Believe it or not, I’ve only read one Georgette Heyer before – I listened to April Lady and really enjoyed it. In the three years since, I’ve bought quite a few Heyer novels but haven’t actually got around to reading any of them. A little while ago, I thought I’d see if any of the Heyer titles on my shelves matched gaps on A Century of Books – and landed on Frederica (1965), which comes rather late in her publishing career.
Like most of Heyer’s novels, this is a Regency romance – and she certainly enters into the style and ethos of a novel from the period. How many 1960s novels would open with this lack of urgency?
Not more than five days after she had despatched an urgent missive to her brother, the Most Honourable the Marquis of Alverstoke, requesting him to visit her at his earliest convenience, the widowed Lady Buxted was relieved to learn from her youngest daughter that Uncle Vernon had just driven up to the house, wearing a coat with dozens of capes, and looking as fine as fivepence. “In a smart new curricle, too, Mama, and everything prime about him!” declared Miss Kitty, flattening her nose against the window-pane in her effort to squint down into the street. “He is the most tremendous swell, isn’t he, Mama?”
Lady Buxted responded in repressive accents, desiring her not to use expressions unbefitting a lady of quality, and dismissing her to the schoolroom.
Uncle Vernon – more commonly known as the Marquis of Alverstoke, or just Alverstoke – is very wealthy and very selfish. His sisters are forever importuning him with requests to use his power and connections to help their various offspring, and he languidly refuses to do any such thing because it doesn’t interest him. There is a very believable grown-up-siblings dynamic between them, with a fair dose of Mr Bennett being needlessly antagonistic to his wife in Pride and Prejudice, all the while intending to help. But more often than not, Alverstoke won’t do anything for anybody else unless he finds it interesting. It’s not a very attractive character trait, truth be told, and it’s fortunate that Heyer manages to make almost every occasion an example of an exception to the rule – so the rule is really just what we are told, and the exceptions are what we are shown.
Bursting into this contented world are the Merriville family. They are oprhaned and as desolate as you’d expect of a family who will never have to work for a living. Oldest of the lot is (as we might expect from the title) Frederica – a sensible, clever, funny and caring woman who considers herself on the shelf as a spinster, aged 24. Next is Charis, who has that Regency trio of characteristics: beautiful, dim-witted, and kind. And finally three brothers, one of whom is away at Oxford. The other two are Jessamy, pious and anxious, and Felix, enthusiastic and boisterous.
It’s an enjoyable whirlwind to encounter, and Alverstoke finds himself rather taken aback. Having initially turned down the opportunity to help them as guardian, he ends up agreeing when he sees that they aren’t really mercenaries – and that Frederica is a capable, unsentimental woman. From this point onwards, none of the negative character traits that we’ve been led to believe beset Alverstoke ever really appear again.
What makes Frederica so fun is Heyer’s unceasing commitment to the Regency vibe. It’s a rich, detailed prose which you can’t read quickly, as the verbal sparring between characters is delightfully Austenesque and the narrative voice itself is, if not on Austen’s level, still great fun. Here, for instance, is Alverstoke trying to get Frederica to be chaperoned in town:
“I was under the impression that I warned you that in London country ways will not do, Frederica!”
“You did!” she retorted. “And although I can’t say that I paid much heed to your advice it so happens that I am accompanied today by my aunt!”
“Who adds invisibility to her other accomplishments!”
and here is Alverstoke being wonderfully bitchy to his sister:
“Do you mean to tell me that Mr. Trevor read my letter?” demanded Lady Buxted indignantly. “Your secretary?”
“I employ him to read my letters,” explained his lordship.
“Not those written by your nearest and dearest!”
“Oh, no, not them!” he agreed.”
The only downside to Heyer’s commitment to verisimilitude – in my opinion – is the vast quantity of era-appropriate slang, particularly from the boys. Here’s a selection, just flicking through: basket-scrambler, ninny-hammer, Friday-faced, high fidgets, rumgumption, Queer Nabs, mawworm, and so on and so forth. I can see how some readers would love these touches of authenticity, but they always took me out of the action. They were the only times it felt like Heyer’s researchw as being unceremoniously dumped into the dialogue.
To go back to the hero and heroine: what really warmed me to Alverstoke was his reluctant devotion to the young boys. (I didn’t need to warm to Frederica, as I loved her from the off.) And Heyer does the boys so well – especially the youngest, who believes he is offering a great treat to the men he meets by talking to them at length about mechanics, and being escorted to mills or something. Her eye for young people is so accurate, and timeless.
The Marquis believed himself to be hardened against flattery. He thought that he had experienced every variety, but he discovered that he was mistaken: the blatantly worshipful look in the eyes of a twelve-year-old, anxiously raised to his, was new to him, and it pierced his defences.
Frederica is a long book, and did feel long. My copy was about 300 pages but the font is tiny – I see other editions are around the 400-page mark. There are some brilliant set pieces – a runaway dog; a chase after a hot air balloon – but most of the novel is simply the steady, detailed study of these people interacting, squabbling, matching wits and falling in love. I had to relax into it and not expect anything to happen quickly – but, on those terms, it was a total treat.
Whenever Karen and I run a ‘club’ year, somebody reads a Georgette Heyer novel. I don’t know how many she wrote, but my guess would be thousands. And every time I say ‘How on earth have I not yet read anything by Heyer?’