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Classic Romance Reviews

Conversational Review: The Windflower by Laura London (aka Tom and Sharon Curtis)

Conversational Review: The Windflower by Laura London (aka Tom and Sharon...

In preparation for our book club on The Windflower, Sunita and Robin undertook a conversational review of the book. Very soon it became clear that in order to keep said review under the actual page limit of the book itself, we’d have to do more of a general commentary that we hope will provoke more in depth discussion over at the Book Club post.

London_WindflowerRobin: The Windflower was part of my Romance conversion package, and it was the one book I kept picking up and putting down. Until, one day, after I had read all of the Curtises’s Regencies and a bunch of other historical Romances, I picked up the book again and couldn’t put it down until I finished it. Yes, the language was overly lush (it was, at that point, almost 20 years since it had been published), Merry was too much the plucky but clueless red-haired virgin, and Devon teetered on the edge of brooding, rakish alphahole. But still, there was so much to love and admire…

First, the book is set during the War of 1812, and it begins in Virginia, with Merry Wilding trying to sketch a trio of rutabagas, thinking about the unicorn that periodically comes to her in a dream. Merry lives with her aunt, because her mother is dead and her brother – a spy for the American side – lives with their much older father. Merry fancies herself an American patriot, which can make life with her pro-British Aunt April a struggle of personal and political loyalties. So when Carl asks Merry to help him by sketching some men at a smuggler’s den, she is beside herself with excitement – both to help the American cause and for the likely adventure.

Of course, a young woman like Merry, with her long, bright red hair, obvious beauty, and naïve enthusiasm, is not exactly inconspicuous, even in costume, and when some pirates from the infamous Black Joke enter the den, one in particular is clearly taken with her.

Devon Crandall, who has seen and done far more than most men in their mid to late twenties, is more than taken with the young woman whose appearance suggests that she is married to a traveling puppeteer and in an advanced state of pregnancy. All of which amplifies his surprise, some months later, when her unconscious body is brought aboard the Black Joke, presumably from the bed of Devon’s most bitter enemy, Michael Granville, making her an assumed enemy, as well.

Of course, Merry is no more Michael Granville’s mistress than Devon is the lawless, pillaging rapist Merry initially imagines him to be. The means by which Merry ends up in Granville’s bed is merely one more coincidence in an incredibly intricate, interwoven plot that both defies clear explanation and loses a great deal in mere plot summary. To unwind the entire plot reveals many spoilers, which I will try to avoid here, but I will try to summarize as follows:

Merry is taken prisoner on the Black Joke, because Devon is convinced that she somehow holds the key to exposing Granville, something Devon has been yet unable to do. Merry, of course, has no clue about Granville, which just makes her appear guiltier to Devon, in large part because her earlier appearance at the smugglers’ den means she’s obviously involved in something. Also, in part, because Devon is so very attracted to her and can’t seem to get over that.

Devon, of course, is no run of the mill pirate, and the Black Joke is no run of the mill pirate ship. Devon’s older half-brother Rand Morgan captains the ship, and the crew is a salty mix of characters who, despite their reputation for lawless butchery, seem more like a motley band of maritime brothers, most of whom are immediately smitten with Merry. Rand’s protégé, Cat, has daily care of Merry. They are of the same age, although Cat was rescued from a brothel and is therefore much more cynical and experienced than the young woman he befriends.

There are a number of interwoven, coordinated agendas that drive the novel: Merry’s fear for her aunt and brother’s safety, Devon’s campaign against Granville, Cat’s ambivalent protectiveness toward Merry, and Rand’s mysterious machinations around all of them. Devon is hoping to be able to use Merry to expose Granville for the evil scum he knows him to be, but his attraction to her is really what makes him incapable of setting her free. And the longer she is on the ship, the more obvious it becomes that Rand has both knowledge and intention around both of them, which makes him happy to keep the two in close proximity. There are a great number of incidents that occur in the book, all of which serve multiple purposes – to bring Merry and Devon closer together, to forward Devon’s agenda with Granville, to solve a number of mysteries around Devon’s political loyalties and those initial sketches Merry was brought to the smugglers’ den to produce – as the Black Joke makes its way back to England, where the relationship between all of these plot threads will be revealed.

So much of The Windflower sounds like a bad parody when you try to explain it to someone, and yet, every time I read it I uncover more subtle layers. Before I get too far off the rails, though, let me turn it over to Sunita, for her initial impressions:

Sunita: I had forgotten more than I realized of the book since I read it years ago, but I remembered enough that this reread was more of a meta-read, where the Romance with a capital R aspects of the story stood out to me. As I mentioned to Robin before, the opening scenes and the depiction of Merry reminded me of Hero in Heyer’s Friday’s Child; there’s that same young, sheltered, ingenuousness but with a core of common sense underlying it all.

Almost all the characters read as over the top to me, but in an affectionate, intentional way, and Rand Morgan, Devon, Merry, and the ship’s crew are all saved from being caricatures by the skill and self-awareness of the writing. Cat, on the other hand, feels utterly original, and he also feels as if he has wandered in from a completely different novel. This may explain why so many readers are drawn to him and have been clamoring for his story since the book was published. It’s not just that he is gorgeous and has a tortured backstory, but that he comes across as unique over and above that (or in spite of that).

Robin: I agree with you, Sunita, about the meta aspects of the novel. In fact, one of the joys of re-reading the book, almost ten years after I read it initially, is that because I have read so much more Romance in the intervening years, I recognized just how much the book is working with and playing with. For example,when Merry is caught out at the smuggler’s den by Devon, all she can think about is a melodramatic Penny Dreadful she’s read to use for her response, and you can practically see the wink through the words.

I also kept thinking about The Tempest while I was reading, with Rand Morgan serving in the role of Prospero, with all the attendant ambiguity in his motivations and overall character – is he the God-like creator of the world of the Black Joke, and the grand manipulator behind the Merry-Devon-Cat triangle and all that comes from that, and if so, does that make him put him in the position of the great manipulator, master, and colonizer? Or is it Devon’s grandmother, who certainly rivals Rand for machinations and may have fewer boundaries when it comes to use and abuse of power.

All these themes around civilization and what that means, and whether that’s a good thing, and what it means to hold and wield power. In some ways Cat is the character who has grown up outside society, and part of his journey seems to be realizing that he has a rather strong moral and ethical core, which is clearly a (sometimes unwelcome) surprise to him. I also want to ask you, Sunita, about your views on Raven – who in some ways seems to embody the stereotype of the ‘gentle negro,’ but who, in other ways, defies those stereotypes and articulates an interesting commentary on the “civilization” that would make a man like him a slave.

There’s also so much play on fate v. free will, on the question of who is running the show, so to speak, and a lot of layers of authority and knowledge that the book is playing with. Then there are all the issues around Devon and Cat as prodigal sons, and the similarities and differences between them (in fact, I’m just now thinking about how both are blond and light featured, in contrast to Rand’s dark features and hair), and their separate but intertwined journeys toward taking their “rightful” place in the world. All that put me in mind of Henry IV, Part II. I agree with you, Sunita, that Cat is a true original, but his evolution as a character is driven and shaped by all the somewhat derivative characters around him. So what does that mean? I think it’s important on that meta level, in terms of generic development. But I love the way it’s intertwined with all of these other layers, making each character more than just a type – or more types than just one, if that makes sense (except maybe Granville, who becomes pretty much every horrible stereotype in his evilness, including that of pedophile).

Sunita: Oh, Raven. Yeah, he pretty much came across as the happy brown person for me. Not so much in his role, which as you say defies some of the standard stereotypes, but in terms of his presentation and affect. I chalk this up to the 1980s context, but I did have to recalibrate a bit when he first appeared.

On Merry: if you are over 16 and/or don’t believe that the My Little Pony brigade exists in the real world, and you go in expecting to relate to her it’s probably not going to happen. But if you can just go along for the ride, she’s a great character. The authors repeatedly save her from being completely impossible through their use of internal monologues, in which she tells herself to pull herself together, stop being silly, etc.

On this read, The Windflower strikes me as essentially being Merry’s coming of age book, with a couple of fascinating supporting characters who totally steal the show: Cat, for the reasons I’ve given above, and Rand Morgan, who is awful but not. He’s the not-quite-benevolent despot. While there’s a lot of online discussion about Cat/Rand slash, the way I read the relationship (assuming this potential relationship exists, which I think is a stretch) is that it can’t happen because if Rand’s desires for Cat are acted upon then Rand is completely irredeemable and you can’t enjoy the genuinely good things he does. You have to believe in the ambiguity of his character or the book goes a completely different direction.

Devon is fine. He’s not that interesting to me because he seems predictable, but he fulfills his role admirably, which is to be Hero Material by way of Dark and Dangerous (well, Blond and Dangerous but you know what I mean). He becomes slightly more interesting at the end, but soon afterward the story is over.

I can’t quite shake the idea that this is really Cat’s book. He just happens to share it with Merry’s bildungsroman and the Merry/Devon romance arc.

Coming back to your points about the structure and who are the powers behind the story, I think that part of the reason it’s hard to decide is that there are really two parts to the book: the first section on the ship and then the section in England. Obviously the two are connected, but each has a different locus of power in terms of the characters (and neither could take over power from the other in their respective settings).

Robin: For me, Merry’s appeal is largely in her coming of age and the way it mirrors the young, immature, “wild” (and not in the sense of wilderness, but in the character of its patriotism and rebellion) country with which she identifies. That is, for me Merry is “the American” and Devon is the “new” Englishman – who’s more a republican (in democratic sense of the term), and their love story is in its own way a parable of the “second war of independence.” But even in the first part of the book she has some interesting layers. Like when she has a moment of self-awareness upon getting caught in her pregnant wife costume – there’s that bit about how she sees herself as the awkward, inelegant teenager she is. And her eye for artistic detail makes her a perfect narrator for describing those around her.

But where Devon and Merry come alive for me as characters is in England where they’re forced to engage in a “real relationship” within the social strictures they’re part of by virtue of their birth and name. And seeing that after the time on the ship made it feel new and real for me in a way that it never would have been had they not both been part of the captivity scenario on the ship. Or the near-Elysium of the island (St. Elise). I also like the way that Devon can never force himself sexually on Merry because he loves her, which is an interesting subversion of the forced seduction trope.

As for Raven, I think you’re right that he just can’t escape the stereotype in the end, and even though it’s an 80’s book, I wish both he and Granville had been given more depth.

Regarding Cat and Rand, I actually think it’s more interesting to see their relationship as not sexual. Not because I’m averse to that dynamic, but because de-sexualizing it raises so very many questions about Rand’s intentions and character and the easy way in which he lets people believe Cat is his sexual companion. In the end I think I find Rand most compelling, and while almost everyone wants to see Cat’s story developed more fully, I’d love to see Rand’s play out – as he’s not even forty in The Windflower.

Sunita: I agree, I’d love to see more of Rand, and I think the slashy version of Cat and Rand is pretty thoroughly debunked in the book itself. I don’t want to go into spoiler territory, but the various reveals of the last quarter of the novel tie up a lot of uncertainties and loose ends, almost to the point of over-exposition. It’s not that the relationship cannot exist, it’s that I think it makes no sense in the book as written.

I want to come back to your point about the lushness of the language. As you know, I have a very low tolerance for lyrical prose and lush writing, and this book certainly has its share. It was most noticeable to me in the scenes describing the characters and the sex scenes, and these tend to be the places where the romance genre is most explicit and literal, compared to other genres. I can’t say I entirely enjoyed it, but I felt as if it was intentionally deployed.   And as you say, describing the storyline makes it seem almost like a parody. But when I’m reading I can’t let go of the feeling that the authors were having a terrific time writing it, and that I’m reading both a story and an astute commentary on a genre.

Robin: You know, as we’ve been going back and forth, talking about the book and its meta qualities, I have to say that I also find it an emotionally satisfying read. There’s a sense of yearning in the Curtises’s writing that I always get sucked into. But you’re right that it gets really lush, even slushy, during the sex scenes.

But I agree with you about the intentionality, because by that point in the story, we’re getting something from Devon that is new even to him, and in some ways his passion is as new to him as Merry’s is to her. That’s one reason I see them as well-paired. For all of Devon’s experience in other realms, he’s a novice at love, and for all of Merry’s inexperience, she’s an expert at feeling and sensing. So in a sense, they’re both ‘coming of age,’ but from different directions (I did the math and I think Devon’s 27, or thereabouts).

Sunita: That’s a really good point. The OTT aspect of all these dangerous pirates becoming wholesomely besotted with Merry overshadows the fact that her abduction and arrival aboard the Black Joke set in motion critical life changes for all the major characters. This is an authentic ensemble production of a type we rarely see in contemporary historical romance.

 

 

CLASSIC REVIEW:  A Soldier’s Heart by Kathleen Korbel

CLASSIC REVIEW: A Soldier’s Heart by Kathleen Korbel

Cleo is an artist, designer and avid reader. She’s been reading romance for more than thirty years. She reads almost every type of romance, except those with vampires, serial killers or jerky heroes.

kathleen korbel a soldier's heart

Dear Ms. Korbel,

When I read Jane’s call for reviews of classic romances, I knew that I wanted to review your book, A Soldier’s Heart. I read it in the mid 90s and it stayed with me. I finally tracked it down and re-read it last year and was impressed with how well it held up. It’s the first romance with protagonists with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) that I ever read. Twenty years, and many PTSD romances later, I still think it’s one of the best I’ve read.

The book opens with a prologue – an unnamed army nurse saves the life of an unnamed marine sergeant in an evac hospital during the Vietnam War. The story begins some twenty years later, with the marine, Tony Riordan, working up the courage to go introduce himself to Claire Maguire Henderson, the nurse who saved his life. Seeking out Claire is part of Tony’s healing – he’s spent years laying to rest his ghosts from Vietnam. He unintentionally sets off a crisis for Claire, who hasn’t dealt with her past trauma yet. Tony realizes that his appearance brought up repressed emotions that Claire’s not quite ready to deal with, so he comes up with a way for him to stay in town and help if possible. Claire’s renovating an old inn, and he just happens to run a construction company, and offers to do some of the renovations at cost. I liked Tony so much that I was willing to accept the convenient coincidence. He’s upfront with Claire, and everyone who wonders what he’s doing, that he’s there primarily to help her heal. He’s also honest with himself that he’s attracted to Claire.

Most of the story takes place over a period of several weeks, while Tony works on the inn. There’s not a lot of external conflict – most of the story is about Claire facing her past while falling for Tony. I loved reading about two adults cautiously, and then not so cautiously, start a new relationship. Tony and Claire are both forty-something single parents, with careers, support networks and responsibilities, and they act like grown ups. There’s a sub-plot involving Claire’s older child, 17-year-old Johnny, who’s learning to fly and wants to enlist in the Air Force. The story’s set during the UN intervention in Somalia in 1993 or 1994, and the build up of US troops in Somalia triggers both Johnny’s desire to join the military and Claire’s PTSD symptoms. While the main story arc is Claire moving from denial to asking for help with her PTSD, it’s not a dark story. It’s emotional, but there’s also humor and sweetness.

I really like the portrayal of PTSD, which is almost a separate character. I have PTSD (from childhood trauma, not military service). I can only speak for myself, but this book rang emotionally true. The focus of the story is on Claire. We see her dealing with nightmares, flashbacks, and rages. We see her telling herself that she has no right to be upset, and that she’ll be fine as long as she keeps busy. We get hints of Tony’s past struggles too, but he’s further along in his healing, and it’s not really his story. I suppose I could be annoyed by the fact that the story is set up so that the man knows more than the woman, at least about dealing with PTSD. But Tony’s character is written in such a way that he doesn’t feel like an overbearing romance hero, who knows what the heroine needs better than she does. He doesn’t come across as thinking that he has all the answers, either for her or for himself. I love that he seeks out help for Claire almost immediately, but waits until she asks before telling her about the resources he’s found for her. As he says, “I’m like the library Claire. Information’s all there for the asking. But I’d never walk into your house and demand that you read.” (p 181) I’ve played variations of both Tony’s and Claire’s roles in my life, as the giver and receiver of help recovering from trauma, and they both resonated with me.

Treatment for PTSD has changed in the past twenty years, so before I re-read A Soldier’s Heart, I wondered if it might seem dated. Because the story focuses on Claire’s feelings, and on her journey from denial to asking for help, rather than on her actual treatment, I didn’t find it outdated. Some of the discussions about women and PTSD, however, did strike me as old-fashioned. Tony’s surprise that women who served in Vietnam also had PTSD made me roll my eyes. For example, here’s a passage from Tony’s first conversation with his vet center counselor about Claire and his concerns about how to help.

He’d somehow always thought of the victims as men. The men had suffered and the women had soothed. The women had appeared like a gift in Nam, bright-eyed and brash and smelling like Dove soap. A reward for having survived the time back in the boonies, a reminder that somewhere in the world there was still grace and compassion.

He hadn’t considered, all these years, that the women had brought home their own nightmares home.

Well, he thought it now.

Tony sighed, wished he were a lot smarter. A lot.

“We’re stupid, aren’t we?” he finally countered….“I really screwed it up, man. Tell me what to do.”

“Same thing you do with any of the guys you’ve run across. Just be there until I can get you extra help.” (pp. 48-9)

The thing that made it work for me is Tony’s self-deprecating sense of humor and the fact that he’s helped other, male, vets before. This isn’t just about saving the poor little woman. I also really liked that once Claire admits she needs help and finds someone at her local vet center to work with, Tony consciously backs off and lets her heal without becoming a crutch for her.

A few things bothered me as I was re-reading it for this review that I don’t remember noticing the first two times I read it. I thought the beginning was slow and the initial set up requires a suspension of disbelief – if I didn’t know that Tony was a romance hero, I’d worry that he was acting like a creepy stalker. Some of the supporting characters seemed one dimensional or cartoonish, particularly Peaches, Claire’s overprotective, ex-con pastry chef. And the writing style isn’t to my taste. It reminds me of Nora Roberts, particularly 1990s era Nora Roberts. I’m not sure how to characterize it except that I find it a bit choppy and distancing. Here’s an excerpt.

Claire turned her attention to her surprise houseguest. He was a dangerously good-looking man, filling out that apron and T-shirt with disconcerting effect. Well-honed muscles and long, lean lines. The glint of a well-worn chain and medal around his neck, worn for purpose rather than decoration, betraying his lack of pretension. The kind of man any sane woman would want in her kitchen cooking her pasta. (pp. 58-9)

But while I noticed some problems, I didn’t really care about them, because I LOVE THIS BOOK. I was completely emotionally invested in the characters and swept away by the story. I love the two main characters. I love their honesty, vulnerability, and subtle humor. I love how Tony helps Claire face her past and begin to heal so they can have a future together. Hell, I even love Tony’s mustache. I completely believe that they’ll live happily ever after. I’m not a crier and A Soldier’s Heart had me crying in public.

I’ve read quite a few romances with characters with PTSD in the past 20 years, some good and some really bad. In my opinion, they can go bad in two ways – either by taking the PTSD much too seriously or not seriously enough. Either the past trauma completely defines and overwhelms the heroine’s or (more often) the hero’s identity to the exclusion of everything else, or it’s magically cured by true love and/or hot sex. A Soldier’s Heart avoids both pitfalls. Re-reading it reminded me why I keep reading PTSD romances, despite the duds that I’ve encountered, because when they’re done well, the emotional payoff is incredibly rewarding. This is a lovely book. Thank you for writing it. My grade is an A-.

Sincerely,

Cleo

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