for Literary Fairness any (more) reason to complain.

He said pacifically, “Different novels cover different topics.”

Leslie Quinn, the writer of popular non-fiction, agreed, “People in the eighteenth century still had to work, love, have children, get along. Those topics never go away.”

Dr. Matchel (another literary analyst) said, “But romance novels don’t deal with real domestic problems. They end with the wedding, giving readers the false impression that married life will be eternally happy. Escapist literature!”

"This novel doesn't end with the wedding," Mr. B's attorney pointed out, muttering, “What’s wrong with escapism?”

Deborah added, “Dark and depressing isn’t automatically profound.”

Other Authors' Books in Austen--Regarding Mrs. Clay's Purchase in Persuadable: Chapter 11

In the original text of Persuasion, Penelope Clay sends Mr. Elliot on an errand: "Mr Elliot (always obliging) [was] just setting off for Union Street on a commission of Mrs Clay's."

What was that commission? I attempt to answer that question in Persuadable.

I decided to make the commission a book purchase (there were several bookstalls in Bath at the time, including on Union Street). My next decision was, What book?

The late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries were awash in books--not as many as now-a-days, of course, but still an appreciable amount. And ever since Richardson's Pamela, books by, about, and for women had become extremely popular. In selecting what type of book would interest Penelope Clay, I was faced with an autobiography by the wife of an American diplomat, multiple books about women in distress, not to mention Austen's Horrid Novels.

Not the cover from Austen's 

day, of course, but effectively

captures the essence of the book.

In Northanger Abbey, Austen lists a number of Horrid Novels--Gothic suspense novels that were immensely popular during Austen's youth. These novels--which can still be read today--are full of dead bodies, swooning women, white draperies, and, in the case of The Monk (mentioned separately), sulky, lust-filled priests. They may not be explicit in the twenty-first century sense of the word but they are loaded with innuendo. In fact, many books of this era were packed with raunchy scenarios.

Consequently, I always chuckle when I hear claims that once-upon-a-time, life was so good and pure--you know, back in Jane Austen's day when people had tea on the lawn and didn't kiss until they were married.

The eighteenth and nineteenth centuries were as full of porn, erotic novels, sexual scandals, and salacious news about such, as our time. The counterargument is, But nowadays, all that stuff is so much more prevalent, to which I must point out that one constant of human nature is the ability to spread gossip quicker than a person can say, "Oooh, really? Tell me more!"

Consider that one of the most infamous cases of the mid-eighteenth century was Elizabeth Canning. Elizabeth Canning disappeared from home for several days. When she reappeared, she claimed she had been kidnapped and held by a perverse woman who wanted to turn her into a prostitute. Her story was suspect (though not necessarily false), but Canning's supporters--Canningites (no kidding)--treated the case less as a matter for the court and more as a cause. They behaved rather like supporters of so-called recovered memory victims. And the case took on the same high emotional fervor as cases about Satanism in daycares.

In other words, everybody went nuts.

Elizabeth Canning on trial

for perjury.

And people took sides. Fielding, who was so dismissive of Richardson's Pamela, thought Canning's story had merit, but his reputation was somewhat hurt by the case since Canning was eventually charged with perjury.

Josephine Tey used the Canning affair to write her book The Franchise Affair. The book is ardently anti-Canning, indicating that even so many years later, the story has the power to invite partisanship.

Or perhaps, it simply indicates that the human desire for SCANDAL, WACKY HAPPENINGS, SEX! will never change.

Will Elliot and Penelope Clay exchange their own thoughts about scandal and wacky happenings when he brings Penelope her book:

Will Elliot . . . dropped by Camden Place with [Penelope's] book. She received him in the sitting room; no one else was home, and the servants were typically unavailable. As soon as he entered, Will lounged into a chair and tossed over The Memoirs of Miss Sidney Bidulph.

“You have a taste for troubled heroines.”

“She reminds readers that marriage is a troubled state.”

“Isn’t she terribly selfless and forbearing? Are non-fictional women ever that self-effacing?”

“Oh, yes,” Penelope said and told him what [she had learned] about Anne and Captain Wentworth['s history].

“I thought there was a history there,” he said. “Pity for Miss Anne she didn’t accept. The man is worth thousands. But then, of course, she would feel a duty to her family, her name, etcetera.”

“In this case, it was more a duty to her friend. Lady Russell was the deciding factor.”

“She probably stands in loco parentis to Anne. Young girls are supposed to avoid calamity by listening to their mothers.”

Penelope hadn’t considered that aspect of the relationship: she so rarely felt like a mother herself—or like her mother’s child. She nodded dubiously, trying to comprehend a state of affairs where she would sacrifice her own objectives at someone’s suggestion, no matter how well-meant that suggestion.

“Although I’m surprised Lady Russell objected,” Will said. “The man isn’t that far down the social ladder.”

“Lady Russell thinks Anne deserves a duke or a prince. Someone of tremendous worth anyway.”

“Like me?!” Will exclaimed in mock astonishment.

“You have the family name.”

“Of no remarkable history.” Will tipped back in his chair.

They sat in companionable contemplation of the unexceptional Elliot name.

“You are currently slated to inherit Kellynch Hall,” Penelope pointed out.

“And naturally Lady Russell would like to see her protégé ensconced there, emulating Lady Bountiful to the obsequious villagers.”

“Anne would probably do it very well.” Penelope gave him a curious sideways glance. “You don’t have a high opinion of this baronetcy that you claim to want.”

“One should never sneer at the prospect of obsequious villagers or the possibility of more money. Besides, I need a change in lifestyle.”

“Country-life would bore you.”

“Is that why you’re threatening to give Sir Walter an heir—to keep my life interesting?”

Penelope just smiled. Will had a far more optimistic opinion of Sir Walter’s prowess than she. Penelope had no desire to produce more children in any case. She would rather Sir Walter funded her living sons’ educations than try to create fantastical ones.

She could assure Will of her disinterest in a legacy. She could tell him that she only wanted to be the wife of a baronet, not the mother of one. But he would not believe her. He would point out that Sir Walter might insist on his conjugal rights and Penelope had proven she could produce male children.

He said, “I suppose I’ll have to pursue Miss Anne more vigorously.”

“I don’t think you could achieve her now.”

“Oh?” Will’s chair tipped forward, so his laughing eyes met hers. “Are you so sure of Captain Wentworth’s ascendancy?”

“He’s a lover from her youth.”

“A spring-time lover. By autumn, young plants have grown and died. Or turned to mulch. New beds must be made.”

Penelope shook her head. “She would have married already if she didn’t still love him. Anne is the marrying kind. She is competent and sympathetic and spends her time servicing her family’s needs.”

“Not like you.”

“No.”

Penelope’s parents would look after her sons no matter what happened to her. No one would look out for Penelope but Penelope.

Will was leaning forward now, eyeing her over clasped hands.

“I do need to consider my future,” he said. “I should pursue this paragon for myself.”

“You’ll have a chance at the concert tonight,” Penelope said and stood. “Thank you for delivering my book.”

Upstairs in her tiny room, she tried to forget Will’s speculative gaze. She needed to focus on Sir Walter. Will Elliot had proved an amusing distraction, but she had to stop eliciting his attention, provoking him to spurts of laughter, trying to impress him with her insights.

I’m as bad as Sir Walter, enamored by a charming man. Only Anne seemed to have guessed Will’s true nature and held herself aloof. Let him try to win her. Let him marry her. It won’t be love. Penelope didn’t think Will Elliot could genuinely love anyone. She was not such a fool to test the possibility.

Anne's Sister Elizabeth in Persuadable: Chapter 10

Elvi Hale as Anne of Cleves shrewdly politicking

with Keith Michell's Henry VIII to avoid

becoming one of his causalities.

Elizabeth of Persuasion and Persuadable is a surprisingly distinct character from both her sisters and her father. Although she and Sir Walter are often grouped together as a single entity, Sir Walter has a somewhat warmer personality.

The Elizabeth/Sir Walter pairing is understandable since Elizabeth is not only Sir Walter's favorite but would have acted as Sir Walter's hostess since her mother's death. This position would likely be far more attractive to her than marrying "down" in any way.

Which brings us to to Elizabeth's state of singleness. 

Statistics prior to 1850 are almost impossible to track down, even with today's Internet: suffice it to say that Elizabeth's singleness is not quite as unusual a state of affairs as costume dramas and Regency romances suggest.  Even in the 1950s--when every woman supposedly married her high school sweetheart--approximately 8% of women and 9% of men had never married at age 35. In a town of 10,000 people, that's 800 women, a substantial enough number.

Elizabeth's singleness still provokes comment--from Austen at least. According to Austen, Elizabeth could marry if she wished, not due to her pretty face (although she has one) but due to her rank and dowry.

Poets and writers throughout history have extolled the beautiful face, etc. etc. etc. but for most of history, marriage has almost always been decided on factors such as parental approval, familiarity, occupation, dowry, and--in the case of royalty--political necessity.

Hence, the odd little story of Anne of Cleves. Anne of Cleves arrived in England to be married to Henry VIII, only to be divorced from him about six months later. The story goes that Henry was put off since she wasn't as attractive as the portrait he'd commissioned. The Six Wives of Henry VIII (1970) does an excellent job intimating that Anne--who was perfectly at ease with herself--was more shocked by Henry than Henry by Anne (this interpretation is supported by the historical record). She was 25; he was almost 50; he was Henry VIII . . . she wasn't.

Henry was so offended by her obvious lack of interest, he divorced her claiming the privilege of so many men in history that "it was the woman's fault." (I highly recommend the Anne of Cleves episode for the careful and intelligent politicking that goes on behind the scenes: Anne manages to keep her head but Cromwell is doomed and knows it--he has finally backed the wrong marriage.)

1971 Elizabeth--I consider her the closest to the

original. 1995 Elizabeth is too bratty (Elizabeth IS

a lady). 2007 Elizabeth and Sir Walter are too

calculating. Elizabeth is clueless, not malicious.

Elizabeth is in a far more secure position than Anne of Cleves, the Bennet sisters, or, even, Charlotte who chooses security with a silly man rather than a lifetime of dependence on her family. Although Elizabeth is not in a position to marry "up" (to an earl or a duke), she certainly could marry respectably--if she wished.

However, Austen's text makes clear that what Elizabeth thinks will happen and what Elizabeth wants to happen and what Elizabeth actually tries to make happen have almost no connection to each other: out of all of Austen's characters, Elizabeth Elliot appears to experience the most cognitive dissonance about her life.

Austen herself made the difficult choice not to marry, and she knew exactly what she was doing when she made that choice. But Elizabeth appears to have no idea that simply deciding that someone should value you and want to marry you is not altogether enormously effective if you then treat that person with utter indifference.

In comparison, Sir Walter and Anne and Mary, the youngest sister, all demonstrate a similar single-mindedness about relationships; in completely different ways, they are all gratified when someone pays them attention/shows an interest in them. For all his snobbery, Sir Walter leaps into instant friendship with anyone who likes him or flatters his ego. Although Anne is far more discerning and objective, she is touched when people like the Musgroves go out of their way to include her. And Mary spends all her time just trying to get people to notice her.

But Elizabeth takes all and any interest simply as her due. This is not the same as Elizabeth being indifferent to public opinion/making her own way in life. Elizabeth's dissonance is that she feels entitled to attention without ever wondering why people she doesn't pay attention to ought to pay attention to her.

In Chapter 7, Penelope Clay considers Elizabeth's attitude towards Will Elliot:

“William Elliot isn’t as handsome as I’d like,” Elizabeth said complacently. “But he is respectable.”

She and Penelope sat in Elizabeth’s bedroom while Elizabeth tested different brooches against her skin.

“I suppose he will wish to live at Kellynch Hall though I must say I am finding Bath more and more to my taste.”

Mr. Elliot has absolutely no interest in marrying you, Penelope did not say.

Penelope guessed that William Elliot had reinitiated contact with his relations to ensure his inheritance. He’d been clever enough to worm back into their good graces. He might try to use that cleverness to prevent Penelope from marrying Sir Walter.

He’s not as clever as me.

Penelope moved to the window and grinned down into the street. She hadn’t been tested like this since her landlord tried to make love to her. She’d gotten his wife to take her part against him—after she walked away with a new pair of gloves, money to pay the coal bill, and her virtue intact.

Far below on the pavement, Mr. Elliot’s compact form neared the front stoop.

“Mr. Elliot is gracing Camden Place with another appearance,” Penelope said mildly.

Elizabeth put away her brooches, flicked dust off her sandals and tsked over how the servants dusted, all before descending to the drawing room. Following, Penelope shook her head. Elizabeth did not exhibit the characteristics of a woman anxious over a potential mate but rather those of a woman contemplating what piece of furniture to add to her household. 

Poor Mr. Elliot. 

In Chapter 10--which includes the well-known scenes in Molland's--Mr. Elliot returns to Elizabeth's side after asking Lady Dalrymple to transport the Elliot coterie back to Camden Place. He is aware that Penelope Clay is trying to undermine his pursuit of Anne (in retaliation for he undermining her pursuit of Sir Walter) and plans to use the carriage ride to even the score. What is notable, in both Persuadable and the original text, is Elizabeth's complete indifference to what a walk with Mr. Elliot means (emphasized below):

Lady Dalrymple was a much more rational person than Sir Walter’s fawning might lead one to believe. She had an infinite store of small-talk and limited interests, but she was not callous or indifferent to a minor predicament. Naturally, she could convey two ladies to Camden Place.

Will didn’t press for the inclusion of a third. His commission had become an opportunity.

He returned to Molland’s and sadly informed the ladies that there was only room for two since Miss Carteret accompanied her mother.

“I will walk a lady home with pleasure,” Will said.

Elizabeth looked unimpressed. “I have a message for Lady Dalrymple from my father,” she said.

Her expectation that Will would court her apparently didn’t extend to actually wanting to spend time with him.

Anne said, “I could use a walk.”

From her quick but level response, Will guessed that Anne was motivated less by the possibility of Will’s company and more by a desire to avoid Lady Dalrymple’s conversation. Whatever her motives, her agreement was a gain for him.

Until, “I’m sure you would prefer to join your sister, Miss Anne,” Penelope said kindly. “I can walk with Mr. Elliot. You will avoid getting soaked and endangering your health.”

“The rain is a trifle,” Anne said, looking somewhat surprised; she had likely expected Penelope to leap at a chance to ingratiate herself with Lady Dalrymple.

“But there are puddles,” Penelope said. “My boots are much thicker than yours, you know.”

“You have a little cold,” Elizabeth said to Penelope. “Anne should go with Mr. Elliot. She will be fine.”

Penelope turned to Will, lids drooping. “Perhaps Mr. Elliot should choose.”

He wanted to laugh. He also wanted to suggest that Penelope’s cold was hardly a threat, her boots were impressively thick, and offer to take her home. An entire walk exchanging observations with a clever woman who knew him was a rare pleasure.

But the object here was to win Anne’s company. He chose her.

Penelope’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. She said, her voice like velvet, “Before you and Miss Anne embark, Mr. Elliot, perhaps you would fetch a parcel for me from the bookstall on Union Street?”

He bowed quickly and headed for the door before he broke into convulsing guffaws.

I won that skirmish, but Penelope Clay still holds the field.

Flattering the Uppercrust in Persuadable: Chapter 9

Another Gainsborough: Viscountess Tracy

Sir Walter's relations, the Dalrymples, appear in Chapter 9 of Persuadable sending the good baron into a tizzy.

As a viscountess, Lady Dalrymple is a step up the heirarchy from Sir Walter. Sir Walter's sycophantic desire to curry favor reflects the real--but dying--power of the peerage in England and also leads to several rows in the Elliot household.

Anne, frankly, finds the Dalrymples completely tedious. And although she's more or less right, her reaction to the Dalyrmples is not automatically kind or fair, and Austen does not defend Anne's remarks; she simply shows them to us.

Austen as narrator can be quite caustic. In Northanger Abbey, when describing Mrs. Allen, she dismantles the woman without remorse:

Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen.

Nearly 14 years later, Austen is far less critical of the Mrs. Allens of the world. After all, one learns as one ages that pointless conversations about supposedly tedious subjects do far more to keep the social exchanges of everyday life oiled and functioning than PROFOUND, INSIGHTFUL, ANGST-CAUSING speeches.

Or, perhaps, as one gets older, one just has less energy for so much soul-searching.

In Persuasion, regarding the Dalrymples, Anne delivers the kind of opinion that Austen would have made when she was younger:

[F]or the Dalrymples (in Anne's opinion, most unfortunately) were cousins of the Elliots; and the agony was how to introduce themselves properly . . . Anne was ashamed. Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very agreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they created, but they were nothing. There was no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding. Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name of "a charming woman," because she had a smile and a civil answer for everybody. Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so awkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but for her birth.

This is Anne's voice, not Austen's. Austen's castigation of Mrs. Allen in Northanger Abbey presents Mrs. Allen's personality as an absolute. But in Persuasion, Austen is far more willing to step back and let her characters judge others fairly or unfairly. As the above passage indicates, Anne hasn't fallen that far from her father's tree when it comes to casting judgment.

My perspective is that Anne is unnecessarily harsh, and Austen knows it. Consider what Austen actually shows us about the Dalrymples: they come to Bath; they receive Sir Walter despite a letter that even Mr. Elliot considers a bit over the top; they request the Elliots' company when Lady Dalrymple gets a cold; they agree to take the Elliot sisters home in their carriage; Lady Dalrymple praises Captain Wentworth's looks; they attend Elizabeth's card party.

With that in mind, Mr. Elliot's advice to Anne is entirely reasonable: Why not just get along? These people can't hurt you. They have the right background, and that sort of thing matters. Besides, how can you object to them and Mrs. Clay?

In other words, these are perfectly amiable people who are made to appear far worse by (1) Sir Walter's fawning; (2) Anne's own caustic remarks. Speaking of the concert, she tells Mrs. Smith, "But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off." Ouch!

To me, Austen's treatment of Anne re: the Dalrymples reinforces her skill as a true craftswoman. She is NOT Anne, writing in journalistic fashion about her own feelings. She stands outside Anne. She likes her; she created her to express ideas and feelings that Austen herself considers important; but she sees Anne objectively. She allows Anne to echo criticisms and opinions that Austen once likely held herself but that age has mellowed.

The Dalrymples of the world no longer fret Austen, but she knows that they would continue to fret her character, Anne.

In this excerpt from Persuadable, the Elliots and Mrs. Clay have just visited the Dalrymples:

Mother and daughter were far less ogreish than Penelope had anticipated. Lady Dalrymple was a plump, placid creature. Miss Carteret was rather odd though not on purpose; she simply lacked basic social instincts. She laughed when others were serious, carried on monologues that others, including her own mother, ignored.

Penelope had no trouble impressing the pair; all she had to do was look deferential and listen to their vague comments on Bath, the weather, and—Miss Carteret’s preference—domesticated felines.

Sir Walter was so encouraged by the visit that he remained in a good humor for nearly three days, making only four or five disparaging remarks about Penelope’s complexion. He even escorted Penelope around the Pump Room himself one morning when Elizabeth was otherwise engaged. Penelope began to wonder if she should start dropping stronger hints about the comforts of the marriage state. In this mood, Sir Walter was easy to manage.

Anne was to blame for destroying Sir Walter’s bonhomie.

“I received a note from charming Lady Dalrymple,” Sir Walter exclaimed one morning. “She is feeling poorly. We must call on Laura Place and raise her spirits.”

But Anne didn’t want to join the Dalrymple Entertainment Committee. “I have already made plans to visit my friend, Mrs. Smith," she explained.

Sir Walter sulked, stamping about the drawing room, and waving his arms. “Who was Mrs. Smith’s husband? One of five thousand Mr. Smiths? What is her attraction? That she is old and sickly? She must be near forty.”

“Thirty-one,” Anne said patiently. “I cannot put off my engagement with her, sir.”

“Lady Russell surely doesn’t support this association,” Elizabeth said.

“She does. She thinks it is most proper that I maintain it.”

Sir Walter waved off Lady Russell’s thoughts on propriety. “People will know that Anne Elliot visits a mere Mrs. Smith, who has only thirty to forty pounds per annum.”

Penelope left the room. She stood in the hall, perfunctorily brushing down her dress. She knew that Sir Walter compartmentalized his attitudes. He would see no connection between Anne’s widowed friend of no name and no income with Mrs. Clay, his daughter’s companion who resided under his roof and within his good opinion. But Mrs. Clay saw it. If Anne Elliot had a crueler streak, she would have reminded him.

Penelope realized that she was trembling. Every day, her anger at this family became harder to fight, took longer to abate.

Once I am married, things will change. Once I am married, life will be so much better.

Gainsborough and Hoare in Persuadable: Chapter 8

Gainsborough:
Possible Anne!

In Persuadable, Chapter 8, Mr. Elliot meets Anne Elliot (officially). He compares her to a lady in a Gainsborough portrait while he describes Penelope Clay "as pure William Hoare—those knowledgeable gleaming eyes."


Sargent

Both Gainsborough (1727-1788) and Hoare (1707-1792) were British portrait painters during the eighteenth century. Gainsborough had the more illustrious career and is slightly better known today by non-art majors for portraits like The Blue Boy. He painted many, many portraits of upper middle-class individuals and families.

He was rather like John Singer Sargent nearly a hundred years later except Gainsborough's portraits are very English and John Singer Sargent's portraits are very . . . not English.

Gainsborough promoted the ordinary, everyday life aspect of his gentry folk. Sargent did too, to an extent, but everything with Sargent is overlaid with this fantastical gloss. When I look at Gainsborough, I feel like I'm looking at Austen's neighbors. When I look at a Sargent, I am peering into a lush, ostentatious, slick world of massive privilege. Gainsborough's subjects are somewhat easier to relate to (especially since they are often accompanied by dogs). 

Portrait by Hoare

William Hoare also painted portraits of gentry. He actually settled in Bath as did Gainsborough (although Hoare was more closely linked to Bath's government). This portrait is likely the one Mr. Elliot has in mind regarding Penelope Clay.

As a homage to Austen's time period, Eugene skillfully and cleverly designed the cover for Persuadable using a Gainsborough portrait: Mr. and Mrs. William Hazlett. Now there's a couple that knows where they are going in life!

From Persuadable, Chapter 8:

[Will Elliot] entered Camden Place’s drawing room to discover an extra occupant: Cousin Anne had arrived that afternoon.

Will let his surprise show. He’d seen Anne Elliot in Lyme and admired her looks. He’d just never imagined that the woman he’d seen there could be his cousin. Her family spoke of Miss Anne so slightingly, he’d pictured an unimpressive, sparrow-like, featureless creature.

Anne Elliot was a truly beautiful woman with elegant bones, straight brows, and clear eyes. Elizabeth paled beside her.

She was also truly shy—none of Mrs. Clay’s coy pretense—and reserved in a way Elizabeth could never master. Such shyness was bred into the bones; Anne had the classic repose of a Gainsborough portrait.

Will recognized Mrs. Clay as pure William Hoare—those knowledgeable gleaming eyes.

Miss Anne saw Will’s surprise; since he wouldn’t gain anything by dissembling, he exclaimed, “But we saw each other at Lyme! We both stayed at the Three Cups Inn.”

“Yes,” she said and blushed faintly.

“Did you enjoy your time there? You were part of a large party—”

“Yes.” The blush increased, and Will rummaged through his memory for which male member of the party might have caused that blush. “I was with my sister Mary and her husband and her husband’s sisters.”

“The Musgroves. Of course!”

“Yes. And Captain Wentworth—” a quick glance towards her father—“whose sister and brother-in-law are staying at Kellynch Hall.”

“Admiral Croft is my tenant,” Sir Walter said sonorously.

“Plus some of the captain’s friends. We were a merry group.”

“And I spent my evenings alone! If only I had introduced myself! I am too careful when traveling. I learned as a youth not to be too curious or too forward, even with my own relations.” An apologetic glance at Sir Walter. “The follies of youth!”

Miss Anne looked doubtful at Will’s metaphorical breast-beating but said, “I will happily give you my opinion of the area.”

“Were you there long?”

“Our visit was ending when one of the Musgroves—Louisa Musgrove—had a bad fall.”

“Oh, yes,” Elizabeth said quickly, inserting herself into the conversation. “How is dear Louisa?”

“Much recovered.”

“Is she still at Lyme?” Will asked.

“She’ll return soon to the Musgrove’s home in Uppercross. She may be weak for several more months.”

“How dispiriting,” Sir Walter said in a tone that suggested Louisa’s condition (and momentary celebrity) was as inconvenient as it was depressing.

“Perhaps she should try the Bath waters,” Penelope Clay said, and Will shot her a look. Her tone was nearly acerbic, but Sir Walter only nodded sagely.

Turning back to Miss Anne, Will saw she had noticed her father’s acquiescence to Mrs. Clay’s participation. Miss Anne did not look pleased. No wonder the widow was so careful around this particular Elliot daughter.

He caught Penelope Clay in the hall as he prepared to leave. “Now that Elizabeth has her sister’s companionship, I suppose you’ll be leaving the family and returning home.”

“I will naturally suggest it,” she said demurely, and Will had to chuckle. Sir Walter and Elizabeth would beg her to stay. Miss Anne was clearly not deprecating enough to fulfill Elizabeth and Sir Walter’s needs. Everyone preferred a sympathetic and friendly dog on the hearth to an aloof and disinterested cat.

Until they discovered the dog was actually a hungry wolf.

Vanity, Thy Name is Elliot--Persuadable: Chapter 7

1995 Sir Walter

Penelope Clay has managed to maneuver herself into the Elliot household. But she is finding the price rather high. Not only is she now exposed to Sir Walter's pompous vapidity on a daily basis, she is also exposed to  Elizabeth and Sir Walter's soul-numbing commentary on others' looks.

Much has been written about Elizabeth and Sir Walter's vanity, but these two Elliots are not simply vain; vanity by itself can be innocent, even endearing. Rather, Elizabeth and Sir Walter are the type of people who are constantly pointing out that so-and-so isn't as good looking as he or she used to be; and so-and-so's fading looks are an embarrassment to good society. Almost the first thing out of Sir Walter's mouth when he meets someone--like Colonel Wallis--is his opinion of that person's looks (or the looks of that person's spouse as when Sir Walter comments on Mrs. Wallis as "an excessively pretty woman" as if Mrs. Wallis's looks justify her husband's opinion of Mr. Elliot).

Penelope Clay not only has to tolerate this drivel, she has to endure it being applied to her.

Austen does not describe Penelope Clay's looks other than to tell us that Anne knows that her father wasn't attracted to Mrs. Clay on first meeting because she has "freckles, a projecting tooth, and a clumsy wrist."

These criticisms are not Anne's but Sir Walter's. In her own voice, Anne considers that Mrs. Clay is "young, and certainly altogether well-looking, and possesse[s], in an acute mind and assiduously pleasing manners, infinitely more dangerous attractions than any merely personal might have been."

In other words, Sir Walter has missed the forest for a tiny little bush.

But of course, he is exactly that type of man. Like many people who make comparisons based on physical appearance, he misses the zeitgeist and pinpoints the flaw (an overbite, baldness, etc.). An overbite, of course, can be quite attractive--hence my choice of Billie Piper and her magnificent mouth for Mrs. Clay.

One of the nicer attributes of Austen's Mr. Elliot is how rapidly he identifies Anne--who by Elizabeth and Sir Walter's calculations is faded, etc. etc. etc.--as a true beauty and how indifferent he is to arguments based on appearance. It is Mr. Elliot's notice of Anne in Lyme that forces Captain Wentworth to see her again (and to realize that he can't waste time pursuing her). In Bath, Mr. Elliot tries to outmanuever Penelope Clay through  arguments about class rather than arguments about appearance (that is, he fights fair, using the Elliots' weakness against them rather than tearing down Mrs. Clay directly).

Sir Walter (of course) criticizes Mr. Elliot for being "underhung"-- meaning Mr. Elliot has a somewhat pugnacious jaw--and for looking older than he did 10 years earlier! Mr. Elliot, on the other hand, while saying everything he should to soothe Sir Walter and Elizabeth's vanity, gravitates towards wit and intelligence and an ability to talk about interesting things.

From Persuadable, Chapter 7:

“William Elliot isn’t as handsome as I’d like,” Elizabeth said complacently. “But he is respectable.”

She and Penelope sat in Elizabeth’s bedroom while Elizabeth tested different brooches against her skin.

William Elliot was much less than respectable and much more than handsome. He had an abundance of fine straight hair that only just managed to look combed, light-colored eyes under slightly slanting brows, a straight nose, and an excessively sardonic mouth in a pugnacious jaw.

But Sir Walter and Elizabeth obviously only saw in him what they had decided to see, so Penelope didn’t correct Elizabeth’s muted praise. She would be condemned for impertinence (to the heir!) and then ignored.

[Mr. Elliot arrived, and they went downstairs.] Penelope and Elizabeth entered the drawing room. Mr. Elliot stood by the mantel with Sir Walter. He came forward, bowed and accepted Elizabeth’s elegantly extended hand. Penelope didn’t try to mimic her. She was not particularly graceful when it came to curtsies and such. She suspected that her discomfort with forms of deference bled through. Better to hover obsequiously and smile encouragement at Elizabeth.

“Mr. Elliot has been taking the Bath waters,” Sir Walter told them. “Look how it has refreshed his appearance.”

Mr. Elliot looked refreshed and slightly amused.

“The water has also benefited Mrs. Clay,” Sir Walter continued. “Along with Gowland’s Lotion, it has eliminated most of her freckles.”

A shock of sudden fury tensed Penelope’s shoulders. She scolded herself an instant later: Sir Walter always commented on her looks.

I ought to be used to it by now.

She was succumbing to the constant exposure. Back home, Penelope had prepared herself mentally for visits to Kellynch Hall. Here, petty comments about her skin, teeth, and posture were unending; she never knew when a casual conversation would be interrupted with a critical remark.

Penelope had never understood why people like Sir Walter felt it necessary to point out the obvious about others’ appearance. She knew how she looked. It wasn’t as if his comments surprised her. And it wasn’t as if his opinion mattered: Penelope had poured Gowland’s Lotion into the rain gutter the afternoon Sir Walter gave it to her.

Mr. Elliot was watching her. He knew she’d tensed. She took a deep breath and cocked her head. Smiling, she said, “The water has also eased Sir Walter’s aches and pains.”

Take that, old man.

Mr. Elliot’s eyes crinkled; there were many laugh lines at their corners. Penelope lowered her own gaze.

“It’s a bright, sunny day,” Mr. Elliot suddenly cried, “despite the chill. We should walk along the Royal Crescent. Ladies, fetch your wraps.”

Penelope took her time collecting her wrap and herself, but she still returned to the drawing room before Elizabeth. Mr. Elliot was alone, flicking through a magazine. Sir Walter had rushed off to check his appearance before venturing into public.

Mr. Elliot said, his voice full of mischief, “The walk will freshen your cheeks, Mrs. Clay.”

“It won’t shrink your jaw,” she said sweetly.

He laughed. “Is that Sir Walter’s main criticism of my appearance? The man is shallower than standing water.”

“Suppose I tell him you said so?”

“Suppose I tell him you are trying to maneuver him into marriage?”

He appreciates how well I know my place.”

“He doesn’t notice your place’s shifting nature. I’ll have to stay close if I want to bring your place to his attention.”

“The family will encourage as much closeness as you can bear.”

Mr. Elliot followed Penelope’s gaze towards the ceiling and Elizabeth’s location. He grimaced, then, “There’s the unmarried sister, Anne.”

“She dislikes sycophants.”

“Really?” He lifted a brow at Penelope over his shoulder, and she couldn’t help but respond with a moue. He grinned.

“Sir Walter will be surprised if you pursue Anne,” Penelope continued. “He considers her looks to be much faded.”

“Some things matter more than looks,” Mr. Elliot said, lowering his voice: outside the drawing room, Elizabeth and Sir Walter were descending the stairs. Mr. Elliot headed towards them. As he passed Penelope, his shoulder brushed hers; he bent his head—

"Personally, I wouldn’t mind licking your freckles,” he said softly.

Well. If he planned to battle her that way she’d need a greater store of aplomb.

The Fall of Lyme in Persuadable: Chapter 6

Steep stairs on the Cobb at Lyme.

Persuadable naturally does not show the cruicial, life-altering event in Persuasion: Louisa's fall at Lyme.

In Persuasion, this event changes the entire momentum of the story. The 1995 film does a good job portraying this event. In some of the movies, it is far too quick and Wentworth's culpability is passed over. But the 1995 film demonstrates how Louisa's waywardness--that Wentworth has encouraged--leads to profoundly negative repercussions.

I think that too many script writers feel, secretly, that Louisa is right--that Louisa's impetuous nature is the way to go about things, that Anne must learn to be like Louisa, not the other way around. (The 2007 movie heavily implies this.)

But as the 1995 film illustrates, impulse (what Dorothy Sayers in Gaudy Night calls, "The Doctrine of Snatch") is not a terribly good approach to major life events. I have made impulsive decisions that turned out okay. I have also made impulsive decisions that haunted me for years (like when I bought my Saturn). Louisa impulsive leap in Lyme is not an anomaly; rather, it is symptomatic of her philosophy--that the babyish ME GET THIS NOW id-approach to life is the best way to address life's vagaries.

In Persuadable, Mrs. Clay criticizes Anne for not being direct enough with Captain Wentworth (see Chapter 11), but she also recognizes in Anne, as in herself, the need to tread carefully and consider all angles. A woman's lot is not easy, and poverty ain't fun, and being a poor dead naval officer's wife is even less fun. 

Both Anne and Mrs. Clay would be more than capable of supporting themselves in the modern world--I see Mrs. Clay as a real estate broker and Anne as a high class nanny or advice columnist (seriously: I see her as one of those soft-spoken experts who writes books and gets asked to be on panels).

However, as members of the early nineteenth century, their options are limited. They have to maintain a position which will enable them to snag a man while remaining unsullied and respectable. And this position has its own risks (property becomes the husband's; respectability doesn't automatically entail wealth or security).

From this perspective, Anne's wariness at marrying Captain Wentworth seven years earlier and Mrs. Clay's careful assessment of Mr. Elliot's potential become mirrors to each other.

The following excerpt takes place when Mr. Elliot comes to Camden Place to dine. The incident at Lyme is discussed. 

“I never put down the Elliot name!” Mr. Elliot exclaimed in answer to a querulous remark from Sir Walter. “I have ever boasted of being an Elliot.” (What he had said was, “Thank God I’m an Elliot with sense.” And he’d only mocked Sir Walter to his wife’s friends when his Kellynch cousins were mentioned—which was hardly at all.)

Mrs. Clay’s mouth twitched. Will put down his utensils and gazed at her, bringing the others’ attention to her side of the table.

She said, the twitch utterly wiped out, “Of course you did, Mr. Elliot, for who would not be proud of such a connection?!”

He nearly glared at her except Sir Walter had refocused on him, uttering harrumphs of approval.

Returning to the drawing room, Will said pointedly to Elizabeth, “Your sisters will keep you company this winter?”

“Anne is coming soon with Lady Russell. I don’t know if Mary will visit.” Mary was the youngest sister. “There’s been an accident with one of our in-laws.”

“Mary’s husband’s sister, Louisa, had a bad fall,” Mrs. Clay said softly. “She struck her head, and they are still unsure if she will regain her wits.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Anne wrote something about it. She was there when it happened.”

Will barely managed to restrain his surprise. His wife Sally had been aggravating in the extreme but when her best friend was killed by a racing carriage, Will had held her while she cried. He hadn’t been so awful a husband that he couldn’t sympathize with unexpected terror and pain.

Elizabeth behaved as though Anne had witnessed a minor brawl at a local fair.

For a moment, Will’s eyes met Mrs. Clay’s. A faint wryness touched the corners of her mouth, then she leaned forward solicitously to ask Sir Walter if he was comfortable.

Will broke in: “Where did this accident occur?”

“In Lyme.”

Will had passed through Lyme on his way from Sidmouth. A collection of pretty women and soldierly-looking men had stayed at Will’s inn. No doubt, the unmarried Elliot daughter had been among them.

I should have introduced myself. I might have met the other unmarried daughter—

Will shrugged mentally. Reintroducing himself to anyone in the family but Sir Walter would have gravely offended the man. He must tread carefully, for Mrs. Clay—patting a pillow for Sir Walter, assuring him that a man of his well-maintained posture deserved a bolster—was a more subtle threat than Will had initially anticipated.

Rank in Persuasion's Persuadable: Chapter 4

In Chapter 4 of Persuadable, Will Elliot discusses issues of marriage, rank, and entailment with his good friend, Colonel Wallis.

I will be discussing entailment in more detail when I reach the final chapter. In the meantime, if you would like to know more, check out the excellent Republic of Pemberley website for a good definition of an entail, including its ramifications.

For this post, I will be concentrating on Will Elliot's desire to marry "up." Austen gives us little information about Will Elliot's motivations in suddenly reconnecting with the Elliot family. Although movie versions often like to make him poor--he wants to preserve his inheritance for its monetary value--this is not accurate and does not make much sense.

Mr. Elliot is well-off. But even if he needed to marry for money (just money), the Elliot sisters are not his best choice. Although the Kellynch property is better than nothing, it is heavily encumbered. And neither Anne nor Elizabeth can bring him a substantial dowry--more than the Bennet sisters, of course, but not enough to attract fortune hunters.

In other words, if Mr. Elliot's motivation was purely monetary, he could do better elsewhere. Austen seems to be completely aware of this; she heavily implies several things: (1) Mr. Elliot is honestly attracted to Anne; (2) Mr. Elliot is interested in the benefits that pure rank can bring him.

Which brings me to the point that in Austen's England, pure rank still meant something. It still does now too, of course, but these days it is closer to the equivalent of Hollywood celebrity-dom than to anything with real teeth. But in Austen's day, although the middle-class was making truly astonishing inroads regarding its own sense of privilege, rank still ensured a terrific degree of sycophancy (if not quite as much as Sir Walter imagines).

The amazing Freeman and Cumberbatch:
Watson & Holmes.

Consider that in Arthur Conan Doyle's Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, written almost 100 years later than Austen, Holmes--Holmes!--is still a little out of his depth when dealing with royalty. Holmes is THE quintessential middle class hero, and Doyle clearly saw him that way. And yet, even Holmes kowtows a bit to a noble name. (The fact that he doesn't kowtow more indicates his egalitarian nature.) It would be another 100 years before a Holmes would casually and unrepentedly enter Buckingham Palace stark naked.

What is so extraordinary about Austen is that she is completely aware of this issue; even while she drives home the non-rank (in terms of nobility) merit of deserving seamen, she recognizes that her world is dictated by thoughts and expressions of rank. At no point does Austen try to sell the reader on everybody-is-just-the-same Pollyannishness. In her lifetime, power, rank, nepotism, and moving-up-the-ladder are practically one's purpose in life (a history of Austen's family reads rather like the history of a bunch of people constantly on the make).

Not for nothing was Austen's own brother adopted into the wealthy Knight family! Consequently, there isn't a lot of "they may be poor, but at least they luv each other!" stuff in Austen's writing. Elizabeth Bennet not marrying Mr. Collins isn't simply romantic; it is adherence to a tough principle that might, in fact, leave Elizabeth wondering if her friend Charlotte made the better choice.

Mr. Elliot is not quite in the same position--he has more options. But the allure of marrying for rank would be as great for him as the allure--for the Bennet sisters--of marrying for comfort and security.

Whether giving into that allure is worth the mental sacrifice is something Austen wants us to consider (even if Austen has already made up her own mind).

Will Elliot was fully resolved to marry for rank this time around.

“Duchesses have just as many bills as shopkeepers,” Jeremy pointed out.

Colonel Jeremy Wallis was Will’s oldest friend, a stable point since grammar school, one of the few people Will entirely trusted.

“Besides, if you have a baronetcy, you can marry however you wish—high, low, or sideways.”

Will sat in the Wallis’ sitting room in Bath. He’d stopped to see Jeremy and his wife, Stella, on his way to London. He slouched in a large overstuffed chair, legs stretched across a square rug.

Stella Wallis said, “You might not get the baronetcy if Mrs. Clay has her way.”

Will raised one brow, then grinned at the sight of Stella perched on her husband’s knee; one of her hands caressed the sloping evidence of her pregnancy. She and Jeremy were a compatible couple: approachable, unpretentious, full of easy gossip and commonsense.

“Who’s Mrs. Clay?”

Jeremy grimaced. “Your Cousin Elizabeth’s companion. Miss Elizabeth and Sir Walter are in Bath, you know.”

Will raised both brows.

“Sir Walter would never marry a mere companion,” he said.

“Oh, she’s clever,” Stella said. “She’s already wriggled her way into Miss Elizabeth’s confidence. Nurse Roark says Miss Elizabeth tells Penelope Clay all her secrets.”

Nurse Roark went everywhere in Bath, nursing babies, infirm gentlemen, and sickly gentlewomen. If a rumor needed confirmation, Nurse Roark could do it.

Stella continued, “Roarky thinks Mrs. Clay should marry Sir Walter; she says all older gentlemen should marry again—”

“Their nurses presumably,” Jeremy said, cuddling her, and they all laughed.

Jeremy said more seriously, “Mrs. Clay was married before—and produced two sons which means she can produce them. And there goes your baronetcy.”

Will had always appreciated Jeremy’s grasp of basic issues, such as money and entailment.

“Of course, Sir Walter could try to break the entail,” Jeremy said now.

“He didn’t try to break it to clear his debts. His ego is bound up in the property. Besides, he can’t break it without contacting me, which he’ll never do. I think we’re—what’s the term?—estranged.”

“And he may believe he can still sire a son, pushing you aside.”

Will shoved out of the chair and strolled towards the sitting room’s window. It showed a long vista of walls and shops that ended with the commons that edged Bath. Colonel Wallis had lodgings in Marlborough Buildings.

Will said, “I suppose I should call on my relatives when I return here from London.”

“You could marry into the family,” Jeremy said. “Sir Walter has such a passion for family ties, he’d respect a son-in-law’s opinions.”

“I won’t marry the snob,” Will said, meaning Elizabeth. “There’s another unmarried sister. She’s reputed to have a sweet character.”  

Jeremy said, “Or you could seduce Mrs. Clay,” which got them all laughing again.

Scarecrow and Mrs. King Fan Fiction: "There Goes The Neighborhood," Part 3

Lee followed Judy Wainwright’s red sedan to the airport freight office. From the way she greeted the security guard, Lee assumed she’d been there many times. The security guard even helped her carry her Connie Beth boxes into the office. Lee snagged two boxes from a near-by truck and followed them inside.

The desk attendant also knew Judy, and Lee reflected how handy it would be for a group of international gunrunners to have a friendly, middle-aged Connie Beth girl charming guards and airport officials left and right (“Oh, that’s Judy. She could never do anything inappropriate.”).

Judy’s packages were going to Central America.

Lee left the freight office and nabbed a Connie Beth box from Judy’s open car.

When he got to his car, he discovered that the very friendly security guard had given Lee a parking ticket.

* * *

Back at the agency, it took Lee less than fifteen minutes to dismantle the hairdryers in Judy’s package and reorganize the components into a very real, very lethal gun.

As he worked, Francine started to tease him about his “married life.”

“You know,” Lee told her as he slid the last component into place. “I’ve gained a real appreciation for the generosity and stamina of the American housewife.”

She grimaced at him, and he laughed while he waved Billy over and demonstrated the connection between hair dryer and gun.

“That’s why LeMarque had Harriet Rosement’s name on him,” Lee said. “She was supplying him: his very own Connie Beth girl.”

“And it floated right by customs because we’re looking for whole weapons, not bits and pieces. And these housewives are the key to the whole thing.”

“With generosity and stamina,” Francine said dryly.

“But how could Connie Beth smuggle out enough to make it pay?”

“Billy, are you kidding?” Francine said. “In every PTA and car-pool in America, there are half a dozen Connie Beth girls. It’s a National network. Like the Masons."

“They only use the women they can really trust,” Lee said. Organizations like Connie Beth would have a huge turnover of temporary saleswomen, but the ones who stuck it out—“Golden Circle Girls who personally ship the orders without knowing it.”

“Thousands of little packages going out every day through thousands of different freight offices.”

“Very tough to trace.”

“We gotta get someone inside Connie Beth, and see exactly who’s involved. Oh, and pull the King woman out of this.”

But Amanda was exactly in the middle of all of it. In fact, as her “husband” knew, she was on her way to a Connie Beth meeting at that moment.

Lee raced from the room. 

* * *

Lee arrived at the Connie Beth meeting just a very disgruntled Harriet Rosement was leaving.

“Your wife’s inside with Bobby Bushard,” she snapped at Lee’s query. “Do you know they made her a Golden Circle girl?”

I’m sure she’d rather be anything else but, Lee would have said but getting to Amanda took priority over snapping at Harriet Rosement.

He was stopped by two goons outside Bushard’s office; he didn’t resist. The quickest way to get to Amanda was to have someone take him to her.

She did not look pleased when the goons thrust him inside Bushard’s office.

“Oh, no, what are you going here?”

“Rescuing you,” he told her, feeling somewhat offended that Amanda wasn’t looking more relieved. He was a professional. Didn’t she trust him?

Bobby Bushard was a square-built man a few inches shorter than Lee—not exactly the sort of person Lee would have associated with cosmetics; he’d imagined someone thin and elegant with a sweeping mustache: a slightly more flamboyant Vincent Price.

But then Lee caught sight of the office’s huge portrait of a reclining Southern belle. So, Bobby Bushard was a Mama’s boy—that is, a Mama’s boy who dealt in guns. That made a kind of sense.

“Okay, kids,” Bobby said to Amanda and Lee in an avuncular manner. “Let’s take it from the top. Tell me about yourself and don’t skip a beat. Once I get nasty, not even Connie Beth’s top of the line can make those faces adorable again.”

Lee glanced about the room, assessing risks and potential exits. One goon had stayed; he stood are one side of the room while Bobby Bushard lounged against the desk on the other: a straight-forward physical confrontation was out of the question.

Lee turned to Amanda.

“Well,” he said in his best put-upon-husband voice, “I hope this makes you happy.”

She looked confused and affronted, which was perfect.

“Okay,” he said, swiveling to Bobby. “You caught us. It’s true. We were spying. And you —” to Amanda “—you were the one who said spying for the competition was so easy.”

“I never said that,” Amanda said, still affronted.

Lee glowered at her.

And she instantly went on the attack. “He’s the one who wanted to do it,” she told Bobby, flapping her hand at Lee. “He’s the one who said that there was money in it.”

Lee wanted to cheer: She’d caught on. If only all agents were this quick on the uptake.

“I’m not a Connie Beth girl,” Amanda continued. “I’m a Lovely Lady lady.”

Lee nearly burst out laughing.

“Oh, the whole thing was your damn idea,” he said instead. “‘We need more money, more this, more that.'”

“My idea!” Amanda was on her feet now. “I was perfectly happy where we were. I was working in lipsticks. I was moving my way up to tweezers. You said I needed diamonds.”

“I should have known better than to trust you,” Lee cried, stepping back to let Amanda move around him. Bobby Bushard was staring at them both in bewilderment. “She masterminded the whole thing,” he told Bobby while Amanda turned to the office’s sideboard and picked up a can of hairspray.

“I don’t even like this stuff,” she cried and sprayed the bottle in Bobby’s face.

Perfect timing. Lee took out the goon with a kick and grabbed Amanda’s hand. They rushed from the room and down the stairs.

“Hairspray—not bad,” Lee said as they ran.

“Mace training,” Amanda gasped.

Unfortunately, they had to head for the roof. Spy Training 101: Never go to the roof! But there wasn’t much choice. More goons had joined the first, and both they and Bobby were on the stairs below.

Under gunfire, Lee and Amanda got to the roof and barred the stairwell door. Racing to the edge of the roof, Lee spotted a crane lifting materials from the ground to the opposite roof. As the empty hook swept over their roof, Lee sprang for it and gestured to Amanda.

She did a Jane to his Tarzan and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Oh my gosh,” she screamed as the hook cleared the roof.

They reached the ground just as every police car in the district pulled in front of Connie Beth’s headquarters. Billy had released the cavalry.

“Boy,” Lee said to Amanda. “I thought these guys would never get here.”

She stared at him and the hook and the ground and shook her head, for once totally speechless.

Lee grinned. “Come on.”

“Are you alright?” he said once they’d reached the next block, out of sight of soon-to-be arrested goons and gun smugglers.

“Yes. Yes. I’m alright. So tell me—what were in those hairdryers anyway?”

“Those terrorist guns we were after. Look, you want to get a drink?” Lee said, feeling expansive; he’d forgotten how satisfying it could be to work with a partner. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Ah, no, I can’t. Maybe some other time, okay?”

After all, Amanda wasn’t really a spy. She had her boys and her mother and her "normal" life.

Lee gave her a crooked smile which widened as she tugged unsuccessfully at her “wedding” ring.

“Here—guess I won’t be needing it anymore.”

“Yeah.” Lee laughed. “I guess the honeymoon is over. You know what the whole problem with our marriage was?”

“What?”

“Just wasn’t very exciting,” Lee said and got Amanda to chuckle.

He thought about that chuckle as he drove to his next assignment that evening. And he thought about the cozy kitchen in the Betsy Ross Estates with its blue curtains. And Amanda putting him to work on daiquiris for the neighbors. He turned Amanda’s wedding ring over in his fingers and slid it into his breast pocket.

For the first time in a very, very long time, he was beginning to feel like his life had something in it worth going home to—it was a nice feeling.